The Strike Out

by Quinn, Meghan

  “What if I did?” I ask quietly, stopping Priya in her tracks.

  Hand to my arm, she looks me in the eyes and asks, “Are you serious?”

  I shrug. “I mean . . . yeah.”

  “Oh my God, Harmony.” She pulls me into a hug. “Have you told him?”

  I shake my head. “God, no. I don’t think he’s ready for that.”

  She laughs out loud and keeps walking toward the gates, but now with her arm looped through mine. “Oh, Harmony. I think that boy has been in love with you since he laid eyes on you.”

  The corner of my lips turn up. I’m not sure there’s much truth to her statement, but it still makes me happy thinking there’s a slight chance she could be right.

  We hand over our tickets to the ticket collector and she ushers us through a lower tunnel where we’re greeted by another ticket handler.

  “Seats one and two,” he says, pointing to two seats in the first row.

  “Oh, damn,” Priya whispers into my ear. “Yeah, the boy loves you, all right, especially if he’s springing for these seats.”

  We both sit down, and I scan the field for number thirty-three. Most of the players are in the outfield stretching and warming up their legs, and there are two guys tossing the ball around.

  “Do you see him?” I ask.

  Priya looks around. “I don’t. Oh boy, look at Knox Gentry bending over, though. Hell-oh. And Carson Stone—see him over there, stretching his leg? Yum. Not to mention Jason Orson. He claims to have the best butt on the team, and I must agree. And then Gunner Klein and Brock Romero have a piece of my heart, as well.”

  I blink a few times, staring down my friend. “Uh, when did you become a fan of the baseball team? I thought we were against all athletes.”

  “You might have been, but not this girl. I was playing along to make you happy. But I secretly like a piece of man meat in baseball pants.”

  “I feel like I don’t even know you.”

  “Oh, look, there he is.” Priya points and I see number thirty-three heading away from the dugout toward the outfield to stretch.

  Well . . .

  It seems as though I’ve been a fool, because I should have been coming to these games a lot sooner.

  Dear Jesus, Holt in a uniform is an experience in itself.

  Unlike some of the players I see on TV, he wears his uniform like a glove. Tight pants that show off every last inch of his lower half, socks pulled high, and his belt firmly cinched around his narrow waist, reminding me of the tight V between his hips. Then there’s his actual jersey, stretching against his thick chest and round biceps. His shoulder blades poke at the fabric, and his sleeves are just high enough to reveal his chiseled arms. There’s a sweatband wrapped around his left forearm adding to his sex appeal.

  “Girl, you’re gawking,” Priya whispers, and I quickly realize my mouth is hanging open.

  I snap it shut and adjust my position in my seat so I’m leaning closer to Priya. Talking quietly, I ask, “Um, is it just me or is he exponentially hotter in the uniform?”

  “It’s not just you.” She nods toward the right-field seats, where there are droves of girls calling out names of the players, holding signs, and doing everything in their ability to get the players’ attention.

  Lucky for me, Holt doesn’t even notice them. Instead, he talks with Carson and Knox, and then picks up his glove to warm up his arm.

  I watch in fascination as he starts close to his catching partner and continuously backs up until he’s throwing across the outfield with what looks like ease.

  “God, baseball is hot.”

  Priya chuckles next to me. “You’re a changed woman.”

  “I am.” I sit back in my seat, getting comfortable, and take a sip of the complementary lemonade a seat attendant gave us when we sat down. I watch my man. I study him. I don’t take my eyes off him as he finishes warming up. During the national anthem, I keep my eyes on his back, and when he’s introduced onto the field, I watch him sprint to left field, where he takes his position.

  “There are so many thirsty girls here,” Priya says, looking around the stadium as the game gets going. Gunner is on the mound, Jason is behind the plate, and the dynamic duo of Knox and Carson are at shortstop and second. I can only imagine why there are so many thirsty girls here.

  “You being one of them.”

