by Jean Joachim
* * * *
Matt introduced Dusty and then himself to the parents and children. He unfolded the paper Dusty had slipped him and read off the schedule she had prepared.
“First, warm-ups. Sprints, jogging, and running.” There was a groan from the kids. “Every athlete works out to keep in shape. You can’t play ball unless you’re willing to do that. Next, crunches and push-ups to build strength. Then evaluation. We’ll want to see each of you hit, run, and throw. Dusty and I will make notes and put you in groups for tomorrow’s training sessions. Let’s get started.”
Parents sat on the sidelines while Matt and Dusty shepherded the young wannabe’s through their exercises and try-outs. Matt got in the groove quickly. He’d trained his little sister, Marnie, to play ball. Being eight years older, he had had the experience and had taught her everything.
She had been a natural athlete. Her skill and determination had impressed him. If pressed, he’d admit she was better, more talented, than he. But he’d never told Marnie, because he didn’t want her to get a swelled head. Nothing worse than a player who’s full of himself or herself.
She’d joined the National Women’s Softball League, just like Dusty. Marnie’s home base had been Pittsburgh, where Matt’s father lived. She’d played for the Pittsburgh Pythons and traveled by bus from city to city for games in the Northeast Division. One rainy, June night, her team bus had hydroplaned off the road when the driver had braked for a deer. Marnie had been killed.
It had only been two years. Matt had not yet recovered from her death. He visited her grave every time the Nighthawk’s went to Pittsburgh. He never talked about the kid sister he had adored and lost. No one on the team knew.
Teaching these kids reminded him of Marnie. Instead of being sad, he remembered the good times he’d had with her—working out together, playing ball every night until dusk had become darkness. He’d even gone to a local college so he could continue to work with her. When she was fifteen, she’d been the youngest player ever admitted to the NWSL. He’d been so proud.
The camp ended at three thirty. On the first day, happy campers left with their parents. For the duration, they would be riding a bus to and from the stadium. Matt and Dusty were left to gather the balls, gloves, and other paraphernalia.
The security guard unlocked the equipment room where the two instructors stored the gear. Dusty wiped the sweat off her forehead with her sleeve. Just like a pitcher. Matt smiled.
“What?” she asked.
“Nothing. You’re not bad, for a girl.”
“Not bad?”
“Pitching.”
“Oh. I see.”
When they got to the locker room, Matt gestured toward the door. “Ladies first.”
“How do I know you won’t come in?”
“You don’t. It’s called trust.”
“Let’s just say experience tells me differently.”
“I’ll wait out here. I promise. Unless you want me to go first?”
“No, no. I’ll go first. And you’d better wait out here. Oh, and knock off that shit about my not being bad for a girl,” she said.
“I was wondering how long it would take you to object,” he said.
She showered and dressed faster than he had expected. He sat on a bench and dreamt about what he’d seen before. Even the baggy uniform couldn’t hide her luscious body. And the view from the back was almost as good as the front. She had a fine ass.
She came out, fluffing her long hair. In tight jeans, a soft green jersey top, cut low enough to be interesting, she stole his breath.
“Locker room’s all yours,” she said.
“Thanks.” He wanted to tell her how great she looked, but didn’t think she’d like it.
“Where does a girl go for a beer and a burger in this town?”
“The ’Hawks hang out at The Salty Crab. If you wait, you can follow me.”
“Don’t be long. I’m hungry.”
“Got it.”
Matt showered and dressed, taking extra care combing his hair. He wasn’t much good with women in the bar scene. Too much noise, too much competition, and he wasn’t as swift with one-liners as some other guys. This situation was perfect. The girl was gorgeous, played ball—of a sort—and he’d already seen enough of her to haunt his dreams.
“Come on,” he said, heading for the parking lot.
“You don’t clean up bad at all,” she remarked, following him out.
“Gee, you say the nicest things.” He opened his car door.
Chapter Two
Dusty drove behind Matt into the parking lot of the Salty Crab. She pulled into a space next to him and got out. Before she could speak, her cell rang. It was her roommate, Nikki.
“Gotta take this. I’ll just be a minute.”
“I’ll get a table,” he replied.
“What’s up, Nick?”
“Well, how did it go?”
“Fine.”
“Come on. Deets. Who did the ’Hawks send?”
“Matt Jackson.”
“The catcher! Oh my God! I’d love to meet him.”
“Since you’re both catchers?”
“Since he’s hot as hell. I’d like to meet him in my bed on Friday night.”
Dusty laughed. “You’re such a slut.”
“Like you don’t want to sleep with him?”
“He’s not a god.”
“He is to me.”
“Look, he’s waiting in the bar, I gotta go.”
“Loosen up, Dusty. Have fun.”
“Take care.” She hung up.
The place was dark. The ocean theme was everywhere, with fish nets hung artfully on walls and paintings and photos of the sea and fishing boats. She cupped her hand over her brow and scanned the room. Matt waved. She headed for his table. He got up and pulled out a chair for her.
“Such a gentleman,” she said.
“I’m only a chauvinist pig on the ballfield,” he replied, taking his seat.
