Stealing Third

by Marta Brown

  Damn it.

  I turn my attention to the mist coming off the lake to avoid my resolve crumbling. I’m still mad at him. No matter how hot he looks dripping wet and smiling at me like that.

  “Let me guess, not a morning person?”

  “More like, not a child who needs swim lessons—No thanks to you,” I huff, sounding exactly like the child I’m claiming not to be.

  Tyler grabs the edge of the dock, and I can’t stop myself from watching the muscles in his back and arms flex as he lifts himself out of the water. He snags a towel and slings it over his broad shoulders, his smile never faltering.

  “Well, that’s not exactly the thanks I was expecting for saving your ass.” He grabs a neon green swimming noodle from the top of a stack piled high on the dock. “But rules are rules,” he says, lifting his brows, his smile more of a smirk now. “So? Should we start with the basics? Like how to float? Or can we move on to a more advanced technique called doggy paddle?” he teases.

  I roll my eyes. Apparently he’s not only a superstar on the baseball field, and a do-gooder doctor in training, but also a comedian.

  “Very funny,” I say, hoping my sarcasm won’t be lost on him, just in case my face is betraying me since it’s impossible to not check him out.

  “Come on, don’t be mad.” He drops his smirk, his face taking on a more serious expression. “It was either tell Walter I was helping you retrieve your suit for the swim test—which according to the rules you have to take if you ever want to get back in the lake this summer—or bust you for sneaking out. I think I did you a favor.”

  A favor? Yeah, right.

  If it’s up to me, I won’t be getting anywhere near this stupid lake the rest of the summer since I don’t plan on being here for long. That is—if Tyler doesn’t ruin any more of my plans to get kicked out.

  “I know the rules, thankyouverymuch.” I cross my arms, jutting out my right hip. “And don’t even pretend you weren’t trying to save your own ass. I bet Walter would have loooved to hear what you were really up to. What was it again? Oh, yeah…checking the medical file of your most recent hookup to see if she’s a minor. Yep, that would have gone over well.” I laugh.

  The look of worry Tyler wore last night when Walter caught us, returns in full force and it makes me feel bad for messing with him. He glances over his shoulder, clearly paranoid, before looking back at me and stepping closer. “Emily, please—”

  “Whatever.” I cut him off, before the look in his eyes and the nearness of his body makes me admit two different truths. One, I would never throw him under the bus like that. It’s not like I want him to get in trouble because of me; I just don’t want him to prevent me from getting in trouble all by myself. And second, I want to kiss him again. Bad.

  “Your secret’s safe with me, and anyways,” I say, trying to brush off the way he’s looking at me, almost pleadingly, “it’s more fun this way.”

  He lets out a deep breath. “I’m not sure I’d call it fun.”

  “Oh, but it can be,” I say, ready for the seriousness of this conversation to lift like the early morning fog, and the fun flirty banter from last night to return.

  I uncross my arms and slowly unzip his oversized sweatshirt before letting it drop to the dock. Tyler’s eyes drag across my body as I unbutton my shorts and let them fall to the ground as well, leaving me in only my bikini, and a rush of goose bumps at the way his eyes darken, taking me in. The same way they did in his room a few nights ago.

  Yes. This is definitely more fun.

  “See?” I say, biting my lip to keep from mouth-attacking him. “Fun.”

  Tyler takes another step forward, almost closing the gap between our scarcely dressed bodies, and this time, I’m the one who glances around to make sure no one is watching.

  “You know…it could be a whole lot more fun…” he trails off, his voice low and gravelly, twisting my stomach in knots.

  I remember. And I’m game.

  I lean in, releasing my lip as his breath brushes across my skin. “Tell me,” he whispers quietly in my ear, his lips so close my mind reels. Tell him? What exactly? That he’s driving me crazy and if he doesn’t kiss me soon, I might explode?

  “I want you so bad right now,” I admit. Want overriding all my senses.

  He pulls away slightly, our eyes locking, and I can see he’s filled with as much passion as I am at the moment. “You know what I want?”

