Quit Your Pitchin'

by Lani Lynn Vale

  “If you’ll turn your attention to right field, your home team, the Teeeexxxxxassssss Lummmmberjacccks are ready to rock the house!”

  Grams snorted. “Rock the house? They’re not playing a concert. They’re playing baseball. I’d be more impressed if he said they were about to grand slam our asses.”

  I pinched my lip between my upper and lower teeth, trying valiantly not to burst out laughing.

  Sometimes when you laughed, it only encouraged her more.

  This wasn’t one of those times. She kept going until the team finally made their way from the dugout to the field.

  My eyes automatically found George and stayed there.

  That was always how it had been for me.

  He was so sexy…and in that uniform, he was to die for.

  Seriously, if there was a single thing in this world that did it for me, it was him in a pair of baseball pants.

  Gray, or white, either one was perfect.

  He had a sexy ass, yummy thighs, and a sizeable bulge in the front that wasn’t truly obvious until he hiked his pants up to hit. Then I could do nothing but stare.

  I’d miss many hits that my hubby got just because I couldn’t tear my eyes away from his package long enough to watch the ball.

  “Are you listening to a word I say?” Grams poked me.

  I blinked, yanked my gaze away from George, and turned back to Grams.

  “No,” I admitted.

  “You were staring again,” she accused. “If you’re so enamored with him, tell me, why the hell are you not with him?”

  I looked away.

  “Life is complicated Grams. We’re on different paths in life,” I lied.

  “How is your sister?”

  I frowned. “She’s okay. She’s back at work at the bank, but she’s no longer in a manager position. They demoted her to teller of the drive-through because she gets less human contact there. Meaning she won’t blow up at an unsuspecting customer because they forgot to face all their money a certain way.”

  “Did the doctor visit in Dallas go well last month?”

  I sighed. “Yes and no. They say that everything she’s saying aloud, or doing, is something she would’ve likely thought before her accident, but never put action to. Now that she had that TBI—traumatic brain injury—they say that her impulse control is nil. She literally can’t stop herself from doing the things she does.”

  “So, if she walked up to a cop, looked at his gun, and thought ‘I wonder what he’ll do if I take that?’ She’ll actually do it?”

  The thought made my heart race. “God, I hope not.”

  “I do, too. That would be some serious bad mojo with what’s going on in the world right now.” Grams put voice to my thoughts.

  “I know that’s right,” I agreed. “I think it’s time for you to go out there.”

  “Each year,” the announcer called through the speakers, his voice booming and nasally. God, would he ever blow his nose?! “The chosen member of the Lumberjacks says a few words about his family. This year, that team member, who was drawn out of a hat, is George Hoffman, better known to you fans as Furious George.”

  “What the fuck?”

  My thoughts were echoed by Grams.

  Surely, he explained that he shouldn’t be talking about his family…right?

  Because that was fucking painful for him.

  Hell, it was painful for me, and I didn’t have it near as bad as he did.

  I would literally hate to talk about my family in front of this crowd!

  “Grams, go out there!” I whisper yelled. “Do something.”

  Grams got up from her chair, and I gestured at Tyrone. “Ty!”

  Tyrone looked over at me, glanced at Grams, then nodded.

  He reached over and took Grams by her tiny waist, and then placed her on the other side of the wall.

  Grams started walking just as George was handed a microphone by the team manager.

  Grams reached his side just as he started talking.

  “I sure am glad to be here,” George’s beautiful, melodic deep voice slid through me. “Everybody ready to win a game tonight?”

  The fans started to scream and holler.

  George didn’t say anything until the yelling died down.

  “The team owner asked me to say a few words about my family,” he started. “But, save for one lovely lady.” He looked down at Grams and winked. “My family isn’t really something to write home about.”

  My belly clenched.

  “Despite my Grams’ determination, my family and I are no longer close,” he said. “But, I wanted to talk to you not about the family you’re born into, but the family you make for yourself.”

  I sat up ramrod straight in my seat, and jostled Micah as I did, dislodging him from my pillowy breasts and causing him to sit up.

  “Down,” he ordered.

  I put him down but kept my eyes on my husband.

  Ex-husband.

  Goddammit.

  “Three years ago I met my ex-wife,” George started to say. “And let me tell you something. She gave me something that…”

  I closed my eyes at those words. Ex-wife. Hearing him actually say it was harder than it actually happening. Almost as if it wasn’t acknowledged, then maybe it wasn’t actually true. Maybe I hadn’t acted like a shrew and thrown him out of his own house. Maybe, just maybe, I’d wake up and it’d all be a horrible dream.

  I opened my eyes once again and realized that George was speaking still, and I’d missed half of what he was saying while I was having an inner pity party.

  “…and my life wouldn’t be what it is today if I didn’t have him.”

  George’s eyes went to me, and then to Micah.

  Micah, who was now running across the field to his father.

  He dodged Tyrone like a prized sprinter, heading as fast as his tiny little legs could take him.

  Which really wasn’t that fast.

  It was just that he was a slippery little devil.

