Chapter 6
Renleigh
It’s been a while since I sat in these seats.
My sister and I used to come to the Mavericks games with my dad when we were kids to catch any of his old players taking a crack at the big leagues.
Roddy McKinney’s the only one who ever hit it truly big, but a lot of my father’s former athletes got their shot on the field.
“Are you sure . . . you don’t want one of those? It’s a . . . classic.” My dad gestures toward the wilted poppyseed bun hugging a blistered hotdog clutched in the palms of the man two rows in front of us, and I scoff and shake my head.
“Now that I know what those things are made of, I just can’t,” I laugh out. “And no, you can’t either. Those things probably got you into this mess.”
I prop my feet up on the seat in front of me and dig into my popcorn instead, leaving my dad with his celery and low sodium dip.
“You think that butter . . . flavor is any better than a hotdog?” He chuckles his way into a cough, and I shrug.
“Probably not.” I lean to my right, pressing my shoulder against his.
Spending an afternoon out at the ballfield with my father isn’t the worst way to give in to Hunter’s advances.
I’m still not sold on my sister’s position on the whole thing, though.
Flings aren’t exactly my thing. Though, now that I’m watching the six-foot-plus man saunter onto the grass in tight baseball pants and a compression shirt that does literally everything for his physique, I’m more open to the idea.
“I told him . . . to listen to Roddy,” my dad says, nudging my arm with his and jostling me out of my temporary drool fest. I guess I have been in a bit of a dry spell since I left the university. I haven’t exactly had time to date.
“That’s good,” I say, not fully unpacking my father’s tidbit until I’m well into chewing another handful of popcorn.
“Wait,” I cough out, dropping my feet to the ground and twisting in my seat to face my dad. “You told Hunter to listen to Roddy?”
My eyes narrow, and my father practically smirks his way into a massive bite of a celery stick.
“Oh no, you don’t. You don’t get to fill your mouth with food I know you don’t really want just to get out of this. When did you tell him to listen to Roddy? Because I was there when you met, and I don’t remember any such conversation.”
My father’s smirk is itching to turn into laughter.
He’s loving this. My dad was never been the kind to ward off pursuers.
I’m probably the only daddy’s girl whose father actively tries to marry her off to ballplayers on the regular.
I’m shocked he hasn’t tried to broker a deal with Roddy to have me marry his son, Jake.
My gut says that’s because Roddy and Jake have their own messy relationship to sort out first.
“He stopped by . . . the house. Real gentleman.” My father snaps off another bite of his stalk and turns his attention to the field, where Hunter is now warming up with some long toss.
“Real gentleman, huh?” I sink back in my seat and pop another handful of popcorn in my mouth while I study Hunter with a bit more scrutiny.
How the hell did he find out where I live? And shit! He knows where I live!
I mesh my father’s commentary with my experience so far, and I can’t deny the fact that cocky or not, Hunter Reddick doesn’t seem to be an asshole. Perhaps I’m being a bit unfair to him. I mean, he does have nice arms. And legs. And his thighs . . . I do like his thighs.
“You gonna pick . . . your chin up?”
I turn to my right and glare at my father.
“My chin is just fine,” I protest. I may have been gawking a bit. Fine. A lot.
I’ve always liked watching long toss. When I was a kid, I would bet my sister on how far one of the players could throw.
I always believed they could throw farther than she did, and I won those bets half the time.
Hunter, however, moves farther than my longest expectations.
By the time I shift my gaze back to the field, he’s moved to the opposite foul pole and is easily zinging the ball across the outfield to Roddy without a single hop.
When he starts to jog back toward us, Roddy holds up his glove and props his mask on top of his head as he saunters toward my father.
“I thought I saw a familiar face over here,” he says, tucking his glove under his arm before stepping over the baseline wall to visit my father.
A hulk of a man, Roddy bends in half and hugs my father to his side before reaching his hand across my father’s body to shake mine.
I give his palm a squeeze and smile, a little embarrassed to be here.
Of all the Mavericks players, Roddy is the one to know my hardline stance on dating these guys—any guys.
He doesn’t seem to be judging me with his gaze, though, and that’s probably because he’s happy to see my dad.