They ordered draft beer and cheeseburgers.
“How long have you been playing for the NWSL?” he asked.
“Three years. You know the league?”
The waitress brought their drinks.
“Sort of. What do you do off-season?”
“I’ve never met anyone, not a guy, even a pro, who knew the league.”
He didn’t say anything, but picked up his stein for a healthy swig. His face clouded up a bit.
He’s avoiding my question. What’s that about? She dropped it. “I’m an admin assistant at a Stuyvesant College in Queens.”
“They give you three months off in the summer to play ball?”
“Yeah.” There it was again—he knew how long her season was. Very suspicious. “Are they paying you to do this gig?”
“Nope. I’m taking the time unpaid. But the Nighthawks are paying what I’d make for two months playing ball. So, it’s worth it.”
The food arrived.
“You live in Queens?” he asked.
“I share a two-bedroom there with three other girls.”
“Must get a little cramped,” he said, picking up his burger.
Dusty added catsup and cut hers in half. “It does. But that’s what I have to do to play ball.”
They chewed their food. The dim lighting cast shadows on the hollows of his cheeks, sculpting his face. She couldn’t see his eyes, but felt their heat on her.
“I hope you’re not staring at my chest, because you’ve already seen all there is to see there.”
He chuckled and swallowed. “Thanks for pointing that out and making me feel real comfortable.”
“I’m sorry. Just that I hate it when men stare at my chest.”
“We can’t help it. We like beautiful things. When we find ’em, we tend to stare at ’em. Take it as a compliment.”
“So, you do your chauvinist routine in the bar too?” She picked up a fry and dunked it in a small pool of catsup on her plate.
“Ouch! You
really know how to hurt a guy.”
She swallowed her food. “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet. I took a self-defense course.”
Matt folded his hands over his crotch. “I’ll remember that.”
“See that you do.” She glanced down at her food.
“You’ve got a real edge. How come?” He picked up a French fry.
“I’ve jumped a lot of hurdles to get where I am. I don’t need some asshole pro, thinking he’s better than me, putting me down.”
“I’m not putting you down. I’m impressed. Really. Truly. You’ve got skills on the mound, and you were great with the kids. Like you’ve been doing it all your life.”
“I have siblings. I’ve worked with them.” She picked up her burger.
“Siblings? So do I,” he said, then quickly shut his mouth, as if he’d revealed more than he had intended.
“Yeah? Like what? A brother? Sister? Do they play ball?”
“Nah. Never mind.”
She tried to pull more information out of him, but he’d shut down. His face became a mask as he ignored her personal questions, directing the conversation to ball playing, and focused on his food. He’s got some big secret he doesn’t want to share. Now, I need to know what it is.
When the check came, he picked it up, looked it over, and dropped some bills on the table.
“What’s my half?” she asked.
“It’s on me.”
“No, no. I pay my own way.”
“Really? How much do you make?”
“Five grand a month.”
“For three months out of the year. Rest of the time you don’t make shit. I’m paying.”
“I do okay. I make a living.”
“And I’ve got a pro contract that leaves you in the dust.” He returned his wallet to his back pocket.
“I’m not some charity case.”
“Never said you were. Geez. Can’t a guy pick up a tab for a girl anymore?”
“If he doesn’t have any ulterior motive, I guess it’s okay.”
His eyebrows rose. “You think paying for a burger means I expect you to sleep with me?”
“Well, it might. I mean I don’t know you that well, and some guys…”
“I’m not some guys. I don’t need to pay for a meal to get laid. Trust me on that.”
She cast her gaze down, realizing she’d said the wrong thing again. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply…”
“Yes, you did. You damn well did.”
She looked up and saw hurt in his eyes. “Okay. I’m wrong. I’m sorry.”
“Now, who’s apologizing a dozen times?” He cocked an eyebrow.
“Can we start this over?”
He laughed and stuck out his hand. “Hi, I’m Matt Jackson, catcher for the New York Nighthawks.”
She accepted his offering. “Nice to meet you, Matt. I’m Dusty Carmichael, pitcher for the New York Queens.”
Matt took the check to the register, and they filed out to the parking lot.
“See you tomorrow, Dusty.”
“Yeah. Early?”
“Of course.”
She grinned and raised her hand to wave as he headed for his car. Dusty had been waiting to meet a man who could stand up to her. Most of the ones she came across were either wimps, or they had no respect for her ball playing. Not Matt Jackson. A shiver shot up her spine as she climbed behind the wheel. She’d have to watch her step with him. She was in the big leagues now.
* * * *
Matt turned on the television and flipped through the channels, but nothing caught his interest, not even the porn flicks. He wandered aimlessly around his place, checked the fridge, but nothing appealed. He wasn’t hungry. Not for food, anyway.
Bored and unable to get Dusty out of his mind, he stripped down and got into bed. Staring out the window, he spied the silhouette of a couple across the street, kissing. Envy burned in his breast. He wanted a woman, but then, he didn’t. Conflicting feelings warred inside him.
Shame at lying to her about being a player plagued him. Why did I do that? But he knew why. Lying, being obnoxious—two ways to keep attractive women away. Memories of Marnie surfaced as he lay back, lacing his fingers behind his head.
