Third Base (The Boys of Summer #1) Read online

  Cross goes down swinging, putting me on deck. Up next is Preston Meyers, right fielder and seasoned veteran. His picture flashes on the Jumbo Tron much to the delight of the fans. He’s been a fan favorite for as long as I can remember. He’s been in the league just over ten years and shows no signs of slowing down. I step out onto the track and into the on-deck circle. I adjust and readjust my batting gloves and my helmet before taking my practice swings. Each one is timed with the pitcher.

  Meyers hits a blooper over the short stop’s head, putting him on first. Those hits are bitches and hard to catch. Infielders can’t back pedal fast enough and the outfielders can’t get there in time. I hate them. My name is called as my walkout song plays, Down and Out by Tantric. My picture, along with my stats, is plastered all over the Jumbo Tron and cheers ring out across the stadium. After one year, I feel like this is home…like Boston is home. The fans of Boston treat you as if you’re part of their family. I love walking the streets downtown and running into fans, especially the little ones.

  I’m trying not to look, but my eyes seek her out anyway. She’s looking in my direction, leaning her arms on the dugout in front of her. With one last glance, I step into the batter’s box with one foot, keeping my left out until I’m ready to take the pitch. I adjust my batter’s gloves, step in fully and then adjust the sleeve on my shirt before settling the bat at my shoulder, ready to swing. The first pitch is a ball. I step out, clear the dirt in front of me and readjust my batting gloves. I’m consciously trying not to adjust my cup right now even though it’s sitting slightly awkward. As it is, I’ll be all over the BoRe’s page tomorrow since I gave the third base cutie the ball. I don’t want to read how many times I touched myself too.

  I know I’m swinging as soon as I see the ball. My lower half starts to swing as I keep my eye on the center of the ball. The fast ball is spinning its way to the plate and as soon as I feel my bat connect with the white leather, I’m pushing my swing out. I drop the bat and watch the ball fly deep over left field. Meyers is holding at first, waiting for our first base coach, Shawn Smith, to give him the okay. I’m half way to first when I hear Smith yell, “Home-run!” and the fireworks go off. It doesn’t matter how many times I hear them, I still jump when the first boom happens.

  Smith gives me a high-five as I touch first. My pace is a slow jog as I round each base, getting another high-five when I get to third. I want to look over, but I don’t. Not this time.

  I look at the scoreboard from the on-deck circle. It’s the bottom of the ninth with two outs. Unless we go on some miraculous run, the game is over and we’ve lost, giving us our second loss in a row.

  The Orioles coach calls for a time-out and approaches the mound. This gives Meyers, our right fielder, the opportunity for us to talk. Actually, it gives me the ability to stare at the girl that has held my attention all night. After my home-run, I thought I could focus on the game, but each time I came up to bat, or went out to the field, I was looking to see if she was staring… and she was, which really stroked my ego.

  I meet Meyers half way between the on-deck circle and home plate. Usually, we’d stand back or talk to the third base coach, but there’s no coming back from this defeat. When I reach him I can tell he’s frustrated; we all are. We’re a far better team than what our record shows. Even though it’s still very early, our expectations are much higher and with the road trip coming up, we have got to get out of this funk, fast… before it’s too late.

  “This ump is calling shit.” Meyers kicks the dirt around his feet.

  “Has been all night.” On any given night it’s either in your favor or not. Some umpires come into a game with a chip on their shoulder. They remember everything and they don’t let you forget it. They say once the game is over, it’s over. Umpires don’t feel that way.

  “Play ball!” the umpire yells.

  Meyers goes back to home plate and settles in for what could be his last pitch. If he gets on base, I’m up. If he strikes out, my night is over. I rest my bat on my shoulder and watch - not Meyers, but the girl in the hat. She’s leaning forward, resting her elbows on the dugout. I had every intention of finding an usher during the seventh inning, but lost my nerve. I don’t know how that’d be received if Diamond was to find out, and short of going into the stands the second the game is over, I’m running out of options.

