Chapter 5
Hollis
“That was perfect,” I laugh as Noah, the Honky Tonk’s pitcher, and I exchange high fives.
We’d not only worked on, but nailed a video of him and his pitching techniques. In true Honky Tonk fashion we’d of course added some funny pitching positions, jokes, and puns. Noah had even suggested we title it, “Pitch Please.”
“That was awesome. Seriously,” he chuckles as well. “I’m definitely going to have to have you help me film some videos for my own account,” he adds with a sigh. “I suck at this stuff. My videos and engagement are probably the worst of the entire team.”
“I’m sure they aren’t that bad,” I say and dismiss his worries with a wave. “But, that’s also what I’m here for. So if you ever really do want some help, just let me know.”
I wouldn’t mind getting to spend a little more time with Noah. He’s clearly a talented pitcher, a true sweetheart, and it turns out a single dad. He’s also the only player who hasn’t attempted to flirt with me, not even a little.
Not that it’s been all bad, since the only person who’s managed to get on my nerves with the over-the-top flirting is Fletcher. And fine—maybe I don’t actually mind it as much as I pretend to—but the problem is, it’s getting harder and harder to not want to flirt back.
It certainly didn’t help that at dinner with my parents, all my dad wanted to talk about was Fletch. All it took was me saying he gave a good tour, for him to launch into a full-on monologue about how Fletch isn’t just an incredible player, but an all-around amazing guy.
Pretty sure Fletch has fallen for the wrong Clemmins, because given the way my dad gushes about him, it sounds like he’s the one with a crush. Honestly, I think it’s quite possible my dad is President of the I Love Fletcher fan club.
Because, according to him, Fletch is always the first out there to greet the fans. He’s always offering extra time, autographs, and anything else you can think of to provide those wide-eyed kids the best day of their life.
Perhaps what I should’ve done, instead of glossing over the fact that he gave me a perfect tour—where he showed off his favorite filming spots as well as offering content ideas—was mention how he spent the rest of the time hitting on me.
Alas, I’m not really looking to be the one to break my dad’s Fletcher-loving heart
Brushing those thoughts aside, I grab my phone and pull up my agenda for the day. I’m ahead of schedule. Perfect. Looks like now I get to have some real fun.
I’ve been wanting to go live since the moment I arrived, especially since it feels like the most organic way to get people excited for opening day. We’re only a week away, so why not show off the guys in action?
“Hey Easten,” I holler, spotting him and his adorable mustache-wearing self near the dugout as he drinks from his water bottle. “Can I borrow you for a moment?”
A smile lights up his face as he strides over to greet me. “Sure, what’s up?”
“In your humble opinion, who are the best dancers on the team?”
Dancing between, and sometimes even during pitches is integral to Honky Tonk ball.
Then, of course, there’s the line dancing.
The teams have even filmed YouTube tutorial videos that people can watch and learn the original Honky Tonk line dances, so they can come prepared if they want to join in on the action from their seats.
“Hmm.” He tips his chin upward, bringing his hand underneath. “Well, Noah is pretty good, but I’d probably have to go with Fletcher and Mateo.”
“Perfect,” I beam, unable to hide the excitement at hearing Fletch’s name included.
“Why?” His eyes narrow. “What do you have up that sleeve of yours?”
“Oh, nothing too crazy,” I wave him off, even if the evil grin on my face says something entirely different.
Fletch keeps putting me on the spot, so isn’t it only fair I repay the favor?
“Why does this feel like something I need to be a part of? Please tell me you’re looking for a partner in crime.”
“You know what? Yeah, I think I am.” I grab his arm and yank him toward the dugout.
While I have a few possible ideas swirling around, I could always use a little help. Plus, he offered, right?
Easten had come in clutch. He’d not only been on board with my ideas, but had come up with some of his own to crank it up to an entirely new level.
While the Honky Tonk accounts have been growing steadily since my arrival, this feels like the ultimate way to truly get the ball rolling and bring in new fans.
“Alright. I think we’re ready. You guys good on your end?” I ask Easten, who’s taking on the lead role next to Honkers, the team’s mascot.
Despite being trapped inside a giant duck costume complete with a Honky Tonk jersey, boots, and comically large cowboy hat, the man inside has mastered the art of literally shaking his tail feathers.
Honkers lifts a wing to let me know he’s good as Easten nods in equal agreement.
