by Teagan Kade
I pull into a parking spot and shut off the ignition, yank off my helmet and drop it on the ground, rushing for the stairs.
I ask one of first nurses I see for his room and she makes a call. “Twenty-seven A.” She points. “Down that way.”
I thank her and run off.
I come into Coach’s room expecting to be amongst his family and friends, but there’s no one save for Bailey sleeping soundly beside his bed.
Coach’s eyes flick from the window to me. He looks pale, tubes coming out of his nose, primary-colored wires running to small pads on his chest, a mechanical beep, beep coming from the machine to his left.
“You’re wondering where everyone is, aren’t you?” he says.
I take a seat beside his bed. “I’m flattered I’m the first person on your contact list, but yeah. I kind of expected… someone.”
He smiles. “Baseball’s all I have, kid. I was a single child. My wife, my parents—all gone. In fact, my father died right here in this hospital almost ten years ago to the day. Guess what from?”
“Heart attack?”
He nods with bent lip. “I don’t smoke. I don’t drink and the only time I’m getting fucked is when I put money down on the Rangers.”
I reach down and give Bailey a rub between the ears. “You’re not completely alone.”
Coach coughs, readjusting himself on the bed. “You’re telling me. I guess I’ll have to buy the little pipsqueak a big steak or something.”
I shift in the chair myself wondering if they deliberately make these things uncomfortable to get you out faster. “When are you going to be back on your feet?”
He goes to throw his hand up, but the gesture is weak. “Fuck knows. They’re talking test this and test that, observation… And surgery. You can bet your balls they’re going to cut me up.”
“You should listen to them. You should rest.”
“The doctors?” he laughs. “Dad ‘listened’ to them. Look where he ended up.”
I rock forward. “The game starts in half an hour. I guess you’re not going to make it?”
Coach looks to the window again. From here we can see the top of the Litterbox. “No, son. Not unless the Almighty decides to grant me a miracle.”
“The Cubs did win the World Series,” I jibe.
He laughs, coughing and reaching for his chest, the beeping becoming more pronounced. “True, but I’m in no shape to be screaming from the dugout. In fact…” he pauses. “I’ve been doing some thinking.”
“Sounds dangerous.”
“Shut your pie-hole and listen.”
I put my hands up, sitting back.
“I’m going to get you reinstated as team captain. The boys need a leader again, and I’m a fat lot of fucking good at the moment. Besides, you’ve practically been coaching them the last few weeks anyhow. It’s a title thing, but I think it would boost morale—for everyone.”
“You think the Dean will go for it?”
A smile widens on Coach’s face. “Son, I just had a heart attack. The Grim Reaper himself had me in his clutches. Compared to that, the Dean’s going to be a pushover.”
I smile back. “If you say so.”
“I do, and I also say that you’re going to win this match for me. Bring it home, son.”
“I will.”
“Say it with some fucking conviction.”
“I will!” I shout.
A young nurse pops her head in.
Coach grins at her from his bed. “We’ll keep it down.”
With a disapproving look, she leaves.
Coach gives me a wink. “Hey, at least the scenery’s nice.”
*
I’ve got fifteen minutes to get the Litterbox, and even that’s cutting it fine. I call Willow on the way, explaining as best I can what happened. I expect her to protest when I tell her the team’s going to play, but she gives her support and says she’ll be watching.
I swing my bike up onto the curb and sprint for the player’s entrance.
Inside, I find the team standing around in the locker room.
“We thought you’d fallen into a fucking hole,” says Leon, pushing off the wall.
“Not quite.”
I collect them together and give them the news. They’re shell-shocked, as I expected, but I use it to bind us together for a common goal.
I place my hand in the center. “For Coach.”
Hands follow on top of mine. “For Coach!”
I’m still buttoning up my shirt as we’re coming onto the field.
The game starts.
North Carolina was a pain in our ass last year. It looks like it’s going to be more of the same.
A homer I send into the stands helps, but by the fifth we’re still down.
Leon comes to the rescue, striking out two Tar Heels back to back.
I take the plate again. I’m not going to let this one go, not today.
I swing, stretching out my shoulder.
The Tar Heels’s pitcher might think he’s got me fooled, but I can see the curveball coming a mile away. I belt it hard into the infield, easily making second before they get the ball back into play.
I’m waiting on base and I turn my eyes up towards the bleachers, struggling to see against the glare. I scan for Willow, but she’s nowhere to be found.
Come on.
I’m so caught up looking for her I don’t realize play has resumed.
“Asher!” yells Leon.
I take off, barely making third.
I look again. Where the hell is she?
I’m about to call her before the eighth when I spot her above the dugout, right there in front of my fucking eyes. Seeing her, knowing she’s here, gives me the boost I need to gather the team and map out a plan.
It works like a fucking charm. I have the boys concentrate on sending everything out to the infield, Carolina’s weak spot. It means more work pounding the bases, but it pays off.
The ninth arrives. It’s do or die.
Last batter up and we need one more run to win.
It’s Yours Truly’s time to shine.
The home crowd’s chanting. “Slade, Slade, Slade.”
