Pitching for Amalie

by Hayley Faiman

  “I know you won’t let him hurt you. But what if he does? I can’t always be there to protect you, and it fucking kills me. After you being here with me, I don’t want you to go. I want to take you with me everywhere. I’ve never felt like this before.”

  He is saying exactly how I feel. I have never felt this way before either, and just being near him makes me feel like home, makes me feel complete. I never want it to end. Boston doesn’t appeal to me any longer, and as terrifying as that is, I can’t help but wonder if this is exactly where I need to be.

  I cup his cheek in my hand and give him a small kiss on the corner of his mouth, and then I run my nose along his jawline. I feel his body relax in a sigh. This is not only where I am needed but also where I want to be. I have never wanted to be anywhere as badly as I want to be right here, in Jarrod’s bed and at his side, for always.

  “I’m here for the rest of this week, and next week, we’ll be in Kentucky. Let’s not make our time together sad. Let’s enjoy each other, and then we’ll discuss more later. You might not feel the same way after next week.” I laugh, making light of the situation, but I know that my feelings for him will only grow stronger because nobody has ever made me feel this way my entire life.

  “Impossible. After next week, I’ll just have to kidnap you and tie you up. I don’t think I’ll be able to let you leave, not at all.”

  I throw my head back with laughter. Great minds think alike I suppose. Our sweet, slightly disturbing conversation is interrupted by the sound of my phone ringing. I roll over to grab it when I notice that it is Paul from the photo shoot.

  “Hello?”

  “Ams, darling, it’s Paul. Listen, cakes. I just got the proofs finished from the shoot, and let me tell you, they are H.O.T., baby girl. H.O.T. David and I want to meet up with you two sexy people for drinks. What nights are you free?”

  I giggle at Paul. I love his flamboyant personality.

  “Let me ask Jarrod. Hold on.” I cover the mouthpiece and turn to the deliciously rumpled man lying at my side.

  “Sweet, Paul and David want to meet up for drinks to show us the proofs for the shoot. When are you free?”

  “Tomorrow night work? I have a game tonight,” he says with a smile, squeezing my hip.

  “Tomorrow night, Paul. Does that work for you guys?”

  Paul squeals, almost puncturing my eardrum.

  “Yes, yes, yes, and you’d better bring that sexy-ass man with you. I will be livid if I don’t get to longingly gaze at him, sending him telepathic messages to try to convert him over to my side all night.”

  This causes me to throw my head back with laughter, and after it subsides, we agree on a time and a place to meet up.

  I am not looking forward to the game. No, I take that back. I am dreading it. It’s not that I don’t want to see Jarrod up on that pitcher’s mound, looking fantastic, but I don’t want to spend the evening with all those catty bitches. I deal with women like that at photo shoots and in Vegas during autograph panels, but I stay far away from them and do not socialize with them. I do not want to deal with them on my free time, too—not after the fabulous day Jarrod and I had together, in bed with countless orgasms. Now, I am unhinged, nervous, and stressed out.

  After the first game, I asked Jarrod to find a shirt for me, so I would look more like the other women. He came home after his practice the day before with a tank top that had his name and number on the back. I just smiled. He was so excited for me to wear his number. It was sweet, but Jarrod must have thought I was much smaller than I actually was. The shirt is a medium, and it stretches to complete maximum capacity over my breasts. In reality, I probably need an extra-large. I squeeze into it anyway and pray that no nipples come bursting out. I imagine, wearing his tank top is the way girls feel in high school when the athletes ask them to wear their jerseys. Eric didn’t play sports, so I never experienced that for myself—not until now.

  So, here I am, after a glorious day of never-ending orgasms, sitting with all the other girlfriends and wives in my too-tight tank top with Harrison 27 on the back. I paired it with jean shorts and flip-flops, and my hair is in a high ponytail. I’m nervous.

  “Oh my god. How fucking adorable are you, wearing Jarrod’s number?” Libby squeals.

  I walk to my seat. “Thanks,” I say with a small smile. I’m nervous.

  “Please tell me. I have to know,” Libby whispers, leaning into me.

  I sit down. “What?”

