Team Player 2: A Sports Anthology

by Paige, Rochelle

  Putting on a fake smile, I reach the baseball table and hand out drinks, their eyes glued to my every move. I’m not surprised given the mouthful I spat at them before.

  Ignoring the awkwardness between us, I say, “I assumed you wanted water, but if you want something else to drink, let me know. Your patty melts are being cooked right now.”

  I bring my tray to my side and take in the table. In the middle is a small notepad with tic-tac-toe boards all over it. Each guy—besides Jason—since he’s in the bathroom . . . again—has a pen in their hands and a stupid look on their faces as if they’ve been caught doing something bad.

  “Am I interrupting something?”

  “As a matter of fact, you are,” Holt says, looking at me with disdain, like the privileged ass that he is.

  Why do I dislike this guy so much? Maybe because he comes from the incredibly rich Green family of New York City. They have a house in the Hamptons, a penthouse in the city, an apartment in a skyrise in Chicago, and I believe a cottage in Tennessee. At least, that’s what I’ve been told. The guy oozes money with his pretty-boy looks, non-pilling clothes, and fancy BMW that I always seem to see zooming around campus. And no, I don’t have a thing against rich people. What I have a thing against is a rich person getting a full-ride scholarship when they could have easily paid for their tuition and not seen a dent in their bank account.

  Sure, he’s talented, one of the best left fielders to ever walk this campus, so he earned that scholarship, but as a parent of all that money, wouldn’t you think, hey, let’s take that scholarship money and give it to another student?

  Rolling my teeth over my bottom lip, I say, “And what might I be interrupting?”

  “Tickety-tock-toesies,” Jason says, coming up from behind me and sitting down. He picks up his napkin and dabs his forehead. “Okay, I think I’m good to go with that patty melt now.” Tickety-tock-toesies? I barely hold in my snort of laughter.

  “What did we tell you about calling it that?” Holt says through clenched teeth.

  “But that’s what we call it,” Jason says, looking confused.

  “Not in public, dipshit,” Carson chimes in.

  “Oh.” Jason smiles up at me. “We play manly sports on a tiny notepad. Dungeons and Dragons. Her-ahhhhh,” he wails obnoxiously but only for a second, because Holt knocks him in the arm to shut him up.

  “Dungeons and Dragons is even worse.” Holt shakes his head and addresses Knox and Carson. “This is why we shouldn’t have hung out with someone younger than us.”

  “Isn’t he only a year younger?” I ask, letting my Brentwood baseball knowledge slip, and because Holt is the bastard he is, he doesn’t let it go.

  “So you know what years we are, huh? Interesting. I thought you hated baseball.”

  “I don’t hate baseball,” I say, tucking my tray more securely under my arm. “I hate Brentwood athletes.”

  “You can’t like the sport but hate the players, that makes no sense.”

  “Not true.” I shake my head. “I grew up watching the Bobbies, and I enjoyed the atmosphere and the sport. I would give the team a little cheer every now and again. And Hendrix on the mound.” I clutch my heart. “He’s drop-dead gorgeous.”

  All the boys sneer as if I just said I thought an ogre was the most attractive person I’ve ever seen.

  “Hendrix?” Holt asks. “Gary Hendrix, the lefty?”

  “Yeah. Gary. So dreamy.”

  “He throws up before every game, sometimes on the mound, claims it to be adrenaline, and always has bubblegum stuck in his weed-like beard. He’s filthy.”

  “Yes, the gum and vomiting doesn’t give checks in his attractive box, but his beard, his tattoos, the ice-blue eyes under his brim do. Plus, I’ve seen him with his shirt off, and he’s ripped.”

  Holt gives me a once-over. “Beard and tattoos are your thing?”

  I nod very slowly.

  Knox laughs and says, “You have no shot at scoring her number now, Holt. You’re as clean-cut as they come.”

  Scoring my number? That’s interesting.

  When I see Holt’s cheeks burn with embarrassment, I realize there’s some truth to that, and I wonder what they said when I left the table.

