15. Corbin
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
corbin
Day two of practice is a welcome respite from my constant thoughts of a certain sassy blonde, but if I’m honest, I can’t wait to see her today. I’m picking her up early in the afternoon since her last hair appointment is at noon, and she’s planning our second fake date.
When I got home last night, I spent an unreasonable amount of time giving myself a release as I thought of her legs and the few times she seemed vulnerable. Then I couldn’t sleep for the same reasons and fisted myself once again until I shot my load all over my hand and stomach. It’s becoming a habit.
Adam Finnegan, our new goalie steps onto the ice right before me. “Do you want to do some one-on-one work after practice? I need as much time blocking as possible,” he offers.
Finnegan is from Ireland and was playing in a European league.
“I can’t today, but I’ll make room in my schedule for tomorrow. Sorry, man.”
“Girlfriend?” he asks.
“Yeah.” I can’t believe my response or that I have a girlfriend, even if it's fake. I could have dated her for real, but then she had to go and steal my truck. Pretend or not, she needs to earn my trust.
“How long have you been dating?” he asks.
I stammer. “Umm, it’s new.” This is my chance to throw out the bait, so my teammates won’t be totally shocked when we enter into a sham of a marriage. “But it’s intense.”
“Aww, mate, sounds like love.”
For a moment, words stick in my throat, and I play it off with a smile. “I think so,” I say as I shake my sweaty hair out and head to the locker room. There’s definitely an attraction, but love? No, more like hate.
Stinson shouts above the slamming locker doors and the chatter, “I’m having a party on Friday night. Everyone is expected to be there for team bonding. Bring your girlfriends or wives and have them bring their swimsuits. That means you too, Shearer. You haven’t had a girlfriend since I was traded here.”
Finnegan slaps my back. “He’s got one now. Don’t you, Shearer?”
“My girlfriend and I will be there,” I respond, scratching my head, then sliding my hand to my neck. Unease blankets my face as they chant, whoop, and holler. I shed my uniform and gear, wrap a towel around my waist, and head to the showers. My teammates tousle my hair and playfully punch my arm as I walk by.
“Turn here,” Oakley says at the last second, causing me to take the turn sharp. On instinct, I extend my arm in front of her body. The wheels of the truck squeal against the asphalt until the truck straightens.
I shake my head; this girl lives by the seat of her pants. The narrow street opens into a parking lot. She hops out, and I follow. There are basketball courts on the right, a playground directly in front of us, and a huge pond a little further back. What is she planning?
The walking trail wraps around a portion of the pond, then veers off through a shaded area. When we come out on the other side, the park opens to a field—a kickball field.
“What are we doing here, Oakley?”
“Surely, you know how to play kickball. Come on, let’s go.”
Two teams are already playing, but Oakley seems to know most of them. One guy screams, “Oakley’s here. Blue has Oakley.”
I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t picked first or second in a playground pick-up game. Oakley tilts her head, lifts her shoulder, and gives me a satisfied grin. “You’re not the only athlete, Shearer.”
She takes off running so I jog behind her and stand on the sideline until the inning is over. I’m not sure that’s what it’s called. Between innings, they all gather around and place me on the yellow team and Oakley on blue. They look to be Oakley’s age and even though I’m still in my twenties, it’s been a while since I played a game other than hockey and the occasional basketball at Dane and Lettie’s indoor court at their house.
Sonny, the one who currently has his arm thrown over Oakley’s shoulder, explains the rules. Jealousy bubbles in my stomach, and I don’t like it. She peers up at him and grins like he had just won her the last goldfish at the county fair.
Game on. She’s my girlfriend even if it’s fake.
None of them seem to recognize me, and that’s just fine with me. Let’s get this over with so I can peel Sonny off her.