  “I’ve heard he’s like a sex god. Is it true? And how big is he? I mean, he’s the tallest man I have ever seen. I have to know.” Her eyes are wide and wild.

  I let out a huge laugh. The girl cracks me up.

  “Let’s just say, I’m not complaining,” I say with a wink.

  Then, I see the plastic Barbie bitch, Alana, turn around to narrow her eyes at me.

  “What are you still doing in the city?” Alana says, her voice dripping with venom.

  Damn, this girl is insane.

  “I’m staying with Jarrod this week, and we’re taking a trip next week since they don’t have any scheduled games,” I explain with my sugary-sweet condescending voice. I plaster on a fake-as-hell smile.

  I watch as her face pales, and then her nose scrunches up in disgust and anger. She finally turns around, taking a big gulp of water.

  “She is such a cunt,” Victoria whispers in my ear.

  We all burst out laughing. I love the crudeness and the just plain realness of these girls.

  The game is nice. It’s fun actually, and I’m so glad that I came. Libby, Victoria, Maggie, and I drink beer and cheer on our guys. I look over to Maggie a few times, and although she is paying attention to the game and laughing with us, she seems sad. I want to ask her if she is all right, but I don’t feel like I know her well enough for that yet. Everything is going perfectly. We are all buzzed and cheering, hollering, screaming, and acting ridiculous.

  Then, it all comes to a halt.

  Libby and Victoria let out, “Oh shit.”

  Maggie lets out a groan, and I know something isn’t right. I look up at the Jumbotron, and I freak the fuck out. There, plastered in a fifty-nine by one-hundred-one foot screen, is a still of me tonight, smiling and waving to Jarrod, and a still photo of me in a black bikini with my hair held up by a large red flower. I’m on my knees, my back arched, and my arm is over my head. It’s a promo photo I took last year for the Viva Las Vegas show that was made into postcards for autographs. Underneath, there are bright red flashing words.

  JARROD HARRISON’S NEWEST FAN—PINUP MODEL AMALIE AAGAARD

  “Fuck,” I breathe harshly.

  I hate the spotlight. I didn’t want anyone to know who I was, and I honestly didn’t think anyone at a baseball game even cared. It is silly really. I’m not even famous. I mostly do clothing catalogs.

  What the hell?

  But I know people care when I hear all the catcalls, whistles, and cheers from men in the audience. My face turns thirty shades of crimson at the focused attention, and I just look down in my lap.

  Jarrod is going to be livid.

  “Fuck me, your tits look awesome up there,” Victoria says after a moment of silence.

  Jarrod is going to be pissed, is all I can think about.

  I remember how angry he got at just some comments on a website. He is going to go insane at this scenario. Jarrod is going to be more than just pissed. H he is going to be completely livid. They just put me up on the Jumbotron in a freaking bikini. He doesn’t even like the fact that there are photos of me in a bikini out there. He really isn’t going to like the fact that it’s up there for his entire team and the thousands of people in the stadium to see.

  I want to die.

  “Oh, yeah. He’s going to be super angry. Hvad skal jeg gore for?” I ask Libby with pleading eyes.

  “Honey, I wish I knew what you just asked me, but I don’t speak that language.”

  I know I’m in a full panic because I didn’t even rea
lize I was speaking Danish.

  “What am I going to do?” I translate.

  “Well…” Maggie says quietly. “You’ll give him the best blow job of his life, and then he’ll forgive you.”

  We all three just gape at her. Sweet, timid, shy little Maggie just advised me to blow Jarrod for forgiveness. This girl is good.

  “That could work,” Libby and Victoria say in unison.

  My eyes drift from them down to Jarrod, and when he sees me looking right at him, he narrows his eyes and spits.

  Fuck, he is pissed.

  “I don’t know. He looks pretty angry,” I say hesitantly.

  “C’mon. The seventh inning stretch is coming soon, and you, my friend, are going to go blow that man before he loses his cool and costs us the game. Then, I don’t think any amount of sexual favors will make him happy.”

  “Unless it’s anal. I’ve had to let Carlos hit the back door every now and then when I really fuck up,” Victoria admits.

