CHAPTER 10
The sun beats down on me from a cloudless sky. A light breeze carries with it the salt and freedom of the nearby beach. Chanting erupts from the stadium with their hometown favorite on deck, but my eyes are only on the man stretching his legs ninety feet in front of me. There are no thoughts of his nakedness or his abrupt shift in attitude on the bus. Only his reminder to trust him and trust myself.
My second inning on the mound is going better than the first—two outs already and two men on base. I inhale the scent of dirt and grass and exhale my worries about facing the next batter. All I have to do is strike-out the man stepping up to the plate, and I won’t even have to face the home team’s powerhouse.
My stomach twists when Reyes calls the next pitch, his painted neon yellow nails flashing between his thighs. My neck strains with the effort, but I fight the instinct to reject the signal.
Strike one.
Strike two.
The bat connects with a sharp, hollow sound and soars foul into the stands. He hits another foul, and I try not to let my impatience get the better of me. Part of me wants to believe he’d be out already if Reyes would only call the pitch that I’m begging for with eyes I know he can’t read at this distance.
The next ball connects with an ear-splitting crack. A flash of white rockets toward me; its velocity is too fast, and I am not fool enough to think I can catch it. I jump out of the way, counting on the shortstop to snag it and already thinking the double-play is in the bag.
The ball hits the bottom of my cleat before I clear its path. It bounces in the wrong direction, skipping in the grass between second and third. The easy double play to end the inning turns into a run and men on first and third.
Suddenly, it isn’t so easy to tune out the chanting of the stadium or the sweat dripping down my spine. Blood rushes from my face when I look at one of the top hitters in the league, but I force myself to focus on Reyes. I breathe hard and force myself to trust him.
The crack of the bat is even louder than the last, but at least this ball doesn’t come straight at me. It’s worse, though. The ball sails high and hard, not needing the breeze at its back to soar over the back wall, making some fan’s day while ruining mine.
Four runs added to the home team’s score in a matter of minutes, and all eyes are on me. If the chanting in the stadium was hard to tune out before, it’s impossible now. Echoing in my bones. Amplified by the cheering from the dugout to my left.
The sweat sliding down to pool at my belt is as cold as my skin is painfully hot. I try to shake it. Try to focus in on the flash of neon yellow nails. Mateo calls the same pitch that just got knocked out of the park. I shake my head until my brain rattles in my skull. He lifts his mask and gestures two fingers at his eyes. His mask clicks shut and his nails flash the same damned sign. This time, I shake myself hard enough I’m positive I’ve given myself whiplash.
He stands. Moves in slow motion as he jogs toward me. I swallow nervous laughter as his red uniform and muscular limbs give me weird and inappropriately-timed flashbacks to watching Baywatch with my best friend, back before she became my girlfriend—and eventually my ex-girlfriend.
“Look at me, rookie,” he says from a few steps away. “Hey! Ramirez!” He snaps both his words and his fingers to pull me away from images of him jogging down the beach in full catcher regalia while Andrea and I watch and giggle in bi panic. “Focus on me.”
His mask is up and his fingers are pointing at his eyes again. From this distance, it’s more than a gesture. It’s intensity and understanding, painted the color of aged bourbon. It’s the scent of sweat and oiled leather. It is all-consuming, reeling me into his depths until his coolness washes over me like a small wave buffeting me back to shore.
“I’m good,” I say, and surprisingly, I mean it. I inhale fast and sharp through my nose and nod once quickly. Raising my glove to cover my mouth, I try again. “Really. You were right; I needed a minute. But I’m good. Just don’t call that pitch again. I can’t—”
“What did I tell you were the only two things you needed to do in this game today?” his voice, bourbon splashing over ice, is muffled behind his own mitt.
“We need to win,” I say with a glance over my shoulder. “I let so many–”
“Wrong answer, rookie,” he interrupts. He holds up one finger between us then taps his sternum. “Trust me.” He turns his hand and taps that one finger just below the hollow at the base of my neck. “Trust yourself.”
“How are we doing, kids?” Skip asks with his hand over his mouth.
Reyes raises his eyebrows at me and waits.
“Good,” I answer after a beat. My heart is calmer than the San Diego sky, and the stadium has faded to white noise again. “We know what to do.”
