by Shey Stahl
Leaning in, he gives me another whiff of that delicious scent he’s wearing. “Having it all together is overrated.” He squints at the rain pelting our faces. “Some of the most brilliant minds in the world are a shitshow.”
“I’m a genius then.” I laugh, my focus on my van and the fact that I’m twenty minutes late to open my shop. “I have to go.” I nod to the parking lot. “But thanks again… for helping me out.” I want to ask him for his phone number to repay him, but I’m pretty sure if I do, he’s going to think I’m hitting on him. So I say, “Next time I’ll buy,” and hope like hell that doesn’t sound idiotic. To be safe, I repeat it in my head again. Did it sound stupid?
I’m thinking not by the expression on his face. It’s somewhere between what I imagine a college kid would make hoping to score with a MILF. I’m not saying I’m a MILF, but if I were… oh, who gives a fuck. He looks fucking happy, okay? Good. We’re clear that he wants there to be a second buying of coffee.
“Anytime, Sydney,” he says, my name rolling off his tongue with ease and swagger. He’s confident, that’s for sure. And then he winks, as if his college boy charm would work on me.
Spoiler alert: it does. Sadly.
“Interesting drink choice,” he notes, trying to extend the conversation, I assume.
My eyes land on the drink in my hand. “I like my cream with coffee,” I note and then regret it. Fuck, why’d I say that? The cream on top has been slowly mixing with the rest of the drink. I glance at it, tipping the cup. If you know, you know. I’m just going to come out and say it.
But for those of you who are scratching your heads about now and thinking what the fuck is she talking about, I’ll clear it up. When you mix cream with coffee in a clear cup, it reminds me of that scene in American Pie when the dude comes in the beer.
I shrug and tip my cup towards his. “And yours is kind of boring,” I tell him, with no amount of shame.
His eyes soften in the most adorable way. You can literally see the sincerity in him. He’s a nice guy. Obviously, he bought my coffee. “I’m not overly adventurous.”
“So buying me coffee is the highlight of your week?”
“Try month.” He leans in, winking. “Maybe year.”
Our eyes lock, and I swear on all the half-eaten chicken nuggets in the back seat of my van, electricity hums between us. I take a step back. Or maybe I was humming. No, no, I was tsking him. “Okay, boy, I realize you might be into the whole cougar thing, but I’m married.”
He runs his tongue over his bottom lip, grinning. “He doesn’t have to know.”
Oh my God. “Aren’t you late for school?”
“No, not really. I got time. Your seats fold down in the back of that van?”
Is he serious? I can’t tell. What do you think? I arch an eyebrow. “Who says I drive a van?”
“Lucky guess?”
The kid he’s with laughs, shaking his head. Though his attention the entire time has been on his phone, I know he’s been listening to this. “We’re late, Reins.”
I slide my eyes back to Cason, the one intently waiting on my words. “Yeah, I drive a van.” Stepping away completely, I raise my cum cup again. “Thanks for the drink.”
“Like I said, anytime.”
Smiling, I make my way to my van, dodging raindrops, and a stream of water in the parking lot. Cason Reins. I know his name now, and I’ll probably Insta-stalk him later. The thought reminds me that my phone isn’t working.
Inside my car, I try my cell phone again. This time I get a representative that asks me if I’d like to reinstate my service by paying my bill. What the fuck? Really?
As I sit there trying to figure out if I’m a victim of identity theft and suddenly all my information, bank, and cell phone have been compromised, I can’t stop thinking about that kid and his freaking smile.
I’m married. I’m… pissed at my husband for not paying the fucking cell phone bill. Ugh. One thing’s certain though. I won’t be telling him about college coffee guy. That’s my little treasure nugget for the day. And believe me, sister, you need that when you’re married.
An action typically done by a batter to show off after hitting a home run. The batter will throw or flip their bat up in the air in celebration. Sometimes used to taunt the opposing pitcher/team.
CASON
“Strike out, Reins?” Ezra asks when I open the car door.
