by Meghan Quinn
Our batting coach tosses another pitch, and just like Ryot said, I repeat in my head, punch and push through. My hands sail through the strike zone, angling the bat just right, making that perfect contact and careening the ball right back up the middle.
I let out a deep breath.
That felt good.
“Just like that,” Ryot encourages, knowing how important it is for me to get my bat back in the game.
I take a few more pitches, ending on a streak of line drives to the left side of the cages and right back up the middle. Line drives are the goal, home runs are a bonus. If you gun for a home run, you’re bound to strike out or pop up. It’s the saying that’s been drilled into me since I was a kid, and I still live by the mantra today.
I remove my batting gloves and exit the cages, bat in hand. Ryot hands me a bottle of water and we walk to the locker room together, side by side.
“So, the meeting was a waste of time?” Ryot asks, bringing up the conversation again. He knew back in the cages, the minute I started to think about something else, my focus plummeted, and that’s when I grounded out. Its why he backed off and started the conversation back up now.
“Have you met Kate yet?”
“Blonde with freckles? Yeah, she’s hot.”
“She’s kind of—” I bite my tongue, not wanting to say it, but I end up saying it anyway. “She’s kind of a bitch.”
Ryot’s booming laughter echoes down the long hallway. “Because she’s assertive, she’s a bitch?”
When he puts it that way . . .
“Let me guess,” he continues. “She didn’t let you get away with passing your responsibilities off?”
I scratch the side of my jaw. “Not even a little.”
Another booming laugh from Ryot. “I could’ve told you that was going to happen. She’s tough, takes no shit, compassionate, and is perfect for the job because she has to work with douchebags like us.”
“I do community work. I don’t need more shit to do.”
“Yeah, but you need your community work to be highlighted. Don’t be dense.”
I roll my eyes. “I understand what everyone is trying to do, but what I don’t get is why? Look at Johnny Posey over on Harlem. He’s a wretched bastard that no one likes but he’s been on Harlem for fifteen years. No one is making him do shit to clean up his image.”
“Because he sticks his bat out and hits a home run. You, my friend, are barely hitting two-fifty right now when you’re a three-hundred batter. If your average was higher, your image wouldn’t be a concern.”
“Bullshit. I was hitting three-fifty earlier in the year and they were still on my case.” Lowering my voice, I say, “The Bobbies are the goody-two-shoes team and everyone has to metaphorically wear cardigans around their goddamn shoulders and hold their pinkies up at all times. It’s ridiculous.”
“There’s an image. Why do I think linen pants and a pink, collared shirt would look good on you?”
“Because you’re deranged.”
We turn into the locker room. There are a few players milling about, getting ready for the game tonight, mostly position players, while the pitchers are over in the weight room, getting some strength and conditioning in on their off days.
Ryot and I sit down in our chairs and relax into the leather, taking a load off. “I want this to be my home, but Jesus Christ, it’s not going to hurt the team to lighten up a bit. If I want to beat the shit out of a water cooler, let it happen.”
“If anything, it’s entertaining for the fans. You’re a GIF now.”
“See?” I throw my hand up in the air. “I’m a goddamn GIF, they should be happy about that.”
“Something tells me they wish you weren’t.”
Slouching, I say, “Probably right.”
Changing the subject, Ryot asks, “Besides your initial reaction of Kate being a bitch, what did you really think of her?” Ryot obnoxiously wiggles his eyebrows.
“She was okay,” I say.
Ryot roars. “You’re such a goddamn liar.”
I shrug. “I mean, yeah, she had a nice eyeball.”
Ryot throws a towel at me from his locker, still laughing. “Fuck you. A nice eyeball. Just one of her eyeballs is nice?”
“If I hit the ball tonight, it’s because of her right eyeball. Really got my juices flowing,” I deadpan.
“You’re such a shithead.”
“Nah, if I hit the ball tonight, it’s for one reason and one reason alone—because I worked my ass off in the cages today.”
