Baseball Blues

Ravenous Romance
www.ravenousromance.com

Copyright ©2009 by Ravenous Romance

First published in 2009, 2009

Baseball Blues

Copyright © 2008 by Cecilia Tan

Ravenous Romance™

100 Cummings Center

Suite 125G

Beverly, MA 01915

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission from the publisher, except by reviewers who may quote brief excerpts in connection with a review.

ISBN-13: 978-1-60777-049-7

This book is a work of fiction, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

When I saw him at the door, I thought it was my imagination.

Everyone tells me I'm obsessed with baseball and my hometown team. They're right, of course. If Moose Gallagher is pitching that night, I'll set my alarm that morning for 8:35 because he's number thirty-five. I microwave my coffee for 3:12 instead of three minutes because it's three hundred and twelve feet to the left field foul pole from home plate.

So I was pretty pissed when my boss called to tell me I had to work that night. “No way, Charlie,” I told him. “It's a Thursday. You don't need me. And the White Sox are in town."

"It's a zoo in here,” Charlie said, and I could hear a lot of noise through the phone. “And Stella called in sick."

"What about Charise?"

"Stuck with her kids. Come on, Mel, I need you."

"You know we're playing the White Sox tonight,” I reminded him again. I had plans to cozy up with my HD TV.

I could hear him blowing air out of the side of his mouth. “I'll buy you tickets to tomorrow night's game."

I was already getting my uniform out of the closet, but I couldn't let him off too easy. “I think that game's sold out. Besides, aren't I working tomorrow?"

"I've got tickets,” he said, and I could hear the cringe in his voice. “Box seats. They're yours. I'll work your shift."

Charlie must have been desperate. He's the biggest fan I know, next to me. The restaurant biz is hell on us—we're always working during games. I try to work the lunch shift as much as possible during baseball season, but it didn't always work out. Like that night.

So I grabbed my uniform.

Charlie did not lie, it was a zoo. I was so busy with orders I didn't even get a minute to stand by the radio in the kitchen to find out the score.

Still, it must have been some time after nine when this guy who looked exactly like our second baseman came into Charlie's. I thought it had to be either uncanny resemblance or my imagination, because the game was still in progress. But no, Mac Donahue was standing there, alone.

I'd always heard he lived somewhere in the city, but I'd never actually seen him on the street. A friend of mine saw him on the subway one night after a game, right there on the platform. And now, there he was.

I pulled the heavy, leather-covered menu out of its holder at the hostess stand. “Just one?” I said, trying to keep the excitement out of my voice. Especially since he was wearing such a long face.

"Just one,” he answered. A little smile tried to peek out at me, but he looked troubled.

"Follow me, please.” Fortunately I had a table for two in the back, up two steps and behind the polished brass rail. He took the seat against the wall and then the menu from my hand. “Do you want to start with something from the bar?"

He shook his head.

"I'll be back in a little bit,” I told him. “It's kind of hairy in here tonight."

"Tough night all around,” he said, but he didn't seem to say it to me, or anyone in particular, and I was dying to know what he meant. Then he looked right at me and said, “No rush."

I didn't often hear his voice on TV. I guess I had forgotten he was from Texas, but he had that very soft, high drawl—a lot like an old lover of mine, now that I thought about it.

When I came back to the table, it wasn't as much later as it might have been. But come on, did you think I was going to let a famous ballplayer sit there for too long, and maybe walk out? Charlie'd never forgive me. I hadn't told him “Donny” was there yet, either—Charlie was swamped at the bar.

I took a deep breath as I approached the table. He was staring into space when I said, “Do you know what you'd like?"

He looked up and there was that almost-smile again. He looked like he was going to answer the question with an unusual remark, but maybe that was my imagination again. I could just imagine him saying something like, “Yeah, I'd like to kiss you.” Or something. But he took a deep breath and said, “Could I have another minute?"

"Sure, take whatever you need,” I said. Did I mean that the way it sounded? Yeah, probably.

"I know you're kind of busy tonight,” he said, that soft-spoken Texas voice again.

"Don't you worry about it. It'll be slowing down around now.” Fortunately, it really was. “Can I bring you a club soda or something while you think about it?"

Then he really did smile. “All right."

I smiled right back and went straight to the bar.

"What do you mean, Donahue's sitting in there?” Charlie said.

"I'm telling you it's him."

"He's playing a game right now."

"He's sitting in there waiting for a club soda."

Charlie shook his head but thrust the gun into the tumbler and then slid it over to me on a napkin. He put a little sword through a lime wedge and dropped it in among the ice with a straw.

When I put it down in front of Donny, he looked up with a cheerful mask on his face.

"Do you have any questions about the menu?” I asked. “I mean, about ingredients or anything? Because I can always check with the chef, if you want. But I can answer most questions myself.” I was talking way too much, and I knew it. But come on,
Mac Donahue!
“Because I know you're careful about what you eat."

I'd talked right through his mask and he now just looked kind of puzzled. “How'd you know that?"

"Read it in the paper.” I fiddled with my pen. “Did you want to order?"

He smiled but shaking his head as he looked down. “I haven't got much appetite tonight."