“Nah, just a bat flip.” My heartbeat evens out when I sigh, still fascinated by the flush of her cheeks when her eyes met mine at the minivan comment. I look over my shoulder at the woman once more after she jumps the curb. Smiling, I shrug. The errant thought of her, on me, is one that holds my attention.
Drifting my eyes back to Ezra, I notice the smile plastered on his face and the sudden pique of interest, like he knows what’s up. “What?”
“You’re pathetic.”
Admittedly, I’ve been on a bit of a dry spell lately since Brie and I broke up.
“Damn, I should have got her number.”
Slapping his hand to my shoulder, he stares at me. “As entertaining as that was for me, I think you should lay off women these days. They always bring you trouble.”
I suppose there’s some truth to his theory. And he’s one to talk. Fall semester he had two chicks at one time and tried like hell to keep them separate. Didn’t work in his favor.
“Now, let’s go beat the shit out of the Dirtbags.”
Everything tells me to walk away and forget the woman with the cold brew and bagel, but something forces me to stay. It goes beyond the gesture and the general she’s-hot-as-fuck attraction she holds.
Sighing, I take one last look at the parking lot—the silver van has long since disappeared—and get into the car.
My eyes are heavier than normal as I take a drink of the coffee in my hand. I think about the fact that we’re only fifteen games into our fifty-six game season. Today will be my eighth appearance on the mound this season with a 2.78 ERA. Last year I set the record for single-season strikeouts and tied the program record for wins. I think about my strikeouts, ERAs, the pain in my shoulder every time I throw a fastball. Not far from my mind is my time spent on suspension because sliding into home with Coach Chiasson’s daughter last month was a bad move on my part. Rightfully so. But to be fair, I didn’t know she was his daughter. It wasn’t like we were asking for our last names in the back seat of my car. It was more about, let’s do this.
And we did.
And… Chiasson found out, and my three-game suspension followed. For a senior hoping to be drafted, that really fucks up your stats for the year.
I set my cup in the console holder and let my mind drift back to where it needs to be. Baseball. I have what they tell me is a rocket. There’s plenty of pitchers in the majors with good arms. Even great ones. My dad included. But there are few with an exceptional arm.
I knew when I was around twelve I’d be one of the exceptions and developed my curveball with accuracy. By the time I was seventeen, I could throw a hundred mile per hour fastball. Last week I threw 105 in a bullpen session. Videos of it are all over the fucking internet now, and clubs are breathing down my neck with offers.
If you haven’t guessed it yet, I’m a baseball player. College level. I had my chance at the majors right out of high school. I passed and took the scholarship to ASU. Was it a smart decision?
Maybe.
Was it the best for me?
Absolutely.
I wasn’t anywhere near the maturity level needed to play in the majors as a man, or a ballplayer. I knew what it entailed. My dad plays in the majors. And I rarely saw him growing up. Between road trips and short conversations on the phone, during baseball season I was raised by my mom (or rather, my nanny).
All I remember from my childhood are road trips, new teams, new cities, and making new friends every year. I played ball, spent a good amount of time at race tracks, and heard from my dad a lot of “I’ll see you in two more sleeps.” My dad, Lucas Reins, in the time
I was able to spend with him, taught me two things. Selflessness and accountability. Everything most of my generation lacks.
My story? It revolves around a kid with a fastball, a curveball, and the one constant in my life. Baseball. The game that freed me. It’s a long story, and probably one you will never get the full truth about, but it leads me to the present.
Me, trying to find myself in a sport I wasn’t sure would give anything in return.
And, looking for a place to stay. You can’t fuck the coach’s daughter and not get kicked out of your dorm room.
Okay, he didn’t kick me out. I got myself kicked out of the dorms, not an easy task to do when you’re on a full ride as a star baseball player, pretty much everything is paid for, but regardless, it explains why I’m so tired, the spark of interest in the girl with the cold brew, and why Ez is currently staring at me with curiosity.
“What?”
