by Kate Stewart
That got the attention of the only good looking pilot in the room. At least I knew I had read his thoughts.
“I’ve been in the air, gentlemen, and often. If you want to compare swords with me, simply open up your packet and take a look at my flight log. I don’t need your respect, but I do need your attention.”
One by one, cell phones were set down, and all eyes landed on my nipples.
Well, it was progress.
I looked over the cell phone pics I’d taken over the last few weeks. Cotton candy sunsets, a dead jellyfish, the infamous and ancient Angel Oak Tree, Market Street traffic, a horse with an eye patch. Charleston, in a word, was...amazing! The realtor had been right. The city itself was a best-kept secret. A secret that was apparently spreading due to the significant amount of wandering tourists, myself included. I’d spent hours roaming the city on a self-tour.
I’d never really been the type to get lonely. I’ll just go ahead and put it out there.
I’m an alien.
Well, that’s not exactly true, but when I was young, my obsession with aircraft kept me out of any form of a circle of friends. It was easy to play pilot when you were six with the Sunday school kids. When you’re eleven, and you prefer to put together airplane models instead of shopping at the mall, that you weren’t even allowed to frequent, it can start to become an issue. I had a handful of friends in high school, and even they gave me some odd looks from time to time.
Okay, maybe I was a bit too informational, less conversational.
In the last week, and in my new city, I felt more at home than ever in my own company. The pace was far slower than what I was used to. I’d spent five unnecessary minutes in the checkout at the store because of the person in front of me chatting with a cashier. It seemed no one outside of a car was in a hurry.
After rush hour, the city settled into a contented purr of crickets, wind, and calming water. Yesterday, and after endless meetings my first week, I drove straight to the beach a few miles from my new palace. I sat in the light beige sand and watched people pass by as I inhaled the sea air and watched the sky turn pink.
Pink.
The clouds were lit so beautifully, I felt myself tear up. I had a new addiction, and it was the city itself. Half of my addiction to flying was due to the fact I was a sucker for scenery and my new city fed my addiction in spades.
Armed with my new Prius, I drove around the peninsula of downtown Charleston and familiarized myself with the layout. It was an ocular orgasm, something on every single corner: cobblestone streets, expansive southern mansions, postcard harbor views. I couldn’t get enough. I took three tours, one walking, one by bike, and one by horse-drawn carriage. It had only been a week, and I was in love. I stopped for lunch at a local spot called Barbara Jean’s and ate the largest chicken fried steak in the history of the world. It was steak fried like chicken, topped with a creamy gravy that “tastes so damn good,” according to the waitress, “would make you smack your mama.” I finished my late lunch and walked for hours, completely in a daze, instantly in love with my southern piece of paradise. Trees covered in flowing Spanish moss swayed as I worked my tired feet down the streets, admiring the consistently lit lanterns that dated as far back as the 1600s.
I wanted to be a part of it all.
Running out of ideas but with endless possibilities, I decided my next move was now up to my new planet, and just as the thought crossed my mind, I ran right smack into a vendor passing out flyers.
I quickly scanned the pictures on the pamphlet and dead center was my planet’s answer.
Go to Anchor Park!
Nervous was a feeling I was no longer used to. I’d pitched too many games, faced too many opponents to feel the old yet familiar shitty feeling that had started to eat at me this morning. I needed something to take the edge off and pounding into Melo-dee last night hadn’t done a damn thing to help the slight shake in my hand or the new sheen of sweat that covered me as the words kept circling my head like the fucking vultures they were.
Last chance.
“We’ve got this,” Andy said with confidence as my uncertain eyes met his. “Fuckin’ A,” he said emphatically as he clapped my back with his glove before he made his way out of the locker room. I gripped my cap sitting on my locker shelf and put it on then kicked my locker closed.
Only one thing would get me picked up this year: performance. I had the best stats of any pitcher in the minors. I’d solidly pitched my way into earning the invite to the big show. An invite I’d worked for my whole life.
