by Harlow James
I continue my applause while he finishes his jog and arrives at home plate. Gage Landon, the next player up to bat, congratulates him with a hug and a pat on the back before Calhoun makes his way back over to the dugout right in front of our seats.
My heart rate increases as he strides across the dirt, his head hanging low as he watches the ground in front of him. The reaction my body is having is unnerving as I realize I’m drawn to this man. I’m no virgin and have gone on my fair share of dates, but I’ve never reacted to a man the way my body is tingling all over just watching him walk to the dugout. The thump of my heart is so forceful and loud, I wonder if Conner and Gramps can hear it.
Arriving at the stairs leading down into the structure, Jake greets his teammates as they bombard him in celebratory gestures; hugging, patting, ruffling his hair after he’s removed his hat. His smile returns and I feel mine mimic his contentment just as he looks up into the stands and our eyes meet.
Tingles. Heat. Fuzziness overcomes my mind and a jolt of electricity strikes through my body from my chest, the thundering of my pulse so loud my ears start to ring from the pounding. It’s rare that you make eye contact with the players, very few of them taking a moment to break from their concentration on the game. So when my eyes find him and I see his staring back at me, I’m taken aback by his boldness. Jake Calhoun is staring directly at me, the electric pull between us illicitly strong for a mere five seconds, before his coach pulls his attention and the trance in broken.
“I need to go to the bathroom.” Conner interrupts the reaction in my brain and body, pulling me back to reality.
“Oh… yeah, I’ll take you. Come on,” I stand and gesture for Conner to follow me. I peek back over at the dugout and see that number twenty-three is no longer in view. I shake my head and nudge my brother in front of me, following him up the stairs and through the opening leading onto the balcony behind our seats.
Intriguing. That’s the only word I can identify as I process that pull I just felt towards this curious man while waiting for my brother outside of the restroom. There’s something about Calhoun that intrigues me.
I’ve watched so many baseball games over the course of my life; it’s impossible to keep count. But I’ve never made eye contact with a player before and felt that—whatever that was.
“Can we get more popcorn?” Conner asks as we make our way past the snack bar.
“Yeah, I guess buddy,” I smile down at him.
“Seriously, Dani. I’m twelve, not five. You can stop calling me buddy now,” Conner rolls his eyes at me while we wait in line.
“Sorry, Con. But you’ll always be my buddy,” I tease him while pinching his cheek. He attempts to slap my hand away while I pinch the other side.
Going to games with Gramps and my brother is one of those things in life that brings me peace in my world filled with tests and deadlines as I finish my degree in public relations at the University of California, Irvine. In just a few short months, I’ll finally be done with school, but I can always count on an afternoon or evening of baseball with my two favorite men to remind me of the important things in life.
My brother is the most significant person in my world, besides my grandpa, of course. After our mom and dad died in a car accident when he was two and I was thirteen, they granted Grandpa custody of us, and I became more of Conner’s mother than just his big sister. I feel a responsibility to take care of him like he’s my own kid, and an eleven year age difference contributed to that relationship dynamic as well.
My parents had me while they were young and then struggled for years to conceive again. Then one surprise pregnancy later when I was starting sixth grade, Conner appeared, and my parents were thrilled. Unfortunately, a drunk driver ended their lives and changed our world, cementing the fact they would never get to watch Conner grow up, so I take that notion very seriously. There are days where I’m stifled with grief and self-doubt, but watching the young man he’s growing up into has made all the emotions worth it.
We secure our popcorn and an order of nachos---my junk food weakness---and return to our seats in time for the OC Rays to take the field once more.
“You didn’t miss much,” Gramps informs us as we get situated again. “Salazar hit a double, but no one could get him home.”
“It’s still early,” Conner interjects as the first player steps up to the plate.
“Exactly,” I agree just as my eyes find number twenty-three again. Calhoun is back in the zone, flat-faced and void of expression. His gaze is intent on the game in front of him. He’s hunched over, waiting for the ball to soar through the air, his strong muscles visible under the fabric of his jersey and the sleeves on his arms. Those pants are pulled tight from his crouched position, and I’ve never been more grateful for a baseball player’s uniform in my life. I feel my body warm as I study him intently. Tingles are fluttering between my legs and my pulse is increasing again.
Commotion at home plate pulls my attention to the scene, the player at bat arguing with the umpire about the call of the pitch.
“Ah, come on! That was a strike, you nitwit!” Gramps cuffs his hands around his mouth to project his voice. “So unprofessional to argue with the ump,” he shouts while shaking his head.
I chuckle over at my grandpa. Leave it to him to always tell you what he thinks, although I have to say, I agree with him.
I turn my attention back to the field, particularly to number twenty-three, and I’m granted with his attention on me as well. At least, I think his eyes are on me. It’s hard to tell between the distance and the lights. But I swear, he’s looking right at me again.
“Calhoun!” A shout comes from across the field, pulling his gaze from me a loud crack echoes through the stadium and a ball goes whizzing past his face, barely missing and flying towards the outfield. The right fielder races to grab the ball as it bounces across the grass, launching it to the shortstop who then pelts it across the field to first base, but not in time as the runner stomps the plate and is deemed safe.