I hold my bat up and point to the sky. It’s cocky, but I want these Carolina asshats to know I mean business.
I line the bat up, squatting.
The pitcher’s an equally cocky prick by the name of Gonzales. His curveball’s a bitch at the best of times, but I can see by the smirk on his face he’s got something extra-special lined up for me, something dirty.
He pitches and it’s high, a screwball with hot sauce on it, aimed straight at my head. I manage to side-step it just in time.
The arrogant asshole’s still smirking. The fucker’s testing me.
I settle back into my stance, the top of the bat weaving above my head.
Gonzales leans back and lines up the pitch.
Not this time, pretty boy.
The ball’s got pace on it, a curve so strong you’d need a protractor to measure it, but I’m on it. I belt that leather-bound sucker so hard the crack rings out high into the bleachers, the ball sailing towards the lights.
I hesitate a moment thinking I’ve hit an easy homer, but the ball loses altitude fast and drops for the outfield.
“Go!” call the boys, one voice.
I dig in and sprint for first, keeping an eye on the field, breathing through the run.
A lanky Carolina outfielder collects the ball faster than expected. He throws it hard and long, but I’ve already cleared second on my way to third.
It’s tight—real fucking tight.
I hear the ball collect in the mitt of the baseman on third as I head to home, my thighs burning from the effort. Come on. For Coach.
Through it all I hear Willow screaming as loud as she can.
It pushes me on, even as I hear the ball whistling behind me.
I give it everything I have, the catcher with his mitt raised ready for the out.
I sta
rt to tilt, full speed, laying myself out.
I slide, toe pushing as far as I can muster, sliding into home, the solid thud of the ball slamming in the leather mitt above my head.
“Safe!” calls the umpire.
It’s done.
I’ve kept my promise.
The team swarms onto the field and lifts me up, but there’s only one person I want to see right now.
I get the boys to help me down as we approach the dugout, embracing Willow.
She holds me away. She’s breathing almost as hard as I am. “That was close.”
“You’re telling me.”
I pull her in and give her ass a squeeze. “What do you say we celebrate?”
She sniffs at the air. “You could do with a shower first.”
I sniff my armpit. “What? You don’t like the smell of sweaty hometown hero?”
She stands on her tippy toes and whispers, “I like my men squeaky clean, remember?”
She kisses me on the cheek. “I’ll wait out front.”
“See you soon.”
Someone slaps my back from behind.
I pull Leon into a headlock. “Motherfucker. I guess we did it.”
He manages to squirm free, taking me around the neck, the two of walking towards the tunnel. “I guess we did.”
“Mr. Slade?”
I look sideways to find a guy standing there in a non-descript black cap and simple white tee. There’s a clipboard under his arm. He looks like he’s off to a cattle auction, not dressed for a college ballgame.
He extends his hand. “Gary.”
I shake. “Asher.”
Leon takes the hint and slaps me on the back. “I’ll see you in the showers.”
“Son,” says Gary. “I represent the interests of the New York Yankees baseball team. Have you got a moment?”
I jerk back. “For the Yankees? I’ve got all the time in the world.”
*
Showered, free from the fans, I manage to escape the rest of the throngs by using the back entrance.
Willow’s leaning up against a lamppost in a Hellcats jersey a good two sizes too big and a cap that’s not doing much to contain her copper hair. She looks so fucking adorable right now.
I put down my bag and take her around the waist, pulling her to me, breathing her in. “You look hot in that jersey. What say you leave it on tonight?”
“Just the jersey?” she questions.
I let her go. “Sorry I’m late. A recruiter from the Yankees wanted to talk.”
Willow’s eyes light up. “The Yankees want to sign you?”
“Nothing’s set in stone, but it looks promising. What do you think? Does the Big Apple take your fancy?”
“You do know I’m a Jersey girl, don’t you?”
“All the more reason. When I brought you up, the recruiter said he had some contacts at NYU he could get in touch with.”
She’s stunned. “Wow.”
“Trust me, once you’re in the Majors, it’s like a magic key. Anything’s possible.”
“What makes you think I’d follow you?”
I grind against her, letting her know I’m hard. “You’d say no to incredible sex every night and my expert cooking?”
She laughs, throwing her head back. “When you put it like that, how could a girl resist?”
EPILOGUE
WILLOW
ONE YEAR LATER
Once again I’m in the stands watching Asher on field, but this isn’t the Litterbox. This is Yankee Stadium.
A solid crack from Asher’s bat sends the ball jetting off towards the stands. The Yankees coach claps, approaching him. The response to Asher here has been great, but the real test will be when he plays his first game tomorrow. I couldn’t be prouder, though looking around at the fellow bejeweled girlfriends and wives gathered, I think it’s going to take me a while to adjust to this lifestyle.
I head down to the field just as Asher comes off, his brow sweaty, that stripy Yankees uniform hugging his body tight. He’s bound to get panties around the stadium knotting when he shows up for the game tomorrow—mine included.
And you’re the lucky one who gets to take him home.
I lean against the wall next to the players’ tunnel. “You’re new, right?”