“How are you feeling, Coach?” Roddy kneels to make it easier to look my dad in the eyes and hear his start-and-stop speech, and I let the two of them catch up while I focus on the leg stretches Hunter is completing mid-field.
He squats, facing me, and pushes the brim of his hat up just a touch as the sun catches his blue eyes.
He’s a hundred feet away, and I can’t be certain, but I think he’s staring at me.
He pushes one knee toward the grass, stretching his quad.
His chest puffs up with a deep breath, his shoulders somehow widening their span before he switches legs and repeats it all again.
“He’s the real deal, you know?”
“Huh?” I snap out of my stupid, embarrassing trance again to meet Roddy’s eyes.
He nods toward Hunter.
“The kid’s the real deal on the mound. He’s got the stuff to go far. But don’t you dare breathe a lick of that to him, you hear?” Roddy stands but keeps his chin low and his eyes on mine.
“I wouldn’t dare. Hell, I might not even talk to him after this game.” That’s a lie, and we both know it.
Roddy chuckles.
“Sure, you won’t,” he says, pulling his mask down and turning his attention to my dad. “Enjoy the game, Coach.”
I stew with my thoughts, mentally protesting what I know is true—I’m a little into Hunter Reddick. He’s fucking hot. And I’m so very single. And yeah, maybe it would be nice to feel a man again. For a little while. What’s the harm?
“He’s got you figured . . . out,” my dad teases.
“Who does?” I pull my water bottle from the cupholder in front of me and unscrew the cap.
“They both do,” my dad huffs out with a laugh.
“Hmm.” I hum because I’d like to think I’m more complicated than the cliché girl who crushes on the hot, young pitcher.
Hunter finishes his stretches, picks up his glove, and makes his way toward us.
I force myself to look away. I busy myself with my phone at first, then lean forward and look down my aisle to count the bodies in the seats, squinting to pretend I’m looking for someone.
When enough time passes that I feel good about the coast being clear, I turn my attention back to the field, and Hunter is long gone.
My stomach tightens, and the squeeze grows stronger the longer I scan the dugout and then the bullpen in search of him.
I’m such a hypocrite.
“Ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to Sun Oil Stadium, home of your Sweetwater Mavericks.”
I stand and hold out my hand to help my father steady himself on his feet.
We brought the chair today because I wasn’t sure how easy it would be for him to navigate his walker through this old stadium.
There are a lot of quirks to the layout, including random chunks of concrete where walls once stood.
We parked the chair at the back of the section near one of the seat attendants, and despite the awkward length of the stadium steps, he managed to tackle them on the way to our seats with my help. I’m proud of him.
The announcer goes through the usual drill, mentioning all the quirky mom and pop businesses in Sweetwater that sponsor the summer season every year, and I whistle when there’s a shoutout to Earl’s Big Easy.
I think half the team does the same. In a college town where most of the bars are wannabe clubs with loud dance tunes blasting until midnight, Earl’s remains tried and true to its roots.
It’s a pub in every sense, with giant TVs sketchily hung on walls and Mavericks gear as well as some from the college slapped on the walls.
The pool tables are well-worn, but the Saturday night bets still get placed between old timers.
Every new class of Mavericks players gets schooled in darts and served some of the best microbrews in Oklahoma until the weather turns cold and they all head off to warmer places for the off-season.
Earl’s daughter, Daisy, was nice enough to give me a job when I came back home, despite my lack of bartending experience.
I’m a quick study. It’s why I did so well in school until I had to drop out.
My palms sweat as the players’ names are announced one at a time and they line up for the national anthem. It’s a decent crowd for a Thursday game, and I’m beginning to realize people came out here today for one reason—him.
“Your starting pitcher, the number one draft pick by the Texas Rangers out of Pacific Coastal University, Hunter Reddick!”
There’s an audible roar from the few thousand gathered for today’s game, and my father’s voice is in the mix.
He cups his mouth and does his best to holler as he jabs me with his elbow, urging me to join in.
I roll my neck reluctantly and push two fingers into my mouth so I can whistle.
I normally use this skill to break up fights, but I guess I can use the skill support of Hunter today.
