Swing

by Adriana Locke

  “Fuck me,” I mutter, thinking back to the sweet bow of her hip. It’s amazing that I have it memorized without touching her. Just like that, I’m hard. Again.

  I can’t with this girl. She’s gorgeous with her olive skin and dark, exotic eyes. Full lips that nearly reach her high cheekbones when she kills me with that smile. Her black hair was piled on top of her head with curls falling out of the haphazard mass. Sexy. As. Fuck.

  Then she goes and banters with me . . . and doesn’t offer her number. I mean, she wants me. Of course she does. She saw me and she knows who I am—let’s be real. It’s nagged at me all day that she didn’t slip me her business card or offer the availability of when she’ll be in the office so I can “accidentally” stop by again. All I can figure is that the call coming in was important. Super important. Earth-shatteringly important.

  Scratching my head, my own hair sticking up in every direction, I try to remember if this has ever happened to me. I go through the list of women I’ve encountered recently: the redhead that gave me the coffee in the drive-thru, the chick that keeps sending me naked selfies that I met in a bar on South Padre Island the week after our season ended, and Blondie today. I could’ve had her number. Hell, I could’ve had her in the fucking elevator. So why not Dani?

  Why do I care?

  Moseying down the hallway towards the kitchen, I take in the pictures hanging on the walls of the hallway. Pictures of me in different stadiums, with my brothers, my parents, pictures with friends that I can’t even remember the last time I talked to. By all indications, I should feel at home here. This is my house, after all. But . . . I don’t.

  I have no idea who hung those pictures. I don’t know what happened to the guys in the pictures I’m with from Savannah. As I peek into a bedroom as I exit the hallway, I sure as hell don’t know what’s in all the boxes stacked against the wall.

  Flicking on the kitchen light, the marble countertops sparkle, the bowl of fruit on the island looks perfect. It’s all so . . . odd, like it’s some kind of photoshoot and I’m just wandering around on stage, waiting for someone to whip out a camera and ask me to smile. It’s been this way since I threw the ball to home plate in the last game of the season and heard the rip in my shoulder. The thing is, I don’t know what it is I’m feeling, exactly.

  A general unease sits atop me now and I can’t relax. Not like I used to. There’s a dread, maybe a fog, that sort of lingers in the back of my mind. I guess that part of me used to be filled with activity. Usually I’d be on someone’s boat right now, partying and living up the offseason. Now I’m home, for lack of a better word, watching home remodeling shows because my shoulder is fucked. There are no getaways, no quick trips to Mexico, no social events to speak of. Just me and the quiet.

  The worst part of it is that I don’t really have a desire to be with the guys. For the first time, it’s unappealing. So unappealing, in fact, that I turned off my work phone, as I call it, and am unreachable to anyone but team management, doctors, and my family. Why take calls from my friends when I know what they want: booze. Boobs. Banal conversation. I’ve been there and done it. Hell, I wrote a few damn chapters in the book on how to do it. But it just feels like those chapters need nothing added to them, and that’s scary as fuck.

  Maybe I’m just depressed.

  Pulling a box of pizza out of the refrigerator from a couple of days ago, I remove a piece and bring it to my lips. As soon as it hits, my stomach rolls and I toss the slice back in, making the box bounce on the counter. I glance at the clock. It’s late. Really late. There’s only one person awake at this hour that’s acceptable to call. I head into the living room, grab my phone, and listen to it ring.

  “Hey, Linc,” Graham answers, his voice as clear as it would’ve been if it was two in the afternoon.

  “Do you ever sleep?”

  “Good thing I don’t or your ass would’ve just woken me up.”

  “Good point,” I chuckle, flopping back on the sofa. “What’s happening in Savannah?”

  He blows out a long, deep breath. “Behind at work, actually. My secretary decided that now’s the time to go find love or whatever she’s calling it and now I’m suffering the consequences of her lack of overtime.”

  “So she’s getting laid and that pisses you off?”

  “No. She’s getting laid and not doing her work and that pisses me off.”

  “Fire her,” I offer, putting my feet on the coffee table.