The blue team is kicking. They laugh, but there’s no doubt, this is a competitive game. Bases are loaded with one out when it’s Oakley’s turn. Damn, she looks cute in her tank top and her hair in a ponytail. Her skin is lightly tanned, and now I know why—she comes to the park on her day off. She reaches above her head, stretching, then rotates her waist back and forth before she lines up. The ball is kicked hard but right back to the pitcher, and he palms the ball with one hand, throwing it directly at her. It hits her hip, and she makes the third out. When she laughs, I get a fuzzy feeling.
My team adds me to the lineup, and I’ll be kicking second. The guy with a fraternity t-shirt knocks it into center field where their player throws it into second. The first ball pitched is outside, so I let it pass, and they all yell, “Strike.”
What? I shake it off and kick a bullet between second and third bases. It went between defenders, and I’m able to make it to second safely. I score my first run in kickball since middle school and damn does it feel good. At the end of the inning, the blue team is leading six to three.
“You’re going down, Shearer,” she says with too much enthusiasm.
Does she realize that I’m a professional athlete? I don’t go down easily, so I gather my team at the pitcher’s mound. I might not know the ins and outs of kickball, but I understand how to lead.
“Listen, I’m new but one thing I don’t want… is to lose to Oakley. What should I know about their first kicker? Does he usually go left or right?”
They look at me like I’m crazy until the girl on our team says, “He usually kicks it high and Oakley is known for her bouncing grounders.”
“Can I play first?” I ask, and they agree.
Sonny boots one to the right field, fifteen feet or so over my head. Oakley’s cheering him on, jumping up and down, and her boobs are so damn perky, all I can do is watch. She’s up two kickers later and kicks a bouncy one to third base. Our player misses it, so Sonny rounds second, then third, and Oakley becomes monkey in the middle between second and third. Our player, I think his name is Martin or Marvin, throws a zinger and hits Oakley in the face. She collapses on the grass.
Fuck. I run to her, and blood is rushing from her nose.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I ask, shouting. “You aimed for her fucking face.” I push him, and he pushes back. Then he swings and staggers when he misses. I pull Martin, or whatever his name is, by his t-shirt.
“She’s tough. She can handle it,” he grimaces.
Blood covers Oakley’s tank. “Let’s go have this looked at. It might be broken.” I try to lift her up, and she shirks away from me. WTF? I didn’t throw it.
“Stop. You’re embarrassing me,” she strains through gritted teeth.
Letting go of her arm, I take a step back as she pushes off one hand to stand.
“At least, apply pressure. I’ve had my nose bloodied more than the average guy,” I say, attempting to cool her off. For whatever reason, she’s upset with me.
Sonny asks her, “Do you want me to take you home?”
“We came together. I’ll take her.” The words come out possessive like I’m beating my chest like a gorilla. Mine. Mine. Mine.
I wait for her to agree with me and when she doesn’t, I lift her off her feet and carry her to my truck, honeymoon style. Fuck Sonny and Marvin Martin.
“Let me take you to the ER to get an x-ray.”
She rolls her eyes and shakes her head. “No. Just take me home.”
As I stand on her doorstep, I know that what I am about to say may not be well received. But I can't help it, I have to try. I softly speak up, my voice conveying my concern, "A girlfriend would want her boyfriend to take care of her." I gently touch her cheek with my thumb, and she leans into my touch. For a moment, I see her defenses crumble, and I feel a sense of hope. But then, she pulls away, and tears well up in her eyes.
She asks me, her voice trembling with emotion, “Why do you have to be so nice?”
“You have my mom to thank for that.” Instantly, I realize that my words have triggered something deeper within her.
“Just go.”
I stand there, silently wondering what’s going on inside her head.
“Okay but keep applying pressure to your nose and keep an ice pack on it.”
She nods and when I walk away and get into my truck, I see Sonny knocking on her front door, ready to pounce on his wounded prey. Part of me wants to jump out and claim her. But the other part knows she’d get pissed off.
All the way to my house, I mumble, “This is an arrangement. Not real. Not real. It’s fake.”
So why do I feel so much anger and jealousy?