by Shey Stahl
“Professor Shit-Shore bitched me out about not completing my personality project.” Sadie senses my mood and rubs my shoulder as Tatum starts “Let it Go” for the third time. “What’s wrong? How’d Leslie work out?”
“She’s a hooker,” Remi tells her before I can, whispering the words as if she’s a child and can’t say them loud enough for her parents to hear.
“Really?” Sadie eyes me. “That girl that drove the Jaguar?”
“Yep.”
“Just rent the room to the baseball player.” Sadie winks at me and sets an envelope she pulls from her bra on the table.
“What’s that?”
“It was on the doorstep for you.”
I pick it up and notice the envelope is from ASU. “Aren’t we past the point where you show me your report card for money?” I tease, forcing a smile at Sadie. “And why was it in your bra?”
“I wanted to surprise you with it.” She and Remi exchange a smile. “Open it,” Sadie nudges.
I do and find four tickets to tonight’s Devils game against UCLA. There’s a note inside.
I frown. “Did you have something to do with this?”
“Nope.” She holds up her hands. “They were on your doorstep when I came inside. I brought them to you.”
I lift my eyes to Remi. “Did you do this?”
She, too, holds up her hands. “No way.”
“I can’t go to his game. That will look bad?” Yes, it’s a question.
Sadie stares at me. “Look bad to who?”
“I don’t know.” I face-palm myself. Literally. Then slowly slide my elbows forward until my forehead meets the wood of the table. “What am I going to do?”
“Let the boy live with you,” Remi says, as if it’s obvious. “He’s a good guy, gets really good grades. And, has like five offers already for the majors.”
I know he’s a good guy. His eyes are kind. I roll my head to my cheek and glance up at Remi. “Do you know him?”
“Not real well, but I know his best friend, Ez.”
Sadie places her hand on my back. “It’d be good for Olaf and Tatum to have a break.”
Raising my head, I shift my eyes to my daughter, standing two feet from the TV and staring at a frozen screen of Olaf’s face. Turning to Sadie, I smile weakly. “Her best friend is a talking snowman.”
We laugh, but I’m concerned. Since Collin died, she’s watched the movie at least four times a day. That’s a lot! Maybe she did need to get out of the house. I sent her to preschool twice this week, and her teacher said she refused to play with any of her friends and called another boy a pussy. For no reason at all.
Sadie slaps her hand to my thigh. “Let’s go to the game. I just texted Nahla. She said she’d come with us.” She regards Remi. “Are you going?”
“Yeah, but I have my own tickets in the student section.”
At least she won’t be sitting by us to remind me of the clusterfuck my life is now. “Tatum?” Naturally, she doesn’t answer me and continues her stare down with Olaf.
“Loretta?” Sadie calls out.
Naturally, she turns. “Yeah?”
“Wanna go to a baseball game?”
Setting the remote down, she walks toward us. “Okay.”
Looks like I’m taking the kid to a baseball game. Something I haven’t been to since my dad passed away.
A player who commonly hits with great power.
SYDNEY
The game has already started when we walk into the stadium. With Tatum in my arms, we’re met with a sea of maroon uniforms with gold numbers. The Sun Devils. ASU’s baseball team that currently ranks third in the PAC-12. From my research on the team’s website, he’s leading the NCAA with 51 strikeouts. And then there’s that mystery 105 mph pitch that’s been following him since its appearance last Saturday night. Since it’s virtually unheard of to throw that hard, it’s been talked about all over every sports outlet, and if I had to guess, the sold-out crowd here has something to do with it. They all want to know, was it a fluke, had the radar been off? It couldn’t have been because three different radars clocked him in at 105.8 at one point during the game.
I’m impressed, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to see it in person, because I do.
I’ve been to the stadium a few times, and the moment I smell the hot dogs and popcorn, it’s as if I’m coming home for Thanksgiving or Christmas.
Sadie leads us through the crowd to seats above the dugout along the first baseline. She scans the seats and points to them. “Here we are.”