Ryot rolls his eyes. “Always so fucking serious. Why don’t you romanticize your story a bit? Think about the media coverage you could get.” Ryot steals my bat, holds it up to his mouth like a microphone, and then clears his throat. “Walker Rockwell, you went three for four today with a homerun and three RBIs. What can you attribute to your success today?” He turns his hat around and scratches his jaw. Is that supposed to be me? “Her name is Kate, and her right eyeball enticed me so much, I found myself inspired to find my bat again. Shout-out to Kate Chapman and her spherical sense receptor for vision.” He winks and then shoots a gun at the “camera.” “Now that’s a story.”
I stare at him blankly.
Blink.
Shake my head.
“You need fucking help.” I turn toward my locker, where I start mentally preparing for the game.
Punch and push through.
I got this.
“Time, blue.”
“Time,” the umpire shouts as I stand from my squatted position, my knees aching in the eighth inning, begging for a break.
Glove clutched in my hand at my side, I jog up to the mound as Penn digs his foot into the dirt, beads of sweat streaking down his face.
When I reach the mound, he removes his hat, wipes his brow with his forearm, and then settles his hat back on his head before holding up his glove to his mouth to talk. “Fastball.”
Even though I’m wearing a mask, I still cover my mouth, as well. “You’re barely throwing ninety right now. You’re not going to blow it by him with a fastball.”
“Fuck you, I’m throwing faster than ninety.”
“You’re lobbing them in.” I nod toward the scoreboard, which shows we’re winning by the skin of our teeth with second and third occupied and two outs. “You need this last out. Curveball outside.”
“Fastball,” the stubborn fuck says.
“Goddamn it, Cutler. You’re going to lose this game for us.”
I don’t even know why Coach has kept him in this long. One inning too long is a manager’s biggest mistake.
“Stop acting all high and mighty just because you’ve hit two singles tonight.”
Two singles that scored the three runs we have up on the scoreboard. But I don’t mention that. Instead, I get Penn to focus.
He’s tired. I can see it in his eyes. I’ve known this fucker for far too long and I can read him like the back of my own hand. He’s out of gas and toasted. We need one more pitch, and I’m bound and determined to make sure we get out of this inning unscathed.
But he’s not going to make it easy on me. He never has. Ever since I’ve known him, he needs to be right . . . about fucking everything. Drives me crazy because even when he’s wrong, he still acts right.
The rich, spoiled kid from my hometown.
The one guy who’s been a thorn in my ass ever since I met him.
The person who changed my entire life with one decision.
I hate him. I hate him so fucking much that I wish we weren’t so perfect together on the field. I wish we didn’t have this indescribable way of reading each other, being the engine that every successful clubhouse needs to succeed.
“One more pitch and then we bring in Harper to close everything up. Curveball outside,” I say, trying to reason with the nitwit.
“Fastball.”
“Curveball.”
“Rockwell,” the umpire calls out. “Time’s up.”
Backing up but keeping my eyes on Cutler,
I repeat myself. “Curveball. Don’t fuck this up, dickhead.”
He works his jaw to the side, clearly not happy with me, but what the fuck do I care? I’ve studied up on every single player in our league. Ramirez is a sucker for an outside pitch and we’re about to deliver it to him in a curveball fashion.
Getting behind the plate, I squat and give him the sign for curveball outside, throwing two fingers down, then three, then one, and tapping the side of my leg, signaling to our teammates what we’ve planned.
I get into position, drop my right hand to the side, and hold out my glove. Cutler sets his hands, glances up at the runner on third and then back at me. Winding up, he lifts his leg high and then throws the ball at high voltage right into my glove, startling me since I was tracking for a curve. He startles Ramirez at the same time, who not only strikes out, but falls off balance trying to catch up with Cutler’s fucking fastball.
Jesus. Fuck.
I’m going to kill him.
With a tilt of his cap and a smirk on his face, Cutler jogs off the field.