Do or die at this point.
“Get ’em, Rafe,” Waters, the right fielder, barked out as he passed me. I took a deep breath. If I didn’t get tapped on the shoulder this year to play in the majors, it wouldn’t be because I didn’t play with every fucking bit of talent I had.
That would never be the reason. And just before tunnel vision kicked in and I took the field, I whispered in ritual, “You love this.”
I’ve never been much of a fan of baseball. In fact, I’d never been a fan of any sport. So, sans foam finger, I headed to Anchor Park with every intention of knowing everything about it by the time I left. Surveying the stadium, I noticed a majority of the people around me sported team shirts, so I purchased a bright red baseball cap with a green team logo as a souvenir. I felt the sense of community as the players took the field. I took my seat directly behind home plate. Scanning the bright green field and immaculate stadium, I was impressed, and then I looked down to Google the Swampgators on my iPhone.
I prayed to two Gods in my life. The one I believed kept my soul safe but frustrated me with answered prayers in cryptic life lessons and another who fed me a world of information at the palm of my hand.
As I researched, I realized I was at the very first home game, and the Swampgators had an incredible season last year. Even more impressive was all minor leaguers were an affiliate of a major league team, meaning they were all signed with them. I spent a few minutes brushing up on the basic rules of the game while the Swampgators warmed up on the field. I really had missed everything athletic in life and was working overtime to make up for it. The announcers asked us to rise for the anthem, and I quickly put my phone away as I held my hand over my heart and finally looked up.
Jesus, Lord, God help my sin-filled mind and cleanse me, Amen.
I had no idea what I expected when I truly got a look at the players, but I was pretty sure God was making up for my lack of Val Kilmers in my first instruction class. Everywhere I looked, the male form was accentuated in perfect clothes. A sea of solid man-butt swam before me as I stuttered out the words to the country’s most famous song. All of the players were lined up, eyes focused forward as I ogled them shamelessly while they paid tribute to their country. Tan, tattooed bulging arms, thick thighs, and muscular backs all saluted me as I remembered something else I’d never had much liberty to explore: men.
As soon as the short fireworks display ended, and the smoke cleared, I remained glued to my seat as I watched the Swampgators take the field.
“Go get ’em, Bullet!” A woman shouted next to me, obviously seasoned in the sport. She nudged me with her meaty elbow and pointed. “This is his year. I can feel it.”
The woman was dressed in an old team t-shirt and a hat of her own littered with stick pins. Her skin could only be described as leathered from years of sun, but she had kind, pale blue eyes and gave me a small smile as I addressed her.
“Who’s year?” I asked as she kept her sights on the man who had just reached the pitcher’s mound.
“Rafe, that’s who. He deserves it.”
“I’m not following,” I said, looking over at her. I could feel her excitement as she motioned to the mound. A faithful and dedicated fan sat next to me, and I was excited about the possibility of asking a few questions.
“First game?” she asked as if it was a cardinal sin. Her leathered skin wrinkled around pursed lips in distaste.
“I just moved here,” I r
eplied as my only defense.
“Forgiven,” she said as she kept her eye on the field. “Rafe Hembrey, he’s the pitcher. Should’ve been picked up by the big club last year, but for some reason, they haven’t called yet. They’re absolutely crazy for it if you ask me. He’s better than half the big league starters. They won’t pass on him this year. I just know it.”
“Well, then,” I said as I cupped my hands around my mouth. “Get ’em, Bullet!” I gave my attention to the object of my company’s affection and froze when I saw him look in our direction. I stared back with my jaw slightly slack while I took him in. He was impressively taller than most of the other players. Then again, he was on a mound of dirt. Out of nowhere, a ball sped toward me, and I flinched. His pet name was no longer a mystery.
“Jesus, he’s faster than last year!” the lady to my right exclaimed as I realized he hadn’t been looking our way at all but was entirely focused on the catcher crouched a few feet in front of us.
“Sttriiike,” the umpire called out with authority.