“Well, shit! Calhoun almost just lost his head!” Gramps declares. “I sure hope his first inning wasn’t just rookie luck.”
“Yeah, wonder what he was looking at? He was dead focused until he looked into the stands,” Conner adds.
“Totally. He’d better get his head back in the game, huh?”
My response is serious, but my mind is reeling as I debate whether it was me that caught his attention and almost caused him to get hit in the head with the ball.
I focus my interest back on my nachos, fearful to look up and meet his eyes again. I know baseball is a steady combination of a mental game with a physical one, and I think Jake Calhoun’s mind was just rattled. The question is… was it me that did the rattling?
Chapter 3
Jake
“I’m just disappointed, but it could have been worse.”
“You did great kid. Just remember not to lose focus,” my mother’s voice consoles me through the speaker. “I wish we could stick around, but we have to catch that red-eye back up north. We will see you soon. We love you.”
“Love you too, Mom. Tell everyone I said thanks for showing up.” I clear my throat, trying not to show emotion over the phone or in front of my teammates. I scan the locker room to make sure I have some privacy. “It meant a lot.”
“We wouldn’t have missed it, Jake. This is what you’ve been working towards for so long. Don’t let one less-than-stellar game deter you from knowing that you deserve to be there.”
“I know, Mom. Thanks. I’ll talk to you soon. Shoot me a text letting me know when you land.”
“Will do, son. Love you.”
The call ends and I place my phone back in my locker just as Rocky comes up behind me, fresh from the showers.
“Well, for your first game kid, you did good,” he declares while pounding my back in a consoling gesture, trying to make me feel better I’m assuming.
I started the game off strong. I made a killer play o
n the first hit and scored a home run on my first time up at bat. And then it all went to shit.
“I know you’re trying to make me feel better,” I reply as he digs through his locker next to mine, a towel slung on his hips. “But that was a shit show after the first inning.”
He chuckles at me. “Dude, during my first game, I struck out every time I went to bat and missed two catches. At least you got a home run. But yeah, after that, you seemed to have lost your mojo. What the fuck happened?”
I shake my head, focusing down on the floor of the locker room. What did happen?
Her. That girl sitting behind third base rattled my mind. I’ve never lost focus during a game to pay attention to someone in the stands.
That long blonde hair.
Those dark brown eyes.
Her smile that lit up when she looked at the young boy and the old man sitting next to her.
I knew I made the mistake of looking into the stands as soon as I saw her smile after I scored my run. But after that moment, I couldn’t help but seek her out again. I had to know if that moment was a fluke or there was something there. I had to see if she really was as gorgeous as I thought during our brief moment of eye contact. During a game, that should have been the further thing from my mind, a look passing between me and a fan. But I had to peer over at her again.
And thanks to that not so intelligent decision, I almost caught a ball with my face and then spent the rest of the game trying to get my mind back into focus.
“I don’t know, dude.” I lie through my teeth. “I made the mistake of looking into the stands and then it fucked up my concentration, I guess.”
“Bro, take it from me. Nothing is worth looking into the stands for until you learn to manage that with the game. It took me almost a full season before I felt confident enough to glance around and still be able to concentrate on my job. The fans are what make the game for us, but don’t let them distract you from playing or earning your hefty paycheck.”
I nod. He’s right. But I can’t help but feel like that girl was worth the distraction. Then I quickly realize I probably won’t ever see her again. There are thousands of people in the stands and the odds of her sitting in the same seat twice have to be low. Hell, the odds of ever seeing her again are debilitating. I decide to shrug tonight off and instead focus on celebrating our win.
“You’re right. At least we won.”
“Damn straight,” Rocky beams as he finishes getting dressed. I follow his lead, pulling my jeans up and throwing a red shirt over my head. “Time to celebrate!” He shouts throughout the locker room as the rest of the team cheers in agreement.
Rocky and our catcher, Tim Landon, gather us up for a pep talk once everyone’s dressed and clean. Coach comes in and joins in on the celebration, but not before pointing out our mistakes and the issues we will address come Monday. But for right now, it’s a Saturday night and the boys are going out to enjoy a night of debauchery involving copious amounts of alcohol and women.
I’ve heard stories of women whose only goal in life is to hook up with a professional athlete. “Jersey Chasers” or “Cleat Chasers” as they’re deemed by my teammates are a baseball player’s sure-thing. These women gravitate to the smell of icy hot and hefty paychecks, filtering out in droves wearing short skirts and tops that barely cover their chests. They’re easy and willing and perfect for a player who travels and doesn’t want any attachment.
Fortunately for me, the idea of these women does nothing to stir my libido. Call me crazy, but the idea of women throwing themselves at me because of my job or my money doesn’t entice me in the slightest. Even throughout college, I played it safe and avoided relations with women who seemed easy. I’ve heard so many stories of girls who enjoy the chase but then take stalking to a whole other level when they realize their one-time ride didn’t account for a return. Most of the players I know look for someone to warm their bed for the night and nothing beyond that.
