Extra Innings

by Michelle Lynn

  He places his hands next to my head and stares down at me while he moves in and out at a pace much slower than ever before.

  “Promise you won’t leave me,” he says.

  I arch my back, pressing my chest into his. “I promise.”

  “Don’t be scared. I’ll always catch you.”

  He slides in and out of me, and I can barely form a noise, let alone a response to his caring words.

  “I’ll prove my worth to you. No matter how long it takes.”

  You’d think I just poured a half-liter of alcohol down his throat from the promises he’s making. And I know promises are made while you’re on the edge of an orgasm, but these are declarations.

  I bring my legs up and lock them behind his back because I need him closer, completely flush against my body. “You’ve proven enough. You’re it for me.”

  He grinds harder, his breathing staggering, his eyes locked with mine.

  “Ainsley,” he moans my name.

  I rock my hips to match his pace.

  My arms link under his, my fingers scraping his shoulder blades. I’m unable to get close enough to him. Even though every inch of our bodies is touching, still, I need more.

  “Come for me, baby,” he says. He pumps faster but slow enough to show this is more than just sex.

  I clench, wanting to prolong the end but unable to handle dangling over the cliff. The pressure is too high. I let go and free-fall with Brax in my arms. I’m not sure if I ever hear him orgasm, but our moans echo throughout the room, and he stills inside me.

  Our hips stop grinding, our hands stop gripping, and Brax falls on top of me, his mouth swallowing down my orgasm.

  By the time he breaks apart our kiss, my hands and legs fall to the side.

  “Man, you spoil me.”

  He doesn’t get up right away, and I feel him growing soft inside me.

  “I do, Brax,” I say with tears too heavy to hide.

  “What?” His hand moves up, his thumb swiping a tear away.

  My body trembles under him, but I know what I’m confessing is the truth. If I didn’t trust him, I would have made him use the condom that is now on the floor.

  “I trust you.”

  He bends down and kisses me, short and sweet, and when we part, he’s smiling. “I won’t break it—ever.”

  I hug him into my body, and he rolls us over, so I’m on top of him.

  “I’m yours for however long you’ll have me,” he says, his lips pressing to my forehead.

  I lie in his arms, his finger making a figure eight along my back, as I hope there really are such things as real-life fairy tales.

  24

  Brax

  Sitting in the White Sox office is crazy. The logo that filled my wall most of my childhood is displayed everywhere I look. Players that I looked up to and dreamed of meeting someday adorn the walls of the office.

  My phone dings.

  Ainsley: Good morning. I would have gone with you.

  I left Ainsley sleeping this morning. She needs the extra hours she doesn’t usually get back at Ridgemont. Plus, I didn’t want to be distracted here. Not that Ainsley distracts me in a bad way.

  Me: Just stay in bed. I’ll be back soon with breakfast.

  Ainsley: We’ll be waiting.

  Then, I get a picture of her tits.

  I press the screen off, looking back and forth before I realize no one is around. So, I lean back and pull the photo back up.

  Me: If I were alone, I’d show you my compass for finding my way back to the hotel.

  The three dots appear.

  Ainsley: Good luck today. I’m sending good juju your way.

  I laugh, shaking my head. My girl is the best.

  “Well, a morning guy. That’s unusual.” A guy walks out of the office and holds his hand out to me.

  I stand, tucking my phone into my pocket. “Yeah, well…”

  He eyes my pocket. “Or is someone else making you laugh and smile like that? A girlfriend?” he asks.

  “Yes, sir.”

  He nods, his lips turning straight from the smile. He’s tall and lean, which makes me assume he played ball at one time. His graying hairline and wrinkled tan skin tells me it was a while ago.

  “Brad Plythe. Follow me.”

  Follow, I do, right into the headquarters of the White Sox.

  My eyes ping everywhere, soaking in every inch of what I’ve only envisioned up until now.