“My name’s Beth, but my friends call me Dutch.”
“I’m Alice, nice to meet you...” I left it open-ended because I wasn’t sure what she wanted me to call her.
I studied Rafe’s form as he again wound up and extended his arm and leg in perfect rhythm.
“Strriiiike,” the umpire called out again as Dutch clenched her fists and did a fist bump with herself.
“Last year he pitched a no-hitter.”
I quickly Googled the term. “Impressive.”
I was thoroughly captivated, and I had to give most of the credit to the man on the mound. Even as a newcomer, I knew he was having an excellent game. I was just as vocal as Dutch as we chanted and raised hell. Well, I mostly echoed her, but I was having a blast doing it. I looked around me to see the others in the stadium just as engrossed. I felt like I was sitting in a family of strangers. An obvious family man stood next to Dutch and me with his blonde toddler on his shoulders. She shook a noisy tin can of what I assumed were beans with the Swampgator’s logo and the name of a sponsor below it. I studied it carefully.
Andy’s Brew House because local is better.
Engrossed in my first game ever, I realized hours had passed, and I hadn’t moved from my seat.
“Striiiikke,” the umpire yelled for what seemed like the hundredth time. I and those around me were solidly impressed as the Bullet threw pitch after perfect pitch.
The game ended in a Swampgators victory, and I turned to Dutch to thank her for the company.
“He really is impressive. I can see why you’re a fan. Thank you for the company.”
“Honey, he’s the best. And when he finally gets the call, I can say I told you so.” She looked at me in question. “So you in?”
“Am I in?”
“Well, I don’t see no one else behind ya,” Dutch said with obvious sarcasm.
“What does in entail?”
“Every home game, rain or shine, for the season.”
I stared, stunned, but my mouth moved before I could think it through. “I’ll do it!”
“Good, because you’re actual seat was one down. You’re sitting in my dead husband’s chair. I have these two for the entire season. I’ll meet you outside twenty minutes before game time. If you aren’t here, I go in alone.”
“Oh...I’m terribly sorry...Okay,” I said as I stood quickly and looked back at the chair in apology. Dutch gave me my very own fist bump before she yelled one more time, “Good job, Bullet. This is your season!”
“Thanks, Dutch!” he called back to her as I froze where I stood. This time, I was sure his eyes were on me because he was far closer. Dark hair was tucked under a ball cap and underneath the brim of that cap...was perfection. His eyes penetrated mine as I stood motionless. I damned near sat back down just to drink him in. It was a brief moment, maybe a few seconds, but it was enough to catch it all. The dark curl of sweaty hair beneath his cap, his strong nose and chin, ridiculously full lips, and dark eyes all burned into my memory as he disappeared from the field.
“See you tomorrow,” Dutch barked and pushed me out of my stupor.
“Tomorrow?”
“It’s a three-game series,” she said as she pushed past me after shoving a game schedule into my hand.
“See you then,” I said as I followed the crowd’s direction. “Oh, wait...Dutch!”
“Yeah, Alice?” Her voice had a hopeful lift to it as if she was waiting for an invitation of some sort.
“I want to pay for my seat. If you can tell me how much I’ll owe you—”
“Just show up,” she said before she gave me a nod and got lost in the crowd.
Knowing I had a full day of work and plans to attend another game the following day, I decided local was better, and on an adrenaline high of my first baseball game, I found myself parked at a cocktail table next to the entrance of Andy’s Brew House. Even with legal freedom and the ability to do so, I’d never been much of a drinker. I hated to lose control over any of my senses, but I’d decided that my celebration of the best day ever deserved to be toasted with at least one local beer.
The bartenders, clearly understaffed, tossed out draft glasses left and right at the counter full of happy Swampgator fans. The bar was small and had a homey feel to it. It was littered with baseball memorabilia, and there was a TV screen on every wall streamlining nothing but highlights of the game itself. “Centerfield” blared over the patron noise as one of the bartenders approached me. She was a stunner with long black hair and a petite figure. Her Swampgators V-neck tee did little to cover her bulging cleavage, and her long tan legs were fully bared aside from her nearly non-existent black shorts. I felt like a mutt sitting there with sweat-matted, blonde hair tucked underneath my cap and a simple, white halter top and shorts.