Temper rising, I toss the ball away and head to the dugout, as well. As a catcher, when you’re expecting a curveball and get a fastball instead—traveling at the speed a fastball travels compared to a curveball’s speed—being unprepared can be dangerous, and that’s exactly what I was. Unprepared. A ball getting by an unprepared catcher could, with runners on third and second, lead to at least two unwanted runs scored.
When I reach the dugout, I head straight to Cutler, who’s picking up a towel and draping it over his back. I yank on his shoulder and pull him back so he’s forced to look at me.
“What the fuck was that?”
“A fastball.”
“I called curveball.”
“And I wanted a fastball.” He shrugs casually. I want to punch that smirk right off his face. “Don’t doubt me, Rockwell. Ever. If I want to blow a fastball past the batter, then listen to me.”
“Don’t pull that shit with me. You caught me and the entire team off guard. You could’ve lost that inning for us.”
“And yet, I got us out of it, so cool your balls.”
I get in his face, well aware of the attention we’re drawing, so I grip his shoulder and give him a quick smirk before saying, “Don’t fuck with me again.” We’re good at putting on a show, we’ve been doing it for years now.
He smirks back and speaks through his teeth. “Don’t doubt me again.”
“I can’t fucking stand you.”
“Feeling is mutual.”
With that, we part ways and head to opposite ends of the dugout. Ryot comes up to me, his hat backwards on his head and a water cup in his hand. “So, that wasn’t a curveball.”
“No. It wasn’t.”
“Glad you guys are on the same page.”
“Never have been, never will be.”
“And yet, you two perform magic on the field.”
Which is the most annoying part of my entire baseball career.
Chapter Six
KATE
“Good morning, Kate.”
I lift my travel coffee mug to Janet as a greeting. “Good morning, Janet. Love that blouse.”
She glances down at her black-and-red blouse as I walk by her. “Thank you. Got it at Nordstrom Rack.”
Nose scrunched, I enthusiastically say, “Great find.” I give her a quick parting wave and head back to my office, a little behind schedule today.
I had a hard time getting up and moving this morning. Yesterday was a long day, and I have achy legs from having to be in heels all day. Some of the ladies in the office bring slippers to wear around the halls, but I find that unprofessional, so I torture myself instead.
Maybe after a year of being employed by the Bobbies, I’ll consider it, but being freshly hired, I want to appear as professional as possible.
I switch on my office light and wake up my computer after setting down my coffee and morning bagel. Carbs were needed this morning, so on my way into the stadium, I stopped at Brobagel, ordered a pumpernickel and a large, dark roast coffee with entirely too much creamer. At least once a week I stop to get a bagel because they’re my crutch. Carbs are actually my crutch. It’s why I have thighs.
I can’t give up the carbs, no matter how hard I try.
When my computer comes to life, I go straight to my inbox, where I find an email from Roark McCool, Walker’s agent. I was expecting that.
There’s nothing in the body, just a typed-out demand in the subject line: Call me.
I’m not sure I’m ready for his Irish charm, especially after my conversation, or lack thereof, with Walker yesterday. It was like pulling teeth to get him to cooperate.
No doubt Roark is calling to smooth things over. That’s what he does, that’s what all agents do. Smooth things over.
Well, not with this girl.
I’m holding my ground, and everything I scheduled Walker to participate in I’m sticking to. They want to clear up his image—well, I’m going to make that happen.
Reaching for my phone, I quickly dial his number and wait a few rings before he answers in his Irish lilt. “Mornin’, Kate. How’s the day going so far for you, luv?”
Already bringing on the charm.
“Roark, how are you this morning?”
I can picture him in his high-rise office, leaning back on his leather chair, probably a huge smile on his face, ready to give me the runaround.
“Could’ve used a bigger cup of coffee, that’s for sure.”
I lift my cup to my mouth and take a sip. “Always go for the large, Roark. Always go for the large.”
