Pitching for Amalie

by Hayley Faiman

  “I had a great time tonight. I’m not sure I’m ready for it to end. How about we go for a walk?” Jarrod asks me with a hint of gleam in his eyes.

  He’s so freaking pretty with his disheveled blond hair and his glittery deep blue eyes.

  “I guess I should walk off all the great food you fed me.” It really was awesome food. The filet melted in my mouth, the potatoes were soft and cooked to perfection, and the asparagus was crisp and not overcooked. It was heaven.

  “So, tell me, what are your hobbies?”

  “Work and having my picture taken,” I say, walking hand in hand with him. I feel like a teenager instead of a twenty-five-year-old woman.

  “That’s it? Nothing else?”

  “I don’t really have time for much else. I usually only take one vacation a year, and it’s for work, so I’m not sure that it really even counts.”

  “Where do you go? An ultrasound convention?”

  “No.” I shake my head. “I do a guest appearance at the Viva Las Vegas festival. It happens every year for a week. It includes concerts, burlesque competitions, car shows, and other stuff like that. I am part of a fashion show, and I do meet-and-greets. This year, the calendar will be out, so I will probably have to do autographs.” I shrug.

  “That’s amazing. You must be really popular then?” He takes his hand from mine and slips it around my shoulders.

  He’s so big and warm that I almost forget we’re even outside.

  “I suppose. It’s just something I do on the side. It’s like playing dress-up for adults, I guess.”

  “Yeah.” He shrugs, and we continue to walk.

  I still don’t know what he does for a living, and it’s starting to nag at me.

  “Do you live on your own in New York, or do you have a roommate?”

  “On my own. I lived with enough guys in college and shared rooms with my brothers all my life. It’s nice to have my own space.”

  The rest of the evening, we make small talk and discuss all the little things we like—types of movies we like, music, and other general things that interest us. I have never felt so comfortable around another man in my entire life. I feel as though I’ve known him my whole life. It’s like I could tell him anything, and he would never judge me. I still want to know what he does for a living though.

  Walking me to my doorstep, we linger just outside my door. Jarrod places both of his massive hands on my waist and pulls me into his hard body. He tips his face down the few inches to meet mine, and he begins to kiss me. It’s slow, sweet, and sensual at first. Then, his tongue sweeps across my bottom lip, begging for entrance. I open my mouth, and his thick warm tongue darts in and lazily sweeps the entire opening, assaulting me and making me moan.

  Damn, his kiss is outstanding.

  Just as the kiss begins to intensify, he breaks away from me and rests his forehead on mine.

  “What are you doing Monday?”

  “Um…working.” All right, that’s odd, is he trying to ask me out for a Monday night?

  “Can you get off early—like, by three?”

  I mull over my schedule in my head for a moment. Mondays are the days when I meet with the OB/GYN doctors to tell them the results of their patients’ ultrasounds, but I could rearrange some things.

  “I could. What are your plans?”

  “I want to take you to something.” He smiles a lazy smile.

  It is so outstandingly breathtaking that I practically melt in my spot.

  “All right. For that, I will change up my schedule.” I sigh. How is it that I’m so excited to even spend five minutes with this man?

  “Great. Dress comfortable—jeans and no heels.”

  “You’re not taking me hiking or anything, are you?” I wrinkle my nose.

  I am not the exercise kind of girl, and just by the feel of this man, he totally is that kind of guy.

  “No.” He chuckles. “I will pick you up at three on Monday afternoon. Get some rest,” he orders, opening my door and slightly pushing me inside.

  Sunday progresses much like Saturday—with me sleeping and reading in bed. I’m resting up for the workweek and avoiding the awkwardness that is happening between Jo and me.

  After our little head-to-head, I haven’t heard much from Jo. She was already home and in bed after my date with Jarrod, and she’s left me alone today. I don’t understand why she is being so cold to me. After all our years of friendship, I didn’t think she would just turn on me like that.

  There has to be a reason, but I’m not sure I really want to know what that reason is.