  “Yeah, easier said than done,” he mumbles. “She’s worked for me for ten years, and I’m happy she’s . . . happy. No, you know what, I really don’t fucking care,” he laughs. “I just need her to show up and be productive.”

  Laughing, I run a hand through my hair. “Tell me how you really feel.”

  “I will,” he chuckles. “So, what’s keeping you up? A girl just take off?”

  “Do you think that’s all I do? Fuck girls and then fuck off?”

  “No,” he says, a hint of hesitancy in his tone. “But I was trying to avoid asking you how the meeting went today. You didn’t call me, and Mom wasn’t completely sold on your story . . .”

  His voice trails off and a lump sits at the base of my throat. Even though this is why I called him, to try to work through some of this shit on my mind, it still pokes a hole in that little fucking bubble containing my nerves.

  I don’t even know what to tell him without sounding like a pussy. I can go through what the management said, but that’s not the problem. Not the real problem of why I can’t sleep or eat or get myself off the fucking couch unless I have therapy. The real problem is that I feel like I did when I was fifteen years old and broke my leg in the biggest game of the summer league tournament. While my friends played on, then celebrated, I sat in my room and wondered if I’d ever play again.

  That’s how I feel. Like a fucking kid. And I’m not about to admit that to Graham.

  “What happened, Linc?”

  Massaging my temple with my eyes squeezed shut, I feel the muscle in my jaw flex again. “I don’t have a lot of time to pull some magic out of the air before we start discussing my contract. They’re waiting to see how therapy goes, but it’s so fucking unnerving, G.”

  “You expected that. You told me while you were here for Barrett’s election.”

  “Speaking of Barrett, what’s he been up to?” I say, happy to change the subject.

  “What’s he been up to? Up Alison’s ass,” Graham chuckles.

  “Just saying—I’d be up every part of her she’d let me.”

  Graham snorts, amused by my statement but too politically correct to admit it. He’s uptight and serious most of the time, but hidden back in the depths of his cold, calculated, black heart is a funny, easygoing guy that is a lot like me, although he’d probably fight you before he’d agree.

  “Just saying,” he repeats back to me, “that’s probably going to be your sister-in-law. You should practice choosing your words wisely.”

  “That takes the fun out of it.”

  A long pause extends between us before Graham breaks it with one of his dumbass questions. “Have you given any thought to what you might do if this doesn’t go your way?”

  I look at the ceiling and bite my tongue. I know what he’s thinking: baseball is all I have. It’s true. I don’t have some inherent trait that makes me valuable to anyone or anything besides the game. I’m not Barrett, with his political bravado. I’m not Graham and his business skills or Ford and his hero military shit. I’m the youngest brother, trying to follow along. One with no skill but throwing a ball, if I still have that.

  “Do you have a plan, Lincoln?”

  “I just want to plan on not being out of a fucking job,” I mutter.

  Graham chuckles. “Whatever. Even if the Arrows let you go, someone will pick you up.”

  “You don’t know how this works.”

  “I know business, Lincoln. And I know you bring in millions of dollars with your talent, your looks, and because litt
le kids buy your jerseys in the Pro Shop. They aren’t letting you go as long as you’re making them bank. Business 101, little brother.”

  Smirking, I say, “My looks do sell a lot of tickets, huh?”

  “Shut up,” he laughs.

  Even though he offered me no assurances and said nothing that I didn’t know ten minutes ago, my stomach settles just a bit and that fucking bubble scabs over for the meantime.

  “I’ll tell you what I want to plan for,” I breathe.

  “Oh, I can’t wait to hear this.”

  “I met this girl today.”

  “And that’s different from any other day how?” he jokes.

  “Dude,” I say, hopping up on the counter and getting comfortable. “You should see her.”

  “Let me guess: big tits. Great ass. At least one nipple pierced, probably the right one, if I’m guessing.”

  “Fuck off.”

  “So it was the left one?”

  The kitchen is filled with my laughter. “No, asshole. I haven’t even seen them. Yet.”