He sighs, shifting into gear. “Think of curveballs, not your fucking dick, Reins,” he notes, merging into traffic and heading toward campus. “You’ve already pissed Chiasson off enough this season. If you’re late for pitchers stretch, he’ll have your ass.”
He’s right. For once in the last three months, I need to think about something other than the destruction that’s been my personal life.
The dirt area that borders the fences of a baseball field, usually the outfield, that is used to help prevent fielders from running into the fence at full speed. It is intended to help fielders get a feel of how close they are to the fence.
SYDNEY
Cason watches me the entire time I leave the parking lot. And I run over the curb, nearly sideswipe a parked car, and run a Stop sign watching him.
Flustered and freaked out over our interaction, I try my phone once more, just to be sure, and nothing again.
“I’m going to kill my husband.”
Not really, but the thought of suffocating him at night while he’s snoring and I’m up with our toddler has crossed my mind before.
My dad was an avid baseball fan. I know what you’re thinking: What the fuck does this have to do with anything, Sydney? Well, I’ll get to that. Bear with me here. Played his entire young adult life until his senior year of high school. He’d been signed to play for the Los Angeles Angels right out of high school, but the summer before training camp, he was in a horrible car accident that broke both his legs and shattered his throwing arm. They passed on him two days after the accident.
Dad, being the hard worker he was, recovered, did physical therapy for two years, and made it back into the minors. I was ten when he took a job with the University of Arizona in Tucson. We moved from Kansas City to Tucson, where he was the head coach for the Wildcats. In fact, I went to college there. Majored in graphic design, and it’s also where I met Collin in my sophomore year. He was a finance major who fell madly in love with quirky art girl wearing overalls covered in paint splatters. I’m kidding. I’ve never worn overalls a day in my life, but Collin did fall in love with me first. I swear by that.
You’re probably wondering what all that has to do with my current situation of not being able to use my cell phone and the uncertainty hovering over my day. And I’ll tell you.
You see, my dad gave me one quote to live by that got me here, in this shop that I own in downtown Scottsdale and pursuing the entrepreneur career. “Never let the fear of striking out keep you from playing the game.” Babe Ruth said it, and my dad, Syd Kelly, lived by it until the day he died. Massive heart attack two days after my mom passed away from cancer. I know, tragic, and still to this day, six years later, it haunts me. I want to believe it was a fluke thing or romanticize it into him dying of a broken heart, but in reality, for years he’d been worrying about taking care of my mom and didn’t pay attention to the warning signs of a heart attack in the making. Regardless, I remember those words every time I step foot in this shop that everyone said wouldn’t make it.
I’m determined. Just like Syd.
Which is why I left that coffee shop and that hot as fuck college kid who bought my coffee, came to my shop and picked up a paintbrush. It’s how I get lost in a world that doesn’t make any damn sense to me. Art isn’t just for the rich and the famous. It’s for anyone who wants to surround themselves with inspiration.
I’ve been an artist my entire life. Probably since my dad gave me my first calligraphy set when I was eight. From there, I designed wedding invitations all through high school and paid for myself to go to college that way. Well, part of it. I went to school to become a graphic designer and worked at a local advertising firm creating signs after I graduated college. I hated it and went back to designing invitations and those cute wooden signs you see at Hobby Lobby.
While I was pregnant with Tatum, I started an online shop and an Instagram account displaying everything I made. Soon it went crazy, got the attention of bigger accounts, and before I knew it, I was being called an influencer. Nobody should be influenced by me. It’s a fact. Regardless, I have my own shop in town now and love it.
I won’t bore you too much with what I do for a living, and as hard as I try to get lost in my work, I can’t ignore the fact that everything around me seems to be falling apart. Along with the weather. Every time I look outside, the sky is darker, the rain heavier than before. Hell, even my painting is dark. Deep shades of purple, pinks, and chalky gray in juxtaposition. It’s moody winter textures like a chunky knit blanket wrapped around darkness. I layer acrylic, watercolor, oil pastels, and channel that grumpy inside me.