  Monday arrives, and I lay out my favorite jeans with my favorite tank top—black wash skinny jeggings and a light heather–gray tank with a teal camisole underneath to keep everything in place. I decide on a pair of jeweled sandals for my shoes. I don’t have much time to replenish my makeup or fix my hair, so it will have to be a ponytail and my regular almost nonexistent makeup that I wore to work.

  I run inside my apartment with twenty minutes to dress for my mysterious date with Jarrod Harrison. I can’t believe I am blowing off half of a day’s work to spend time with someone I hardly know. It’s not like me at all to do anything like this, yet I want to just so I can spend some time with him. I know he lives in New York, and he will probably have to leave fairly soon to get back to whatever it is that he does.

  I hear a light knocking on my front door, which snaps me away from my thoughts.

  I swing the door open to see him standing in front of me. Jarrod is absolutely perfect. He is wearing those perfectly fit light-wash denim jeans paired with a tight plain white T-shirt. If he flexed, I know it would burst at the seams. He also has on a plain red ball cap with aviator sunglasses. I want to throw myself at him and then drag him into my bedroom to let him take advantage of me.

  “Hey, smuk.” He grins.

  I notice he has a bit of stubble on his face. Oh God, I am a complete goner.

  “Hey yourself,” I say, locking the door behind me.

  Jarrod grabs my hand tugging me behind him as he walks me to his red Ferrari parked on the street in front of my apartment complex. I hate surprises—seriously, I hate them—so needless to say, I’m a ball of freaking nerves by the time we arrive at our destination. I look up from the rock-star parking space he snags and see that we are parked at Fenway Park.

  He’s brought me to a baseball game?

  This is a total first for me, and I’m not exactly sure how I feel about it. I look over at him, and he shoots me a genuine all white–teeth, perfect teeth at that, smile.

  He folds out of the car and walks over to open my door for me. He’s all tall and delicious, and all of a sudden, I don’t care about the game or what he does for a living. All I want to do is tackle him and lick him from head to toe. I pack those feelings down and lean into his large frame. Jarrod’s arm slides around my shoulders, and I can’t help but feel extremely happy and safe. I have never felt this way in my entire life.

  When we walk up to the entrance, Jarrod flashes our tickets, and all of a sudden, the girl looks up at him, giving him some broad fangirl grin. She’s all teeth, obviously trying to catch his attention. I cautiously eye him, and he just squeezes my arm. He slips his hand to the small of my back, guiding me inside the park. I’m curious about our seats and where we’re going, but Jarrod seems to know exactly where we’re going and what we’re doing.

  The stadium is huge, much larger than I anticipated. There are swarms of people wearing all red and white, and I am in shock and awe of how many people are here on a weekday. I have heard that some people treat sports as a type of religion, but I suppose you can’t ever really fathom it until the experience is shoved right in your face. I could picture myself easily becoming lost in the crowd, and for some reason, that spikes a bit of panic in me. I move in a little closer to Jarrod’s side, his hand shifts from the small of my back to around my waist. He doesn’t look at me when this shift happens. I can’t help but feel a bit safer, and my panic lev
el begins to lower a bit.

  We ambled down a noisy walkway. It seems like we just keep walking, and the amount of people begin to dwindle. I am beginning to regret the fashionable cute jeweled sandals that I chose to wear. They are flat and offer zero arch support. With each stride on the hard concrete floor, my arches and heels are beginning to ache with slight discomfort.

  “Not too much longer now. We are almost to our seats.” He smiles down at me.

  For a moment, all discomfort is forgotten because his smile melts it all away. I shake my head. I really am a silly girl when it comes to this man.

  “All right,” I say breathy, like an idiot.

  We arrive at an archway where someone in Red Sox gear is guarding and checking tickets.

  These must be some special seats if someone has to check our tickets just to let us into the area.

  “Where are we sitting? On the actual field?” I blurt as we enter the line to have our tickets checked.