  “I’m not thirsty, just observing. There’s a difference. I’m not waving my shirt over my head, begging for attention. I’m casually observing and fantasizing about what it would be like to bounce a quarter off Jason Orson’s ass. Think it would bounce high?”

  “Not sure. I haven’t really checked him out.”

  The crack of the bat rings through the noisy stadium and the ball sails out to left field. My breath catches in my chest as I watch Holt sprint toward the wall. As he closes in, his hand reaches out toward the padding, and then he perfectly times a jump as he snatches the ball away from going over the wall.

  Before I know what I’m doing, I stand up with the rest of the crowd and cheer my little heart out as the announcer gives a shout out to Holt and a slow-motion replay shows his catch on the big screen for the third out of the inning. Hands clutched, I watch the intensity in his eyes as he zones in on the ball, leaps, and makes the catch.

  Dear Jesus, my ovaries are ready to explode.

  “Hell, I think I just had an orgasm watching that,” Priya says, sitting down.

  “Hey, that’s my boyfriend.”

  “Yeah, and I lusted for a second. Forgive me.”

  Chuckling, I sip my lemonade but nearly choke on it when Holt pops out of the dugout and stands right in front of us, helmet on his head, bat in hand. He picks up some sort of cylindrical device and puts it on his bat.

  I take in his muscular backside as he tracks the pitcher and swings his bat. When he’s ready, he turns toward us, knocks his bat on the ground, removing the cylinder, and then looks me in the eyes. He winks—sending my heart into a complete frenzy—and he says, “You look hot, babe.”

  Then he takes off toward the batter’s box as the announcer calls out Holt’s name.

  Priya grips my hand and stiffly says, “Be still my heart. I think I just died watching that. Are you breathing?”

  Heart in my throat, I squeak out, “Barely.”

  Stunned, my heart beating a mile a minute for the man who owns it, I watch him get comfortable in the batter’s box, and then with the first pitch, he swings, sending the ball into the outfield. He takes off, his legs propelling him faster than I ever imagined possible as he rounds first and heads to second, where he dives head first and the umpire calls him safe.

  I lose my shit and scream for my man.

  And in that moment, as he flips his belt over, letting the dirt that gathered fall to the ground, I have a flash of the future. Me watching him in a professional stadium. Pregnant with his baby. A ring on my finger. A full heart.

  I can see it all.

  Me and him.

  A future.

  There’s no doubt in my mind he’s it for me, which makes me think again about my mom’s words from weeks ago. They’ve stayed with me, and I think I understand them more now.

  “You’re carrying yourself through this next chapter in life, and it’s time you allow yourself to look up for a second and experience life.”

  I’m doing that now . . . with the man who showed me how.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  HOLT

  “Three for four, man,” Carson says, shampooing his head. “That have anything to do with the girl sitting in the front row, eyeing you the entire time?”

  I squirt some body soap into my hand and start washing every inch of my body. “Was she eyeing me the whole game?”

  “Uh, every time I saw her, she was.”

  “Good.” I smile to myself, thinking about the game and how amazing it felt to have Harmony there, watching me. A sense of pride hit me hard as I knew my girl was cheering me on. Made me want to do even better, try
even harder. And I had my best game so far this fall season.

  It has everything to do with being a macho idiot and wanting to impress a girl, and I’m not even sorry about it.

  “So, when are you going to tell us more about this girl? All you’ve said is she’s locker-room material and you met her over the summer. Care to elaborate?”

  I shrug. “She’s meeting my parents tonight.”

  “Dude, seriously?” Carson asks. “Why haven’t you said anything?”

  “Because Knox was going through shit trying to win over Emory, and I liked keeping her to myself. I liked not having to report back to you guys.”

  “Well, we knew something was up since you’re never home and you’re always buried in your phone. You’re not that good at hiding it.”

  “Good enough,” I say, rinsing off and grabbing my towel from the short shower stall.

  “When do we get to meet her?” Carson asks, rinsing off as well.

  “When I feel like it, and I don’t feel like it right now. I like having her to myself.”

  As I start to walk away, Carson calls out, “Good luck with the parents tonight.”