  We all just stare at her, wide-eyed, right before Libby bursts out laughing.

  “Fuck, any man would forgive almost anything for some good back door action,” Libby admits.

  These girls are awesome, but nothing can really distract me from the things going through my mind at the moment. Libby grabs my hand and drags me away from the crowd to a security guard who is standing at the entrance to our section.

  “Marcus, this is…”

  “I saw who you are. Damn, baby, you sure can fill out a swimsuit,” he says, his Brooklyn accent thick.

  I shudder because this is exactly what Jarrod didn’t want happening with my career.

  “Okay, don’t be creepy. Seventh inning stretch is coming soon, and she obviously needs to talk to Jarrod. Let us through.”

  Marcus lets out a huff but allows us to go back. We’re standing in front of the locker room, waiting for the guys, when I hear loud voices coming our way. No one really notices me until Carlos comes walking our way with Jarrod right behind him.

  “Damn, Amalie. That was fuckin’ hot up there,” he says with a wink.

  Jarrod’s angry gaze meets mine. Libby must have skipped out because it’s just Jarrod and me in the hallway. He doesn’t say anything. He just grabs my hand and leads me down another hall to a single bathroom before flipping the lights on and locking the door behind me.

  “I had no clue that was going to happen,” I start.

  He just pins me with his angry glare.

  “Please don’t be mad at me,” I say.

  He just keeps staring at me. Then, before I can say another word, he backs me against the wall. His lips kiss me hard, bruising me. I feel his hands go straight to my shorts. He unbuttons them and slides the zipper down. He slides the shorts along with my panties down my legs. He lifts me by my waist and thrusts himself inside me. I call out in surprise wrapping my legs around his waist and hold on because I can tell this is going to be a seriously rough ride. His baseball pants are only pulled down over his hips, and he is still wearing his shirt uniform. It turns me on even more that he is fully clothed.

  Jarrod’s thrusts are demanding, never relenting. They are hard and almost brutal. I don’t care. I love them. It’s not long before we are both coming. My fingers are scratching at the back of his neck, and his teeth are sinking into my lips and then licking them.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper once I catch my breath.

  “Did you know?” he asks, setting me down and righting his clothing.

  “No.” I shake my head.

  “Then, don’t be sorry. Did I hurt you, baby?” he asks.

  I pull my shorts up and begin to button them. “Only in a good way. I was so scared that you were going to be so angry with me.” A small tear escapes my eye.

  I know right here and now that I would be heartbroken if he ever left me, if he were ever so angry with me that he wouldn’t want me anymore.

  “Shh…don’t cry. I’m not angry. I was at first, but I realize you can’t help it. It wasn’t something you asked for.”

  And he’s right. It wasn’t something I asked for. I didn’t want to be put up on that screen.

  “Yo, Jarrod, get your fuckin’ ass out here. It’s time to go back inside,” a deep voice yells, interrupting us.

  I feel my body shaking from a fist pounding on the other side of the door.

  “Oh. My. God. Do you think he heard?” I whisper, mortified at the thought.

  “Baby, if they didn’t, then I didn’t do my fucking job right.” Jarrod winks.

  “Jarrod, I can’t go back out there, knowing they all heard me.” My eyes widen, and I feel my throat beginning to close up as the panic ensues.

  Jarrod just chuckles and wraps his big arms around me, pulling me into his strong chest. His lips are at my ear. “I’ll make it up to you, baby. Trust me. It is no hardship that they heard us. Just means that they know you’re mine, and you know how to take care of your man. Guran-fucking-tee that all of them are jealous as fuck right now and would give their left nuts to be right where I am in this exact moment.”

  I bury my face in his chest before the knocking starts again, and I groan.

  “Stretch is almost over. Will you be all right to get back to your seat?” he gently asks me with his arm around my waist.

  “Yeah,” I say, looking up into his cobalt eyes.

  “See you after the game. Thanks for the pick-me-up. I’ll take good care of my baby tonight when we get home,” he says with a smirk.

  I just shake my head. He wraps his hand around the back of my neck, pulling me to him, with his lips going to my ear.