Asher smiles, taking me by the hips and pulling me off the wall. He places his nose against my neck. “What have we here? A Major League virgin. Say, I don’t suppose you have five minutes to get better acquainted, do you?”
His cock hardens against me. “I’ve got class in twenty.”
“That’s all I need.”
“You’re forgetting we’re in New York. There’s a little something called traffic.” I adjust his collar. “Perhaps a rematch back at home?”
His lips move to my ear. “Do I get to check out your infield?”
I know people are watching, but I don’t care. Let them see what we’ve got together. “You can check out whatever you like.”
I push him away. “See you soon, Slugger. No batting before I get home, you hear?”
He grabs his crotch. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
*
I’m enjoying NYU. It’s certainly a step up from Penbrook, but I haven’t gotten used to the city hustle and bustle again yet, or living so close to Mom.
“Anyone home?” I call, the sound of Bailey’s scrambling paws growing louder as she leaps into the hallway and bolts for me.
I crouch down and she almost bowls me over she’s so excited. She’s not a puppy any more, that’s for sure.
I rub her behind the ears. “Who’s a pretty girl?”
If her tail was wagging any harder, she’d take flight.
She starts to tug at my leg.
“What is it, girl?”
“Asher?” I call.
No answer.
I look back down at Bailey. “Okay. Where do you want me to go?”
I let Bailey lead me down the hall to the deck out back overlooking the Hudson.
At first, the Yankees wanted to set us up in a grand apartment near the stadium, but we wanted room for Bailey to play. Picturing her cooped up in an apartment all day, no matter how spacious, was stressing me out. We take her to see Coach Harris when we can, but he’s still in and out of the hospital more than he’d like.
So, we found a cute little house on River Palm Terrace with water views and something of a backyard. The Yankees were happily to oblige given they’d be saving who knows how much per month, plus we prefer being away from the city and its perpetual madness. We like a bit of privacy.
The place needs renovating, but that’s proving kind of fun—not that Asher has a renovating bone in his body. He’s a lot better with a bat in his hand than a brush.
The sun’s setting behind Manhattan, the skyscrapers splitting the light into columns that fall and distort on the water’s surface.
Here we go.
I see the table on the deck’s been set up with flowers. There are candles. I can’t help but think back to our first date at Asher’s place. It seems like so long ago now.
Asher’s standing beside the table with his hands behind his back. He’s wearing the same tux he wore to the Players’ Ball last week and he looks impossibly handsome standing there.
I look like last week’s trash in my lab clothes. “Sorry, I didn’t know we were dressing up tonight.”
He gives me the famous Slade smile, Bailey looping through his legs with glee. “You know I think you’re hot as fuck in your lab clothes.”
I roll my eyes. “You’d think I was ‘hot as fuck’ wearing curtains.”
“I would.” He pulls out a chair. “Would madam like a seat?”
I move forward and sit down. “Madam would.”
I notice Mr. Slimey is also seated, wearing a tiny tux and matching bowtie. “Did you make the suit yourself, too?”
Asher pats Mr. Slimey on the head. “The suit only cost three figures. I’d call that a bargain.”
Asher sits opposi
te me and takes the lid off a silver dish in the middle of a table.
I sniff at the air. “Carbonara. Just like our first date.”
“Correct you are, but homemade this time.”
“No roast?” I joke.
He cups his ear. “Can’t say I hear the fire brigade.”
I lean back, eyeing him suspiciously. “Why the trip down memory lane?”
He starts to dish up. “Oh, I don’t know. I thought you might like to be reminded of where we started… and how far we’ve come.”
He’s not wrong there. I look at Asher now and that college party boy is long gone, the arrogant and all-assuming womanizer a thing of the past. He only has eyes for one woman now—two if I include Bailey. But I see more than a changed man. I see a future husband and father, a man who will be committed to me and our future children no matter what. I couldn’t ask for more.
And then there’s the sex… I thought we were pretty adventurous in college, but something about the Big Apple’s brought out a seriously kinky side in the both of us. I truly pity our neighbors at times. Stamina’s always been one of Asher’s strong suits on the field, but he’s got endless endurance in the bedroom as well.
The main course is followed by a lemon tart Asher assures me he has also made himself from his great-great-grandmother’s famous recipe. It looks a little rustic, but it tastes great.
Completely full, I wipe my mouth with a napkin. “If you’re trying to fatten me up, you’re going the right way about it.”
“Fatten you up?” he laughs. “I suppose you could do with a few more curves.”
I throw my napkin at him. “Ass.”
He dabs at the corner of his mouth with it. “You know you’ll always be perfect in my eyes, babe.”
“What about when I’m pregnant, puffed up like the Goodyear Blimp?”
Not a hint of doubt. “I can’t wait.”
Asher reaches down and pats Bailey’s belly. “Go get, girl.”
Bailey darts off inside.
“Where’s she going?” I ask.
Asher’s still smiling. “Wait and see.”
Something taps at my leg.
It’s Bailey. She’s got something in her mouth, a box, her beady eyes wide with excitement.