  “What?” I ask, my voice so soft it can barely be heard over the water lapping against the dock underneath us.

  “Your age,” he says flatly, stepping away from me and crossing his arms. His smirk is back and it’s big, bright and gloating.

  The warmth in my lower belly explodes, but not in the way I was hoping. And I thought I was pissed before.

  “You jerk!” I push at him, but his body is like a rock, solid and unmoving. “I’ll never tell you now.”

  “If you say so,” he says as I turn to snatch up my clothes and take off. But either I’m too slow or he’s too quick, because he manages to grab me by the waist before I can take a step. Effortlessly, he lifts me up and carries me to the edge of the dock, despite my protests.

  I try and wiggle my way out, but his arm is like a vice grip around my body. “Put me down. I’m not doing this. Not with you.”

  “Rules are rules, Emily. Now, I’ll need you to start by doing three laps from the end of the dock out to the buoy and back using one or more of the following strokes: sidestroke, breaststroke, trudgen, or crawl; and when you’re finished you’ll need to swim one more lap using an easy resting backstroke. Good luck, kiddo,” he says before tossing me in the water with a splash.

  …

  Three days of ignoring Tyler at all costs, and six trips to the batting cages has helped take the edge off my anger, but the overwhelming embarrassment of admitting how badly I wanted him to kiss me still hasn’t completely subsided. Something else that hasn’t subsided—wanting him. Damn it.

  Since the campers are at their daily activities, I take advantage of the cabin being quiet and flop onto my bed, thankful junior counselors don’t have to participate in the same scheduled activities as the campers anymore.

  At least that’s one perk for being stuck here. And right now, it’s the only perk, besides getting to see Lucy at the counselor’s campfire later tonight since I passed my rules test before lunch.

  Pulling out paper and a pen, I prop up my pillows behind me, and balance the box the stationary’s stored in against my bent knees. I flip the pen back and forth between my fingers, tapping it against the paper, while I re-read what I’ve already written her.

  Dear Kat,

  I’m not even sure where to start! How about in order from OMG to WTF?

  First off, OMG Lucy isn’t my counselor this year and Jenny Osborne is. (Remember? The girl who swears she didn’t show my training bra to the entire guy’s camp in middle school. Yep. That girl.) It doesn’t matter at this point though. I’ve barely had to see her since I got here and almost died.

  Like literally!! Almost died.

  About an hour after you dropped me off, Todd tried to toss me in the lake and I ended up hitting my head against the dock and getting knocked out cold. Like, floating unconscious in the water, face down, knocked out cold! OMFG, right?

  See what I mean? I just keep moving up the OMG scale. But just wait…

  Ready for the WTF? (And it’s not even the fact I had to be resuscitated—which I totally did.)

  Tyler Ford (baseball house-make out boy-extraordinaire) is the one who saved me. Like, pulled me from the water, and gave me mouth to mouth (and not the good kind like he gave me at the party) but the real CPR mouth to mouth kind.

  And as if that wasn’t bad enough, he had to stay with me all night long to monitor the symptoms from the concussion I got, and I think I may have called him Hottie Mchottieface, more than once.

  See??? WTF?!?!

  I seriously can’t even!

  Anyway, e
veryone should be back soon, so I better wrap it up, but I figured out how I’m going to get out of camp. The good old fashioned kicked out kinda way. Planning to sneak out tonight and hopefully get strike one! Wish me luck!

  Love ya,

  Em

  Ps: Update- Sneaking out was a fail. Got caught. By Tyler. And then we both got caught by Walter Robbins, the camp’s owner! But Mr. Goodie two-shoes came up with some excuse for us being out so late, and we didn’t get in trouble at all! UGH! But I’m not giving up.

  Maybe I’ll use Tyler to get kicked out…breaking the fraternization rule might be a fun way to go.☺

  “Emily, there you are,” Jenny says, walking into the cabin, the screen banging closed behind her. I fold the letter to Kat and slip it back in the box before shoving it under my bed again. “What are you up to?”

  “Just got back from the batting cages. You?”

