Chapter 11
GRAYSON
“What’d the heavy bag do to you?”
I stop beating the shit out of the bag to glare at Sammy poking his head around the doorway.
Everyone else in the house has had the sense to leave me alone this week.
Even Trevor and Troy. Not Sammy though. I admit, he’s been a good friend.
Always is. Annoying as shit, but…there for me.
Even after three years, I’m still not used to it.
Hitting the batter cost me two games. The whole thing made world wide news.
My father didn’t reach out. He never does when it comes to baseball.
Not when I pitched the winning game in the College Baseball Championship freshman year.
Not when I threw a no-hitter as a sophomore.
And not when I broke three fingers in my left hand last May and was unable to pitch for six weeks.
A two-game suspension won’t even make his radar.
Sammy knows this. He’s the only one. Could be why he’s not leaving me alone. Not even his cheerful mood can make up for my father though.
“Thought you guys left,” I mutter.
“We’re waiting on Dylan and Freddy. You should come.”
“Nah, I—”
“Look, man, I don’t care if I piss you off, alright? But I’m pulling the birthday card.”
Fuck, I forgot.
“Yeah, about that, I’ve just...had family stuff on my mind lately.”
Primarily your family. Specifically your sister.
“Want to talk about it?”
A strange laugh comes out of my mouth. “I’m good, thanks.”
Sammy knows not to push. “Buy me a drink and we’ll forget all about it,” he chuckles, slapping my shoulder.
If I could go back to sophomore year, I would ignore Sammy’s freshman ass.
Friendly, funny, trustworthy, and a great catcher.
He’s one of the best people I know, on and off the field.
And the only one I’ve confided in regarding my parents and my life away from school.
But I would give it all up so I wouldn’t have to go out with him tonight.
Hell, I’d go back to freshman year when I bought this ten bedroom house built directly across from the baseball practice field on campus, and wouldn’t offer it to the Tower Lake baseball program.
Then I wouldn’t live here and I wouldn’t have become good friends with any of my teammates, now roommates.
Shit. When did I turn into a scared assed punk?
“Who’s going?” I ask, wiping sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand. Am I actually afraid of seeing a tiny girl I can bench press in my sleep?
Nah. That’s not it.
“Just us. Everyone in the house, except Big Mike and Turner. Both have tests tomorrow that they can’t fail or coach’ll bench ‘em.”
I shouldn’t be this relieved.
“Yeah, alright. I’ll be down in ten.”
Good news: I’m back at The Lion’s Den. Buzzed and feeling relaxed.
Bad news: she shows up with a cake for her brother. Of course she does.
“Why are you smiling?”
I look over at Troy.
“What?”
“You were smiling.”
“No, I wasn’t—”
“Yeah, you were. I’m guessing you saw that new waitress?”
No, I only saw her, walking in with a simple white cake with berries on top. And yet, accompanied by her beaming smile, it looks like the nicest fucking cake I’ve ever seen.
What the fuck is wrong with me?!
The woman at the register that Troy points out, flips her hair when she notices we’re both looking. She smiles too, but it’s not the same. Not bright or sweet or happy or interesting.
“Yeah, the waitress,” I mutter to get Troy—and now Big Mike, who’s asking if I was really smiling—off my back. “I thought you were supposed to be studying?” I ask him.
The question is a distraction tactic and it works. Big Mike goes into a lengthy explanation about his upcoming test and exceptional study habits.
Cake in hand, she continues to scan the crowded bar. I focus on my phone.
I need to reel in these stupid reactions I’m having. She’s my best friend’s sister. And, I don’t like her. Which is why I’m purposely on my phone when Trevor waves her over to the two large booths near the bar that we’ve taken over.
“Hey, thanks for inviting me!” she says, looking around our group. “Sorry I’m late.”
Her good mood is contagious as she greets everyone individually, including me, but I see it. The way her smile falters when her eyes meet mine. It doesn’t bother me. It doesn’t.
Trevor slides out. Gives her a hug and kiss on the cheek. Since when are they friends? Hugging-and-kissing friends?
“What’d you get on your psych paper?” she asks, pulling away from him. That asshole’s too fucking touchy.
“87, thanks to you,” he beams. “If it’s graded on a curve then it’ll be an A. Unless, of course, Miss fucking-know-it-all Ortega gets a perfect 100 like always.”
“Don’t be mean. She’s really nice, just shy. She might be the smartest sophomore on campus.”
“Hey, I’m the smartest sophomore!” he cries.
“I’m just saying you guys have the same major. And she’s on the softball team.”
Jesus why does her smile light up her whole face?! Why is she so fucking pretty? And why the fuck do my eyes keep wandering over to hers??