  “So, we heard you haven’t signed your declaration to enter the draft yet?” Brad falls in line with me as we walk down a hallway.

  “I haven’t, no.”

  His eyes veer to me with a questioning look. “Because of your girlfriend?”

  I side-glance him. “No, because I haven’t decided yet.”

  My mom taught me to respect my elders, but the attitude this guy has with me having a girlfriend deserves the curtness I’m shooting back.

  “Well, time’s a-ticking, boy. Either you want to come up to the majors or you don’t.”

  Like it’s that easy. Like I had teams lining up for me back in high school. I’ve worked my ass off at Ridgemont to be seen by MLB teams.

  “Yeah, I know.”

  I should be kissing this guy’s ass, but I’m annoyed. He’s not my dad; he’s not my coach.

  “Hey, guys like you come in all the time. The girlfriends are directing their dicks, you know. But you’ll come to find out, in this business, girlfriends don’t always mix.”

  Great welcoming staff here.

  “Well, my personal life doesn’t affect my business decisions.” That should shut him up.

  He laughs, a fake and boisterous rumble that makes my fist clench.

  “That line is up there with, We’re different.”

  Ainsley and I are different. We can trudge through the shit that will come from me being a professional athlete. We can see our way to what really matters.

  He stops us outside an office with the name Coach Kendrick etched into glass, and my stomach explodes, like I just ate ten burritos from the mini-mart down the street.

  Fuck, this is it. The moment I’ve wanted since I was eight years old.

  Brad knocks on the door, and a deep voice inside says to come in.

  I take what feels like my last breath and follow Brad into the office. The room is light with dark wood. A sitting area with a couch and chair are on the opposite wall of his desk.

  Coach Kendrick is taller than Brad but less gray. He’s one of the younger coaches in the league.

  He stands and rounds his desk, a smile of greeting on his lips. “Braxton Brentwood,” he says, holding his hand out the entire way.

  “Thank you for having me,” I say, shaking his hand in return.

  Then, Coach eyes Brad. “If you’ll excuse us, Brad. I’ll call you if I need you.”

  Brad cocks his head to the side, confused, and I’m thinking Coach is changing the game plan. I’m wondering why exactly. The thought that they don’t want me anymore enters my head, and my stomach lurches.

  Brad shuts the door behind himself.

  Coach eases his hand out toward the couch. “Please sit,” he says.

  I rub my hands down my pants, waiting for him to sit in the chair. He’s dressed in athletic pants and a windbreaker.

  “Again, I’m sorry for a Sunday morning meeting, but with spring training, I’m flying out tonight.”

  “No problem. I appreciate the call.” I lean back on the couch, trying to push away the anxiety making my heart race.

  “I’m not going to lie; we’re a little concerned you haven’t signed your intent to enter the draft. We’ve had our eye on you since last year.”

  Shit. Boys’ dreams are made of this right here.

  That one sentence, saying that they’ve been checking me out, has me ready to sign.

  “I haven’t signed my intent because I don’t know if I want to finish my last year of college first.”

  Coach nods. It’s probably something he ra
rely hears. Then again, look at Crosby; he doesn’t want to enter the draft until after graduation.

  “It’s a hard decision. So, how about I tell you where I see you going with us? Let’s just talk about if you did sign, and we were lucky enough to draft you.”

  I nod, my voice locking in my throat.

  “So, if you’re drafted into our program, I see you going to the minors.”

  This meeting sure went downhill fast. That’s not exactly a thrilling vision.

  “Don’t see that as a bad thing. Most of our first-year drafters go to the minors, and then we bring them up after their first or second year. I see you as maybe even midseason first year. We need a backup catcher, and if your bat is good this year, I don’t see why you wouldn’t be brought up, but it never does a player good to come up right away.”

  “What if I don’t intend on entering the draft this year?”