Within minutes of sitting down, Tatum wants a corn dog. “Can I have a corny dog?”
I don’t know why she calls them that, but it’s become a habit for me to say it now too.
Just as I’m about to tell her yes, she can have anything she wants from the concession stands because that’s part of going to a baseball game, the announcer says, “Now taking the mound for his thirteenth appearance this year, Cason Reins!” the announcer drags out his last name as the stadium erupts with shouting and cameras going ballistic upon him emerging from the dugout. Tatum startles in my arms. She’s refusing to sit in her seat and instead on my lap.
I kiss the side of her face, my eyes on the chalk of the first baseline and Cason stepping over it. I focus on his name on the back of his jersey and his number 4. Funny enough, that was my dad’s number all through high school. Coincidence? Maybe. Probably not.
Tatum startles in my arms again when music begins to play and people start cheering louder. “It’s okay. It will be loud here.”
“Who hims?” she asks, leaning her head back against my shoulder and pointing her tiny finger at Cason.
I watch Cason strut to the mound, the rich brown silky groomed dirt beneath his cleats. “That’s the pitcher. He throws the ball to the batter, that guy over there.” I pause and point to the other dugout with the guy in the green jersey holding the bat. “And he tries to swing at it.”
“Oh” is all she says, her eyes darting around to everything around her. There’s so much to take in at a baseball game, especially for a child. I’m dying to know what’s going through her mind.
To me, baseball is a beautiful game. To some, it’s boring. If you think that, you don’t understand the true meaning of it. Rich with history, the true hardcore fans of the sport will look at you like you’ve lost your mind if you tell them it’s boring.
I can still remember my first game when I was a little older than Tatum. My dad took me to opening day for the Kansas City Royals. And it’s not until this moment, sitting with Tatum on my lap, that I’m brought back to those childhood memories I’ve stored away.
The sounds of cleats on pavement and the clack clack clack. The smell of the popcorn and hot dogs. Looking to the pitcher and noticing the sweat beading on his forehead of that distinct clap of the ball hitting the leather and the bellowing of the umpire calling a strike. The pine tar and the dirt clad knees of the players.
“From Lake Charles Louisiana, Cason Reins has been exactly what this team needed these last four years,” the announcer tells us.
I focus on Cason on the mound. He doesn’t look over at us, but I can tell it’s because he’s focused.
“Can I have that?” Tatum asks.
No, he’s mine, kid.
What? Ugh. Stop it, you stupid heart. Oh, wait, she’s talking about something else.
“What?”
Tatum points to the cotton candy another kid has. “Yummy?”
I nod. “It’s certainly yummy, but you’ll be bouncing off the walls.”
That does nothing to deter her. Sadie ends up taking her back to the concession stands for me as Cason stands on the mound.
With a deep inhale, he lifts his head and darts his eyes around the field. He kicks at the dirt in front of him, his eyes focused on Ez sixty feet from him. Nodding, he leans back, raises his hands in front of his face, and in one fluid motion, draws his right arm back and releases the ball. Thankfully he doesn’t
hit a Tesla, and in turn, the ball whizzes by and hits the catcher’s mitt with a loud pop. The scoreboard lights up as the umpire bellows out the call of a strike.
98mph.
Not bad. Also, it’s stupid how good he looks in a baseball uniform. I hate it because I can’t stop staring at him.
Removing his hat, he waits for the ball to be returned and sweeps his hand across his forehead.
I notice the scouts lined up behind the cameras facing home plate, all rapidly snapping photographs. They all have radar guns and writing notes down, talking amongst themselves about his delivery, speed, and accuracy.
Pitchers with a good arm move on to the minors. Maybe play in the majors. Pitchers with a great arm, like his dad, play in the majors. Pitchers with an exceptional arm… those are the ones who carve their names in the hall of fame.
Cason is one of those exceptions.
Calm and collected from the outside, his motions on the mound, artful and fluid.