  It’s a swing and foul ball for Meyers, still giving me hope. The girl hasn’t moved and something tells me that she’s focused on me. I should be focused on the game, but I’m not.

  I lean over to the usher who stands by the field and whisper, “There’s a girl in section sixty-five, row c, seat one. I’d like to talk to her after the game.”

  He nods and says something into his really cool CIA walkie-talkie-type thing. When I first arrived, I asked if I could play with it. I was told no. It was a total buzz kill. I asked my agent to get me one, and he told me to grow up… not one of my finer moments.

  Meyers goes down swinging and just like that, the game’s over. We lost three to eight. I wait for him to walk by before returning to the dugout, but not without one last look at the girl in row c. Another usher is walking down the aisle toward her. I climb down the stairs and pause where she can’t see me. The usher approaches her and talks wildly with his hands. She looks around, reaches for her bag and follows him up the steps. I can only hope she’ll be in the lounge when I get there.

  Right now I’m thankful I’m not allowed to give interviews yet because it means I can shower and get upstairs quicker. The reporters call my name, asking about my home-run. They know I’m not allowed to speak with them, but they try anyway. I keep my head down, my classic move after we’ve lost, and rush into the clubhouse. There will be no after-game meeting; Diamond will save that for tomorrow.

  I shower quickly and slip into jeans and a t-shirt. My hair is still wet and dripping down onto my shirt, but I don’t want my third base girl waiting too long. I take the back stairs two at a time and enter the lounge. This is where the wives and girlfriends hang out, and now that I think about it, it’s probably not the best place to have sent her. It’s like vulture prey in here for new girlfriends… not that she’s my girlfriend. I just want to know her name.

  As soon as I enter the hallway, I find her sitting outside the door. She stands up when she hears me coming and keeps her hands behind her back, watching me closely. I come to a halt in front of her and all I can see is the top of her hat. She’s about a foot shorter than me and I like that.

  “I wanted to apologize for giving you the ball.” I keep my hands clasped to avoid the nervous twitch I have. The last thing I want to do is scare her away.

  “Oh… do you want it back?” her voice is soft, sweet and completely Boston. Hearing her speak makes me feel like I have something to look forward to, like I’m home.

  “What? No, I thought I embarrassed you… it’s just…”

  My knees go weak when she looks at me. Her light green eyes are the color of sea glass and she has a dimple that compliments her smile. I find myself wanting to rub my thumb over it so I can feel it.

  “You didn’t embarrass me. It was nice.”

  “What’s your name?” I ask, needing to know because calling her ‘third base girl’ or ‘girl in row c’ isn’t going to cut it.

  “Daisy.”

  Daisy, I repeat in my head so I don’t forget. Daisy… like the flowers that my mother loves.

  “I’m Ethan,” I stupidly tell her, but feel like I should introduce myself. “Wanna get out of here and grab some dinner?”

  She eyes me, and then the ground, making me wait what feels like an eternity for her answer.

  Being a professional athlete affords you some liberties. By liberties I mean I’m invited to A-list parties, I can get into packed nightclubs, reservations that are hard to get suddenly become available when I need them and women… I’ve had no issues getting dates or even the occasional hook-up when I want it. I even have a friend back home that I see d
uring road trips. However, standing here and waiting for an answer on whether she’d like to join me for dinner is killing me slowly. It’s just dinner, which I need to eat, and preferably soon.

  I’m going to assume she’s contemplating what it could be like to leave this building with me. The reporters are likely still outside along with the fans, although, with today’s loss, the latter might have actually gone home instead of celebrating in the pubs across the street.

  “Look,” I say as she raises her head to look at me. I want to rip her hat off so I can see her fully, so I can take in what I’m sure is one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen, but she’s hiding from me. “It’s cool if you don’t want to go to dinner. Technically, I just got off of work and I’m starving so I kind of need to eat.”

  “It’s not that,” her green eyes shimmer even with the harsh overhead lighting. Voices echo down the hall, making my time with her limited. I don’t want to be teased or risk one of the guys making some comment about her that will have her running scared. I lean back slightly to look down the hall. There are three or four teammates at the end that are heading this way.