You know what I blame all of this on? It’s Friday the thirteenth. It’s the worst day of the year. Damn you, Jason! That was who killed people on Friday the thirteenth with a chainsaw, right? Or maybe I’m messing up my horror movies because I’m the biggest baby ever and can’t watch anything scary after 10:00 a.m., or I’ll have nightmares.
A sudden gust of wind hits the shop as the front door opens with a creek. “Where have you been?”
Ah, yes, back to reality. I look up from my easel and to the prying cinnamon-colored eyes of the one standing before me. Collin. My fucking husband that I haven’t been able to get a hold of all morning. You want to know the real reason I told you all that shit about my life and how I got started at this shop? Because after I left the coffee shop, I went by Collin’s office. He wasn’t there. His secretary had no idea where he was and confirmed, in fact, our cell phones had been shut off.
So where was he? Judging by the haughty expression he wears, I’m not sure I’m getting the truth from him. I’ll tell you something about Collin. He’s a narcissist. He fits the mold. Excessive need for admiration. No regard for other’s feelings. Inability to handle criticism. Sense of entitlement. Yep, he has all that and lacks fucking empathy. But here’s the thing and why I fell for those adoring cinnamon eyes and crooked smile. I’m empathic. I’m what they call an emotional sponge, and it doesn’t take a psychology degree to realize what a cluster fuck of an unstable relationship we have.
“Seriously, Syd.” Collin plants his hands on my desk, his red tie hanging loosely from his neck. “Where have you been? I called you so many times.”
Drops of water cascade down his nose and roll off, plunging to the floor like my heart does every time I see this man and the look in his eyes lately. Can you tell when someone has fallen out of love with you? I think you can, and it looks something similar to this. “That’s an interesting question considering I’ve been here all morning,” I point out. “And you’ve been, I don’t know, not at work.”
He does that thing where he blinks quickly, and I know he’s either lying or trying to think of a lie. “I had a meeting at another bank in the city.” The lie rolls off his tongue easily. He straightens his posture and breathes in, his eyes darting around the shop filled with my creativity.
I raise an eyebrow, drop my paintbrush on the tray, and turn to face him. “Then how come your secretary didn’t know where you were?”
He towers above me, an analogy so fitting to
our relationship. I will never be as successful or hardworking as him. Squinting, he chews on the corner of his lip. “She’s mistaken. I told her.”
Sighing, I don’t want to argue with him. It’s exhausting for me. I pick the paintbrush back up. “So, why are our cell phones shut off, and why did my credit card get declined this morning?”
That one takes him by surprise, though I’m not entirely sure why. He blinks slowly. “I was able to call out. What are you talking about?”
I slide my cell phone across the counter separating us. “Try it. Mine doesn’t work.”
He picks up my cell phone, dials his, I assume, and stares at me while he waits. I watch his face, remembering the day I fell in love with him. He was calculating batting averages for my dad. We’d been dating a month, and somewhere between sharing popcorn and a hot dog that afternoon, I fell madly in love with Collin Greyson.
Do you notice the tightness in his jaw and the crease of his brow? Or the way his eyes squint as the operator comes on?
He draws in a heavy breath. “I’ll call the phone company,” he notes, handing me my cell phone back.
Our fingertips brush in the exchange, and I’m reminded of my interaction with the college kid this morning. “My credit card isn’t working.”
Collin pulls his hand away, his eyes downcast. “I’ll call the bank and find out why.”
“Okay.” What else am I going to say to him? I think you’re lying? I… wouldn’t say that because I fear this man in many ways. I don’t entirely understand the fear either. They say you pick your battles, and with him, I pick them carefully. He’s not abusive, physically or emotionally, just… quick-tempered. And older doesn’t always equal wisdom. But it doesn’t stop the artist in me, who will always find people with the A-type personality intimidating because they’re not WTF-ing their way through life like me.
Clearing his throat, he loosens his tie. “I’ll be late tonight.”
“Why?
“Meeting.” He tosses two hundred-dollar bills on the counter.