“Alright then. In three, two, one… we’re live,” I tell them, my phone camera already facing them. Right away, people start tuning in as the numbers begin to climb.
From what I’ve gathered, the previous social media manager never took advantage of this, which is quite a shame. For a team that is all about entertainment first and interaction with its fans, this sort of thing was made for the Honky Tonk brand.
Easten welcomes everyone, setting up the gag perfectly.
It’s obvious people are eager to interact as he instructs them, the viewers, that they not only get to pick a song for the upcoming dance-off, but also choose the player of their choice to go head-to-head with Honkers.
Then, based on whoever loses during the live show, the viewers also get to pick that player’s punishment, which will take place on opening night.
There’s a chance things could go wrong, and they might not choose who I’m hoping, but we’re pretty confident we can steer them toward Fletcher. Not that it should take a lot of work. He’s already the most popular and well-known player on the team. Why wouldn’t they want to see more of him?
“Alright everyone, keep up with the voting,” he suggests, as fun and ridiculous song suggestions begin to flood the comments. “And how about we go and interview one of our possible contestants?”
I trail closely behind Easten and Honkers as they walk across the field. As planned, they approach Fletcher first.
“Look who we have here. It’s our very own, Mason Fletcher—shortstop extraordinaire, and one of our most popular players,” he coos, playing it up for the viewers.
Fletcher, never wasting a moment to show off, tosses a baseball behind his back to another player before turning his full attention to us.
His eyes dart between Easten, Honkers, and me, and it’s no surprise to see them light up as he realizes what we’re doing. The players in this league live for the spotlight, but Fletcher? He thrives on it.
“Only one of?” he repeats, feigning heartbreak as he places a hand over his heart. “Come on now. We all know I’m everyone’s absolute favorite,” he adds with a wink directed straight at the camera. Or was it for me, the one standing behind it?
Damn it!
Why the hell was that so hot? It’s already warm enough out here. I don’t need any more reasons to overheat, especially as he glances past the camera with that annoyingly charming and dimpled smile of his. Pretty sure that sort of thing should come with a warning label.
Caution: Smile may cause excessive blushing, flustered speech, and questionable choices.
“Well, that’s exactly what we’re about to see,” Easten explains, pointing toward the camera.
“In fact, we’re currently live right now with over one thousand of our beloved Honky Tonk fans, and they’re currently voting on their favorite player, along with who they want to see go head-to-head in a dance battle against our very own Honkers. ”
"A dance battle? Okay, if I don’t get picked for this, I will hold all of you personally responsible for the emotional distress that comes from officially knowing I’m not your favorite.
Plus, I could take Honkers here in my sleep.
No, I could take him with one hand tied behind my back,” he confidently asserts, tossing his arm behind himself.
“Well, maybe you should prove it and give the people a small taste of what they’re in for if they pick you as tribute,” Easten suggests, as I inadvertently wrinkle my nose in excitement.
I couldn’t have picked a better host and partner-in-crime. Easten’s killing it, and just like we’d hoped, viewers are falling all over themselves for Fletcher. The majority of the commenters are talking about how of course they’re already planning on voting for him.
“As if you’d even have to ask,” Fletcher scoffs before nodding toward Easten. “Give me a beat.”
Without hesitation, Easten starts to beatbox, and honestly, it’s not half-bad. I store this tidbit of information away for later, especially as the number of viewers and comments begin to skyrocket.
Sure, the beatboxing is cool, but most people are reacting to Fletcher’s easy, effortless moves that are perfectly timed and in sync to the beat.
All of The Honky Tonk and Rowdy Rattler players can dance, especially since it’s a huge part of the gig, but damn, Easten wasn’t lying when he said that Fletcher was one of the best. Even Honkers, who's supposed to be the future competition, is nodding his oversized head as he flaps his wings in support.
Easten’s beats come to an end as he waves his hands in front of him. “Alright, alright, enough showing off. We can’t have you giving away all your best moves,” he chuckles before turning to the camera. “So what are we thinking? Is Fletch who we want to see go head-to-head with our man, Honkers?”
The viewer's comments flood the screen, making it nearly impossible to read them all as compliments pour in for their favorite shortstop.
Not that I can blame them—I want to see more too, and unfortunately, not just because I want to embarrass him.
He’s honestly really good.