  “No luck needed; I know they’re going to love her.”

  When I get back to my locker, I quickly get changed, style my hair, and slip on some of the cologne that I know Harmony goes crazy for. I told her to meet me by the door that leads to the parking lot, so I quickly pocket my wallet and phone and snag my keys. On my way out, I toss out a few high fives, and then I jog down the hallway to the parking lot door. When I open it, I don’t see my girl at first, but then when I turn the corner, she’s leaning against the wall, looking down at her phone.

  She’s wearing a pair of black skinny jeans, black high heels, and a deep purple off-the-shoulder shirt that clings to her chest and waist and makes my mouth water. Her hair is curled and draped over her shoulders, and she looks fucking phenomenal. She changed clothes, because she sure as hell wasn’t wearing that at the game. She’d been wearing one of my jersey shirts I gave her. But this . . . hell, this outfit is going to be torn off later.

  “Hey, baby,” I say, walking up to her. She glances up and smiles brightly at me, then presses her hands to my chest, runs them up to the back of my neck, and clings to me as her lips find mine. It’s the kind of greeting I’ve envisioned many nights since meeting her.

  “God, you smell good,” she says, pulling away. She cups my cheek. “You were so sexy out there today.”

  “Yeah?” I ask, brows raised.

  She nibbles on her bottom lip. “Oh yeah.”

  I grip her hips and pull her in closer. “Were you turned on watching me?”

  “I was happy knowing all these girls were pining after you, but I was the one going home with you.”

  “Damn right, you are.” I tip her chin up and press my mouth to her lips one more time, reveling in how soft they are. I could stay here all night. Hell, if I had it my way, I’d take her back to her place and let her know just how much she’s my girl, but my parents are waiting. Reluctantly, I pull away and slip my hand in hers. “We should get going. I don’t want to keep my parents waiting too long.”

  “Yes, of course.” She straightens her shirt and pushes her hair behind her ear. “Do I look okay?”

  “You look gorgeous, babe. I’m a lucky man.” I kiss the back of her hand and lead her to the car. I open the door for her and wait until she’s settled to shut it. Then I quickly get in on my side, and we both buckle up before I start the car.

  I take off toward the restaurant, Tony’s Italian Eatery, my parents’ favorite, and I rest my hand on Harmony’s leg. “So, tell me more about how you were orgasming while watching me.”

  “I was not orgasming.”

  “Are you sure? There were reports in the dugout about a girl matching your description who was causing a scene in the front row. Mindlessly shaking, tongue wagging, panting, and at one point, someone said there might have been a low chanting of moans.”

  “Are you required to get your smart-assery out before you have dinner with your parents? Is that what this is?”

  I hold up my hand in defense. “Hey, just trying to get to the bottom of the orgasming girl. Just checking the boxes and doing my duties. So, was it you?”

  “I have no problem getting an Uber back to my place.”

  I chuckle. “I’m going to take that as a ‘no.’ Hmm . . . was it Priya?”

  “Now, that I can’t confirm or deny. She was ogling, big time. I had no idea she loved baseball so much, let alone knew of most of the guys on the team.”

  “Oh yeah?” I put on my right blinker and wait at a stoplight. “There are quite a few single guys on the team. I could see if they’re interested.”

  “She wouldn’t have time. She’s more of a ‘fling’ kind of girl, and I’ve learned not to get involved in her flings. She’s very particular and bases her hookups by how she’s feeling in the moment. I just let her do her own thing despite her butting into my personal life.”

  “Hey, I’m pretty damn happy she butted in. Best wing-woman ever. She scored me a nice piece of ass.”

  Harmony swats at my arm, making me laugh. “What is wrong with you? You really think that’s something I want to hear?”

  “That’s love speaking,” I say. The car falls silent, and I realize what I just said.

  Oh shit.

  Uh . . .

  Fuck.