  Jenny smiles. “I went up to the baseball field with some of the girls after getting done with crew.”

  “Watching the boys?” I ask, despite knowing the answer. It’s her favorite daily activity.

  Jenny bounces across the room, still in her spandex from practice, and sits down at the end of my bed. I push further back against my pillows to put some distance between us. Personal space, much?

  “Just one in particular,” she squeals, causing me to wince.

  I roll my eyes. This isn’t a hard one to guess. If ogling Todd were a sport, she could have earned a first place ribbon last summer.

  “Let me guess, you were checking out T—”

  “Tyler,” she finishes, cutting me off.

  My breath catches. My Tyler?

  She must read confusion on my face because she clarifies. “You know, the guy who saved you—the one with the crazy kissable lips.”

  Yep. That’s the one.

  A nerve in my neck pinches. “Yeah…I know exactly who you mean,” I say, considering him and his crazy kissable lips is all I’ve thought about for days.

  “Anyway, I came to grab a blanket and some sunscreen and I’m headed back up to the field. Some of the guys are about to have a pickup game.” Jenny pushes off my bed, grabs her beach bag and starts to head out the back door before stopping and tossing me a look over her shoulder. “Btw—you can come if you want.”

  A pickup game? With Tyler?

  I smile, knowing the invitation is superficial, but I could care less.

  I hop off my bed, throw on my tennis shoes and grab a hair tie. I’ve avoided him for long enough. If it’s games Tyler wants to play, at least this one I know the rules to.

  “Oh, great,” she deadpans. “You’re coming.”

  I sweep my hair into a ponytail and grab my lucky baseball hat.

  “Nope. I’m playing.”

  Chapter 12

  Tyler

  The baseball field is dusty and hot, and it’s exactly where I want to be.

  Between job shadowing Doc, thinking about Emily in that teeny tiny bikini—which I completely shouldn’t be—and the pressure of choosing between medicine and baseball bearing down on me like the mid-afternoon sun, I’d almost forgotten how excited I was to spend the summer at a camp dedicated to sports.

  “All right, guys, I know it’s just a pickup game, but that doesn’t mean we aren’t going to play like it’s the bottom of the ninth in the seventh game of the World Series.” Mark, one of the other counselors who plays ball, claps his hands. The whistle hanging around his neck and the clipboard tucked under his arm reminds me of Coach. “Am I right?”

  “Right,” the team echoes in unison before scattering to our various positions.

  Grabbing the rim of my baseball hat and tugging it down low to block the sun from my eyes, I pump my fist into the hollow cup of my well worn glove and settle in at shortstop.

  “Let’s do this,” I call, and then proceed to choke on the cheek full of sunflower seeds in my mouth at the sight of Emily walking out of the other team’s dugout—in something way hotter than a tiny bikini.

  A baseball jersey.

  Shooting me a wink, she bends down, grabs a helmet, and slips it on before approaching homeplate. She kicks in her toes, drawing up dust, as she grips the bat and readies herself for the pitch.

  Damn, she looks hot. And by the slack jawed faces of my teammates, and frankly, her team, too, I’m not alone in my thinking.

  Maybe that’s why Mark gives her a nice easy pitch right down the middle. She hits a hard and fast line drive right between me and the second baseman, and before I can even scramble for the ball, she’s on first and smiling at me.

  I shake my head. Of course she plays baseball—why wouldn’t she? She is the coach’s daughter after all.

  But staring at Emily standing on first base, tying her jersey into a high knot and revealing her toned stomach, I’m starting to get the feeling she’s playing with a whole different set of rules. Ones I’m pretty sure her dad didn’t teach her, but they work anyway.

  Unable to focus on anything except Emily and the tiny glint of sunlight bouncing off her belly button ring, I miss the next batter’s easy pop up fly.

  Well, played, Emily Evers. Well, played.

  “Yo, Ty, eyes on the prize, man,” Mark shouts from the mound as the batter takes first and Emily rounds second.

  Trust me, I’m trying.

