Chapter 2
“This game is boring,” Chelsea says as she lies back against the bleachers, sticking her pale legs out. “If I have to be here supporting Miles, I might as well get a suntan.”
“I don’t know what you’re complaining about,” I say. “You’re interested in Miles. I’m watching adult men play soccer for no reason.”
“There’s a reason.” Her eyes flick to mine. “You’re my support buddy.”
“No, you said we were going to the grocery store. I’m being held hostage here with the promise of $4.99 almond milk.”
“First of all, you’re paying way too much for almond milk. Second of all, this is a quick stop.”
“Quick? We’ve been here for an hour.”
“It’s fine. I think the game is almost over anyway.”
“Do we have to stay until the end?” I whine.
“Yes. What’s the point of coming to Miles’s game if I don’t stick around and talk to him at the end?” She gives me a look like she’s a thirteen-year-old girl who just said duh.
I roll my eyes. “Fine.”
“I know how we can make things interesting.” Her lips quirk into one of her playful smiles. She points to the batting cages past the soccer field. “I dare you to go over to those guys in the cages and give them pointers about hitting.”
“I’m not doing that!”
“Why not? It would be so funny.”
It would be funny, and I am bored, but I don’t do dares for the fun of it. There needs to be something in it for me.
“What are you going to give me if I do it?” I ask.
“I’ll give you a ride to the grocery store.”
“Nope.” I shake my head. “You’re already doing that.”
“Fine. I’ll do your laundry for one week.”
That’s a pretty sweet deal. The laundromat is across town from our dinky apartment, and it smells like the color brown inside.
“Two weeks,” I challenge. “If I go over there and make a fool out of myself, I want my laundry done for two weeks.”
“Deal.”
We shake on it, and within seconds, I’m walking across the field to the batting cages. The closer I get, I see that these aren’t ordinary men. These are attractive men with muscles and shorts that show off tight thighs. It’s so much harder doing things like this when you’re dealing with Bradley Cooper-caliber men.
Whatever. I’ll never see them again.
I walk up to the cages and clear my voice. “Excuse me?”
The guy with the bat swings at the pitch his friend threw. The combination of the ball on the metal bat makes a loud ding, and the ball goes flying straight back over the pitcher’s safety screen.
He doesn’t need pointers, but this is a dare, so I persevere.
“Excuse me?” I say again, louder.
He turns around, and his brown eyes meet mine. He’s wearing a Tampa Bay Rays baseball hat, a tight white t-shirt, and gray athletic shorts.
Good grief.
He really is Bradley Cooper-caliber, but with brown eyes.
His brows lift, the cue that he’s waiting for me to say something.
I glance up to where Chelsea sits in the bleachers. She’s leaning forward, watching me closely.
Laundry for two weeks. This is worth it.
I shift my eyes back to him. “I hate to interrupt, but your form is all wrong.”
He drops the bat to his side. “What’s wrong with my form?”
“Well, for starters…” My mind races through everything I learned in my junior high PE class. I’m drawing a blank, so I improvise. “Don’t watch the ball. You need to keep your eyes on the bat.”
He laughs and looks at his friend. My gaze jumps to the pitcher. He’s a thin guy with red hair wisping out the sides of his baseball hat.
“Eyes on the bat?” He smiles. Not the cocky, who-do-you-think-you-are kind of smile, but the you’re-adorable-and-I’d-love-to-get-to-know-you smile. Does that smile exist? If it didn’t before, this guy just made it up.
He takes a step forward like his interest is piqued. “What else?”
What else? Dang.
I lean forward. “Make sure you hunch over, really round your back.”
“You want me to bend over?”
“Not bend. I said hunch. There’s a difference. And”—I hold up my finger—“when you swing, don’t be afraid to spin all the way around.” I twirl my finger as an example.
“Spin all the way around?” The cute smile has not left his lips.