At his third strikeout to retire the inning, he leaves the mound with a smirk, and a slow shake of his head as the crowd in attendance goes ballistic. The strut, the cockiness, that self-assured man walking toward us only adds to his appeal.
Hello, roommate.
I’m fucked.
Nahla nudges me. “You’re drooling.”
I make a panting sound to be funny.
She laughs. “What am I going to do with you?”
“I don’t know, but I wouldn’t be disappointed to meet him in the dugout and warm the bench.”
She rolls her eyes, picking the peanuts out of the Cracker Jacks box she has in her hand. “Do me a favor though, don’t marry him without a prenup and a separate checking account.”
She’s joking. I have absolutely no plans of getting married again, and never ever will I share a bank account again.
Sadie rips the box from her hands. “Why are you eating all the nuts out? That’s the best part.”
“Why do you think I’m eating them?”
Before Cason enters the dugout, his eyes lift to where we’re seated. His eyes seek mine under the lights of the stadium’s artificial light. He smiles, dimples forming in the corners of his mouth. And then he winks at me, and I roll my eyes, but I’m unable to keep the smile from my face.
The game passes in a blur. I think I spend more time at the concessions with Tatum and the eight trips to the bathroom where she swears, this time, she has to go. It ends in her peeing her pants and wearing no panties and me buying her a Sun Devils’ onesie to make it home because guess who didn’t bring a change of clothes for her?
This mess of a mom.
It’s after the game, before the team heads into the dugout, that Forest tries to climb over the seats to get to Nahla, while she scurries away, and Cason eyes me with that familiar flirty predatory gaze.
He gestures me forward with a nod. “Couldn’t stay away, huh?”
Laughter escapes me as Tatum wiggles in my arms and reaches out to take Cason’s hat right off his head. “I hope you’re not this arrogant every day.”
He smiles at Tatum and winks at her, letting her have his hat. “Does that mean you’re gonna see me every day?”
I sigh, trying to keep a hold of Tatum in my arms as she tries to limp noodle herself to the ground. “You can rent the room.”
His eyes focus on Tatum and then mine, the flush of his cheeks endearing. “Told you I was your best option.”
“The fact that you beat out a cat lady, a sex offender, an escort, and a dude with a blow-up doll, I wouldn’t be too cocky.” I shift Tatum to my other hip and unintentionally lean toward him like the freaking magnet he is. What the hell is with this guy? Why does my body want to be so close to him? “The stakes really weren’t that high.”
“Regardless. I’m the best option.” He makes eye contact with Tatum, and to my surprise, she reaches for him. I’ve never seen her do that. While I know it’s a ploy to get down and pick up that popcorn in hopes of eating it off the ground, Cason takes her in his arms.
My eyes about bug out of my head. What the hell? He’s holding her? And she’s not crying or freaking out that a stranger is holding her? Did he drug my baby with his scent? Because she’s completely content in his arms. Goes to show you the trance this guy has on people. He brainwashes all females—no age limitations.
Cason smiles at her onesie and steps back, his feet in the dirt, players all around him. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”
Tatum lifts her head, but her eyes are on the field behind Cason. “Loretta.”
Ez walks up behind him and grins at Tatum twirling one of her curls around his finger. “Aren’t you the cutest thing in the world?”
She stares at Ez but doesn’t say anything.
“That’s not her name,” I add, still trying to figure out why she’s content in his arms.
Ez leaves to talk to Remi, and Sadie and I continue watching Cason and the way his muscles pop out with the weight of Tatum in his arms.
Tatum scowls at me, and I half expect her to lay her head on Cason’s chest. It’s late for her, the white glow of the stadium lights shining brightly on her tired eyes. “Yes, it is.”
“She’s going through a phase,” I tell him, trying to clarify the confusion.
“And that is?”
I shrug, reaching for Tatum when she decided she’s had enough of Cason. He wouldn’t let her run around the field, so that killed the reason for letting him hold her. “Loretta.”
He smiles at her and hands her a ball Ez tosses at him. “Here you go, Loretta.”