  Probably something about my ass—it’s my best attribute, after all. But they probably spoke more about my uncouth mouth that ran on longer than even I expected. A woman who holds nothing back.

  I know that love story. She challenges him. She’s different, she’s unlike anyone he’s ever met, blah, blah, blah. I don’t want to be someone’s challenge.

  I actually don’t want to be someone’s anything.

  I’m here at Brentwood for one reason: to earn a degree in journalism and then get the hell out of here.

  Two more years. I’m so close.

  Chapter Three

  **HOLT**

  “Are you going to be sour for the rest of the night?” Knox asks, kicking me from under the table.

  I pick at my French fries, salty as fuck. Me, not the fries, although they could benefit from a little seasoning.

  “You didn’t have to fucking say I was trying to score her number,” I hiss at my friends who laugh. “I was kidding.”

  “Nah, I saw the way you were checking out her butt when she walked away,” Carson says. “You want her number. Want me to ask her for it for you?”

  “Fuck off, I was not checking her out.”

  Carson and Knox exchange glances and mock me with their boisterous laughter.

  Meanwhile, Jason taps me on the shoulder and says, “Do you think they make sweet potato fries just like regular ones?”

  I try not to punch the guy in the face for such an idiotic question. He’s not dumb as rocks as he seems. He’s the sensitive one, the guy who loves to grill for the team, the mother hen of the group . . . and the idiot when he’s drunk.

  “I suggest you lower the fry, dude,” Carson says from across the table. “Holt looks like he’s about to plow his fist through your face.”

  “Why are you getting so angry? You’re usually chill.”

  “Because”—I push my plate away—“that girl is judging us for all the wrong reasons. She doesn’t know the hours it takes to be at the elite level we play at. She doesn’t understand the stress of it all, the time devoted just to baseball. She has no fucking clue and that’s pissing me off.”

  “Then why don’t you tell her?” Knox whispers as Harmony steps up to our table.

  She lays a check down on the table and says, “Whenever you’re ready, no rush. Please, stay here as long as you want.” Sarcasm drips from her voice. “Throw up in our toilets a little more.”

  Jason presses his palm to his stomach. “I’m feeling much better, thank you.”

  “She didn’t ask,” Carson mutters with an eye-roll.

  I pull my wallet from my back pocket and throw down a few twenties. “We’re all set. Come on, boys.” I push Jason out of the booth and Knox and Carson follow closely behind. We’re halfway to the door when Harmony pulls me by the arm.

  “You left too much.” She holds up the twenties I threw down.

  “Your service was impeccable.” I start to move forward again when she tugs on my shirt.

  “I don’t need your charity.”

  “It’s not charity.”

  “A sixty-dollar tip for a forty-dollar meal is charity. I don’t need you flashing your wealth at me.”

  “I’m not flashing it. I’m trying to be nice, and frankly, it’s insulting that you’re even questioning my tip. Be grateful rather than argue with me about it.”

  Before she can answer, I pull away again just as Carson says, “He wants your number too, in case you were wondering.”

  “I’m going to murder you,” I say under my breath as we head out of the diner, the bell above the door ringing at our departure. I push Carson on the sidewalk and ask, “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  “With me?” He points to his chest as he walks backward, talking to
me. “What’s wrong with you? That girl was hot and clearly you’re interested, so why not ask for her number?”

  “Maybe because she hates me. She didn’t keep her feelings to herself when it comes to Brentwood athletes.”

  “Which is why you should prove her wrong,” Knox says, joining in. “Those who don’t worship us on campus think we’re assholes because of all the perks and breaks we get, but they don’t really know everything we do to earn them, nor do they see all the hours of community service we put in as well. Show her we’re good people.”

  “Nah.” I shake my head, glancing back at the diner where I catch a brief glimpse of Harmony clearing off our table. “It’s not worth my time. I know girls like her, and she’s never going to change her mind. She has one opinion and that’s all that matters.”

  “Such a shame,” Jason says. “You two would have been a good couple.”