“Yep. Spinning. That’s where the real power comes in. Not to mention, it’s a great way to get your momentum going so you can run to first base.” I point to the pitcher. “If you want to throw him a few more, I can watch and make sure he’s doing it right.”
The pitcher raises his arm, taking instruction from me, but the batter holds his hand up, stopping him.
“No. No. No.” He shakes his head. “If you’re going to critique my form, I want an interactive lesson.”
I shift my weight. “Interactive?”
He turns to his friend. “Reece, don”t you think she needs to come in here and personally show me?”
Reece laughs. “Yep.”
I look back at Chelsea. She’s got a massive smile on her face, and she doesn’t even know what’s happening. Wait until she sees me go inside the batting cage with Bradley Cooper’s clone. She’s going to freak out.
“Fine,” I say, climbing under the nets.
He reaches for a helmet, fitting it over my head. “If you’re going to be in here, you need to have a helmet on.”
“Why?” I pout. “You don’t have one on.”
He points the bat at his friend. “Reece isn’t a very good pitcher, and it would be a shame if someone as pretty as you got hit in the face with a baseball.”
I tilt my head, planting a hand on my hip. “Do you always hit on your coaches?”
“Only ones that are as cute as you.”
Oh, brother. He’s schmoozing me, but I kind of like it.
“Listen, Mr. Smooth Talker, let’s see if you can hit the ball as smoothly as you can flirt.”
“Okay.” He lines up with the plate. “Is this right?”
He’s standing all wrong…on purpose. Even I can see that.
I look at his friend. “Are you seeing this?”
Reece shrugs. “Looks like you need to help him.”
I hold my hand out. “Give me the bat.”
“No, I’ll keep holding the bat. You just come behind me and show me how.”
Wow. This guy is taking this too far. But hey, I’m committed to the dare, and maybe I can even convince Chelsea to up my laundry to three weeks.
“If you insist.” I stand behind him. The sheer size of this guy”s shoulders makes wrapping my arms around him virtually impossible, but I try anyway. My arms brush his as my chest presses against his back. I go on my tippy-toes to reach. I pull his arm back so that his elbow lifts to what I think is the right spot. It’s not like I study batting stances.
The guy turns his head, so his cheek is close to mine. This is, by far, the craziest thing I’ve ever done. I’m also adding this to the sexiest thing I’ve ever done. His soft lips tilt upward, and I’m suddenly wondering what kind of chapstick he uses to get lips that smooth.
“Like this?” he asks.
My eyes follow his mouth.
Burt’s Bees. That has to be it.
I shake my head, knocking myself out of whatever trance I’m under. “I think you got it.”
I step back, smacking him on the butt as a coach would. The slap was not premeditated and was surprisingly unsatisfying. Men are right. There’s nothing sexual about sports butt slaps. Although, my cheeks are turning red from embarrassment anyway.
Did I really just slap his butt? Too far, Remi. Too far.
Time to go.
I duck under the nets, walking out of the cage toward Chelsea.
“Where do you think you”re going?” he asks.
I don’t look back. “To the grocery store.”
“Don’t you want to watch me hit the ball? Or take a few swings?”
“I’m sure you’ll be fine. Just follow through. Really commit to your swing, and don’t forget the spin.”
It only takes a second before he comes running after me. “Hold up,” he says. “You’re still wearing my helmet.”
Oh.
The helmet takes away from my suave exit.
I stop walking and take it off, turning around just enough to hand it to him.
“Wait,” he says, grabbing my arm. “You can’t do all of that, then walk away.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’ll always be wondering what happened to the girl that critiqued my swing.”
“She’s going to buy almond milk. Now you don’t have to wonder.”
“I have a feeling I’ll always wonder about you.”
My brows bunch together. “How do you not find me completely crazy right now?”
He shrugs. “I think it’s part of your charm.”
I laugh.
His hand shoots out. “I’m Matt.”
I look down at his proffered hand, then back up to his perfect face.
“Remi.”