  I pressed my hand over my eyes and counted backward from twenty.

  Twenty. Nineteen. Eighteen. Seventeen.

  I was down to six when the entire stadium said, “Awwwww.”

  I opened my eyes to see that Micah had finally made it to his father.

  They were dressed nearly identical.

  Today, Micah and George were both in their tight white baseball pants—and on another note, do you know how freakin’ hard it is to find baseball pants for a two-year-old? I had to have those bastards specially made!

  Micah was wearing his daddy’s jersey, only in a very miniature version.

  Then there was the baseball cap.

  Micah’s was askew from where he’d been sleeping on me and honestly looked like it’d seen better days.

  But he didn’t go anywhere, and I do mean anywhere, without it. He even tried to wear it in the bathtub. Something he learned better than to do when I wouldn’t let him wear it the next day until it was dry.

  If there was one single person in this entire stadium that was George’s biggest fan, it was Micah.

  He even surpassed his aunt’s one-time exuberance. Not that Diamond had much of an interest in baseball—or anything—lately. I barely even got her to go out of her apartment on the days that George had Micah.

  “This guy right here wouldn’t have been possible without his mama, and despite us being divorced, I count her as my family. Family is what you make it. These guys surrounding me are my family. That woman over there,” he gestured toward me. “Family. This one right here? Actual family, but also my best friend. So, in short, it’s not always blood that matters. Your friendships have a hell of a lot more impact.”

  My breathing hitched in my throat as George handed the microphone back to the team manager, who started saying something immediately despite the loud round of applause that George was given.

  George, who earned a bigger applause whe
n he dropped a kiss down onto Micah’s forehead.

  Minutes passed as families made their way off the field, and I watched with both of my hands pressed between my knees as George made his way to me. He and Micah chattered the entire way, making me watch them and wish that I hadn’t stolen that away from them, too.

  Grams was watching me, though, and I frowned at her.

  She gestured toward George, and then pursed her lips.

  I rolled my eyes.

  That woman was crazy.

  There was just no other word for what she was.

  Then they were there in front of me, and Tyrone was helping Grams back over the wall.

  Fans surged forward, but George backed away. “I’ll sign all you want after the game. Back away, please.”

  George was protective of our son. Had I mentioned that?

  He never signed autographs when Micah was in the vicinity.

  Never.

  It was as if he couldn’t control the situation, so he chose to publicly make a statement by refusing every single autograph when Micah was with him.

  The fans gave a disappointed groan, and I winked at George, who was looking awful at having to deny them.

  On the field, George may be known as Furious George, but he was actually a very tenderhearted person. And he hated denying anyone anything.

  But don’t mistake that tenderheartedness for weakness. He’d turn mean as a snake if anyone threatened his family.

  “Woo!” Grams said as she retook her seat. “My knees hurt.”

  I rolled my eyes and didn’t take the bait.

  The last time I’d asked her why her knees hurt, she’d then told me that she’d been giving head to her husband the night before, and hadn’t used a pillow.

  I would never, not ever, question the woman why again.

  George cleared his throat, clearly remembering that time, too.

  I reached forward and took Micah from him.

  “I’m so sorry,” I whispered.

  George winked.

  “It’s my fault for encouraging him to do it after games,” he admitted. “Everyone thought it was cute, though. And I was, after all, talking about him.”

  Then George grinned at me, and I lost the ability to think straight.

  His grin did have the power to make me do things I never would’ve normally done.

  Such as blurt out, “You look hot.”

  George snorted. “Can’t say that I’m upset you think that way.”

  I opened my mouth but didn’t know what to say.

  “Do you have anything to do next Saturday?”

  I mutely shook my head.

  “Good, because I need a date to the banquet. You did promise me, after all.”

  I had.

  Two years ago, I promised him that he would never have to go to another one alone again. I’d go with him forever if he asked me to.

  And apparently, he was holding me to that.

  “Okay,” I croaked.

  Then he gave me a wink and disappeared into the dugout, leaving me sitting next to Grams. Grams, who was wearing a wide smirk on her face that was more than obvious she thought this was funny.

  “Wooo wee!” Grams said. “I felt that sexual tension all the way over here.”

  I looked over at where Grams was sitting next to me, almost touching, and snorted. “You’re not very far away.”

  “Yes, I’ll agree with you there. But my senses are off. Sometimes I’m not as good at things as I used to be.”

  Ignoring her, I watched the game and tried not to think about George’s parting words.

  Or the inappropriate Grams at my side.

  “Now, that number forty-nine, the sexy bearded bear behind home plate?” Grams said. “I’d do him in a heartbeat.”

  Chapter 12

  Beware of…well just beware.

  -George when he introduces his grandmother to people

  George

  I nervously knocked on the door and then immediately wiped my sweaty palms on my dress pants.

  My dress pants that were just a smidge on the too-tight side.

  I’d been stress eating for the last week, and I’d gotten two outs yesterday that had likely been due to my nervousness for today.

