Chapter 1 #2
I chug what’s left of my beer and slam the mug down, wiping my mouth along the sleeve of my Maverick’s long-sleeved training shirt. I’d prefer to be dressed nicer, rather than like I just got off the field, but at least I can pull off the compression-pants-under-shorts look.
There’s a decent crowd for a late afternoon, so I slip into an open space at the end of the bar and wait patiently as Renleigh returns with a tray filled with empty steins and pitchers.
She discards the dirty dishes into a bin, then nods to an older man wearing a Harley-Davidson bandana on his head.
He says something that makes her laugh enough that she leans forward and slaps her palms on her thighs before snagging a clean glass from a rack and filling it with Kentucky bourbon.
He gives her a nod and a wink, then slides a twenty across the bar.
She’s still chuckling softly as she heads my direction.
“Is it always this busy in here?” I ask as she punches a few keys on the register and changes out the twenty, pocketing the change in the apron around her waist.
“Sure is,” she says in a snappy tone. She doesn’t even glance up at me. “What can I get ya?”
She grabs a wet cloth from behind the bar to clean the bar top around me, and I smirk at how hard she’s working to not make eye contact.
I see why Roddy thought this would be a sure bet.
I’m guessing Renleigh gets hit on a lot.
Why wouldn’t she? The woman is gorgeous, hair pulled up into a tight ponytail that whips against her bare shoulders when she turns.
The black Earl’s tank top clings to her body, showing off the toned muscles of her arms, and her dark blue jeans hug her ass.
I made note of those the first time I spotted her.
So yeah, I’m certain Renleigh’s been told she’s hot, pretty, gorgeous, smokin’, fine, and every other term assholes shout as they ogle her while she’s on the job.
It’s a good thing I shoot my shots differently.
“What’s good here?” I squint my eyes as I lean into the bar and pretend to read the list of specialty brews scribbled next to the TVs mounted behind the bar.
“Uh, let’s see . . . we got an early case of the summer brew from Oklahoma City. It’s an IPA with a hint of citrus.” She stows the washcloth beneath the bar, then spreads her palms out along the bar top and tilts her head, finally looking me in the eyes.
A faint smile pulls on my lips.
“I’ll try that, then. If you recommend it.” I maintain eye contact, and our gaze lasts that little extra second that usually tells me everything I need to know. She’s intrigued by me, I’m sure of it. She didn’t look away first. I did.
“I don’t drink, so I can’t recommend anything. But the guys seem to like it, so . . . comin’ right up.” She pats a hand on the bar top and steps back a few steps, keeping her eyes on me before glancing over my shoulder, then turning around.
I twist my neck to see what caught her attention and find Roddy and the guys all staring our way.
I grimace and shake my head. Fuckers are going to make this hard.
They all lift their beers, and Roddy gives me a thumbs up.
I don’t have to see or hear it to know they burst into laughter the second I turn around.
“So, how much?” Renleigh slides my beer toward me, then rests her elbows on the bar top as she nods over my shoulder.
“Huh?” My pulse kicks into a higher gear as I try to play dumb. Thankfully, her gaze is fixed on the guys behind me rather than my throat, because I just swallowed an invisible rock.
“They bet you to come talk to me, yeah? Or . . . is this one to take me home?” Her eyes flit to mine, and I freeze, instantly trapped.
“Oh, uh . . .” I puzzle my face, pulling my brow in as I glance down at the beer, rotating the glass with my fingertips. “That’s not why I came over here, but they did . . . uh . . .” I grab the back of my neck as nervous laughter slips from my mouth.
A mischievous grin snakes into her cheeks.
“I’m caught, aren’t I?” I give in, dropping my chin into my neck as I squeeze my eyes shut.
“’Fraid so, rookie,” she says, patting the space next to my IPA. “Good news, though. This one’s on the house.”
I chuckle softly and utter, “Thanks.”
I linger, not ready to abandon my quest, while Renleigh takes care of a few customers on the other end of the bar. I take a few sips from my beer and hold up a finger to my teammates, buying myself time. I can salvage this. A guilty smile has always worked for me.
“So, what do you think?” Renleigh nods at the beer as I pull it down from my lips.
“Mmm, it’s good. I taste the citrus.” I don’t taste shit, but I need this banter to continue.
“Good to know. I’ll keep pitching it that way,” she says, her gaze flitting to me in fits while she busies herself making a rum and Coke.
“Speaking of pitching,” I segue, squinting my eyes at the cheesiness of my line. I went for the cheese on purpose. It’s better to look like a hapless fool than an asshole.
