Lulu! Ha! I'm going to challenge him on that.
"May I ask what a lulu is?" I stood with my arms folded.
"Oh, ya know . . . dingbat. Dumbo. Backward."
"You don't strike me as any of those," I responded.
“Off to a good start, then," he smiled. "In that case, would ya consider having coffee with me sometime?”
“Sometime?” I repeated sarcastically.
“After the game tonight?” He batted his eyelashes, flirting and letting me know that although he seemed innocent, he understood what he was doing.
“Tonight?” I repeated.
That’s damn bold of you. On the other hand, you’re not tossing me a baseball or asking me to meet you in the tunnel.
“I know.” His laugh was friendly and not sexy like Ryan's. It stirred my curiosity and not the sensual feelings in my belly. “You probably don't believe me . . ."
"But?" I encouraged, now enjoying our back and forth.
"I’ve never done this before. Asking a woman for her phone number, I mean. Shoops, I sound ridiculous.”
“Shoops?” I cracked up. “What does that mean? You seem to have your own unique language.”
“My family’s polite word for shit,” he grinned. "I'm from the Midwest. We never swear in the presence of a woman."
“I see.” He seems nice. Maybe . . . too nice?
“I’m a good guy and new to the area. Do you think, well, would you? Just ta talk and have coffee or hot chocolate? You have a kind face. I'm dying to be with someone my own age. Will you?”
“I don’t know.” I looked up and noticed a small plane overhead with a sign in tow that read, The Dare Foundation. I took it as a sign. "Well—"
“Its only coffee.” His eyes sparkled.
“Um . . .” He does seem sincere and he’s rather adorable.
“We can meet wherever you choose. Someplace busy where there are tons of people. Would that sway you? Everyone's asleep in my family by the time the game is over. I'm just plain goin' nuts! I feel like I've got mad cow disease or somethin'!"
I tried not to laugh. Maybe he was just what I needed to perk up—a boy not too much older than me. I liked that.
“Ethan Mathers.” He extended his hand. “I was called up from the Avengers’ farm system a few days ago. I need someone I can relate to for friendship—just friendship. Promise.”
“How old are you?” I asked.
“Twenty,” he replied quickly. “Do you live here?”
“Yes, I was born here.”
“Can I be honest?” he tossed a ball in the air.
“Sure.”
“My teammates are giving me crap because I’m a rookie. They’re older than me and most of them have families and friends here.” He tossed the ball again from one hand to the other.
Don’t toss that thing to me.
“Everyone's made me feel welcome, ya know. It's not that they're being rude or anything. I’ve got too much ta say. I'm tryin' to fit in, figure things out . . . I’m not like this normally,” he continued. “But somethin' about you says . . . maybe you could use a friend, too?”
“Maybe,” I answered slowly as if I had trouble getting the word from my mouth.
“If we’re havin' coffee and you say to yourself, ‘This guy's a jerk,’ or you say it out loud, although I hope you won’t, you can just leave. No hard feelin's.” He tried reassuring me.
He’s funny! What a sucker I am, falling for someone’s vulnerable side, always hoping for the best, for something or someone different, or someone who's like me?
“Are you twenty-one yet?” he poked.
“Nope.” I wasn’t ready to reveal my age.
“Good," he wiped his forehead in a mock gesture of relief. "I can't go in the bars yet, so . . . hot chocolate?” His expression seemed optimistic. “If you’re not a coffee person, that is.”
Oh . . . I miss Ryan and the hot chocolate he made for us when he stayed the night in my room. I've got to quit thinking about him. Come on, Nick. Stay in the moment. This boy seems open and honest.
“Either would be great. I am most definitely a coffee person and also one who loves hot chocolate. Nicky Young.” We shook hands. “There’s a coffee shop on the other side of the big lawn area to the left of the player's lot. It's by the harbor and called Java House. There's nothing fancy about it, just basic diner food, but it's good and open all night.”
“Awesome. Meet you there." He nodded his head and closed his eyes for a second as if in relief.