  I’d been cheeky with Wrigley at the game last Sunday, but the moment I’d gotten into the dugout, I’d had a mild panic attack at the thought of taking her anywhere.

  She hadn’t said no, which was a good sign.

  Operation: Get Wrigley Back was about to commence.

  I’d had eight months of sleepless nights, and ever since that interview with her asshole brother, I’d decided that this wasn’t going to work for me anymore.

  I was going to have her back.

  In my home. In my bed. In my life. And I was going to get back into her heart.

  I was going to find a way because I was freakin’ miserable without her.

  I wanted her back. I wanted to wake up to her pushing me off of my side of the bed. I wanted to wake up to my son screaming his head off because he’d been locked in.

  I wanted to fucking breathe.

  And I hadn’t done that easily since we’d divorced.

  The door opened, and the chaotic flurry of Wrigley made herself known.

  “Uhh,” I followed her inside her apartment. “What’s going on?”

  “I can’t fit into my dress! I tried it on last Sunday after the game to make sure that it fit, and today it won’t zip!” She cried out in frustration.

  I took her by the shoulders and stilled her angry movements.

  “Come here,” I said, gesturing for her to turn around.

  She did and moments later, I stared at the zipper. “It’s caught on some of your dress.”

  She breathed out a sigh of relief. “Thank God. I thought that I got fatter in less than a week.”

  I didn’t say anything to that.

  The woman was far from fat.

  She was curvy and delicious.

  I wanted to take the dress from her shoulders, press kisses down her spine, and bend her over.

  I closed my eyes and did up the zipper. Then turned around and headed for the couch.

  “Get your shoes, Wrigs,” I whispered huskily.

  When I found my seat, I looked up to see her staring at me with longing in her eyes.

  Longing that disappeared the moment she realized I was staring at her.

  The moment Wrigley disappeared into the bedroom, Grams appeared at the door of my son’s room.

  I grinned at her. “You’re not going to teach him anything bad, are you?”

  Grams gave me a droll look.

  “Nothing worse than what I taught you,” she countered.

  I shuddered. “Grams, you taught me how to put on a condom using an actual dildo. Then, when I was fifteen, you taught me how to smoke weed.”

  Grams’ lips kicked up at the corners just as my son came screaming out of his room. “Daddy!”

  I bent forward and caught Micah up in my arms, burying my face into his recently washed hair.

  God, the smell of his shampoo, paired with his unique scent, made me feel like my chest was going to explode.

  “You’re going to be good for Grams, right?”

  “No!”

  I snorted and let my mirth-filled eyes lift up to Grams’ amused ones. “You deserve this,” I told her.

  Grams shrugged. “I’ve raised you, boy. Nobody can be as bad as you were.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I was the best kid out of all of us. You’re just lucky that I’m not an asshole now, or you’d not have any great-grandbabies to keep you young.”

  My brother and sister both had kids, but none of them allowed Grams the free reign that I did.

  Grams was Grams. She was brash, took zero bullshit, and honestly didn’t give a shit what anyone thought of her.

  Which was what irritated my brother and sister.

  G
rams was very vocal with how poorly my brother and sister treated their children—as if they were commodities to do whatever pleased them.

  The last time Grams had been there, the kids had been glorified gophers for them all.

  She’d explained it like this: All those kids. All four of them, all sat with anxiousness because they never knew when they’d be called upon to go do something. Kid one, go get me a beer. Kid two, take the trash out and go get me a bottle of wine while you’re out there. Kid three, bring me the remote. Kid four, I think I dropped my phone on the floor. Can you look to see if it’s there? Seriously, I felt sick leaving those kids there. But I have no claim to them whatsoever, and your siblings treat me like I’m senile. The next time I go over there I’ll be telling them they’re written out of my will, and all of my money is going to their kids when they turn twenty-five.

  She loved that Micah was a wild child. That he got to grow up and just be a kid. Something that Wrigley and I had both agreed on. Though he did get disciplined—even corporal punishment if it warranted it—he was genuinely a great kid. He knew right from wrong. He knew what buttons he could push without getting in trouble, and he pushed boundaries. However, when he did it, it wasn’t disrespectfully. At least, at this age, it wasn’t. Maybe in a few years. if he said the same thing to me as he just had, I might have a different reaction. But for now, I just thought it was hilarious.

  “All right,” Wrigley breezed out, Lucy right on her heels. “I’m ready when you are.”

  The view from the front was even better than the view from the back.

  The dress she was wearing was one that I’d seen before. She’d worn it out one time before Micah was born. We’d gone out to eat at a fancy place in Vegas that sold nothing under a hundred and thirty dollars.

  The steak I’d ordered had been almost two hundred bucks.

  The bottle of wine—a deep red, almost maroon—had matched her dress.

  She’d called it a red grape color.

  I hadn’t cared what color it was.

  I’d only devoured her with my eyes.

  The way it seemed to hug her hips, to the way the neckline plunged down her breasts.

  Now, that fabric seemed to hug her even more snugly around those luscious hips.

  And don’t even get me started on her breasts.