12. What’s a Chumbawamba?
TWELVE
WHAT’S A CHUMBAWAMBA?
RYAN
I’ve never been so antsy to get out on the field than I am right now.
I don’t even think I was this on edge for my debut MLB game.
And that one was a pretty big fucking deal.
I check the clock for what must be the hundredth time and see that—thank god—it’s nearly time to head out to the field for warmups.
And it has everything to do with the five-foot-something feisty brunette that still refuses to acknowledge we’re becoming friends.
A fact I’m almost positive she’s blatantly ignoring, considering she endured my texting for the entirety of our nine-day away stretch.
We won every single series we played. I’m not saying she’s the reason we’ve been doing so well, but I mean, I’m also not not saying that.
Somehow, all my texting didn’t scare her off. She actually kept up the conversations and played along as I continued to bombard her with the whole twenty questions game we’ve got going. I did learn a lot more about her in the last week and a half, and there’s not a single thing I haven’t liked.
I asked her if she could find out how she died, would she want to know. And her answer was a resounding ‘fuck no.’ Her reasoning was that she would always be looking over her shoulder and wouldn’t actually get to enjoy life if she knew how she’d leave it. And I agree.
She asked me if I could be ‘besties’ with any celebrity who would it be and I obviously had to whip out Jackson West again.
He’s the ultimate man crush. I mean, A-list Hollywood actor from two of the biggest action box office hits?
How could he not be everyone’s man crush?
She offered to set me up on a date with him as a joke and I almost took her up on it.
That man’s a legend. He’s done full-on military training to get into shape for his superhero film.
I know I’m an athlete and all, but I think the intensity of that training regimen might actually kill me.
Not him, though. The tangent I took the conversation down as I expressed my love for Jackson had Isa laughing until she was breathless.
It made me want to find ways to keep her laughing like that.
We went back and forth a bit more. If you could live in another era, which would it be? Her: the ’70s or ’80s. Me: Medieval, obviously. Night owl or early bird? Night owl for us both, even though she’s always in bed by 10 p.m.
The more I’ve learned only makes me like her more. Which is dangerous if I do finally convince her to be my friend, but that’ll be future Ryan’s problem.
My leg won’t stop bouncing with the anticipation of finally seeing her in person after a week and a half.
I haven’t seen her face since that one FaceTime call we had.
And don’t think I haven’t tried another.
I have. She ignores them and defers to either texting or a normal, boring phone call.
It’s not the same without seeing her face while she’s giving me shit.
I enjoy it more. There’s only so much I can take away from her voice.
I want to watch her brows furrow when I say something ridiculous.
I want to see her eyes narrow when I slip in the smallest flirty line and she tries to skewer me.
Is her voice soft because she’s tired? Is she over my shit and wants me to stop bothering her?
Like I said, only so much I can get from her voice without seeing her face. Reading her.
I shake my head to clear my rampant running thoughts. “Let’s go boys! Let’s get this done!” I call out to the team before we all jog through the locker room and out through the dugout.
The second I set foot on the field, I see her and it nearly knocks the wind out of me.
It’s like she’s a magnet and my eyes can’t help but find her no matter where she is.
But it also helps that she’s in her usual pre-game position.
I drink up these fleeting moments like she’s water in a desert.
Once the game starts, she’ll be up in the studio and I won’t see her again until the end when the TV crew are back down to the field for the post-game show.
I make a slight detour on my jog to the outfield so I can pass close enough to speak to her without anyone else hearing, but not close enough to draw attention.
“Miss me, firecracker?”
She startles and her head whips around to watch me jog past, but she collects herself quickly and dons her standard mask of indifference she wears when we’re together on the field. She scoffs. “You wish.”
“You’re right, I do. I really, really do,” I say with a wink as I jog backwards to where the guys are already beginning to warmup.
I slow my steps and narrow my eyes when I think I spot a hint of a pink blush climbing her cheeks. Well, that’s an interesting reaction.