  He whistles through his teeth. “Okay. Color me intrigued. How did you manage to remember a girl that hasn’t bared her chest for you?”

  “She’s . . .” I think back to her sexy smile, her confident retorts to what I said. Her coolness about whether she sees me again, not offering her name up first. “She’s different.”

  “So maybe both are pierced?”

  “You’re an asshole.”

  He chuckles, the sound giving way to a yawn. “I do think this injury thing has started to affect your head. Better watch that, little brother.”

  It’s a joke, but one that hits a little too close to home. “I’ll let you go. I’m sure you need to get back to whatever the fuck it is you do, and I need to get my beauty sleep,” I yawn, stretching my good arm overhead.

  “Yeah. I’m going to go work so your inheritance grows while you sleep. You’re welcome.”

  “Go make us some money.”

  “Night.”

  I end the call and drop my phone on the couch, heading down the hallway, past two rooms that sit completely empty, and into my bedroom.

  “I’m gonna be fine,” I mutter, climbing back into bed and pulling the grey sheets over me. “It’s all gonna be fine.”

  Danielle

  THE BELLS RING AS I push open the door of the Smitten Kitten. Scents of freshly baked bread, cinnamon, and hints of mint greet me in a fashion equivalent to a puppy licking your face. It’s warm and welcoming, and some of the day’s stress melts away.

  “Hey,” Pepper chirps from behind the counter. “Your usual?”

  “Please.” I settle into my spot, a little booth tucked in the corner. The bench seat against the wall is lined with with pink and white pillows to nestle against. A light fixture dripping with fake crystals hangs just above the table.

  Tossing my bag on the bench, I shrug off my yellow pea coat and collapse into the seat.

  Massaging my temples, I try to release the work day and welcome in the evening with deep breathing. It’s a trick I learned when I was younger from the music teacher at my private school—not because I was some kind of vocalist. I can’t carry a tune. Mrs. Stevenson picked up on the anxiety I carried around like a weight around my neck, something no one else ever noticed or cared enough to help me with, and taught me the steadiness of controlling the air in my body.

  Within a few breaths, a steaming mug of cappuccino is in front of me, a bowl of soup next to it, and Pepper across from me. She removes her blue and white checkered apron and tosses it on the booth beside her. “How was your day?”

  “Good,” I say, sprinkling some salt in my soup.

  “You didn’t even taste it.”

  “I like salt.”

  “It’s a knock on the cook to season your food without tasting it first.”

  Shaker in hand, paused midair, I look at her through the steam.

  “Go ahead and salt the shit out of it,” she sighs, flipping her long, dark locks behind her. “I just spent two hours concocting that dish to perfection. Go on and fuck it up.”

  “Pepper!” I laugh, sitting the shaker down. “Geez, settle down. What has you all fired up today?”

  Her dark eyes roll around in one of the most dramatic displays I’ve seen from her since I started coming to this little bakery near the hospital.

  “My husband, if you must know,” she snorts. “He wants me to take on an extra pair of hands so I can spend more time with him at home. I mean, I love the man. I do. I’d love to see him more. But I can’t afford another person on payroll! We’d be in the red within two months.”

  “Yikes,” I say, lifting a spoonful of the creamy soup to my lips. “Sounds like trouble.”

  “It is.” She watches me like a hawk as I sample the latest Smitten Kitten creation. “So?”

  “So what?”

  “Is it good?” she laughs. “Damn it. I need feedback, you know that. Don’t hold out on me. You’re the first person to try it.”

  “What are we calling it?” I ask, dabbing my mouth with a napkin.

  “Kitten Cup.”

  “Sounds like cat food,” I giggle.

  “But is it good?’

  “No,” I say, keeping my face as blank as possible. She holds her breath and it’s all I can do not to burst out laughing. “It’s probably, um,” I say, tilting my head back and forth, prolonging her anguish, “probably my favorite soup yet.”

  “Score!” she says, standing and pumping a fist. “I knew it! I knew this would be the one! I’m going to enter it in the city cook-off next month. It’s a winner, right? I mean, if it’s not, tell me. I have time to tweak it.”

