2. Chapter 2
“Ball one,” the umpire calls as I catch one of Grayson's fastballs.
“Damn it,” I mutter under my breath, dropping to my knees and throwing the ball back to Grayson.
That should've been an easy framing, but I've been distracted all afternoon.
Why, you may ask?
Because I embarrassed myself in front of my celebrity crush.
I saw you in Athlete Illustrated.
My own words repeat back to me on a death loop. It's the first time in my life I've hated the fact that my mind wanders into thoughts and says whatever the fuck it wants.
Holden Fox steps out of the batter's box to reset. Meanwhile, Grayson is glaring at me.
Oh, yeah. I need to get back into it before I ruin a no-hitter for Grayson.
Sweat drips down my forehead, but I can't touch it. Not with my catcher's helmet on. So I squat down a little further and shuffle my feet into the sand, trying to keep my mind from wandering back to that monumental first pitch.
With my hands between my legs, I sign the next pitch to Grayson.
Curveball?
No.
Slider?
He nods. Good. This should be easier to frame.
Holden taps the bat against each of his cleats, then knocks on his helmet, and just as he brings the bat up, he turns his right foot in.
The second that happens, I lift my glove into place and focus back onto Grayson.
He lifts his knee and throws the pitch. It's right in the middle, and Holden bites, swinging hard as he misses the fastball.
“Strike two,” the umpire calls as I catch the ball in my glove.
Holden turns his head to look at me, chuckles to himself, and then focuses on the setup.
Okay, one more out and I'm out of this inning.
You got this, Big Bear.
Big Bear?
Did I just give myself the best nickname ever?
Anyway, no time to think about that.
With my eyes back on Grayson, I sign the next pitch.
Fastball?
He shakes his head.
Curveball?
Another shake.
I roll my eyes, knowing exactly what he wants to throw to the three-time National League MVP and one time World Series winner.
Change-up?
He nods.
Always. Grayson always has to make a show of getting that final out, and when it's against a legend like Holden Fox, well, there ain't no holdin' back.
See what I did there?
When Grayson throws the next pitch, it starts fast and straight down the middle.
Holden bites, already swinging just as the ball breaks and sinks low, kicking up dirt right before landing in my glove.
“Strike three,” the umpire calls.
Holden hangs his head as Grayson punches the air, before stalking around the mound.
Kind of looks like a dog peeing to mark his territory.
I toss the ball to the ump and push my helmet cage up so I can finally wipe the sweat off my forehead.
“Hey, Callahan,” Holden calls just as I turn to head to the dugout.
“Yeah?”
“Grayson is on fire. You didn't need to play any mind games with me to make it impossible to get a hit today.”
“Mind games?”
My thoughts immediately go back to everything that happened today, but they keep getting stuck on that first fucking pitch.
I don't stare at the cover all the time.
Who on earth says shit like that to anyone, let alone the hottest girl to grace the planet?
“Yeah. I couldn't concentrate,” Holden says.
“Welcome to my world.” I pull my helmet off and give him a little bow. “My mom always told me I had the concentration of a goldfish, which is funny because they actually have a really good memory.”
“See, this is it.” He points at me, nodding knowingly. “You've got all these random facts, and after you mentioned penguin knees to me on base in the fourth, I couldn't stop thinking about it. Had to look it up.”
I grin, glad it's not just me that can get so easily distracted. I only mentioned them because I was trying to distract myself from looking over at the section where the golfers are sitting.
“I told you it's weird, right?”
He shivers. “I feel like I've seen impossible things. It can't be comfortable to be in a squat like that all the time.”
“Eh.” I shrug. “They're like me, and I've gotten used to it.”
“Yeah, but catchers are a freak of nature.” He winks, clapping my shoulder as he walks past. “See you later, dude.”
“Holden?” I say just as he starts to walk to his dugout.
He glances at me from over his shoulder.
“Don’t leave before you get Midnight's gift.”
“Midnight?” That makes him stop and turn. “As in my cat?”
I nod. “Got her a little Catfish toy since I haven’t seen her since you were traded in the minors. I miss her and figured she'll need it since she's going to be a regular here in two years.”
Holden barks out a laugh. “The Fish are the last team in the league who'd want me in free agency.”
“Fans are fickle. They'll get over that grand slam in the playoffs that has put us into a three year slump if you're doing it for us. Then they'll start calling you their second coming.”