I’m about to walk back in her direction to confirm when Cooper calls out to me, “Fletcher, get your ass over here and throw the fucking ball!”
I stare at her for a beat more before she breaks eye contact and turns her body the slightest bit, closing me off. For a second, I thought I was imagining things, but her trying to hide from me like this? There was definitely something.
Turns out she’s not as unaffected as she likes to pretend she is.
Interesting indeed.
Heading into the bottom of the first, I’m finally up at bat, and I’m so looking forward to this moment.
I’ve been plotting this out since our last home game when I changed my walk-up song.
I have the best one for today, and I already know she’s going to hate me for it.
Or hopefully love me. They do say it’s a fine line between love and hate.
Or at least, I think that’s what they say, whoever they are.
I jog out toward home plate while the in-stadium announcer introduces me, and my latest song choice kicks in over the stadium’s PA system.
Is it the best hype song? Probably not.
The best choice in general? Definitely not.
But it gets my point across. And it gives me a good chuckle, which is exactly what I’m doing as I leisurely stroll up to the plate, twirling my bat beside me, as if I was out for a nice evening walk and not at my job.
I’m just outside the batter’s box, swinging the bat around a bit to stretch my arms out and smirk at the ground as the song’s lyrics kick in about getting knocked down, getting back up, and how they’re never going to keep him down.
I swing the bat up and stretch it out in the direction of where I know the studio is, where Isa should be right about now. With that, I step fully up to the plate and position the bat up over my shoulder, ready for the first pitch.
Okay, so maybe it is a pretty good hype song.
Isabella
“The bastard’s gone and done it again!” someone across the studio shouts, and this time I know enough to know exactly what they’re talking about.
Ryan Fletcher changed his walk-up song. Again.
This is the second home game now that he’s had a different song since he started with the team.
Fletcher is swinging the bat around, stretching his arm, head tilted toward the ground so I can’t see his face. But knowing him, I’m willing to bet that son of a bitch is smiling.
“Does anyone know what song this is? I recognize it but I can’t for the life of me figure out what it’s called!” a sound engineer shouts across the small studio.
“Hold on, I can Shazam it.”
I press my face as close to the studio window as possible, trying to listen closely but the words aren’t very loud to start.
Eventually they pick up, and I can make them out more clearly right as Fletcher swings the bat in my direction up toward the studio, and I’m almost positive the fucker winks.
It’s an innocent enough motion that I don’t think anyone else knows what he’s doing, but I know.
And that’s his intention.
His only goal.
I’m gonna kill him.
“Found it! It’s called ‘Tubthumping’ by some band called… Chumbawamba?” Jamie calls back, words stilted as if he’s unsure about what he’s reading.
“Did you say tub thumping?”
“What the fuck is a Chumbawamba?”
“Why on earth that song?”
I hope he understands how much chaos he’s caused in this studio by changing the song. Again.
Standing on the field for the post-game interviews, I’m bracing myself.
For once, they’re not pulling Fletcher for an interview, but I know he’s going to make himself at home by the crew anyway.
It’s a shocker they didn’t opt for him what with the new song choice again.
But my guess is that since he was tightlipped on it the first time—a fact I remain eternally grateful to him for—they assume he’s unlikely to spill the details this time around as well.
It honestly makes me feel all warm and fuzzy on the inside that he respects the rules around my job to not call attention to me and what he’s trying to do. It’s like our little secret.
You shouldn’t even have a little secret with him, my conscience whispers to me.
Shut up, I hiss back.
I’ve done such a great job at avoiding another FaceTime situation with him, blowing him off every time he tried.
But I mean, how could I even look him in the eye after my moment of weakness the other night?
A moment of weakness that can never happen again.
Not at all. Never. If I were to end up being his friend, I can’t be getting off to thoughts and images of him.
That’s not very friend-like and entirely too hypocritical of me.