  I scoop up the ball and toss it back, repeating over and over the same three things I have been ever since Emily whispered on the dock a few mornings ago that she wants me. She’s off limits. Against the rules. And probably not eighteen. She’s off limits. Against the rules. And probably not eighteen. She’s off limits. Against the rules. And probably not eighteen.

  Letting the heat of the sun sear away the goose bumps her breath left on my neck and across my back that morning, I drop my eyes, and try to ignore her long legs in my peripheral vision as she takes a heavy lead off second base.

  I remind myself one more time she’s off limits, against the rules, and probably not eighteen, but it doesn’t seem to matter. I can’t stop wanting her just as bad. And right now, watching her play my favorite sport in a crop top and cut off jean shorts is not helping. At. All.

  “Hey there, Slugger,” Emily says. Her tone teasing and light, unlike the last time I saw her, stomping off dripping wet and furious at me after her swim test.

  “Hey, yourself,” I say, trying to keep my eyes on the game and not her. “Haven’t seen you around for the last few days. Been busy? Swimming or something?” I shoot her a grin that she returns with more of a scowl than a smile. Okay, maybe she is still pissed.

  Before we can exchange anymore friendly banter, if that’s what we’re doing, I field two more pop-ups, and Mark strikes out a batter looking, ending our half of the inning and sending Emily off without a score.

  “Dude, she is so hot,” Mark says, plopping down next to me in the dugout as Emily, and her entire team of guys, make their way onto the field.

  I grab a bottle of water and chug it to avoid agreeing. Or to avoid punching him for checking her out. Maybe both.

  Within minutes the bases are loaded, and I’m finally up. I yank on my batting glove, grab a bat, and approach the plate.

  A quick conference on the mound between the pitcher and first baseman delays my turn to bat as they wave Emily in from center field. I grip the bat with both hands and raise it above my head to stretch out my back, before giving a few practice swings while I wait.

  When they finally break from their huddle, Emily remains on the mound wearing a devilish smile as the pitcher takes her position in the outfield.

  Oh, it’s on.

  I line up over the plate, bend my knees and stare her down with a smile—which she manages to wipe off my face in less than three seconds—when she winds up, classic softball windmill style, and delivers what has to be a fifty mile an hour ball straight down the middle.

  “Strike one,” the acting umpire yells.

  My eyes go wide. This girl is not messing around. And now, I’m not eith
er.

  I dig in deeper, swiveling the bat in tiny circles over my shoulder, and wait for the next pitch, which comes in low.

  “Ball.”

  Out of habit, I step away from the plate and knock the bat against my shoes before lining up again.

  Ready and waiting, I watch as Emily has a silent conversation with the catcher crouched behind me, shaking her head no until the catcher calls a throw she likes. She nods yes and then gives me an almost imperceptible smile.

  The pitch is fast, but it curves in too far, and ends up beaming me right in the arm. I toss my bat to the ground and jog to first base, forcing everyone to advance, and earning us our first run.

  My bicep stings, but not any worse than the sting of giving up a run on a wild pitch, if Emily’s grip on the ball is any indication.

  We manage to score one more run before Emily strikes out three hitters in a row to end the inning.

  Coming in from second base, I slow down to keep pace with her as she makes her way to the dugout. “Nice arm,” I offer, but realize the moment the words leave my mouth, it sounds like I’m messing with her, which I’m not. She really does have a crazy good arm.

  She glares at me. “Yeah, well, if it wasn’t still sore from doing a thousand laps for a stupid swim test I didn’t need, maybe I wouldn’t have nailed you.”

  “I highly doubt that.” I arch my brows and smile. “I think I might have had that one coming.”

  “You’re probably right.” She laughs before smacking my ass with the back of her glove and running off.

  At the top of the ninth, it really does feel like we’re playing the last game in a seven game World Series. We’re up by one, and if we can keep it that way, we win.

  Emily’s on second again, with no other runners on base and two outs on the board. This is it. One more out, and the game is over.

  Mark gives up a quick single, putting a runner on first, and by the deep lead Emily’s taking from second I move up and prepare for a sacrifice bunt—just in case she’s thinking about stealing third.