“Okay, Ethan. Oh, by the way, I can’t wish you too much luck in your game tonight. I know I'm sitting on your team's side of the field, but I’m a huge Goliaths fan. In fact, tomorrow and Saturday, I’ll be cheering on the field.”
“You’re one of the cheer team? Cool!" We high-fived. "I've heard the Avengers might do something similar. Guess that means you're a big hit?"
"You heard all that from being in the professional leagues only a few days?" I asked with genuine surprise.
"Yeah, well I had to be briefed, ya know. One of the things the guys told me comin' here was to be careful practicing when you guys were on the field. Then the conversation kept goin', that's how I found out!"
Hear that, Stanford?
“I’m so surprised.” I buttoned my vest. I loved that he said “you guys” instead of “you girls.” It was generic and friendly. Something about him made me feel good—really good.
“Big kudos for you guys, right?” One of the coaches yelled Ethan's name. He straightened his cap. “Well, I should get back to practice before I get in trouble. So, see ya after the game?” He jogged backward as he waited for my answer.
"Yes!" I shouted. "See you then! And if you change your mind, don't worry, no hard feelings. I was going there anyway.”
“I’ll be there,” he yelled back and then waved.
I felt as if a little flash blinded me when he smiled. When I thought about where I was sitting, I laughed at myself and then considered I had just befriended another athlete.
Nicky, what are you doing—another baseball player?
Was I setting myself up for failure? The alpha-male in them always surfaced, exposing what they truly wanted: to compete, win, be on top of their game—every game—have lots of sex, and control their woman—or women.
I’d read somewhere that eighty-five percent of baseball marriages ended in divorce. After dating Ryan, I understood why that might be true. They were in the public eye, desired by men and women, heroes to children, sought after by the press, and faced with every temptation imaginable. If they were good, and had a marketable face and personality, it was like baskets of treats had been prepared—theirs for the taking.
Owners of bars, clubs, luxury car sales, restaurants, and gyms—all of them wanted an athlete’s patronage. When they got it? The upscale, hip, and good-looking crowds followed. If you were a club owner, you made sure the drinks flowed like water to the VIPs.
Money, sex, alcohol, hookers and sometimes drugs, were available for years—as long as the athlete was young or had drawing power. The athlete's agent made sure to see to their every desire. He could party all night long at the popular clubs, always ushered inside immediately, given the best seats and a harem of women in low cut or tight dresses ready and waiting.
Fans adored these handsome and well-built men with million dollar smiles. The positive publicity resulting from their attendance at charitable functions and team events gave them the press they needed to be seen as a giving member of the community.
But in the cover of darkness, another story often revealed itself.
After getting so much attention, many began to believe they were special—and invincible. It was easy, especially when in their twenties, to lose their foothold on reality.
What chance did I really have with Ryan?
The women he saw every day were mature, gorgeous, extremely fit and not only welcomed and enjoyed sex, but were ready to be with him in any way he wanted.
Whe
n I refused to engage in the physical part of our relationship, he understandably shut down. He admitted he’d never had a girlfriend and I'd never had a boyfriend. Neither of us knew about being committed and years of habit made sure to jade him when it came to being with a woman without having sex.
So that night at the ballpark, succumbing to my fears, I crossed both Ryan and Jerry off my list. I could be safe from the hurt that inevitably came—at least I’d be old enough to handle it when I decided to once again try a relationship.
I was broken in one world, while trying to be whole in another.
Chapter 5
Coffee
It was odd that after talking with Ethan I was able to relax. My stomach settled down immediately.
As I put my feet up and ate my sandwich, I saw Chris and Frances, Ryan’s brother and sister-in-law, sitting a few rows behind the Goliaths’ dugout.
They look so excited. Oh, damn it. I wish I were with them, talking about Chris performing at the Irish Cultural Center and discovering more about their lives.
