He's one of the golden ones. Part of those people who can do wrong, who get away with everything and take anything that catches their eye. I swore to myself that I wouldn't get tangled up in that fucked-up spider's web once again. And I need to stick to it.
Now if only someone could tell my body that. And not that I would ever, ever admit this out loud or even consciously to myself, but someone needed to tell my heart that too. Because ever since that night, Owen had been texting me non-stop.
Ding! My phone chimed with yet another text from him.
"Oh my god, is that him again! He definitely likes you. Or at least wants to feel you up again." Chloe shrugs as if they were one in the same. Jesus.
Owen: Ok, are you a dog or a cat person?
He'd been doing this "get to know you" game for almost three days straight. I told him this classified as stalking, and he told me it wasn't creepy unless he held me down against my will and forced me to spill my favorite ice cream flavor.
Which is an image I still can't get out of my head. My panties can't either.
Huffing, I answer. He only gets more annoying if he doesn't get a response.
Minka: Dogs. But not those little rat dogs. If it's smaller than a cat, its really not a dog, is it?
Owen: Thank god. If you said cats, I probably would have had to stop talking to you. And we both would have been disappointed.
Smirking, I sent a response back.
Minka: Scratch that. I like cats. Love them. I want to die with like 87 in my house.
Owen: Smartass. Ok, now if you had a magic carpet to take you anywhere, where would you go?
Was “back in time to correct the biggest mistake of my life,” an appropriate answer? Probably not. But, I'd had this answer in my head for a long time.
Minka: England. Remember, Pride and Prejudice, favorite book.
Owen: Oh yeah, right. You're so sexy when you talk 19th century lit to me, Braxton.
I smiled, an earnest genuine smile, at his funny jab.
Shit, what was I doing? Looking up, Chlo was at a dead stop in front of me, a bored look on her face.
"When you're done toreplaying with golden boy over there, I'm ready to go." She taps her foot for emphasis.
"Toreplaying?" I seriously didn't know what the hell she was talking about half the time.
"Text foreplay. Massaging each other through the phone, romantically. That's what your smile would indicate anyway."
"Ew, that sounds disgusting. Also, you’re a complete hopeless romantic. A beautiful, graceful one, but hopeless none the less."
She grabs the side of the cart, as if she’s my five-year-old child, and motions for me to start walking. I wheel us toward the checkout, turmoil building in my head.
I had to stop this with Owen. It had gone on long enough and I really didn't need to genuinely like this guy more than I already did. Yes, he was sweet, funny and had really great abs. But he would hurt me. I could feel it in my bones that if I went any further, got any more wrapped up in his orbit, that golden boy would burn me up in his rays.
I simply couldn't afford it again.
11
Owen
There is no better smell than that of a worn-in glove. The whiff of crushed-in leather, form fitted to the hand of the owner, mixed with fresh-cut grass and sand pulled right off the track. The tinge of November air that still lingers in the seams. If you lean in close, you can sniff the trademarks of the ballpark, hot dogs and cheap beer. Maybe even a tobacco stain or two.
Forget religion, baseball is my church. And the mound is where I come to worship.
I launch ball after ball at the net setup behind home plate, glancing now and then at the radar display board. 85 MPH…89 MPH…97 MPH. Curveball, fastball, slider. Rinse, repeat, and perfect.
Its somewhat ironic that the very thing I feel the most pressure about in life is also my therapeutic outlet. Which explains why, after a father-son battle that could rival World War II, I’ve been standing on my little league field for the last two hours. Dusk has begin to set in, but I have no intention of dragging my ass home to hear more about “priorities” and “expectations.”
You would think that I wasn’t the most highly scouted college player of the year. That I didn’t have six or seven calls a month, from the agent who had already signed me, telling me which farm team was asking me to leave college now and play full time. That I didn’t put every ounce of my energy, drive, blood and sweat into this game. Carl Axel always expected more.