  “It’s an absolute winner,” I grin, knowing she’ll create something else in a few days and will forget all about the Kitten Cup. This is a process that’s never ending, and it certainly won’t end with this dish.

  She starts to reply, but stops. Narrowing her eyes, she wags a finger in my face. “What are you not telling me?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You. You’re hiding something from me.”

  Rolling my eyes, I start to lie to her, but know it’s useless. “I had a visitor today.” I proceed to give her all the details about my afternoon and find myself getting wrapped up in the dropping of her jaw, the way she hangs on every word. When I finish, she falls back like she’s run a mile.

  “Did you at least give him your number?” she asks.

  “No.” I shrug, like it’s a silly question, but my shoulders don’t fall before she’s squawking at me.

  “Why? Why would you not give him your card or something? Danielle, sometimes I feel like I don’t even know you. You refused Weston Brinkmann—”

  My hand flies up, silencing her. “Stop. You know why I turned Weston down.”

  “I do. You’re right. Because you’re ignorant!”

  I can’t help but laugh. “I’m in my late twenties, Pepper,” I remind her. “I need to start thinking long-term.”

  “Yeah,” she nods enthusiastically. “I bet Lincoln has excellent long-term power. I bet that guy can get you off—”

  “Stop!” I giggle. “That’s not what I mean.”

  Pepper doesn’t bother to respond. She just looks at me, totally unconvinced. “Weston was gorgeous,” she says finally.

  I nod. “And he loved baseball far more than he’ll ever love a human being.”

  This sobers my friend. She knows where I’m coming from. “I get what you’re saying.”

  “Yeah.” Swirling my cappuccino around, I watch the foam twist and turn. “Besides,” I say, “Lincoln is way better looking than Weston. And funny and charming and . . .”

  The door chimes and she fastens her apron. “Hold that thought,” she says before jogging to the counter.

  Watching Pepper and her customer, an old friend of hers that comes in here a lot. I can’t help the pang of jealousy in my stomach. I don’t know what it’s like to have that kind of friendship with s
omeone, a deep connection to another person that spans time and locations. The closest thing I have is Macie. We met during Freshman Orientation in college and hit it off over our mutual love for kids, although our reasons for it are completely different. Macie does it because she feels like she’s giving back to the world. I find that working with them helps heal a part of my soul.

  “I don’t know what I did to be cursed with a daughter. For the love of God, Ryan Danielle, do not embarrass me.”

  I shiver as my father’s voice booms through my memory, the coolness of his eyes only adding to the pain in my heart. I used to think the hurt would ease, that the longer I was out of his house, away from the mother that could have loved me but loved his wealth more, it would alleviate. Years on my own and the sting is still there.

  My father always wanted a son. It’s no secret that he feels cheated by the universe for getting a daughter, so much so that he named me Ryan Danielle. A boy’s name. A constant reminder of the failure I was from birth. Since I failed him, I also failed my mother, a woman that’s probably capable of love, but is so poisoned by her obsession with my father that her capacity has diminished. There’s no room for me in her life in any measurable quantity—just for the occasional photo or to make sure I’m not doing something that would blow back on my father and taint his prestigious image somehow.

  Wrapping my hands around the mug so they’re pressed against the clay, I feel the warmth radiate into my skin and focus on that. The here. The now.

  My gaze lands on my bag, a file from work poking out. Instantly, I’m out of the here and now and am mentally in my office. With the door closed. With the centerfielder.

  A warmth erupts in the pit of my stomach and starts to fan out until it begins to toast my cheeks.

  Why does God have to love athletes most?

  He does. There are no two ways about it. They’re the hottest, most fit, most calculating and passionate people. They’re delicious . . . and dangerous if you aren’t careful.

  Despite the heat roaring through my blood, I shiver. I can only image what it’s like to be on the receiving end of Lincoln’s passion. Feeling his eyes on me today was enough to make me crazy. Feeling his breath hot against my cheek? His fingers caressing my body? The weight of his cock as it sits on top of my ass, waiting to glide into me?