I focus on his hand, his strong fingers, and the things those fingers can do for me. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I’m so screwed.
Regardless, I sigh. “The room is yours if you want it.”
He nods. “I’ll stop by in the morning before I have to be back here.”
Right. He has a game tomorrow night too.
With a sigh of uncertainty, I step back. “By the way.” He lifts his eyes to mine when I pause. “Good game.”
A chuckle leaves his lips. “Not 105, but still…”
“Still amazing. Impressive. You’re much better sober.”
A beautiful, the most infectious smile I’ve ever seen, better than Remi’s, graces his lips, and I can’t imagine how any woman could ignore him. “Thank you.”
His name is called from someone in the dugout. He twists his head at the sound, and I’m offered the strain in his neck, a reminder of our time together when he threw his head back when he came.
Annoyed with myself, I step back further and hand off Tatum to Sadie, who takes her to the bathroom, again.
I remain rooted in place to see what Cason might say next.
He nods to whoever is talking to him in the dugout but then turns back to me. “Tomorrow?”
“Yeah, come by whenever.”
“I’ll bring you some coffee.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I want to.” He shrugs one shoulder, chewing on his lip, his hair matted to one side and beading with sweat. I want to lean in and smell him.
Awkwardly, I raise my hand. “Well, thanks for the tickets.”
“Thanks for the room.”
With another smile, he ducks his head and into the dugout, disappearing and leaving me wondering what the fuck I’m thinking letting this guy move into my house. Technically, above my garage.
Thank God it’s not attached to the house.
A player who can play several different positions. Also known as a “versatile player.”
SYDNEY
Saturday morning, Nahla draws up another lease agreement for me, and with a six-month lease, I should be able to keep the house from foreclosure.
I can’t, however, keep leasing my shop downtown. Given the circumstances of Collin’s death, they let me out of my lease.
Walking around the garage that morning, I sigh, feeling hopeless. Boxes of Collin’s stuff line the wall where his Tesla used to be parked. The other two stalls ar
e teeming to the edges with my paintings, signs, and extra stock. “This sucks.”
Nahla hugs me to her side. “You’ll get back there, sweetie. I know you will.”
“I hope you’re right.” Strangely enough, I’ve sold eight high-priced paintings in the last two days. I haven’t sold much from my wilderness collection in a year, but now it’s going like crazy. Maybe someone who knows me is pity buying.
Hey, this chick’s life crumbled in a week. Help her out.
Though I’m grateful, it only adds to the weight on my chest because though my checking account is no longer negative, I don’t know what’s going to happen next.
Like he said he would, Cason shows up around ten that morning, with coffee.
I smile at him as he exits his car. I notice he’s driving a Jaguar. Which confirms my theory that he shouldn’t need to rent a room above a garage. Dude could probably buy an entire apartment complex if he wanted. Either that or he’s secretly an escort too because that’s what little Miss Lindsey Long was driving.
He hands me an iced coffee. “Saw this and thought of you,” he tells me, handing it over.
I take it from him, unable to stop the warmth in my cheeks. “Cute. I have a lease for you to sign.”
“I have a cock for you.” Stepping forward, he invades my personal space and grips the top of his door, swinging it closed. “I mean, check.”
I step back and try like hell to ignore his cock comment even though it did things to my lower half I’d rather not talk about. “Do you have much to move in? You have a game later, right?”
“I have clothes.” He motions to the back of his car. “That’s about it.”
“Simple man, are you?”
“Baseball players travel light.”
There’s some truth to that. They never know when they’re going to be traded. Maybe that’s something instilled in them before they get to the majors in order to prepare them for the future.
The room above our garage is fully furnished, a weekend project I’m super proud of. Collin and I originally thought it would be a fun little place for guests when they stayed over, so I decorated it to feel like a country cottage, complete with white tongue-and-groove ceilings and everything from Pottery Barn’s spring collection. There’s a small galley kitchen, a balcony overlooking our pool deck, and even a bathroom.