My thoughts drifted back to Ryan’s desperate reveal near the elevator at the Embarcadero Hotel and on the beach at Half Moon Bay. He was hurt and vulnerable, trying to sort through the pain from his father’s death. The little boy of that evening rushed back into my heart. I couldn't shake him.
He seemed sincere, but when all was said and done, wasn’t it only an act?
Just then, he stepped out of the dugout to wave at his family.
A dozen women gathered to get his attention.
I could barely stand to watch.
My hands were ready to cover my eyes.
Me and my bright ideas.
Even though he was free to have sex with other women because he’d let me go, I didn’t want to see him throw the baseball into the stands or make a pass at another lady.
But I had to.
That's the reason I came.
Wasn't it?
I don’t want to admit anything. I sure miss him.
Preparing myself for Ryan to turn his back on me, I spoke silent words of encouragement to myself—I'd used them all my life. “No matter what he does, I’m worth loving. I'll be okay, regardless of his actions. I'm a good person."
It wasn’t long before he turned away from the crowd.
He didn’t curl his finger to any of the ladies dressed up for him. Dare I hope? Should I hope? Isn’t it better if it’s over?
The fans next to me were excited after Ethan walked away. They asked me how I knew the rookie baseball player. When I told them we’d just met, they teased me about possibilities.
This feels good. It’s exactly how I felt in LA with Alex, enjoying my freedom and the variety of people around me—especially those my own age. I need to pay attention to this.
The Avengers were victorious that night, 9-5. Because there was no save possibility, meaning the game was on the line or the Goliaths were ahead by three runs or less, Ryan didn’t come in to pitch the ninth.
The usual celebration by baseball men ensued: jocks raising their hands to high-five each other, the bumping of butts, chests, and stomachs, giving each other creative handshakes and jumping high off the ground, together.
When I stood up to leave, I considered how odd it was that only a few months earlier I had enjoyed baseball for its pure sport and competition. I had rooted for the players and their achievements on the field the same way as my father, before Ryan came into my life.
Longing to once again move through my favorite sport as a fan and nothing more, I wondered if I'd ever be able to wear my rose-colored glasses and ignore the murmurs of my body.
Even as I yearned for my childhood, it was the sensual bumping together of men and women that occupied my mind dozens of times during the day.
Chris and Frances walked down to the railing. Fans surrounded them as they leaned in to have a word with Ryan. After a few moments of checking in with his family, he went into the dugout. His brother and sister-in-law left the area quickly. I presumed they were headed to a room in the tunnel where approved guests often waited.
Had I thought it through instead of letting my anger get the best of me, I would’ve realized that because his family was at the game, the chance he’d flirt with anyone was slim to none. Add to that how Chris had already called his brother a Romeo in front of me; I should have known Ryan wouldn’t do anything to encourage more of that sarcasm.
As I waited for Ethan at Java House, I nervously bounced from one activity to another while trying to kill time.
I know he won’t show up, but I’ll be okay.
I read the newspaper, played mini-golf on my cell phone, checked the doorway several times, looked at the clock, talked to a few of the customers and repeated the routine.
Shortly before eleven, Ethan arrived dressed in dark blue jeans and a loose, black T-shirt. There was no beautiful chest, tattooed arms, or lovely blue eyes in my face. No one knew that Ethan was a ballplayer or asked for his autograph.
“Hey,” he nodded.
“Hey! Congratulations on your win, dude.”
“Thanks." He sat down and scooted his seat closer to the table. "Did you order?”
“Just water so far.” I put down my phone. “Did you get enough to eat in the clubhouse?”
“Yeah, I have to get my fill there.” He picked up my menu. “Rookies aren’t paid much, so I take advantage of all the freebies.”
“That makes good sense." Right now sensible appeals to me.
"So . . . cappuccino or hot chocolate?" Ethan waited for my response.
"Cappuccino, please." I can't bear to have hot chocolate yet.
Once we ordered, we began a conversation that felt natural and flowed easily. He told me about his life growing up on a farm in Missouri and admitted he was naive and overwhelmed by big-city life, the hangers-on, and—no surprise—all the women.