  “Let me walk you out and you can decide on the way down.” I motion for her to turn around and walk toward the door, keeping my hands clenched in fists and securely in my pocket. I can feel the nerves working overtime, making my fingers twitch like crazy.

  Having a nervous tick could be considered disastrous in the romance department. Anytime I’m nervous, it shows. And has been used against me before. Not to mention, the element of surprise is gone when I’m trying to do something romantic before my damn fingers move on their own accord. The only time they’re calm is when I’m up to bat.

  Daisy picks up her bag and slings it over her shoulder, the strap lying perfectly between her breasts. I shouldn’t stare, but they’re right there and it’s sort of hard not to. I swallow hard and try to think of granny panties and toothless women.

  “Which door leads outside?” I look at her questioningly before pointing to the one on the right-hand side. How she knew there was a door that went directly outside is beyond me, unless she’s been up here before. If I get the opportunity, I’m going to ask her. Plus a slew of other things like: Why is the seat next to her always empty and does she have a boyfriend or not?

  Daisy moves toward the door, and I reach out to push it open, allowing my arm to brush along her side. The hairs on my arm stand up, along with a set of goose bumps for good measure. I’ve only ever felt that once before, and that was with Sarah when we first started dating. Sarah was my high school sweetheart. I went to college in Corvallis, Oregon, she in Seattle, Washington. The distance was four hours, but that’s not what broke us up. It was her schedule and my baseball. Being a sports medicine student takes up a lot of time, and I was focused on baseball. We remain pretty close to this day and see each other when the team travels to Seattle for games.

  When we get to the bottom of the stairs, Daisy pauses. I can’t tell if she’s thinking of an escape plan or thinking about what dinner would be like with me. For all I know, she’s planning dessert, and I have to admit that I wouldn’t be put off by the notion.

  “Are you sure you want to go to dinner with me?”

  I sort of blanch at her with furrowed brows. Did she really just ask that ludicrous question? I asked her to dinner. Clearly I want to go.

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  As she looks down, I follow the general direction of her eyes. Her feet do this odd bendy thing two or three times then stop. She sighs and grabs the strap of her bag. “I’m dressed like a fan,” she says, as if this is an issue for me. I briefly appraise her attire: Skinny jeans, Chucks and a BoRe baseball tee. I happen to think chicks in jerseys or baseball tees are hot, and even more so if I’m interested in them and they’re wearing my name on their backs.

  “I don’t care how you’re dressed. Look at me. My hair is wet and the neck of my shirt is soaked. I don’t have a jacket so I’m going to freeze, yet I really want to take you to dinner. That is, if you want to go.”

  I have never in my life worked so hard for a dinner companion. I’m not saying I’m a smooth talker, but shit, getting her to agree is like taking candy from my three-year-old niece.

  “I’ll go, but on two conditions.”

  “What are those?” I ask, holding back a smile.

  “That we go someplace casual because I look like this, and that we go Dutch. I don’t want this to seem like a date.”

  I pretend to think about her conditions, even though I know I’ll agree to them. I’m not going to force anything on her. I want to spend some time with her so I can figure out why I’m so intent on looking at her during my games. I can’t help but smile, and seeing her smile in return even though she’s shy, gives me a surge of confidence.

  “I have no problem meeting your conditions. Shall we?” I push the door open so she has no other choice but to brush by me. The same feeling I had before is back and I’m not sure how I feel about it. As soon as we’re outside, the cold April air hits me hard. I shiver and pull my phone out of my pocket, bringing up my restaurant app to find the nearest place with minimal waiting. I don’t want to embarrass her by using my status to get us a table, at least not tonight. I think back to her two conditions and settle on Tasty Burger. It’s casual, close and affordable.

  “Do you need to move your car or anything?”

  She shakes her head. “I took the T.”

  I’d like to do that, especially with traffic, but I’d never make it to the ballpark with all the fans on the train. It’d be fun to ride for the day though.