“Oh, wow. So, you’re a pitcher, then, huh? I wouldn’t have guessed.”
I roll my shoulders back and cradle the half-empty beer mug in front of me.
“You were right about the rookie thing, but I don’t plan on being here long. I was the number one draft pick,” I say, whispering that last part, though loudly enough that the guy sitting next to me turns to give me a once-over.
“Well, shit. You are Hunter Reddick. You really throw a hundred pitches during that college playoff game?” the guy says.
I smirk boastfully on the side closest to him but keep my eyes on Renleigh.
“One-hundred-fifteen, actually. Could have gone a dozen more, too, but ya know . . . coach didn’t want to stress the arm.”
More like I was starting to get a little wild, but nobody needs those details. Coach pulled me in the ninth before I gave up the winning run. Saved that for our bullpen.
“Ha, well. You better worry about stressing the arm in Texas when you get there. They can’t hit worth shit, so it’s all on you, buddy.
Good to meet ya, though.” The guy pats my shoulder with a heavy hand as he heaves himself from his stool and carries his drink to the pool tables in the back of the bar.
“Number one draft pick, huh?” Renleigh’s tongue is pushed in her cheek, and even though she’s teasing me with her words, I sense she’s also a touch impressed.
“Yep. Seeing my mom cry happy tears was probably the coolest part about it all, to be honest.”
I’m not making that part up. My mom put in a lot of hours driving me from camp to camp, practice to practice, game to game.
My dad’s job requires a lot of travelling for sales, but he showed up for the big things.
He was there for draft day, too. No tears from his eyes, though.
Just lots of bragging, which also felt pretty nice.
“All right, rookie. How much is on the table for this little wager?” She pushes a few buttons on the register again, this time counting out bills in the drawer before zipping them into a deposit bag.
“I put up a hundred, and they put up eighty,” I say, smirking through another drink from my beer.
“Wow, you paid the vig, huh? That confident?”
I tilt my head to the right and pull my lips in as I shrug.
“More like going all in when I want something. Money is money. But making quality conversation with the coolest girl in Sweetwater? No price tag for that.”
I step back, abandoning the rest of my beer and feeling rather pleased with my final shot. I think I may have tilted this entire thing in my favor.
“Tell ya what? Wait for me to lock up this deposit, then I’m off for the night.”
“Yeah?” I raise my eyebrows.
“Yeah,” she says through adorable laughter.
My grin stretches as I nod.
She holds up a finger, then skips into the back room. I turn around and shove my hands in my pockets as I make wide eyes at my doubters. Roddy’s brow lowers with what looks like skepticism, but the other guys punch each other’s shoulders and cover their mouths.
“Let’s go, rookie,” Renleigh says, popping up next to me with her hair down and apron long gone. The black work boots she’s wearing add to her tough girl persona, which I’m beginning to think is rooted in fact.
“You lead the way,” I say, trailing behind her as we head for the table where my teammates are suddenly straightening postures and putting drinks down to appear less like an unruly crew and more like gentlemen.
“That his, Roddy?” Renleigh’s eyes glance toward the pile of cash at the center of the table.
“Yep,” Roddy grunts, his cocky smirk long gone.
“Well, then,” she says, sweeping the cash into one palm as she takes my hand in the other. “You ready to get out of here?”
Her heated stare hits me from over the smooth curve of her shoulder, and I’m not sure which has me more mesmerized—her words or the look in her eyes. Maybe it’s the slight upturn of her top lip. Or the fresh touch of pink she’s put on her cheeks. Or maybe the raspy tone of her voice.
It’s all of it. It’s the whole fucking package.
“Yes, ma’am,” I say, snagging the keys and phone I left on the table just before she rushes me to the exit.
Her hand drops mine the second the door slams shut behind us, and the harsh glow of the afternoon sun warms my face. I stuff my keys and phone into my pocket and hurry to keep up as her feet crunch across the gravel parking lot.
“You live far from here?” I ask, squinting into the sun. The way it lights up the curled tips of her hair as she flings it over one shoulder is almost angelic.
“I don’t. But you’re not coming with me.” She spins and walks backward, looking me in the eyes as my steps slow and eventually stop. “It was nice to meet you, though . . . Hunter Redding.”
“Reddick,” I say, somehow picking that out as the thing to respond to. “It’s Hunter Reddick.”
“Right,” she says, pulling a key fob from her pocket and beeping a nearby ragtop Jeep. “Hunter Reddick, the number one draft pick. Enjoy your short stay in Sweetwater.”
She winks before hoisting herself into the driver’s side of the Jeep, and I stare at her taillights like a damn fool way longer than I should.