“Sure,” he says with disbelief before jogging off to the other dugout, leaving me to enjoy one of my favorite meals of the day.
Hot dogs.
The best thing about the stretch.
I get a little sustenance, and I get to talk to my favorite maintenance man...
Only...
Shit.
Larry Marlow.
It’s all fun and games until your handyman bestie is waiting for hot dogs with you, but you're going to have to tell him you mortally offended his daughter.
She didn't even know who I was.
How is that possible when I know everything about this woman, and yet, Larry hasn't mentioned me once.
And now I can see why.
He knew. Whit is high strung and must have known that I would say something to tick her off.
I'm halfway through the tunnel, ready to face my demise, when Max Brennon steps into my path, towering over me. He's not pitching today, but that doesn't make him any less intense.
“Where are you going?” he asks.
I point to the player's lounge through the locker room behind him. “To get my daily dose of hot dog. Want one?”
He tips his chin to the field. “You aren't done. We've got to go back out there.”
“What? Why?” My body is on high alert. The only thing that's been keeping me going through this game is being able to sink my teeth into a delicious dog while humming the theme tune to The Baseball Bachelor. “How am I expected to keep playing without my seventh inning fix?”
He rolls his eyes, grabs my shoulders, and turns me around. Then he pushes me back toward the field.
I plant my feet, putting all my weight into my legs to resist, and it works. Max might be one of the tallest motherfuckers on the team, but I've got density and lower body strength on my side.
“ProAm picks. Before the anthem,” he grits out.
Right. Right. The ProAm that the Catfish are throwing for the players who aren't going to the All-Star Game, which, for the record, I'm not bitter about.
I promise. The All-Star Game is a popularity contest dressed up as a merit system.
I have plenty of merit, but sure, let's send three catchers who hit .
240 instead of the guy who leads the league in framing percentage.
It's fine, and I'm happy about it, since it's the sole reason why my golf crush, Whit Marlow is even here.
Although, the way she looked at me after I essentially told her I drooled over her bikini shots has made me marginally less excited to see her again.
Or Larry. He has no idea that I nearly fell into the cooler when Tate casually mentioned that Larry's daughter is the best female golfer of our generation, Whit Marlow. The man I've been sharing hot dogs with for the last three years produced the greatest creature alive.
Should I be surprised?
No, because Larry is pretty damn awesome.
Suffice it to say, I have no doubts she's eventually going to find out that I lied to her earlier. Tate isn't out for the All-Star Game; he was just doing me a solid by letting me take the pitch since he knows I'm a huge fan.
“Yeah, you're right, let me just–” I slink out of his hands, attempting a ninja move around him, but Max is too agile. He blocks my path to the hot dogs with his alarmingly tall body and piercing green eyes. Damn him.
“Out now. You can get your hot dog later.”
I slump my shoulders.
“Okay.”
That's when I see her through the tunnel opening. Whit Marlow is already back out there, with a ponytail as tight as the fake smile she's rocking. How do I know it's fake? I've seen her real, genuine smile when she won her first LPGA tournament.
She's already standing on the field, waving at the crowd with the rest of the golfers.
As Max and I come into view, her gaze lands on me. I offer her a wide smile, ignoring the fact that she looks like she wants to set me on fire. Her eyes are narrowed as she watches my every step.
Why is it kind of...hot?
Not the point. Moving on.
“Let's go,” Max says, already walking toward the golfers who are on the first base side.
Chip, our long-term broadcaster, is standing in the middle holding a fishbowl with tickets inside. I really hope that was rinsed out because it's usually used to hold empty peanut shells and I don't know if anyone is allergic to nuts.
After lining up on the third base side of the field, Chip goes through the rules as if we were on a dating show... I fucking wish. Although with my luck in love I'd probably end up with our retiring mascot, Captain Cod Almighty. No one wants to end up with that fisherman for longer than needed.
“Whit? Would you like to go first?” Chip asks.
She nods, making her way to the mound, that fake smile plastered onto her face the entire way.
Her posture is straight, her stride is determined, and she approaches the task of reaching into the bowl as someone who intends to dominate, which I'm learning is how she approaches everything, including standing still.
She reaches in. Pulls a card. Looks at it. Her jaw does this thing—this tiny, almost invisible tightening—that only someone who's watched her face with a level of attention that should probably be talked through with someone would see.
I smile without meaning to because she has said everything she needed to without saying a word.
“JB Callahan,” she says into the mic, trying to stop her lip from curling.
This is fate.