Plus, I’ve always found that once a woman knows what I do for a living, they don’t care to know me beyond baseball, and the thrill of being seen with a professional athlete trumps any other reason to get to know me.
Don’t get me wrong, I still enjoy the comfort of a woman from time to time, but starting off my professional career on that foot doesn’t seem smart. And to top it off, the shitty attitude I have right now doesn’t make me feel like wanting to deal with overly flirtatious women.
My teammates and I shuffle into a few vans at the stadium and make our way over to Sully’s, a local bar in Irvine that caters to the team after a win, offering up their VIP room in the back so we can celebrate in private, only extending space for female company if we ask for it or bring them back ourselves.
Rocky and Eddie grab a few bombshells---as they deemed---on their way into the bar, pulling the women from stools they’re sitting on or their groups of friends as we congregate in the back room. A few of the other players scope out the room, pulling their choice of companions for the night, while a few of us remain alone. Some men are married, some are on ‘female cleanses’, and some like me, just don’t want to be bothered with entertaining a girl tonight.
Most of the women in this bar come here intending to meet a player. It’s known in Orange County that this is where the players of the OC Rays hang out after our home games. Being picked to join us in the VIP room is the equivalent of being crowned Miss America, and the women go all out for the chance to be the chosen one.
Drinks flow for the next few hours, shots are poured, and tongues dive into mouths in all corners around me. I’m buzzed, trying to fend off the embarrassment I feel after a few bad plays tonight, but also in commemoration of surviving my first professional game and living to tell the tale. It could have gone worse, but it definitely could have gone better. And that girl’s face keeps flashing across my mind every time I relive a moment that makes me cringe.
I know I shouldn’t dwell on her, but I can’t help it. Can I really subconsciously blame her for my shitty performance? I was in the zone and putting in work until I met her eyes over the dugout. The intense stare she gave back to me had me believing that the connection wasn’t one-sided.
But how freaky is it that it happened during a game? I’ve made eye contact with plenty of women in the stands throughout college, but none gave me the same feelings I got when I saw her.
A blonde with curves and perky boobs comes up to me on my right, breaking me from my internal struggle, rubbing her chest against my shoulder.
“You’re the rookie, aren’t you?” She slurs while pulling her shirt down far enough that her nipple is about to peek out. I stop her hand on the hem of her shirt, halting the inevitable slip I saw coming.
“Yeah, that’s me. But I’m going to save yourself the embarrassment and tell you right now that I’m not interested.”
Her eyes travel to where my hand in touching hers. “Then why are your hands on me?” She bats her eyelashes at me in a desperate attempt at flirting.
“Because you’re about to pull your shirt down so far that your nipple is going to pop out. And as much as you may believe that’s what men want, I’m here to assure you, it’s not.”
Her head cocks back in shock, her brow narrowing at me while she studies my face. But then her desperation returns in her voice.
“What do you want then? A blow job in the bathroom? A quick fuck in your truck? Whatever it is, I’ll do anything you want baby,” her face softens after the first sting of rejection I offered.
“Nope, I’m good. Surprisingly, I want a woman who has enough respect for herself that she doesn’t offer her body up on a silver platter to any guy who can throw a ball.”
She flips her hair over her shoulder, the heat in her eyes now blazing in anger. “Your loss, rookie.” The sashay of her hips is way too obvious as she wanders through the room looking for her next victim.
“That was a bit harsh,” Rocky comes up behind me, placing a new beer in front of me.
“Thank
s.” I nudge my chin towards my drink and then toward that girl. “She needs to hear it though. Not every guy wants something that easy,” I shrug.
“I get it, but a little distraction never hurt anyone,” he winks at me while taking a sip of his drink.
I huff. “Yeah, well, a little distraction tonight almost cost me my eyesight. So yeah, a little distraction can hurt.” I throw my sarcasm his way, his laugh filling the space around us.
“Touché,” he agrees. “This is just the beginning though, rookie. Get ready for a wild ride.”
I take down the last gulp of my beer, standing from my seat and surveying the room. “Why do I feel like I’m already spinning out of control then?”
“Oh, that’s just the alcohol. You’ve got this Calhoun, I promise.”
I nod over at him. Let’s hope he’s right.
Chapter 4
Dani
“Conner, let’s go!”
I swear, raising a twelve-year-old should come with an instruction manual on how to get them to be anywhere on time.
“I’m coming!”
My brother shouts from somewhere up the stairs. I don’t even take as long in the bathroom as he does to get ready.
“I’m going to be late for class and you’re going to be late for school if we don’t leave right now!” I stomp my foot on the floor for emphasis. I hate being late for anything.
Gramps comes teetering into the living room, holding his newspaper and a cup of coffee.
“You have plenty of time, Dani. The boy has finally realized that there are girls in the world, so don’t give him grief for wanting to spend a few extra minutes on his appearance,” he chuckles while taking his seat in his favorite recliner.
“Well, if one of those girls ever finds out how long he takes to get ready, she won’t be interested any longer.”