“I’m telling you,” she continues, oblivious to my annoying thoughts. “You guys have a lot in common.”
“Did she say something to you?” Trevor sidles up close. Too close. “‘Cause if she did, I know we’d have the cutest Black-Mexican babies.”
“Why are you always talking about making babies?” she giggles, looking even prettier. “And won’t your girlfriend be mad you’re talking about other girls?”
“First, making babies is so much fun, Selena.” He winks at her. I am this close to hopping over this table and taking a swing at him. “Second, there’s nothing wrong with just looking.”
“Trevor,” I bark, interrupting their conversation. “Next round’s on you!”
Fucking Trevor winks at me. Dick. I might have to kick his ass.
“Maybe you’ve had enough,” Big Mike whispers.
“By the way,” Trevor slips an arm around her shoulder. Definitely kicking his ass. “When are you letting me take you out? We could make some pretty Black-Mexican babies too.”
She laughs in his face as she slips away from his arm.
“Even if you didn’t have a girlfriend, I told you I wouldn’t go out with you, Trev.” Her eyes flicker over to mine for a fraction of a second.
Wait, Trev? Since when does she call him Trev?
“You’re my brother’s friend. And his teammate. Too messy.”
Her eyes flicker over to mine again. The first time occurred so fast, I couldn’t be sure it actually happened. This time I’m certain. Even Big Mike notices, arching an eyebrow, asking the question without voicing it.
“Everyone looks at me,” I wink, sounding like an asshole, but he buys it. His laughter is proof.
When a slight flush creeps across her cheeks, I know she heard me as well. She turns to walk away, Trevor at her side.
“Aw for real?” he whines after being turned down.
“Yes, for real.”
They talk all the way to the jukebox. The gray TLU Soccer hoodie she’s wearing has her last name across her back. Alvarez.
I wonder what song she’s picking. Fuck me. I need to stop this shit. Annoyed with myself, I run a hand down my face and return to my phone.
The waitress serving our booth isn’t very discreet when she offers a stockroom blow job, but I turn it down. Why? Because of a pair of green eyes that won’t look my way apparently.
It’s stupid. I’m being stupid.
“Hey Selena, when are we cutting the cake?” Troy yells across the bar.
Dylan is about to swipe off a bit of frosting. I kick him under the table. The frown on his face is hilarious.
“Fucker,” he mutters, then he too turns to her when she’s back at the table. “What kind of cake is it?”
They’re all up on her like she’s the only hot girl here. Three different groups of cute girls have stopped by our table and left empty-handed. What is it with this chick?
“It’s tres leches—Sammy’s favorite. And he can cut it whenever he’s done dancing,” she grins.
I suppose whatever Sammy’s doing could be considered dancing, but he’s way too drunk to move with any actual rhythm. The swinging of his arms back and forth is in direct contrast with his inability to lift his feet.
“Don’t record him!” she gasps, swatting Troy’s phone out of his hand.
The sound of her laughter is warm and genuine.
I’m sitting here like a fucking dumbstruck loser, fighting back a smile.
Can’t help it though, it’s as if the week I spend moping around didn’t even happen.
Her presence is unexpected sunshine on a rainy day.
Happy and brilliant, illuminating everything around her.
For fuck’s sake, I groan to myself. I don’t...I don’t have a crush on her, do I?! Sure she’s cute and hot and thoughtful and sweet and shit. God fucking help me, why would I ever have a crush on her when I don’t even like her?
I don’t even recall the last time I had one of those. Fuck that, I don’t do crushes.
“Be right back,” I tell the boys and go in search of the waitress.
When I reach the bar, the waitress knows exactly what I have in mind. Her name tag says Melissa. Me and Melissa are about to have a good time in the stockroom.
“Excuse me?”
Both Melissa and I turn to see her two stools over.
Unlike before when we were surrounded by my teammates who would’ve noticed, I let my eyes wander, traveling up her black leggings which showcase a pair of toned legs and that sweet ass.
Jesus, I want to smack it and sink my teeth into that plump perfection, though not at the same time.
Her hoodie’s gone and she stands before me in a thin green tank top and a friendly smile that seems to be reserved for everyone except me.
“Yes?” Melissa snaps. That tone is unnecessary and I scowl.
“Do you have a lighter I can borrow?”
“Do I look like a fucking 7-eleven?”
The stockroom BJ just lost its appeal.
“You look like someone who works in a bar where people smoke, but thanks anyway,” she replies at the same time I state, “Watch that tone.”
Two pairs of eyes turn to me, but only those green ones intrigue me.
“Selena? Hey!” someone calls.
This guy again. Lucas, 22, swimmer.