He chuckles. “Yeah, my cup was gone after three sips. This is why you need to come work with me, to teach me all your secrets.”
It’s not the first time he’s told me to work with him and I’m sure it won’t be the last.
“Ordering a large coffee is a secret?”
“It is when you’re hopeless like me.”
I scoff. “Please. You and I both know you’re nothing close to hopeless.”
“Aye, ya got me there.”
I pick up a pen on my desk and weave it through my fingers while staring at my computer screen. “So enough with the chitchat, why am I calling you?”
“That’s why I like you, Kate, ya get down to business.”
I have a million things to do today and even though Roark’s voice is heavenly, I can’t stay on the phone forever.
“How did your meeting with Walker go yesterday?”
“Not as expected.”
“Was he a dick?”
“Somewhat,” I answer honestly, never one to sugarcoat things, although I hold back the thought that Walker was an epic dick. The way he tossed his phone at me, expecting me to enter in all his responsibilities. Yeah, he could go to hell, as that was not happening. These men have workers bending at their beck and call, but not me. I don’t put up with any crap.
Roark blows out a frustrated breath. “Of course he was.”
“Is he always difficult?”
“Difficult, no. Surly with a chip on his shoulder, yes. He’s a good guy, just set in his ways.”
A good guy? Huh, not sure I would classify Walker as a good guy. Then again, I don’t know him very well.
“He’s set in his ways as a hot head.”
“You think he’s hot?” Roark asks, teasing me.
I roll my eyes. “Hot head, as in having a short fuse. You know there’s a policy against fraternizing with the players.”
And yes, he might be extremely attractive, like . . . tongue-lolling-on-the-floor attractive with his burly shoulders, firing-off forearms, and his deep scowl, but he’s completely off-limits.
Not that I’m interested or anything.
“You can tell me if you think he’s hot.”
“Did you really ask me to call you to gossip?”
He chuckles and says, “Nah, just checking to see if I need to do anything to light a fire under his ass.”
“J
ust make sure he shows up, that’s all I ask.”
“Isn’t that your job?” Roark asks playfully.
“It is, but encouragement on your side would be good. We didn’t quite set ourselves up for best-friend status yesterday, so I know he’s going to give me pushback.”
“He gives us all pushback, Kate. Get used to it. I’ll talk with him, though. Thanks for setting things up.”
“Don’t thank me yet. Let’s see how the next couple of weeks work out.”
“Trust me, they’ll work out. Just stick to him, remind him who he’s representing and why. I’ll do the same on my end.”
“Sounds good. Thanks, Roark.”
“No, thank you, Kate.”
When I hang up the phone, I lean back in my chair and think about the meeting I had with Walker yesterday. Being a Bobbies fan, I’ve watched him play for a few years now, and his dominating presence on the field matches his intimidating presence in person.
Built and bulky, he looked like a giant in the chair next to me with his broad, carved shoulders and thick chest. I might have stared for a few heartbeats over the way his Under Armour shirt clung tightly to his pecs, outlining every muscle. And then there were his forearms. I’ve always been a sucker for a little arm porn and even though I don’t want to admit it, Walker has great arms. Just the right amount of sprinkled arm hair, with thick wrists and hands that look as if they’ve been playing in the dirt for years.
Incredibly sexy.
But it’s not the time he’s spent in the weight room that made me shiver in place yesterday when he sat down next to me, it was his piercing brown eyes that spoke nothing but the truth. From just his frank expression, I could tell what you see is what you’re going to get.
He doesn’t fuck around, and oddly, I like that about him.
“Hey, you free?” Vivian asks from my door with a knock.
“Yeah, come in.” I shake the thoughts of Walker out of my head. It’s time to get to work.
“I got your calendar updates. Did you realize you entered Walker in almost all of the events coming up?”
I nod. “Yeah, the team wants him more available.”
A sly smile passes over Vivian’s lips. “Does this have to do with the water cooler?”