We quiet down for the anthem, and I keep my gaze fixed on Hunter’s back the whole time—number thirty-four pops from the crisp white in blue lettering. How fitting that he’s wearing such a storied number, Nolan Ryan’s. I wonder if he really is as good as Roddy says.
My dad and I settle into our seats, and Hunter takes the mound.
He’s methodical through his warmups, snapping the ball into Roddy’s mitt and walking in a slow half circle around the mound after each pitch.
His jaw works, and I hold my breath waiting for him to spit to the side.
Of course he never does though, instead blowing a massive pink bubble before snapping his gaze to me and fucking grinning.
Dammit—not only am I caught, but I also can’t ding him for chewing tobacco. He just keeps notching out green flags.
He makes quick work of the first three batters, getting a fly out to right field from the first hitter, and striking out two and three with a total of ten pitches for the inning.
He pulls his hat from his head and runs his hand through his wavy brown hair as he nears the dugout, and his cheek dimples with the smile he sends my way.
I hold up my hand and wiggle my open palm side to side, as if I’m scoring him a fifty percent for what was clearly an A-plus outing. Hunter grips his chest and mouths, “Ouch.” And then he dips into the dugout and out of sight.
“Yep,” my dad utters.
“Shut up,” I snap back.
His stubborn, smug laugh is the last word.
***
Hunter makes it through five innings, and other than an iffy call that earns him a walk, he finishes with four strikeouts and one earned run. Just over sixty pitches, too, which I know from being schooled by my father, is pretty fucking efficient on the mound.
“Looks like Roddy . . . was right,” my dad says. I’ve been waiting for him to pipe up.
“Yeah, I know,” I sigh. I’m playing up my disappointment for show, and I think my father can tell. There were a few times I was audibly impressed, breaking out the finger whistle more than once when he strutted off the field after closing out an inning.
He is the real deal. And I don’t have to know a lot about baseball to see it.
It’s in his presence. It shows in the hard line of his jaw that flexes when he digs in to throw with a little extra oomph.
It’s obvious by the way he sits away from the rest of the team until he’s done pitching, locked in, and studying whoever is coming up to face him next.
And it’s in the way he takes it all in and never makes the same mistake twice.
Hunter might not realize it, but Roddy’s tough love is also genuine love.
He likes him. He meant it when he said he saw the talent shining in his heart.
It also might be why he made that bet with him the other night and urged him to talk to me.
Perhaps there’s a part of Roddy that thinks Hunter Reddick might be good for me, too.
“Hey!” A short whistle chirps from the dugout.
I lean forward and find Hunter’s blue eyes peering at me from beneath his Maverick’s hat.
I can’t quite see his entire face, but his brow rises, lifting the brim of his cap with it, and he holds up a ball.
He flicks it forward and back with his wrist a few times, and I hold out my hands ready for him to toss it.
I’m relieved that I catch it when he finally does, especially given the anxious middle schooler perched on the edge of his seat down our row.
That kid has been grabbing foul balls left and right.
“Souvenir, huh?” My dad brushes his hand against mine, and I unfurl my fingers to show off the ball. Only then do I see the note scribbled in blue ink between the seams.
Did I earn dinner?
My lip pulls up on one side automatically, and my cheeks warm as I glance back to the dugout to find those same blue eyes peeking back at me and awaiting my answer.
Hunter’s brow lifts again, and it tickles me the way his hat raises every time.
“I don’t know,” I ruminate, knowing full well I’ve crossed that mental barrier when it comes to him. I’m going to say yes.
Lucky for Hunter, he doesn’t have to wait through me toying with him.
“You can pick her up . . . at seven,” my dad says, somehow finding enough breath to really shout his words to Hunter—as well as the dozen or so fans seated immediately around us.
A few people giggle, and a pair of college girls sneer at me. They have not been shy about ogling the taut fabric hugging Hunter’s thighs and ass every time he walks back to the mound. To be fair, I’ve ogled too. I’m just a lot more subtle about it.
“Fine,” I finally say.
Hunter jumps up from whatever step he’s perched on, and for a fraction of a second, I get a glimpse of his entire face, boastful smile and all, before he drops back below the dugout roof for the rest of the game.