  “No, not today.” Jarrod chuckles as he shows the man our tickets.

  “Just take this walkway, sir, miss.” He nods.

  Jarrod releases my waist but grabs my hand in his and leads me down the walkway toward our seats. I can’t help but notice the type of people sitting down here. A few of them are decked out in full fan gear, but most of them look like business types who are just here after a day at the office. They are all polished and refined, and I can’t help but feel a bit out of place. Jarrod looks fantastic, but he’s a man, and men can get away with jeans and T-shirts without looking overdressed or underdressed. In my black jeggings and plain tank top, I feel completely out of place and self-conscious, among the three-piece business suits surrounding us. I silently wonder when we are going to stop, and then we do, right in the freaking front row.

  “Come now.” Jarrod tugs my hand.

  We walk by the people settling down with their popcorn and beers. I don’t know much about sports. Well, I don’t know anything about sports, but I am conscious of a few things about concerts and events that happen in stadiums, and I am fully aware that the front row is always a big flipping deal. These tickets must have cost a fortune. Jarrod sees our seat numbers and finally sits down.

  “Best seats in the house to see all the action,” Jarrod declares, stretching his long legs out in front of him.

  We are situated directly to the right of the catcher, almost straight behind home plate. We will be able to see the batter hit the ball and run to first base.

  “This is amazing,” I whisper, finally taking the time to look around once we are seated.

  The workers prepare the field for the game. I can see the players warming up, throwing the balls back and forth and stretching their bodies in preparation for the activity.

  “I hope you like it. It is my favorite sport. I wanted to share this with you,” he says as his arm snakes around my shoulders holding me as close as he can with the armrest between us.

  I can’t help but feel like a silly schoolgirl. This has to be the single most exciting date of my life. I don’t know what to expect or if I am even going to enjoy myself, but just being here with Jarrod does a little something to my stomach. He wants to share his favorite pastime with me, and it is so sweet.

  “Well, you might have to explain some things to me because the only things I understand about it are that the guy out in the middle throws the ball, and the guy with the bat hits it.”

  “You’re killin’ me.” He groans with a smile as he lifts his arm to flag someone.

  At first, I think that maybe he knows somebody here, but a very cute young girl comes bounding down the aisle toward us in full Red Sox regalia.

  “What can I get ya folks?” she asks with a thick Bostonian accent.

  “I’ll have a light bottled beer and a polish dog with the works. Do you want anything, Amalie?”

  I purse my lips together and think for a moment. I really do want some fatty stadium food, but I’m not sure if I should eat it in front of him. Then again, he did watch me demolish a burger and fries with a milkshake, and he asked me out again.

  “Can I get a light beer as well and chili-cheese fries and peanuts in the shell?” I ask, cocking my head to the side.

  “Sure. Be right back,” the young waitress says before going back the way she came.

  “Have I told you that I love the fact that you actually eat?” Jarrod whispers. He places a kiss on my temple.

  I turn to look at him, and his deep blue eyes are gazing down at me.

  “Well, I could cut back the calories I consume, but I love food way too much to do that.”

  “Don’t you dare. I wouldn’t want you to lose one curve on your delicious body.” He smirks down at me and then turns his head to watch the players lining up for the national anthem.

  “Please stand for the national anthem. Today, welcome high school student Janie Mitchell.”

  We all stand, and Jarrod removes his hat as I place my hand over my heart. The young girl begins to sing, and I glance over to Jarrod, who is mouthing the song, word for word. I am technically an American citizen, but if you asked me to sing the national anthem, I would probably be able to sing about one quarter of the actual lyrics. Jarrod knows every single word. That makes something inside of me shift, and I know my original theory on this man being a good one is correct.

  After the national anthem, every single player is introduced. We finally settle in our seats with our food and beer. A young school aged boy throws the first pitch, and the crowd is buzzing with excitement. Jarrod playfully sneaks a few of my chili-cheese fries, and as much as I want to slap his hand for stealing my food, I can’t because he has this huge grin on his face, like a little boy. It is too cute. I would let him do anything as long as that look was on his face.