  He shrugs his shoulder. “I wish I could promise you that we’d look for you next year, but we both know I can’t. We called you in here because we want to show you our facility. Now, I’d thought you would have already signed your intent. Truth is, if you haven’t yet, I’m doubtful you will.” He stands up from his chair. “Let me show you around. I have something that might change your mind.”

  “I’d love to.” I rise from my seat and follow Coach out the door of his office.

  We start walking down the hallway, passing offices and large spaces with cubicles.

  “This is the front office to the Sox, which I’m sure you couldn’t care less about. We’re going to see the training center and then head out to the field.”

  “Great.”

  “Now, Braxton, your third baseman last year, Mike Ripley, drafted in his junior year, right?” he asks.

  “He did. He’s a Cardinal.”

  He chuckles and opens a door. “He’s actually a Sox now.”

  I step into the training room, and there’s one guy working out—Mike Ripley with a trainer.

  “Brax!” he screams, not as surprised as I am.

  “Mike?” I look at Coach. “He’s been—”

  “Traded,” Mike says, walking right to me. “Coach said you were coming in today. We thought I’d do the tour with you, and then I’m heading out for spring training.”

  We do the whole one-armed hug.

  “So, maybe a friendly face will make the decision to sign that letter of intent easier.” Coach pats me on the back.

  “Why haven’t you signed it yet?” Mike asks, taking his hat off to reposition it.

  I see his long brown hair is still uncut. I have no idea how he does summer games with long hair.

  “I’m still deciding.”

  “You’re going to throw your hat out of the ring if you keep dragging your feet.”

  “Well, Braxton, I’m going to leave you here with Paul, our trainer, and Mike. We hope to see your name on the draft this year, but if not, good luck at Ridgemont.” He nods.

  I hold my hand out in front of me. “Thanks, Coach. I appreciate you taking the time to talk to me.”

  He smiles, shakes my hand, and then disappears back toward his office.

  “Traded?” I ask Mike. “That was a fast stint with the Cardinals.”

  “It’s common for guys not to stay long with a team.” Mike walks ahead of me, grabs a towel from a shelf, wipes his head and neck, and then tosses it onto a bench. “Let’s get out to the field.”

  Two hours later, I glance down at my phone, seeing it’s already eleven. Ainsley’s probably starving.

  Mike agreed to drive me back to the hotel, but then he parked and followed me in.

  What started as one drink in the hotel bar, has turned into more, and I don’t see Mike taking my hints of being tired and having a lot to do in Ridgemont as a clue I want to cut our time short.

  “Hey, I gotta go up and get my girl.”

  Mike’s eyes light up. “You brought your girl here?”

  I nod. “For the weekend. She’s looking at a medical school in the city.”

  He lifts his hand for another beer, and I’m wondering when he started drinking so early in the morning—and on a Sunday at that.

  The waitress comes over. She’s cute and probably the same age as Mike. Her long blonde hair is braided to the side, and she’s wearing the uniform of black pants and a white shirt.

  “Would you like another orange juice?” she asks me.

  I shake my head.

  She leaves with Mike’s empty beer bottle, and I grab my phone off the table.

  “Just have her come down. If you go upstairs, you’ll probably end up fucking.”

  Me: Hey, meet me down in the restaurant.

  Ainsley: You’re back? How did it go?

  Me: It was good. We can talk about it when you get down here.

  Ainsley: Let me pull my hair back, and then I’ll be down. Order me some pancakes—no, a burger and fries.

  I laugh, my thumbs poised on the phone.

  “Shit, man, you’re already a goner,” Mike adds his two cents in.

  “Nah, but she is a keeper.”

  He shakes his head back and forth. “You’re seriously going to pass up the majors for a piece of ass?”

  The waitress comes by, and I order lunch for Ainsley and myself. A side of pancakes to go with her burger. Mike orders the sampler platter, and she’s off after leaving another fresh beer in front of him.

  “She’s more than a piece of ass, Ripley.”

  “So, you love her?” he questions. His face is distorted, as if saying, You’re a fucking moron. Get your dick back in place.