  “Whose woman are you, Amalie?” he asks seductively, his breath hot against my ear.

  I shiver. “Yours,” I whisper.

  He leaves me with a deliciously long kiss and pats my ass as I walk away in a daze, not noticing the few grins of the other players loitering in the hall. I only have eyes for one man, and that man is Jarrod Harrison.

  I walk down the deserted hallway and find my way back to Marcus. I give him a small smile as I pass by. My hair is a mess, and I know I have stubble rash all over my cheeks and neck from Jarrod’s face. My features are likely flushed and what little gloss I was wearing on my lips has been transferred to Jarrod. But I can’t seem to be embarrassed or even care. My man needed me, and I needed him. With a situation that could have very well ended badly, together, we helped each other by just talking to one another and being with each other. I have never felt this healthy with a man in my life. Jarrod knows exactly what I need and how I need it.

  “Lucky fucker,” Marcus calls out to me as I squeeze by him.

  “Pardon?” I can’t believe he said that out loud.

  “Harrison. Totally lucky fucker, havin’ a piece like you in his bed. Should’a been a ball player instead of a cop,” he says with a bark and a boom of laugher. He obviously enjoys shocking me.

  I just smile while shaking my head, and I give him a little wave. Rude and crass but loveable—I like the guy. He fits in well with this crowd of people, and he smiles, which is nice.

  It seems as though the game is about to start again because the hallways are becoming more and more desolate. I don’t mind it though because the large crowds make me nervous. I don’t spend a lot of time with copious amounts of people, so it’s all a bit unnerving, being in this large crowd alone. I’ve always been a bit of a loner.

  As a kid, I really only hung out with Niklas, Eric, and Jo. They were my only friends. We went to parties and raced cars like normal teenagers, but I always stayed in the distance, never one to be the center of attention.

  Maybe that’s why I enjoy modeling. I get to be the center of attention without having to face the crowds. It’s like being in the center but also being removed from it, except when I’m in Vegas. There’s no getting away with staying in the background during that week.

  I can hear my sandals clicking against my heels as I walk up to my seat. I am just about to turn the corner when I feel a clammy hand clamp do
wn on my bicep. I know that clammy hand. I used to fear that hand. It’s Eric. Before I can scream, his other hand shoots out and wraps around my mouth, pulling me into a dark corner. I can feel him against my back. He’s still hard and muscular, but he doesn’t elicit any feelings of excitement. In fact, all I feel is disgust. He has done terrible, disgusting things to me, and all I want to do is vomit all over him.

  “You listen here, bitch. If you think having some fancy, famous boyfriend is going to stop me from taking what I want you are fucking wrong. Just remember, I’m a cop. I’ll find you. I will always find you.” Then, he places his flaky dry lips on my cheek and whispers even more sinisterly in my ear, “You’re mine. You’ll always be mine. You go and try to turn me in, your brother will have an on-the-job accident. Bye-bye, Niklas.” He lets go of me, disappearing in the dark.

  I want to run, and I want to scream, but I can’t. Instead, I slide down the wall in the dark corner and plant myself on the dirty concrete floor. My body shakes uncontrollably as I cry. Tears of fear and frustration seep out of my eyes.

  How could I let him control me like that? Even now, after all these years, I fear him.

  I cry because I am a fucking idiot.

  Why did I think that I could get away from him, pretend he never existed? That’s what I have been doing since he left me to die three years ago.

  I finally found a piece of happiness, and he just couldn’t let me be.

  I cry because I feel sorry for myself, and I hate myself for feeling that way. I am a messed-up ball of emotions, and I feel stupid, completely and totally stupid. I cry because he’s never going to let me go, and I am always going to live in fear.

  It’s not fair to Jarrod.

  I am sitting with my ass on the concrete, my back to the wall, when the game ends. I have sat there for over thirty minutes, without moving, without seeing anything. I’ve just been in the darkness. I feel the darkness seeping through my bones. I haven’t felt this way in three years. I have been to counseling, so I would never feel this way again. Ten seconds with Eric, and there I am, bathed in darkness.

  “Christ,” a thick voice says.