“I can tell you’re probably new to this place, but if you want a beer this century, next time you come to the bar, and know what you want to order first, okay? What’ll you have?”
“Uh,” I said as I watched her face twist with worry with each passing second I hesitated. “Anything on draft,” I answered as I let her off the hook. Minutes later, she delivered my beer and a fresh bowl of peanuts. I realized I hadn’t done a thing about my appetite for the latter half of the day and started to shell and shove them in my mouth. My mouth bursting at the seams and dry from the salt, I gripped my cold beer and took a healthy swig.
The result was instant. I turned my head and blew everything in my mouth out in disgust just as the bar crowd roared to life in greeting...of the two men who had just walked in and stood next to me.
“What. The. Fuck!”
I turned to see the source of the voice covered in half eaten peanuts and spewed beer. I looked up as the man Dutch had called Bullet towered over me, and his hazel eyes burned a hole straight through me. Mouth gaping, I quickly started to apologize as I stared at a set of lips made for a movie star. If Angelina Jolie had a lip twin, it would definitely be this pair.
My eyes drifted down to his ruined shirt, which clung to his expansive chest and nicely cut tan arms, and then back to his lips which now twitched with amusement. “Andy, I don’t think she likes your stout.”
Another set of eyes pierced me that belonged to the man standing behind him. The man was just as handsome with reddish blond hair and blue eyes that watched me carefully before they narrowed. “That’s blasphemy,” he replied to Rafe with a hint of humor.
“I told you the last batch was shit,” Rafe said as he perused me, his conversation still with the man he called Andy.
Not only had I covered Rafe in disgusting peanut residue, but I’d also just insulted the bar owner and apparent brew master.
“Oh jeez, I’m so sorry. It’s not that I don’t like the beer. I hate it,” I pushed out quickly as I stood, grabbed a few napkins out of the dispenser, and began to dab and swipe at Rafe’s ruined shirt. Andy burst out laughing as I stuttered on. My eyes widened. “No, God, what I meant to sa
y was I hate beer in general, and, oh crud, your shirt is totally ruined.”
“Maybe I should take yours,” he whispered as he bent down and stilled my hands.
I looked up at him. He was ridiculously tall at least 6’4” and had my height by almost a foot. “I don’t think it would fit.” More laughter from his friend as I continued. “I’m certain it won’t fit. Oh...you meant that sexually,” I said aloud as Andy’s faced turned crimson with his hard chuckle.
“You’re a doll,” Andy said as he motioned to the bartender. She quickly walked over to him. He whispered in her ear then looked to me. “I’ll have something else delivered. You’ll like this. I promise.”
“Th-thanks,” I said, taking my hands away from Rafe, who still held them as he stared down at me with the same amusement.
“Sorry again.”
“It happens,” he said as he wiped his face with the only clean part of his shirt.
“Forrest Gump,” I said with a laugh of my own.
“Sorry?”
“Uh, just that part where...never mind. Sorry...again.”
Rafe gave me another curious look before he and Andy made their way to the bar. I slumped into my seat and waited for my new drink. Congratulations and back pats were passed around as the guys took a seat and fresh beers were delivered to them along with a soaked bar towel and a fresh Swampgators t-shirt for Rafe. I held my breath as he ripped off the soiled shirt and saw his tan skin, and the barely visible etch of tattoos on his ribs below his arm and muscular back. I let out a sigh of approval as I pushed the bowl of peanuts away.
I drank down the delicious pineapple concoction set in front of me and tried to breathe through my embarrassment. I could do a lot of things well, but flirting had never been one of them. I’d never really had a chance to practice the art. Once my humiliation passed, I sat alone, a silent observer of what looked like a ritual at the bar.
