Catch: An Unexpectedly Spicy MM Baseball Novella

1. Webber

Glove in hand,I walk towards the small, mostly grass diamond at the back of Whitaker Park in my tiny hometown an hour west of El Paso. These fields haven”t been cared for in nearly a decade – that”s the last time rec teams played out here before the new facility was built.

I slide my hand inside my glove, tossing the ball into the air and catching it with a snap each time the leathers meet.

I never missed a summer here. My dad coached my team to the finals of the Little League World Series twice in six years.

Not surprising, though. He has three rings from the real World Series and never fails to tell anyone who will listen.

Me? I”m just a utility infielder for the San Antonio Revolution who pitched a little in college.

He tells everyone that too.

It’s also why we don’t really talk… at all anymore.

I toss the ball straight up and catch it a few more times, wishing I had somebody else here with a glove but finding myself alone – again.

I whistle the opening lines of Lonely and chuckle to myself before the echo of shoes crunching on what little clay is left hits my ears.

I spin around and find a kid – can”t be older than 9 or so – staring at me.

”I knew it. You”re him,” he says, squinting his eyes at me.

”I”m who?” I ask him, my eyes darting around for a parent or guardian of some kind as I wait for his response.

”You”re Greyson Webber.”

”You know who I am?” Floored and maybe a bit flattered, my jaw drops just a hair until he answers me.

”Apparently so, huh?” he shoots back with just a touch of that pre-teen, damn you”re dumb tone.

”Who are you?” I ask, snapping my jaw shut.

”Jackson!” a distant voice yells.

My eyes snap to the kid”s face, and the oh, shit look plastered on his face tells the tale. Whoever he is, he isn’t supposed to be over here. At least not alone.

”Jackson Foxworth, where the hell are you, kid?”

The voice is closer now, and the kid freezes, yanking his San Antonio Revolution hat off his head and wringing the very worn bill between his hands.

”There you are,” the very gorgeous, very familiar man says as he hooks his elbow playfully around the kid”s neck.

”Fox?” I ask, surprised to see the All-Star catcher here in Eaton, Texas.

”Wait. I know you,” he says, squinting at me just like the kid did.

They”ve gotta be kin.

”Greyson Webber,” I say, holding out my hand. ”We”ve never been on the field together. I just play utility. For San Antonio. The Revolution.”

Good Lord, could I ramble any worse?

Jonathan Foxworth, the backstop for Nashville’s MLB team, slides his palm into mine and smirks. ”Yeah. I”m familiar with the team.”

”Right. Yeah. Of course you are.”

He releases my hand and shakes his head as he looks me up and down. ”I wouldn”t say you ”just” play anything. You”re good with a glove.”

Flustered and a little turned on, I ask, ”You”ve seen me play?”

We”re the same age, roughly, but he was a first-round draft pick, a catcher who got called up right after his first Spring Training, while I busted my ass on a triple-A team for nearly two years. I only got the call because our second baseman and shortstop both landed themselves on the injured list within ten weeks of each other.

“Yeah. I seem to remember a pretty sweet diving catch last year. Robbed Jonesy of the cycle that night.”

“He’s more than made up for it,” I say, referring to Andy Jones, the centerfielder for Fox’s team. That joker has three MVPs and a Silver Slugger.

Fox laughs with me at that. “True, true. I’m just glad that was my night off. I wouldn’t wanna go up against that hot glove.”

I laugh, scoffing. “Yeah, right. Didn’t I hear your exit velo is creeping up around ninety?”

His eyes crinkle as his smile widens. “Well, yeah. It’s getting better.”

“Better… mm-hmm.”

We stare at each other probably longer than socially acceptable, confirmed by the kid still standing beside Fox.

“Y’all just gonna stare at each other all afternoon or are you gonna ask him out?” the kid – Jackson, I think it is – says.

We both chuckle, and Fox snatches the Revolution cap. “Excuse my traitorous nephew who refuses to wear anything I send him from his favorite uncle’s team.”

“No worries,” I say, reaching out and grabbing the hat from Fox. “Got a Sharpie?”

“Yeah,” he says, reaching into his back pocket. “You don’t carry one with you?”

“Not many folks asking for my John Hancock, even in my hometown. Not when they could have my father’s.” I mumble the last part as I sign his nephew’s hat and plop it back on his head.

Fox just hums in response, but thankfully says nothing about my griping. Being here… being home, it always makes the bitterness feel bigger. Deeper.

“Thanks for the support, kiddo. This guy’s got a big enough head already, right?”

Jackson laughs and adjusts the hat on his head. “Hell, yeah,” he says before Fox flicks his ear.

“Your mom already thinks I’m a bad influence, Jack. Let’s keep the profanity to a minimum… at least while I’m here, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, kicking at the dirt. He looks up at me and says, “Thanks for the autograph.”

“Welcome.”

“He’s right, ya know.”

“Right?” I answer Fox. “About what?”

“We should get a drink.”

My eyes widen – probably comically – and I sputter out a response. Or rather a question masquerading as one. “A drink?”

“Yeah. I’m in town for another couple days. Ever since my sister and this butt nugget moved out here, I always come through the week before Spring Training to see them.”

I snicker and say, “I think your sister is right. You are a bad influence.”

Fox steps closer to me and covers his nephew’s ears. “You have absolutely no idea, Webber.”