Marnie had been his biggest fan, going to as many games as she could and cheering for him. She had backed him from the start, when he was just a Nighthawk’s Triple A farm team boy. The old man had continued to drink, but was frequently sober when Matt returned home for a visit. The catcher hated to see his sister living with their dad, who was often too drunk to cook or take care of their home.
Matt had planned to buy a house to share with Marnie when he got called up. But his first two year’s salary had gone to pay off his father’s debts, as the old geezer could no longer work. Then, he had had to save for a down payment. By the time he had the money, she was gone. Matt never bought that house. The dream of owning a place of his own had died with his sister.
He rolled over on his side. None of his friends knew about Marnie, or his mother either, except Dan Alexander, his best friend. Humiliated by the fact that his mom had walked out on the family when Marnie was three, Matt had become a private person.
He never talked about his mother’s desertion, his father, who had almost drunk himself to death after she left, and precious Marnie. He envied teammates who had intact families. He’d stopped wishing for it, because he knew it would never happen.
Dusty came to mind again. Matt tried to push the luscious image of her breasts out of his brain. He’d already had two strikes with women—one had died too soon and one had left—leaving his heart broken both times. He’d be damned if he’d hang around any female long enough to get a third. He imagined striking out in life was a whole lot worse than in a ballgame.
Restless, he rolled over again, training his gaze on that window across the street. The lights were out, and there were no silhouettes visible. He knew they were probably in bed, fucking like bunnies, having the time of their lives. He recalled how good it had felt to make love to his college girlfriend, Stephanie.
Closing his eyes, his fingertips tingled, remembering the silkiness of her skin. The visual of Stephanie faded, replaced by Dusty Carmichael. He moaned. “No, no. I’m not going there.”
His body settled into sleep, but her image lived, tormenting him with dreams of sexual pleasure and happiness. He awoke at three, dreaming he was having an orgasm, only to find that he actually was! The wetness was cold on his leg, forcing him to get out of bed and clean up.
Disgust at behavior he considered juvenile, he grabbed a washcloth and wiped off himself and the sheets. Now, the mattress was wet. He placed two towels down and got back in. Wet dreams at thirty were ridiculous. He thanked God no one was with him. Of course, if there had been a woman there, he wouldn’t have needed the dream, especially if that woman had been Dusty Carmichael.
“Shit, fuck, damn it!” He slammed his fist down into the pillow. He was not going to get involved with some sexy, smart-mouthed girl-pitcher. He knew she’d just break his heart. He was a sucker for a girl like her. She’d figure it out too. Then, she’d take him for the ride of his life, sucking him dry of money, love, and sperm.
He lay back, sinking into three pillows. A smile stretched his lips, and he thought about the journey, how exciting it would be, how romantic, until the final scene where she steps on his heart with her cleats and leaves him flat.
No longer horny, his body relaxed, and he soon slept.
At six, the sun stole in through a crack between the black-out curtains in his hotel. He didn’t want to get up, but the sunshine stabbing his eyes insisted on it. He rolled over, but it was no use. His mind was awake. He pulled back the covers, threw on his sweats, and called room service for some coffee and eggs.
While he waited, he jotted down some ideas for the day with the kids. His lips turned up in a grin at the thought of seeing Dusty again. He’d be with her every day for two whole weeks. Matt pinched himself. Could it actually be Chri
stmas in February?
* * * *
It seemed natural to have dinner with Matt Jackson after camp was over. They discussed some of the kids, what was working and what wasn’t, and fine-tuned the program. He let her pick up the check once, but the rest were on him. Night after night, she waited for the pitch about how lonely he was and didn’t she want to come up to his room—but it never came.
After three days with no pass, Dusty was downright ticked off. Could it be he didn’t find her attractive? She hadn’t thought so, with the way he looked at her when he thought she didn’t notice—but then nothing. She shrugged. Men. Who could figure them out?
Maybe, after accusing him of being a chauvinist pig a dozen times, he was watching his step. That must be it, because the only other explanation was that she wasn’t pretty enough, and that hurt. She tried to relax and stop nailing him to the wall for small infractions. But he still didn’t make a pass. Damn, he didn’t even kiss her goodnight!
While she waited for Matt to shower and change, she plopped down on a bench and opened her phone to read a book. Her cell rang before she could start. It was Nicki.
“So, did you get naked yet with Jackson?”
“No, Nicki.”
“Why not?
“For one thing, he hasn’t exactly asked me.”
“He hasn’t made a pass at you?”
“Nope. Nothing.”
“Not even a kiss?”
“No, and we’ve had dinner every night for ten days now.”
“Damn, girl. Are you losing your touch?”
“I hope not,” Dusty said, chewing a nail.
“I guess you’ll have to make the first move.”
“I don’t think so. That’s so not happening.”
“You’ve only got a few more days left. You’ll be sorry if you don’t sleep with him when you had the chance.”
“I don’t think so.”
“After you get back, he’ll be crawling with women and won’t give you a second look.”
“That’s the chance I’ll have to take.”