You’re looking a little pudgey, son. Sure you aren’t overdoing the beer and under-doing the workouts this summer? What was your latest pitch speed? You need to be working on perfecting that slider, boy, remember that Southern Virginia scored three home runs off you after you fucked that pitch up.
Leave it to dad to remember every single strike, or in this case hit, against me. And mom, yeah, she tried to keep him off my back, but she wasn’t much help.
Raquel Axel was a former Brazilian supermodel who had moved to the U.S. in the late 80s, meeting, and shortly thereafter, marrying my father when they both lived in New York. They didn’t have the perfect marriage, but she was just stubborn enough to keep him in line for the most part, and is still just as beautiful as when they’d met, meaning he stayed faithful as far as I could tell.
My mom was great— nurturing, encouraging, supportive— but that was overshadowed by anything he said. A father’s approval is what every son chases.
“Keep throwing 95-ers for shits and giggles and your arm will be deader than Thurman Munson.”
I turn around to see Farris walking leisurely down through the chain link dugout, grinning like a moron at his stupid ass joke.
“The baseball gods are seriously going to smite you one of these days, bro. And it was 97, not 95.” I whip the ball half-heartedly at his head, but he’s always one move ahead of me with his short-stop ninja skills.
Miles Farriston and I have been best friends since the day we discovered our mutual hatred of the hitting tee. Shithead little punks that we were, we thought we’d swing our Louisville Sluggers au natural from the word “go.” While we’ve improved over the years, and leaned on coaches and trainers for advice, our friendship has always been a constant.
“Yeah, well, all I’m saying is you gotta cool it man. We need that arm to take us to championships again this year.” When we’d been applying to colleges, it was an unspoken agreement that we’d end up at the same one. Miles had been cleaning up my mistakes on the second base line since elementary school, and we weren’t splitting up now.
“What’re you doing here anyway, man? I thought Olivia was coming to visit this week.” I walk into the dugout with him, joining him on the bench and hunching over, resting my elbows on my knees.
“Nah man, she bailed again. Had some last minute emergency come up.” He tried to shrug it off casually, but I could sense the unease behind his movements.
He’d been dating Olivia for the past year, but she’d yet to come visit this summer like she’d promised. In my opinion, she was a spoiled groupie brat who was milking Miles for his campus celebrity status and money— the Farriston’s basically owned half the east coast— but it wasn’t my place to tell him who to date.
Before I could dole out some lame ass remark about it being ok, Miles goes for the jugular, “So, what’s with you banging the high schooler?”
What? How did he know I’d been hanging around with Minka. “What do you mean?”
“I saw you traipse off with that hot brunette at the field. Hinkley told me she’s in his grade. You tap that? Cause she has a seriously nice rack man.”
“Don’t talk about her like that. And no, I haven’t “‘tapped that.’” I shoot him a pissed-off glare. I have the sudden urge to punch him for eyeing Minka’s tits.
“Woah, calm down A-Rod. Get it, cause he was on the roids?” he flashes me his trademark goofball smile.
“Dude, we’ve gone over this, if you have to explain the joke, it
was not a good one.”
“Whatever. But bro, do you like this girl or something?” He eyes my curiously, and a beat of silence passes when I don’t give him an answer.
“Wait a second, you do! You gushy son of a bitch.” Miles punches my arm and starts bouncing his legs up and down, vibrating the metal bench we’re perched on. “Did you throw rocks at her window? Stand under her balcony with a radio over your head? Man, was your first kiss in the pouring rain?”
I think my jaw hung so low in shock that it was hovering over the tops of my shoes. “Dude, your knowledge of romantic comedies astounds, and nauseates, me. Also, if you talk about her tits again I’ll take a bat to your junk so hard, you won’t be able to walk for a week. I’m seeing where it goes. Leave it at that.”
“Axel, I knew you always wanted on these nuts, but you gotta warm me up before you take your bat to me.” He winks and then doubles over at his own joke. Miles is all about the laughter, jokes and fun. Although he’d never officially confided in me, a thought that still disappointed me because of how long we’d been friends, I had a feeling his home life was a lot worse than mine. His jokes were his shield.