“And the press!" His hands moved expressively. “I have to be so careful about everything I say and do. The other day I tweeted about a congresswoman I admire back home? A few minutes later management called to schedule me with public relations.”
“Wow! That’s pretty serious!” I tore a napkin in half. “Guess the Avengers thought you might take the team down!”
“I guess so." He started laughing. “The new kid from Missouri rocks a professional baseball team—ha! Cool headlines!”
“Do you have any social media accounts?” I tried to stop smiling.
“Facebook and Instagram, but I made 'em private.” He took a sip of water. “I started to tweet, but that’s how I got in trouble in the first place. Hiring a publicist seems so phony. Can’t afford one anyway.”
“You’re smart not to.” I reconsidered my response might have been too bold and I backtracked. “Well, at least, in my opinion. It’s just . . .” I frowned as I thought about a twenty-year-old rookie already jaded. “People like honesty, not the canned crap. Of course, I’m talking about something of which I know diddlysquat, as James would say.”
“Who’s James?” he sipped from his coffee mug as soon as it was set in front of him. "Thanks," he said to our waiter.
“He handles security at the Bay Gate. Don’t tell anybody, but he let me in tonight with an extra ticket.” I felt as if we were schoolmates sneaking a note underneath the teacher's nose.
“My lips are sealed. I can get you a ticket if you ever want to see one of my games in Oakland.” He dipped his spoon in the creamy head of foam on the cappuccino.
“Cool. I’ve never been there. Can you believe it? Right in my own backyard, and I've never been. Anyway, on your posting, don’t get a publicist unless the team insists.” I put my hands up to my face and started laughing. “I know that’s bossy. Sorry. But I think people will see through those posts and you won’t attract the following you want. There’s a marketing strategy based on the law of attraction."
"That answers one question for me," he smiled.
"What's that?"
"You're at least a sophomore in
college, right?"
"I'll tell you my age later. Back to marketing yourself, you'll want to be genuine. They need to see the real you. You know, like your interests and passions. On the other hand, if people pay that much attention to what you’re posting, I guess that means you’re climbing the ladder pretty damn fast, Ethan.”
“Climbin' is right. So many people, fans, and friends I didn’t know I had—they’re all comin’ out of some hole in ground. I had a woman ask if she could start my fan club. I says to myself, Fan Club? What have I done?”
“Yeah, she probably wanted to be your fan club.” I laughed as I watched him turn red.
"No she didn't," he said bashfully.
“Oh, yes she did," I insisted. "Seriously, fans do like to hear from you guys. What about blogging? You could pick a hobby, a charity, well, that’s if you do charity work. I don’t mean you have to or anything. I volunteer all the time. I just love it. Or you could talk about a rookie’s impression of the big leagues, what it felt like coming into your first game, or how it is growing up on a farm. Oh, I know! What about writing about the Bay Area? Mention your favorite hangouts, the things you’ve done here so far . . . stuff like that.”
It felt good to give him advice and even better to have someone listen to my ideas. I didn’t want the conversation to end.
“Good idea, Nicky. Damn. It’s like you’re a marketing guru. Just a second.” He pulled out his cell phone, sat next to me, and put his chin on my shoulder.
“What are you doing?” This is too close, but it feels good.
“I’m gonna take our photo and post it. Then I can talk about the new friend I made. Cheese.” He snapped the picture.
“Hold that shot.” I grabbed my cell phone and also took one of us. “I’ll post one, too.” We settled in and talked a few hours longer.
I miss my long conversations with Ryan. There is something about Ethan that’s different—even from Jerry. It’s the way he listens to my ideas and seems to appreciate them.
“I guess I should let you get to bed,” he announced. It was going on 1:00 a.m.
“I’m not sleepy, Ethan. I’m enjoying our conversation too much.” I won’t let you in completely though—just know that. When he asked me about my career plans, it was all I needed to roll on about Stanford. Another hour passed quickly.
Jagged Heart (Broken Bottles Series Book 3) Page 4