  The light in front of me turns red and I try to backtrack. “I mean, umm . . . that’s like speaking. Not love. Like. You know, because I like you.” When she remains silent, I start to sweat. “I mean, I more than like you. I really like you.” The restaurant is just ahead, so I find a spot on the side of the road, pull up next to the curb, and put the car in park. I quickly turn toward her and catch her gaze focused on her lap. “I really like you, a lot.”

  She takes a deep breath and unbuckles her seatbelt, and my heart fucking falls as I realize I might have just screwed everything up. But when she turns toward me, puts her hands in mine, and looks me in the eyes, that initial nervousness starts to disappear. “I more than like you too, Holt.” Her thumbs rub over my knuckles. “I love you.”

  She . . . what?

  I blink.

  My mouth parts.

  Shock freezes my brain.

  My girl—she . . . loves me?

  “You don’t have to say it back. Don’t feel as though you need to. I’ve been feeling this way for a little bit and I just thought you should know. It might be too soon, but—”

  “I love you, baby.”

  Her eyes snap to mine as they fill up with tears. “Really?”

  I nod. “Fuck yeah, really.” I reach up and cup her cheek. “Jesus, I’ve been holding it in, not wanting to scare the fuck out of you, but I love you, babe. I love you fucking hard.”

  The tears that welled fall down her cheeks. I quickly wipe them away with my thumbs.

  “Why are you crying?” I ask.

  “Just happy.” She smiles and leans in to kiss me before resting her forehead against mine. “I feel as if a weight has been lifted off my shoulders, finally saying that. It’s so freeing.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  Our eyes connect, and we both laugh.

  “God, we’re sickening,” she says.

  “We are.” I give her one more chaste kiss and then squeeze her hand. “Come on, I want to show my girlfriend off.”

  * * *

  Mom and Dad ordered a deep-dish pizza for all of us to share. They checked with me beforehand to make sure Harmony was okay with pepperoni, so when we arrive, we don’t have to worry about menus. We can just get to know each other.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Green, how long are you visiting?” Harmony asks. We’re sitting in a booth, Harmony and me on one side, my parents on the other. She’s holding my hand under the table and I detect the smallest shake in her hand. She’s nervous, and I’d normally pull her in close and try to ease the nerves out of her, but I’m sure she doesn’t wan
t me hanging all over her in front of my parents, so I just hold her hand tight.

  “Oh, just tonight. We fly home after dinner,” Mom answers. “We’re lucky enough to fly privately so we can visit Holt pretty often.”

  “That’s great,” Harmony says, and I know she must have just experienced culture shock. I’m pretty sure she only sees her parents during the holidays because plane tickets are too expensive. “So, how many games do you get to catch?”

  “As many as work allows,” Dad answers. “If it were up to me, we’d be at every game. At least when he’s playing professionally, we’ll be able to watch him on TV.” Dad crosses his fingers. “We’re hoping for an East Coast team.”

  “I’ll take any team,” I say. “I just want to be drafted.”

  “You will be,” Dad says with a wink and then turns to Harmony. “Tell us, how are you liking the internship? I’ve heard nothing but great things about your work from Fifer. The entire team is really impressed.”

  “Thank you. It’s been great, actually. And thank you again for the opportunity to interview. I’ve learned so much, especially the ins and outs of a published website.”

  “No need to thank us. You earned that internship on your own.”

  Growing quiet, Harmony says, “It really changed this semester for me. I don’t have to work at the diner as much. I pick up a shift here and there, but it’s freed up a lot of my time to focus on what I want to do. I truly am grateful.”

  The table falls silent, and then Mom says, “Well, I can see why you like Harmony so much. She’s beautifully honest.”

  I can’t help it—I lift our clasped hands and press a kiss to her knuckles. “Yeah, she’s kind of got me by the balls.”

  Harmony’s eyes widen in horror, while my mom groans, and my dad laughs.

  I wiggle my eyebrows at Harmony, and I swear in this moment, if she did have me by the actual balls, she’d put them through a meatgrinder without even giving it a second thought.

  “Ignore our inappropriate son. He got it from his father,” Mom says.

  “He did not,” Dad counters. “You’re the pervert in this marriage.”