by K. Bromberg
The boys are adorable and the man observing from his incognito spot in the outfield even more so, and yet I can tell something is bothering him. He’s never missed a training session like he did this afternoon, and the simple text he sent me offered no explanation.
I should leave. The fact that he didn’t reply to any of my texts should be a big enough indicator that he wants to be left alone and me being here is anything but leaving him alone.
But I don’t move. Can’t. And I’m not blind to the fact that my inability to walk away stems from so much more than wanting to know why he bailed on his workout today. The kind of so much more that often wakes me up in the early morning hours and challenges me to pull up a thought that doesn’t involve Easton in some way, shape, or form, all the while being lulled back to sleep by the even rhythm of his breathing beside me.
The kind of so much more that has me standing in the middle of some recreational park a few blocks away from the stadium questioning why I chased after a man when normally I’m the one running the other way.
But there’s something about seeing him in this element, watching the game he loves in its purest form that tugs on my heartstrings and has me making my way over to him.
“You just can’t stay away from the game, can you?”
“Seems like it,” he muses without so much as a look my way as I take a seat on the grass beside him.
We sit in silence as the inning plays out and watch the extremely patient dads trying to coach their sons on how to swing the bat or field a ground ball. I can’t help but wonder what Easton’s thinking about. Would he trade his experiences for ones like this? Ones where the game was about having fun and absent of the pressure that came with realizing you’re expected to live up to the standard of play your father has set? Is that why he’s here?
Another inning ends. Another round of high fives is handed out as the teams enter or leave their respective dugouts. And I’m still in the dark about what’s going on with the man beside me.
“You blew me off today,” I say after a bit.
He nods. “I did.”
“Everything okay with your mom?” I ask, fishing for a connection with him when he feels so far away right now.
“Yep.”
“Just needed to get some fresh air?” I ask, scrambling for anything to keep him talking.
“Yep.”
“Care to elaborate?”
“Nope,” he says and then hangs his head for a beat before scrubbing his hand over his jaw. When he lifts his head up, he glances at me momentarily, expression guarded, before he looks back to the game, but I can see he’s upset now. It’s in the sag of his shoulders. The defeat in his posture. The stress etched in the lines on his handsome face.
“You want me to leave?” Please say no.
“Nope.”
My sigh of relief is audible. All I want to do right now is rest my head on his shoulder, make a connection with him somehow, but know I can’t because of the ever-prying eyes of the public. It only takes one person to recognize the man in the outfield is Easton and take a picture with their phone and . . .
“Manny?” he asks pulling me from my thoughts with his guess on how I knew where he was.
“Yep,” I say, taking a page out of his book of one-word responses and earn a soft chuckle from him.
“My first season with the Aces was rough,” he begins to explain. “I had a few games that really tested me and messed with my head. Without confidence, skill can only take you so far in this game, and my confidence was shot. I was this huge prospect surrounded by all of this hype and I wasn’t delivering. Teammates and coaches were throwing advice my way but all I heard was white noise. After one particularly shitty game, Manny walked into the locker room and told me to follow him. I thought he was crazy. It was almost midnight and here I am traipsing after him through the streets of the city until we ended up here. He made me sit in the middle of the empty field and told me to tell him what I remembered about playing as a kid.”
“He brought the fun back,” I murmur. I can picture the two of them in the darkness out here and it brings a smile to my lips.
“He did. He made me remember all those first moments when I finally fell in love with the game. And then he told me to come back the next day at ten o’clock. I did.” He smiles and shakes his head at the memory. “There was a T-ball game starting. The kids were running to the wrong bases, swinging the bat backwards, and playing with the weeds in the outfield. It sounds stupid, but watching those little guys drowned out the white noise for a bit.”
“It is oddly relaxing,” I admit.
“It is,” he murmurs, “and ever since that night, this is where I find myself when I need to clear my head.”
“It’s a good place.”
“It is.”
Easton falls silent again, while I replay the story in my mind and wonder what he’s trying to clear from his head today.
Another inning passes. The red team scores a run, and Easton belts out a loud whistle in congratulations.
If they only knew the random bystander with the Aces hat on sitting in the outfield was Easton Wylder.
“I just couldn’t do it today,” Easton says unexpectedly.
“Do what?”
“Be in the same space as that fucker. The locker room. The field. The gym. He’s everywhere. I’m sick of having the guys babysit me. I’m sick of not being able to walk in my own clubhouse without wanting to throw a punch every time I hear his voice.” He pauses but his frustration continues to resonate. “I’m sorry for bailing on you, but I just couldn’t do it today.”
There’s nothing I can say to make him feel better. Honestly, I don’t know how he’s occupied the same space as Santiago for this long without a serious fight breaking out between them.
So, I don’t say anything.
Instead I move my hand to rest in the grass beside his and then hook my pinky around his. He looks over to me, his eyes a well of unexpressed emotion, but when he tightens his pinky around mine, it’s all I need to know that my silent show of support and little bit of affection is enough for now.
