Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 61180 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 306(@200wpm)___ 245(@250wpm)___ 204(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61180 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 306(@200wpm)___ 245(@250wpm)___ 204(@300wpm)
The second baseman for the Dragons scoffs as we grab cushy seats in the third row of the team plane. “You wish. I’ve got that title locked up.”
Flopping down in the aisle seat, I say, “May I introduce you to my killer stats this season?”
“Yes, they can meet mine. Equally as good.”
I shoot him a doubtful look. “Are they, though? If memory serves, a .321 batting average is still higher than .318.”
He raises two fingers. “Two more homers, man. Two.”
I wave dismissively. “I’ll catch up by season’s end.”
“Want to lay a wager on that? A fancy dinner out with our SOs is on the man with less dingers,” he says, and I laugh at his shorthand for significant others. I laugh too, because it never ceases to amuse me that my double-play partner and I are dating a pair of best friends in Reese and Grant, and we all love to go on double dates.
I stroke my chin. “I hope you can afford my extravagant taste.”
“I guess we’ll see who’s cracking open the wallet in November. Now, back to my question—is it true? About tomorrow night?”
My eyebrow lifts in curiosity. “What do you mean?”
“I hear that Reese and Grant are adding a dance-off contest to the festivities.”
I shudder. Visibly.
Holden laughs. “C’mon, man. It won’t be that bad.”
With a sigh, I close my eyes, rest my head against the back of the seat. The damn club. I’m dreading it more than a grown man who hates dancing should. That’s because it’s not even about dancing. It’s the crowd—places like that remind me of my tougher times when I was younger, moments best left behind. But when I agreed to go, I was high on the thrill of getting back together with Grant, intoxicated by the promise of an us again. Now that the date is marching near, I wish I had the cojones to say, hey babe, can we just grab some sushi at that place around the corner? Or better yet, how about we go to The Lazy Hammock, have a not-drink at a table in the corner, just you and me, then go home alone? But I told Grant those things because I don’t want to hurt his feelings. He’s a social butterfly, and he’s been wanting this for months.
“Fun? Will it be fun?” I ask, a little heavily.
Smacking my arm, Holden cracks up. “They’re not really planning a dance-off. I just wanted to fuck with you.” He stops laughing, though, studying my expression intently. “You really don’t like dancing, huh?”
How do I answer that? Or really, how do I answer that without sounding like a complete asshat who’s afraid to shake his hips in public?
I’m a goddamn professional athlete.
I make a living from my body—moving it, using it to its fullest. People watch me run to first, slide into second, dive for scorching line drives. I make statements to the media. I play on national television before millions.
Yet I don’t want to dance with my boyfriend in front of friends or strangers at a club. The thought of grinding, pressing, swaying under strobe lights makes me want to shut down and climb into a dark box.
“Dancing has never been my thing. I hated high school dances. I feel like everyone’s laughing at how badly I move,” I say, but quickly tack on, “But I like spending time with Grant and making him happy, so I’ll go. Gotta make your person happy, right?”
My teammate smiles, bright and warm. “You definitely do. Reese can’t wait, and I have to say, I’m stoked to take her.”
I wish I felt the same.
3
Grant
This is my favorite part of work—when I look up at the scoreboard, see my name, and it says I’ve gone three for three. Or hit a homer. Or knocked in a couple runs.
The flip side of that is seeing a giant goose-egg next to my name. That’s what I’m looking at today—a big, fat zero for every freaking at-bat. We lost the last two games of this series against the Coyotes, and I’d like to salvage our final shot.
It’s the bottom of the ninth, we’re down by two runs, and I step into the box. We have a runner on first, so if I can get the job done, the Cougars have a chance to tie the score.
I laser in on the pitcher, shoving everything else aside. The pitcher lobs a juicy curveball, and I lunge for it, going deep, I’m sure. It arcs along the first baseline straight out to right field, and I swear on my love for James Bond that it’s going to land in the stands and tie the score for us.
But it’s a foul ball.
Thrumming with irritation, I return to the plate, where I take some deep breaths and a few cuts. When I’m focused again, I step into the box and wait for my pitch. The man on the mound serves up another curveball, and I go for it once more. This time, I miss it entirely, swinging through and coming up empty.