“Alright dickwad, I gotta split. See you next week for arms? I’m gonna kick your scrawny ass.” Walking towards my car, I throw a cocky smile at my best friend, who no one would ever in their life describe as scrawny. Farris is a beast; he has at least three inches and fifty pounds on me. But bicep and tricep work is his worst area, and I rag on him whenever I get the chance.
“In your dreams, pussy.” I hear as I reach my black pickup, my cell vibrating against my thigh. Pulling it out, I read the text from Minka.
Minka: White chocolate anything
Since our night of cuddling at the field on Saturday, I’d been texting her on and off for four days. I was trying to take things slow, because if I knew anything, it was that she spooked easily. Or that any girl would kick you out after basically humping them like a horny gorilla without asking their middle name. Nonetheless, I was trying to get back in her good graces.
My previous text had asked her what her favorite candy was. My plan was to try and pry information from this stubborn, formidable girl. So far we’d covered favorite movies, books - of which she had an itemized list, foods, colors and music.
She desperately wanted to travel to England, hated roller coasters and thought video games were the spawn of Satan. And she was funny. Hilarious, actually. She spoke out loud, or texted in this case, what people were usually too afraid to say, and had no qualms about spouting her opinions.
But for the past couple of days I could tell she was trying to push me off. Her answers were getting less and less involved. Her responses were less frequent. So she didn’t want to let me in? Too bad. I’d bulldoze through that wall and make her get to know me.
Folding myself into the driver’s seat, I checked the time on my dash radio. 7 p.m. I’d waited long enough to make my next move. And in all honesty, I was dying to see Minka’s face. She was quickly becoming an addiction, drinking in her sun kissed complexion, those dark oval eyes framed by long, sexy lashes.
Yeah, decision made. I swing my car out of the parking spot and plan my next course of action.
* * *
I stand in front of her door, Mitch’s Deli bag in hand, forty five minutes later. I knock lightly, hoping to god her parents aren’t home and that she doesn’t get pissed that I’m here. I also hope that she is in a towel, fresh from the shower. I’d definitely been watching too much porn this year.
The heavy oak door of Minka’s spacious ranch-style home opens, revealing the most breathtaking sight. Seriously, this girl literally takes my breath away every time I see her. I mentally kick myself again for not noticing her the two years we attended high school together.
She wore short olive green pajama bottoms that looked like they’d be blanket-soft to the touch. They rested about two inches down her thigh, and the rest of her shapely, sexy legs were bare. Above, she wore nothing but a brown strappy tank top. Her beautiful, round tits were straining against the material, and when I saw her nipples start to harden beneath my stare, all the blood in my body poured directly into my now stiff cock. Shit, she wasn’t wearing a bra. Taking this slow was going to be very, very hard. Literally.
“What’re you doing here?” She asks suspiciously, but doesn’t look pissed. Actually, she looks kind of happily annoyed. I can work with that.
“So, did you know that white chocolate isn’t even really chocolate? Its sugar. And its nasty. Buttt…I’ve learned, through my superior investigative skills these past few days, that we both have the same order from Mitch’s.” I shake the brown paper bag in hand at her.
“You brought me a cheesesteak with extra pickles?” Minka asks in disbelief.
“Wait, I thought you said you liked pulled pork on potato bread….” I trail off and smile when she scowls at me. “Yes, I brought us cheesesteaks, with extra pickles. But, you can only have it if you invite me in.”
My offer dangles in the air, she’s leaving me hanging on purpose while she hops back and forth from foot to foot with a thinking face on. The little brat.
“Ok fine, you may come in. But only because I’d give up my first born child for a Mitch’s cheesesteak.”
She turns, leading the way into her house, giving me an outrageous view of her mass of curls sweeping over the curve of tailbone. I groan inwardly, trying to keep my lust in check.
She takes some dishes and silverware out of the cabinets, and sets the table so I can sit at the head with her on my right side. I empty the contents of the bag and set the items out accordingly.