So with the sun slowly moving toward the horizon, we sit and watch the rest of a Little League game while trying to remember what life was like as kids. Back when my dad wasn’t sick and his shoulder wasn’t injured. Back when there were no contracts to abide by and we could just be a girl and a boy sitting on a grassy slope enjoying the warm Texas evening together.
We don’t feel the need to talk just to fill the silence.
Our pinkies are linked.
And the simple connection is all we need right now to reassure each other that we’ll get through this.
“Shit. Maybe I need to get a shoulder injury, if that’s how you come back and swing the stick.”
The next pitch comes. I swing and connect. The crack of the ball against the bat is the most satisfying sound in the world. And even better, there’s still no pain. No pinch. Just like new.
“He’s the only lucky fucker who could pull it off, though.”
“Bunch of fucking cackling women. Leave the poor man alone. He needs to reacquaint himself with his balls right now.”
I laugh as I take a swing and miss the fat pitch Coach Walton lobs from the mound. All three guys say, “whiff,” in unison.
I hold a batting-gloved middle finger up to J.P., Tino, and Drew standing behind the portable backstop as I take my hacks. The Santiago Brigade. Following me around like the three musketeers anytime I hit the field at the same time as Santiago.
They’re trying to keep my nose clean and my temper at bay. It doesn’t look too good when the unofficial team captain goes fist-fucking his replacement’s face. But shit, how satisfying would that be since the asshole seems determined to annoy me every chance he gets.
Another pitch. I channel my anger at Santiago, my drive to return, my need to prove to Scout that I’m good to go.
And when I hit the next pitch—a line drive that goes right through the
five-point-five hole between third base and shortstop—I know I’m back.
“What do you think she’s telling Walton out there?” Drew chimes in, trying to get in my head as I watch Scout lean in and say something in Walton’s ear. He nods.
“Oh, Walton, you handsome devil. If you hit that pain in the ass Wylder in the nuts, you can take me out to dinner tonight,” Tino says in a high-pitched voice. I step out of the box, my hand up to hold the pitch.
“Fuck you, Tino,” I laugh as both Walton and Scout look to me from the mound, wondering what the hell is going on.
“It’s just the asshole brigade,” I shout to them and wave for them to pitch.
Used to our antics, Walton winds up, throws the pitch, and when I let loose on my swing, the crack echoes in my ears as I watch it clear the wall into the stands in left field.
Hell yeah, I’m back.
“Looking good out there, Hot Shot,” Scout says as I walk into the training room.
“Felt damn good.” I roll my shoulders and smile at her.
“I can tell,” she laughs. “You got your swagger back.”
“My swagger?”
“Yep. That cocky little smirk you used to get before you stepped into the batter’s box was there today. It’s the first time I’ve seen it since I started training you.”
“I don’t get a cocky little smirk when I step in the box,” I say with a chuckle as I slide onto the table. Do I? She steps up behind me to work the muscles in my shoulder as I try to think of my batting routine and smiling is not something I do.
“Yes, you do. It says, you better bring your best stuff, Mr. Pitcher, or I’m gonna take you downtown,” she murmurs. And there’s no way I should find what she says sexy, but the fact that she can talk baseball terms while her fingers slide over my shoulder is definitely a turn-on. It doesn’t matter how many times she touches me—here in a rub down or at home in my bed—because every fucking time she does just makes me want her more.
It doesn’t hurt that that murmur of hers reminds me of when she climbs on top of me, straddles my thighs, leans forward, and says in my ear to get ready before she takes my cock for a ride.
“You’re all kinds of swagger and arrogant when you play. It kind of turns me on,” she says under her breath, but I catch every damn word.
“You know what I like more than hearing you say that?” I reply with a groan as she digs her knuckles into the knot in my shoulder.
“My magic hands?” she laughs.
“Well, those, too, and that’s not the only thing on you that’s magical . . . but I like knowing that before you were my trainer, you were watching me. That you knew I had a cocky little smile.”
The hitch in her movement tells me she didn’t realize she just gave that little fact away. “You also wiggle your ass two times.”
“I do not,” I deny, but know damn well that I do. It’s unintentional but always there.
“Yes. You do. Everyone knows your routine.”
“Oh please.” I roll my eyes, even though she can’t see it.
“I’m serious. Everyone stops and watches you when you walk to the plate, Wylder. They can’t wait to see what you’re going to do next. The lightning in the bottle you create. You’re just that kind of player.”
“The player,” I murmur more to myself than her, remembering that first week we worked together.
“We’ve come a long way since then,” she says, knowing where my thoughts have gone.
And yes, we have. I laugh, though, playing it off, because just like she gets spooked easily, I am, too. This has been too easy, how we’ve fallen into sync with each other, and I don’t want to jinx it.
Don’t want any bad juju fucking this up.
I tilt my head back so I can look at her. “I’m still waiting for that lap dance, Kitty.”
“If you play your cards right,” she murmurs under her breath, “you just might get one tonight.”
Hot damn.
“You looked good out there today, East.”
I glance back to the doorway of the press box where my dad stands, arms braced on both sides of the doorjamb with a proud smile on his face.