I thought my heart was going to break. I knew something was wrong. I knew he must have left the game early for a reason, and that he didn't want to go home and be alone, which was why he was in a restaurant when he wasn't hungry and his team was still on the field. My first thought was that maybe his father had passed away—I'd read in the paper that he was ailing—but I didn't think it likely he'd leave the field for that. The papers were always full of stories of guys who went out and played their best game while their dad was on his deathbed and things like that.

And let's face it, I was nosy. I had to know.

I sat down in the chair across from him. “Honey, you gotta eat. No matter what it is that's bugging you, an empty stomach can't make it better.” He looked at me like he was trying to make sense of what I was saying. The track lights above him glinted off his eyelashes and the sun-lightened streaks in his hair. “I can get you a nice lean chicken breast with broccoli on the side, just a little polenta, low in carbohydrates and fat...?"

He laughed in spite of himself. “All right. You're the boss.” He slid the menu across to me and I enjoyed sitting there an extra half-second before I hopped up to put his order in.

At the kitchen I grilled the sous chef on the game and found out Donny had committed three serious errors and took himself out of the game. Now, if you're not a baseball fan, maybe you don't know what it means. You see basketball players miss jump shots all the time. Football is full of incomplete plays. But baseball, it ain't like that. Three errors in one game, especially three throwing errors, is kind of like a sprinter falling on his face three times during a race. Donny had been error-prone ever since he came to the city. He won a Gold Glove when he was a rookie, but since he'd come to town, it had been downright embarrassing at times.

If I had to make a guess, I would have said his problem was all mental, all self-consciousness. But I wasn't about to tell him that when I brought him his chicken. By then, the place was emptying out, but I was out of things to say to him. The last thing I was going to say was something like, “Buck up” or “Everyone has their off nights.” I put the plate down in front of him and then found myself just standing there.

I was thinking to myself,
Anything else I can get for you, Mr. Donahue?
and
Would you like a refill on your club soda?
but I couldn't seem to say anything. I just stood there.

He just looked back at me.

Then my mouth opened. “Eat that up, honey, and I'll be back to check on you later."

"All right,” he said, cocking his head to look at me, then picking up his fork.

I went back and totted up the other checks I had open, brought coffee to the cute couple in the front window, and told Charlie I was punching out.

When I got back to Donny's table, he had eaten about half of everything, and drained both his water glass and the club soda.

"Finished?” I asked.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Then it's time to get out of here.” I draped my apron over the back of the empty chair.

He raised an eyebrow. “What about my check?"

"I lost it. Come on.” I held out my hand.

He cracked a small smile and then took it.

I dragged him straight back to my apartment. He was quiet the whole walk there, but he held on to my hand. As I opened the deadbolt, a bunch of apologies about how small the place was and what a mess it was came to my mind. But I kept them to myself.

Once I had shut the door, I hung my purse on the knob as always—harder to forget it that way. When I turned around, he was looking curiously at the framed photos on the shelf above the TV.

There was one of me and my Dad decked out in fan paraphernalia, in authentic jerseys and caps, taken on a spring training trip to Florida. “That was two years ago,” I said. “Your first year.” I came up behind him and hugged him around the waist. “Me and my Dad."

"Is he a big fan?"

"He was. He passed on a little after that."

"I'm sorry."

"It's all right. He lived to see the World Series win.” I meant to say it more jokingly, but it just came out quietly. “But it's time to stop thinking about baseball now."

I turned him around to face me. He put his arms around my shoulders, a serious look on his face.

"You said I'm the boss,” I reminded him. And kissed him. He kissed back.

"Take off your clothes,” I said into his ear. I took a step back. “Don't dawdle, now."

He looked left and then right before undoing his fly—as I had guessed, too self-conscious. I unbuttoned my own shirt to distract him. When we got down to underwear, he hesitated until I slipped my panties off. Then he followed suit.

"Lie down.” When I said my apartment was small, I meant it. We were standing in the “living room” but the bedroom was really just an alcove, the window overlooking the street. He lay back on the bed looking at me, curiously.

I sat on the edge of the bed and rummaged in the night stand a bit. “My name's Melanie,” I told him. “You can call me Mel.” I pulled the blindfold out of the drawer. “Sit up a minute."

I tied it on him and he didn't protest. That's why I told him my name—guys will use your name when they are having a problem with something. He didn't say a word as I tightened the blindfold behind his head. I almost told him about that Dodgers second baseman—what was his name?—who had throwing problems. They blindfolded him and fed him balls and he was able to nail first base every time, even with the blindfold on, yet he kept blowing the throw in games. I decided against telling him. It was time to forget baseball, remember?

I lowered him back onto the bed and climbed over him. I took a scrap of rabbit fur from under the pillow and started to rub his shoulders with it, then his pecs and stomach. I polished his nipples and ran it down the sides of his legs. He was half erect already when I started and as I worked my way slowly up the insides of his thighs, he came to attention. I dragged the soft fur over the protrusion and he moaned. I let the fur wash back and forth over him a few times, then left it tented on his pole while I tickled him under the balls.

He pulled his legs in reflexively and I slapped him on the inside of his thigh. “Ow!” he said, more surprised than hurt.

"You okay, Donny?” I asked.

"Yeah,” he replied, clearing his throat.