“One loaded pickle cheesesteak for the beautiful lady.” I smile a cheshire cat grin at her. I really, really need to win her over tonight. This constant rejection wasn’t good for my ego.
She rolls her eyes at me and climbs into the chair, sitting indian style while she eats. I watch her unwrap the sandwich as I do the same. I was constantly enthralled by her movements. She had such interesting ticks; the way she tucked her hair behind her ears every 10 seconds, how she blinked those long lashes whenever she looked another direction, the way she chewed her ring finger when she was nervous. Minka had so many movements, all I wanted to do was sit there and study them forever.
“So, what did you do today?” I try for small talk as I take my first bite.
“What is this, family dinner time?” She rolls her eyes at me. Another movement that she liked to do, a lot.
“Well no, I am glad that we are far from family.” I wink. “But I’d really like to know what you have on your plate for the rest of the summer.”
She pops a pickle in her mouth. “Fair enough. I’m taking some university level courses down at the community college.”
“Wow. That’s ambitious. Towards….nursing, right? You’d mentioned you wanted to be a nurse.” I take a massive bite of my cheesesteak. Just the right amount of meat to cheese to onions ratio. My stomach thanked me.
“That’s right.” She looks a little surprised that I’d remembered that. “Biology 101 and some other pre-req courses. I’m trying to fast-track and earn my degree in three years.”
“Why would you want to do that? I’m staying until they kick me out.”
“Let’s just say that school is not my thing.” She looks down at the cheesesteak which she’d yet to take a bite from.
“But you said before that you were great at school, that mere mortals had to be smart because they didn’t look like Greek gods and have the ability to give any woman a mind-blowing org…..”
“OK!” She cuts me off. “First of all, I never said those things about you, quit strok...er, building, your ego.” She blushes at her almost slip up. Damn she was cute. “Second, yes I’m super smart. Its the classmates and social scene thing I can’t stand.” I can see hesitation and a tinge of sadness in her eyes, and I wonder who put it there. And where I could find them to pummel the living shit out of them.
“That’s too bad. Col
lege is awesome, I have a feeling you might like it. The partying and the girls are fun, yeah, but being able to get away from you parents and their pressure…. its so damn freeing.” I swallow, realizing I’m projecting my own shit onto her situation.
“You feel pressure? That seems impossible.” She takes a bite, looking doubtful.
“When your father was one of the best baseball players in the last 70 years, you’re expected to be just as good, if not better. Do you know how many college baseball players wash out before even making it to the minors? Do you know how many left handed pitchers there are playing in the majors? Not many. I’ll be lucky to make it through my college career without throwing my arm out.”
I blink, realizing I’ve just unloaded a ton of baggage onto her lap. When I look up, I meet her soft brown eyes. Thankfully, they aren’t filled with pity. They’re filled with…..understanding.
“I’m sorry. That does seem like a lot of pressure. For what its worth, I hear you really have what it takes to go big time.” She gives me a small smile.
And just hearing those words from this girl has me more confident than I’ve ever been that I’ll make it to the MLB.
“So what else? Stalk any Jane Austen characters lately?” I tease her. She’d told me earlier that Pride and Prejudice was one of her favorite books, and that she’d read it more than 15 times.
“Ha-ha, very funny. You’re no Mr. Darcy.”
“No, I’m definitely a Mr. Bingley. Which is so much better, since he’s the real dreamboat.” I bat my lashes at her, pretending to fawn.
“You read Pride and Prejudice?” I can hear the shock in her voice.
“Don’t act so surprised, your rudeness is showing.” She lifts her hands up as if to say she’s sorry. “Yes, I don’t live under a rock. I may have read it for school, but it didn’t suck.”
“If only your buddies could hear that you enjoyed an 19th century romance novel.” She chides me as she pops another pickle in her mouth. And if I keep thinking about pickles in her mouth I might die. Yes, the pre-pubescent boy in me can still get hard hearing the most asinine of innuendos when it comes to Minka.
Pitching to Win (Over the Fence #1) Page 6