  “I never said love.”

  “The fact that you’re putting her in front of the draft says love.” And the beer tips back, and he downs half of it.

  “When did you start drinking so much?” I sip my orange juice.

  “I’ve always drank.”

  Yeah, but don’t we all eventually grow up?

  Mike was always the one stumbling and passing out in places, but I thought, as you grew, that became more of a phase than a constant.

  “It’s only eleven in the morning.”

  He shrugs, raising his hand for the waitress to bring him another. It’s only been five minutes.

  Letting the whole drinking-early-in-the-morning subject fall to the sideline, I concentrate more on his trade.

  “So, are you happy to be a White Sox?”

  He laughs. “I’ll go wherever they want me.”

  I can see that. The White Sox would fulfill a dream for me, but I wouldn’t complain as long as I got to play.

  We talk about baseball, the players, and what a great program the White Sox has going for them when I spot Ainsley at the hostess stand, smiling and laughing.

  The hostess points us out, and I stand to wave in her direction. I round the table to greet her and introduce her to Mike when her footsteps freeze. Her face pales, and her chest rises and falls with deep breaths.

  I look over my shoulder, expecting to see a black bear up on its hind legs.

  “Ainsley Winslow is your girlfriend?” Mike says behind me, his voice casual and a little slurry.

  My head whips to him.

  “You know her?”

  “Yeah, I fucking know her.”

  I turn my attention back to Ainsley, but she’s no longer there. I catch a glimpse of a dark ponytail right before the elevator doors close.

  “How do you know her?” I don’t take a seat.

  The waitress brings over our food, hesitantly placing it down in front of the empty chairs, her eyes on me.

  “Hell, man, she was my Sunday night all of junior year.”

  Bile rises in my throat, and my fists clench at my sides.

  This is the douche bag. My good friend whom I’ve looked up to for making it into the pros. He’s the one who tore her heart out and made my job of earning her trust that much harder.

  “She was so money hungry, she tried to lock me down with a baby.”

  25

  Ai
nsley

  I tap my feet on the elevator floor, needing fresh air. If I’d had my purse, I would have walked out the front door of the hotel, hailed a cab, and been halfway to the airport.

  Mike Ripley.

  What is he doing here, and why is he with Brax?

  Well, I know what he’s doing with Brax. They were teammates, but I thought maybe that had changed to a distant relationship by now. That maybe Mike had dropped everyone when he got drafted.

  Oh, lucky me, I’m the special one who was dropped on her ass.

  I rush into the hotel room and grab my suitcase. I shove in my clothes without any concern for folding. My mission is to escape. Running into the bathroom, I toss all my toiletries into the overnight bag and run back into the room.

  The door springs open, banging against the closet door.

  Brax is standing there, his fist in an ice bucket. “Talk,” he demands.

  I zip up my suitcase and lift it off the mattress, placing it on the floor.

  I walk over to my coat, but Brax rushes over, drops the ice bucket, and takes that along with my purse in his good hand.

  “Talk,” he repeats.

  “What do you want me to say?”

  I attempt to grab the strap of my purse, but he winds it around his fist.

  “How about, I forgot to mention that I fucked your friend?”

  Figuring we’ll have to talk because he won’t free my purse, which would leave me with no way to get home, I sit in the desk chair. The same chair that he sat in last night while watching me strip.

  “I fucked your friend.”

  He winces, and his fist slams into the mattress.

  “I thought that’s what you wanted me to say.” I cross my legs and place a mask of indifference over my features.

  He doesn’t need to know that what just happened between us will never be healed. Now, there’s no going back to the Brax and Ainsley of before.

  “I don’t know. I just don’t understand. How did I not know? Had you been at my house before we got together?” He goes into the bathroom, emerging with a towel.

  “No. Mike liked to hide me. Like his own little secret.” The sarcasm drips from my voice. It’s easier that way than to show how raw and scabby I am under my act.