  “Why do you say that? You don’t even know her.”

  Jason casually shrugs. “You both seem to have the same kind of fiery passion, about different things, but still it’s there, which means you’d probably have the best sex of your life with her.”

  “Yeah, I agree,” Carson says.

  “He has a good point.” Knox nudges me with his shoulder.

  I shake them off. “Might be good, but not worth my time, ’cause she’d only hurt my fragile soul in the end.”

  Everyone laughs and keeps walking toward the baseball loft, while I consider actually going back to the diner to get her number.

  I like fire. I like passion. And I like a girl who’s not afraid to tell me to stick it up my ass.

  I might put up a front of indifference, but with each moment that passes, I’m thinking she’s totally worth my time.

  * * *

  Coffee in hand, a day off ahead of us, I lean back in my desk chair and wait for my computer to turn on. Slightly hungover from last night, I popped some Ibuprofen, downed a frozen breakfast burrito—heated in the microwave, of course—and made myself the biggest cup of coffee I could find. It’s nine in the morning, all the guys are still sleeping, which gives me time to do what I wanted to do last night before I flopped on my bed and passed out, pants halfway off my legs.

  Classy as fuck.

  Grateful for the time off, I sign in to my computer, pull up the student registry, sort by first name and start scrolling through the H’s. There can’t be many Harmonys in the—

  Two.

  I smile to myself and look at their graduating class. Harmony Styles is the winner.

  Because I’m the creep that I am, I pull up Instagram, hoping she doesn’t have her profile set to private, and type in her name.

  When I see her grid of pictures, I snicker. This almost seems too easy.

  In the about me section, there’s some hoity-toity Shakespeare quote that does nothing for me, followed by a bunch of emojis.

  Brazilian flag. Okay, that explains that sexy ass.

  Peanut. Huh, either a nickname or she likes peanuts.

  A pen. Is she a writer? That would explain the Shakespeare quote a little.

  Flamingo dancer. Does she like to dance?

  I scan her pictures quickly and find one of her in a short, pink glittery dress that accentuates her every curve, laughing, while a beefy-looking guy spins her around.

  Is that her boyfriend?

  I scan the date . . . several months ago and not another picture with him. Okay, maybe not a boyfriend.

  I go back up to the top and click on her stories to see if she’s up to anything today.

  There’s a boomerang of her in her diner’s outfit with a comment that says, “Another day serving up grease.”

  It’s the best grease in town.

  The next one is of her coffee mug with a timestamp of seven this morning, followed by her drinking the coffee with massive bedhead.

  Fuck, she looks sexy, hair falling over one eye, in an off-the-shoulder sweater. Yeah, we would have some passionate sex, that’s for damn sure.

  The last story nearly shakes me out of my shorts. It’s a full body shot of her in a yellow bikini, blowing a kiss to the camera, with the comment “41st Street Beach all day!”

  I smile to myself, knowing exactly what I’ll be doing today . . . scanning the 41st Street Beach for a hot yellow bikini and an opinionated, sexy-as-hell Brazilian. “Coming for you, sweet Harmony. Game on.”

  Chapter Four

  **HARMONY**

  “Thank God that band is done. That was torture,” River says next to me while adjusting her floppy hat.

  “I thought you had to audition to play today.”

  “Apparently not.” River applies more sunscreen. “Covering Vince Gill and Randy Travis songs should be criminal. Hopefully the next band has more up-to-date music. I wouldn’t mind a little Sam Smith remix at this point.”

  “You wouldn’t mind a Sam Smith remix at any point in time.”

  “His voice is just so smooth.”

  Chuckling, I drink the rest of my lemonade and stand. “I’m going to get another lemonade, and I think one of those funnel cakes I keep smelling.” I pull out a twenty from my bra cup and say, “Thanks to Holt Green, I have some extra food cash.”

  “I’m good, but I hope you plan on sharing that funnel cake.”