He’s looking old. It’s my first thought when I see him. The lines in his face are deeper, his eyes serious, his trademark cheer muted.
“Thank you. It felt good.” I angle my head and study him closer.
“You looked stronger than I’ve seen you. The time you’ve put into your rehab has paid off.” I wait for the ‘but’ from him—in classic Cal Wylder backhanded compliment fashion—but it doesn’t come. He just stands there for a beat, shoulders square, with pride on his face. “I’m proud of you and how you’ve handled everything.”
The implication behind everything is there, and I smile softly and nod my head, knowing he went to bat for me against Cory, even though I never asked him to and knew nothing about it until after the fact. The Iron Giant, Cal Wylder, tried to throw his weight around and let it be known that you don’t run a front office or win a pennant by making a trade that divides a team when they’re mid-season.
Luckily Manny had let me know about the conversation he’d overheard between Cory and my dad, or I would’ve never known. To say it shocked the shit out of me is an understatement. The fact my dad hasn’t said a word about it to me even more so.
But knowing he tried without wanting glory for it makes it mean that much more.
“Thanks. Someone once taught me I can only do my job to prove them wrong.”
His smile is slow to spread from his lips to his eyes—the sadness not fading completely—as he nods his head when he hears his own words repeated back to him.
“You want to join us for a bit, Mr. Wylder?” Bruce, the Aces’ on-air sports announcer asks him, pulling me back to what I’m about to do. An on-air, pregame chat with the team’s broadcast network to update the fans on my progress, how I’m feeling, and when they can expect me to return. I wait for my dad’s answer, already scooting my seat over as I adjust my headset because he’s never been one to turn down talking about baseball.
“No, thank you. Easton, here, has the team covered. The fans want to hear about him, not me. I’m old news.” He winks with a soft smile before meeting my eyes and nodding to me.
“Maybe another time, then.”
“Maybe,” my dad says before turning and walking out of the press box, leaving me to look after him and worry why he seems so subdued.
“Okay, let’s get started, Easton. Here is the list of questions in case you want to prep for them ahead of time.”
“Nah, I’m good.” I don’t even glance at the sheet of paper he hands me. “There’s nothing you’re going to ask me that I can’t answer on the fly.”
“Even about Santiago?”
I look over to him, and his eyes tell me that he’s behind me and my displeasure with the team’s bullshit move.
“Let’s leave Santiago off the table,” I joke. “This is a PG show after all.”
He laughs, shakes his head, and pats my back. “You could always knock him out and leave him on the floor if it’s easier.”
“I like the way you think, Bruce.”
“Thought you might. You ready?” I nod. “We’re good to go in five, four, three, two, one.”
“Goddammit, Wylder!” The voice rings out and then a few more curse words, followed by a riot of laughter rumbling through the clubhouse.
I peek out of my training room, and once I see that all of the guys are covered and decent, I head out to see what’s going on.
“Where is that asshole?” I think it’s Tino’s voice, I’m not sure though because the players are all standing together and blocking my view of what’s going on.
“That’s one way to sparkle and shine on the field, Tino,” J.P. says through the laughter that doubles him over.
“Aw man, this shit is everywhere.” It’s Tino again and the guys around him slowly begin to back away as they laugh and shake their heads. “It’s like I’m fucking Tin
ker Bell.”
“You always said you were light on your feet, now you just have the fairy dust to prove it,” Drew says drawing another round of laughter from the guys.
This time when the crowd parts, I can see what they are all laughing at. Tino is standing at his locker in just his undershirt and sliders on with his baseball cap in his hand, and every inch of him is covered in sparkly blue glitter. From the amount that is concentrated in his hair and down his back, it appears to have been put in his hat so when he put it on his head it fell all over him.
“Tinker Bell Tino,” someone chimes in and when Tino looks up to glare at them, he sees me standing there.
I can’t help but laugh as he moves toward me, his whole body shimmering and shining under the locker room lights.
“You’re a girl,” he says.
“Way to state the obvious, Einstein,” Drew says earning him a death stare from Tino before he looks back to me.
“Yes, I am,” I say fighting the smile on my lips. Now that he’s closer, I can see the glitter is that very fine type of powder that’s basically impossible to get rid of.
“How do I get this shit off me? The more I wipe it off, the more it sticks.” His eyes plead with me, but it’s so hard to keep a straight face when I notice even his eyelashes are coated blue.
“Why would you want to wipe it off? I think blue’s your color.” I bat my eyelashes and feign innocence as the guys hoot and holler in response around me.
“Why you gotta be like that, Scout? Wylder’s starting to rub off on you isn’t he with his . . .” His voice fades off as he looks down to his hands coated in blue sparkles and does the only thing he can, laugh.
“You can shower, Tino . . . but you’re still going to sparkle under the lights for the next few nights, if not weeks,” I tease as I turn to head back to my training room.
There’s more ribbing as I walk away but there’s one comment that rings louder than all others to me. “Wylder’s almost back, boys. That much he just proved.”