“Hurry up, Ramirez!” Dante yells. “Pick it the hell up!”
I’m breathing harder sprinting across the parking lot than I did in the entire game. I almost feel bad for being the last player to the bus, but Skip grins at me when I climb the steps, and Dante’s harassment as I walk down the aisle is nothing if not playful. He smirks at me and claps. So. Slowly. The slap of his palms speeds up incrementally and brings the heat to my cheeks with it.
The rest of the team joins in a few seats at a time, and I’m about to lean into it and make a joking bow. I don’t mind being teased when it means I’m being seen as a teammate instead of not seen at all; I know they would have done the same to anyone else. I’ve done the same to the straggling teammates on other buses in other leagues. But what truly catches me off guard, is when the hoots and hollers that erupt inside this steel box aren’t about me being late.
“Good game, Ramirez—”
“Better stop being late to practice, Holliday,” someone shouts from the back. “The rookie’s coming for you.”
“Game like that—” someone else shouts, and I don’t know my new teammates well enough yet to name their voices in the racket, “she’s just thrown down the leather gauntlet.”
Holliday’s laugh is infectious. “Good. I could use a few innings warming the bench with your ass, Navarro. October’s not so far away, got to keep this golden arm—” he kisses his bicep, “in fighting shape.”
The heat in my cheeks spreads to my chest. Don’t cry, Ramirez. Ball players don’t fucking cry; pull it together, I scold the happy tears back where they belong and work my way to the empty seat next to Reyes.
I stop short when I see his bag sprawled in the seat. His eyes are shut, straight lashes resting on golden cheeks, and his earbuds are in. Seconds that feel like eternity force me to admit he isn’t going to move his stuff for me this time. Nothing can force me to admit how much it hurts. At least not out loud.
The team has quieted back down to a normal post-win din, the driver is already dimming the lights, and I can’t risk losing the high that their praise gave me by finding out they still don’t want me to sit by them. I adjust my bag on my shoulder and turn back toward the empty seat by Skip.
In the shadows, I see movement in my periphery. I glance over my shoulder in time to see Reyes grabbing his bag and tossing it under the seat in front of him. I hesitate for another moment. With a pit in my stomach and my heart in my throat, I watch him pat the empty seat without ever opening his eyes.
I drop into the seat in a movement that’s less than graceful and kick my bag under Dante’s seat.
“You didn’t think I forgot about you, did you, rookie?” He pulls one earbud free and fidgets with it between his long fingers, but his eyes are still closed as he speaks. “Even if you were humming something foul the whole ride here.”
It’s ridiculous how easily he breaks the ice. Especially considering he’s the one who put it there. I remind myself to keep him at arm’s distance. Not only because my silly crush isn’t based in any sort of reality. Not only because he’s my teammate. Because of how unpredictable his moods are. When his attention is on me—positive and encouraging—it’s like soaking up the sun. But then the warm charisma gives way to a glacial cold front, and leaves me alone and in the dark wondering what I did wrong.
“Oh yeah?” I can’t help teasing back, even if I know I’m walking a dangerous line between teammates and imagining something more. “If your taste is so good, what are you listening to, viejito?”
“Don’t worry about me,” he says. “You’re too young to appreciate it.”
“Whatever—” I laugh until he elbows me in the side. “Sounds like you’re just too chicken to tell me.”
He holds his loose earbud up between us.
“Gross,” I tease and elbow him back. “I don’t want your ear germs.”
He finally opens his eyes—just so he can roll them at me, dramatically enough to rival any teenage girl. He points toward his bag and leans harder against the curve of his seat.
“You got a pair of headphones with wires?” he asks. I nod. “Fine. There’s an aux splitter in the front pocket of my bag.”
“You going to get it, or are you just letting me know for posterity’s sake?” I ask.
“Told you where it is, didn’t I? Grab it yourself, rookie.”
“Weirdo,” I mutter under my breath, but I lean over to grab his bag.
His answering laugh is deep and throaty, and it absolutely does things to my body that I am not about to acknowledge with an hour-and-a-half bus ride beside him. I ignore the heat between my thighs and focus on the task at hand, until I realize I am bent over his lap with my head dropped past his widespread knees.