  “It’s the size of a dinner plate, of course I’m sharing it.” Cash in hand, reusable cup in the other, I trot across the sand toward the concession stand to grab the very healthy lunch I have planned for myself. After Holt left me a sixty-dollar tip, I told myself I’d only use twenty of it for food. I set some cash aside for a few drinks, but now that I have a little more, I can skip the cheap protein bar I packed for myself and indulge a little.

  Even though the tip was outrageous and it confirmed the self-righteous attitude I thought of when it came to those guys, I also didn’t want to push too hard to give it back to him, because sixty dollars felt like two hundred in my hand last night.

  It seemed a little wrong, pocketing the huge tip, but I convinced myself I earned it after serving those guys, not that they were hard to deal with. Holt was a little rude, but I still had to put up with them and that alone is worth sixty dollars.

  Thankfully the beach isn’t too crowded, so the line for the concession stand isn’t terribly long. Just like everyone else in line, I rely on my phone to keep me company and start going through Instagram and all my friends’ stories. A lot of end-of-summer parties in Nebraska, parties I couldn’t attend because driving back and forth from Nebraska costs a lot in gas, and takes forever. I don’t have forever, especially with my job. I take all the hours I can get and then hoard my cash. I’m on a partial scholarship, because my parents make next to nothing and my grades are pretty good, so the other half of my tuition and books I have a small loan for, but I’m paying it off as I go, never wanting to be one of those students who graduates with one hundred thousand dollars in debt.

  But today . . . today is my day, and I’m grateful for the much-needed time off. It’s sunny with a small breeze coming off the water, the music is good—with the exception of the last band—and I’m about to go into a sugar coma. Nothing could ruin this.

  “Did you leave the other half of your bathing suit at home?”

  I still.

  That voice.

  How do I know that voice?

  A strong presence overshadows me and as I slowly turn around, I realize I thought too soon.

  Holt Green.

  Wearing nothing but a pair of hot-pink trunks and black Ray-Bans. He looks like a catalogue model straight from the eighties, but ripped with stacks upon stacks of muscles covering his biceps, his pecs, and his stomach.

  He’s been hiding a world of sexy under his jersey.

  How annoying. Couldn’t he at least be hideous without a shirt on? It’s only fair. Talented, rich, smart, and incredibly good-looking; did God spend all His time making Holt Green and give the rest of the men in his birth month the cold shoulder?

  Arms folded, and givi
ng him the best scowl I can muster, I say, “Is that really how you’re going to talk to a woman? Address her lack of clothing? Ever think we can wear whatever the hell we want without the approval of the male species?”

  “Wasn’t giving you my approval.”

  “Then what was the point of your comment?”

  “Conversation starter.”

  The line moves and we both fall in step, inching closer to the concession stand.

  “That’s a terrible conversation starter, because all it did was piss me off.”

  “Yeah, but it got you talking.” He smiles smugly. “After our attempt at conversation last night, I wasn’t sure you’d even take the time to speak to me, so figured I’d trigger a response out of you.”

  “Wow, that’s a terrible idea, because now all I want to do is kick you in the crotch.”

  The arrogant ass cups his junk and says, “Balls of steel, baby. Take your best shot.”

  My mouth falls open and my leg itches to rear back. “You did not just grab your balls in front of me.”

  He laughs. “I grab my balls in front of thousands of people all the time. Jockstraps will do that to you.”

  Studying him, arms still folded, I say, “You’re really annoying, you know that?”

  “People actually find me to be quite charming.”

  “Clearly they haven’t seen this side of you.” I gesture to his body, which only causes him to flex in many different ways, as he glances down to take himself in.

  “Not many people are privileged to see me with my shirt off. Consider yourself lucky.”

  Okay, that’s it. I’m done with this conversation.

  Full of himself, arrogant . . . annoying, no thanks. This is my day off—my only day off in I don’t know how long—and I’m not going to spend it getting agitated with a Brentwood baseball player who thinks he walks on gold-speckled water.

  With a roll of my eyes, I spin back around and take another step forward. Two people away; I can ignore him for that long.