  “I have a question,” I say as the first inning ends.

  “Shoot, baby doll.” Jarrod smiles over at me.

  “How do you know when an inning is over?”

  Jarrod explained earlier that the game consisted of nine innings, and the team with the highest score at the end is the winner.

  “The inning is over when each team has successfully gotten three players out. The team that is out in the field has to get the team that is batting out. Three outs, and then they switch. Does that make sense? I’m sorry if I’m bad at explaining the rules.” He chuckles almost nervously.

  “No, no. I get it, I think.”

  I quietly observe the game and ask a few more little questions about the rules. It isn’t an action-packed sport. That’s for sure. But after five beers, a churro, and an ice cream cone, I really don’t care much about the game anymore. I’m just enjoying spending time with Jarrod. He is seriously into this game, calling out the referees, or umpires as Jarrod explains, when they have made a bad decision—in his opinion.

  “How many referees are there?” I ask, my speech slightly slurred from the beers.

  “No refs. They are called umpires or umps.” He laughs.

  I notice he has a small dimple on his left cheek. Wow, that’s pretty sexy.

  “Sorry. I told you that I don’t know much about sports.” I smile back.

  All of a sudden, it is as if time has frozen. Jarrod is looking right at me, his dark blue eyes blazing on mine. He licks his lips, and it diverts my attention for a millisecond. God, I remember what those lips felt like on Friday night. They were delicious.

  His large hand slides from the front of my throat, gently engulfing and surrounding my entire neck, and then he moves it around to cradle the back of my head. He lightly tugs on my hair, so my face is angled up to his. His lips crash down on mine—hard. His tongue forces entrance into my mouth, and I welcome the invasion. He tastes like beer, mustard, sweet relish, and just Jarrod. I let a moan escape from somewhere in the back of my throat, and Jarrod responds by sliding his other hand around my waist pulling me a little closer to him, causing my ribs to crash against the armrest sending a small jolt of pain throughout my body. I hear cheering from around us, and
I’m sure something exciting has happened in the game, but I am too involved in this moment to care.

  Jarrod pulls away from the kiss and places his forehead on mine. Then, he turns slightly, and his body goes rigid stiff.

  “Holy shit,” his whispers, his head turning completely to the side.

  My eyes follow his and I look up, when I see what he sees I officially want to die. I want to expire right here in this spot. There we are, on the freaking Jumbotron. I bury my face in Jarrod’s chest. I can’t bear to look at myself. The cheering is for us, for our kiss, and I am completely embarrassed.

  “Fuck, that was hot!” someone from behind me yells.

  Everyone has seen us, thousands of people. I could perish right now.

  “Sorry. I didn’t think they would do that,” Jarrod whispers into my ear.

  My face is still planted firmly in his chest.

  “Yeah. Seriously, I am so embarrassed,” I groan.

  “Do you want to leave?” He strokes my hair.

  I feel like purring because it feels amazing.

  “No, I will be fine. Just let me breathe for a minute and try to relax, so hopefully, my face will go back to a normal shade of white.” I sigh.

  He chuckles. Men never get embarrassed by that kind of stuff.

  The rest of the game goes off without a hitch. Thank goodness. The Red Sox win by three runs, and luckily, by the end of it all, the fans are so excited by the outcome of the score that no one remembers my shameless display of making out with this gorgeous, sexy Jarrod Harrison.

  “Did you like the game?” Jarrod questions as we pull out of the stadium parking lot.

  His Ferrari rides like a dream. I secretly wonder how fast it can really go. I’m not an adrenaline junkie, but the idea of a sports car racing down the street excites me. Maybe it’s because my brother was always racing around town when we were in high school.

  “I did. It was fun. I have to admit though that the best part was the food.” I smile.

  “The food, huh? I personally thought the best part was that kiss.”

  “Oh.” I smile, looking down at my feet.