  It doesn’t take us long to get to where we’re going. Being the gentleman that I am, I open the door for her, this time standing back so she can walk in without touching me. I don’t want her to think I’m doing that on purpose, even though I am. I follow her to the counter and keep my head down slightly. She orders and pays, stepping aside for me to order. I never fully look at the cashier until it’s time to pay.

  The cashier’s eyes gleam as she hangs on every word that I say. Her dream like state is comical and is the same expression she has when any of us walk in to order.

  I reach into my back pocket, and then my other, feeling around for my wallet. Shit. I left it in my locker. I search my front pocket, hoping for a credit card or at least a twenty dollar bill. I have nothing.

  “Shit,” I mumble, running my fingers through my now cold hair. “Um…” I look at Daisy, who is shaking her head. “I’ll be right back,” I tell her and the clerk. I can make it to the stadium and back in under ten minutes if I run.

  “Wait.” Daisy reaches out and grabs a hold of my wrist. I freeze mid-step and look down at where her hand is gripping my arm. My arm turns warm and my heart speeds up. The longer I let her hold onto me, the warmer I get. The heat is radiating up my arm and weighing on me like a ton of bricks. I should pull away, but I’m enjoying the way I feel right now.

  “I can pay for you,” she says, as if it’s no big deal. Except it is to me and I feel like a complete shit for forgetting my wallet.

  “No, Daisy. I’ll be right back.”

  “Ethan, please.” The way my name rolls off her lips sends shock-waves right to my groin. I moan internally, trying to keep the thoughts of her spread out on my blue sheets, out of my mind. I have to tell myself she’s not a conquest, but someone I’ve been eye-flirting with.

  “Okay, but breakfast is on me.”

  She narrows her eyes as she lets go of my arm and I realize my blunder almost immediately. I didn’t mean it like that although I’m not opposed to taking her back to my place. However, the look on her face tells me she’s on lock down and I just blew any chance I had.

  I decide to let her wait for our food while I gather the necessities and find us a spot in the back. This isn’t a big place by any means, but sitting in the back makes me feel a bit more comfortable. It means there are less people to walk by and ask me for an autograph.

  My phone
chimes and I pull it out to see my Twitter notifications going crazy. I don’t even want to know what they say, but my curiosity gets the best of me as it typically does each and every time.

  Lisa @LisaBst – 3m

  @TheRealEthanD is at Tasty Burger with a date!!

  The amount of retweets and comments are ridiculous. I’m thankful there isn’t a picture of Daisy because I’ve already embarrassed her enough, but this is sure to make the BoRe’s blog report tomorrow. I don’t even want to imagine what the headline will be. This is the last thing I wanted, especially for Daisy, and can only hope she’s not following me on Twitter. Before I can even pocket my phone, the tweet from the BoRe blogger shows up.

  BoRe Blogger @BoReRenBlog – 15sec

  @TheRealEthanD care to offer a statement?

  EDavenport @TheRealEthanD – 5 sec

  @BoReRenBlog call my agent!

  I pocket my phone when Daisy sets the tray down on the table. She sits across from me, but doesn’t look up to meet my eyes. I pick up a few fries and stuff them in my mouth.

  “About my breakfast comment, I didn’t mean it like that.”

  Daisy looks up and I can’t tell if I’m hurting her more or not. I shake my head and put my hands up.

  “I’m going to blunt, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Here goes… I’ve been watching you for a while. You wear the same couple of outfits to every game. You have killer seats, but you always sit alone. I’ve seen you look at me and I’ve thought about talking to you many times. Today, I finally grew a set and asked you… sort of. My comment up there, you can take it either way because I’m game for both. I didn’t expect you to pay for my dinner so I owe you something in return. I said breakfast because it’s the next meal, unless you count ice cream, but it’s too damn cold for ice cream. If you want to think I’m asking you to come back to my place, you can think that too because I think you’re fucking beautiful and I really want to get to know you better. And if we did that tonight, it’d lead, once again, to– the next meal of the day – breakfast.”