Love's Learning Curve (27 page)

It takes an army of octopuses to pull me off him.  I swear I feel ninety-six arms yanking at me.  When I can finally stand on my own still with arms stretching out to collectively build a wall between Bobby and me, Allen Davis, the head coach of the team, and Scott, each take hold of my arms and forcefully push me from the dugout toward the offices adjoining the locker room.

The little come to Jesus meeting with the two of them was what it was.  I didn’t even try to make excuses or defend myself.  I was ordered to go home and get some rest.  Obviously, dinner with Scott is off for tonight since I’m not in a celebrating kinda mood.

Rest!  Take a damn breather.
 

Advice of the damn century.  I haven’t slept well in two nights.  Even now, exhausted and in a terrible mood as I’m leaving the park, I don’t foresee any rest or a breather in my future.

I checked my phone again for a text from Charlie before I left the field.  Nothing since the morning.  The fact that we aren’t avoiding each other should comfort me.  We talk a couple of times a day and text a bunch, but she’s so damn close I could touch her, and we haven’t found even ten minutes to align our schedules in the past three days.

Tonight is her dad’s party.  I know it is because her dad invited me in the post I made on Facebook, tagging his official campaign page.  It’s been over a week since the invite from the governor was extended, and my buttercup, his daughter, hasn’t mentioned a damn word.  I took that as her not wanting me to go, and I was okay with it, until I wasn’t.  This morning, when I woke up to that being the hot topic on every local news station and a ton of national television and radio stations, I figured out I wasn’t just
okay
with it.

I see the tall figure approaching me and swear under my breath.  Could this day get any fucking worse?

“Tyler Stone, you’re a tough guy to track down.  I’ve been trying to grab you for an interview since Sunday,” she says confidently, assuming she’ll get what she wants since I have very few places to retreat to without being rude.  She knows as well as I do that I avoid her and all other reporters like the plague.  Jessica Christy and I have been doing this song and dance for a couple of years.

“I saw you close out the game Sunday night.  Nice work.  It’s no wonder you’re a top prospect for the draft.”  Her voice is recognizably flirty which isn’t helping her right now given the current circumstances and my mood.

“Ha.  You already know there was no question in there, ma’am.  So what can I help you with because I’m short on time here.”  It comes out a little more assertively than I’d planned, but she doesn’t seem ruffled.  I’m sure being who she is and stalking players for interviews, she’s heard worse.  She’s a beautiful lady.  I’d go as far as to label her hot, but I’m not interested in what she’s offering, and I certainly don’t sleep with the press.

“It just so happens, I do have some questions you can help me with.”  She pauses, stepping closer to me.  I mimic her movement by stepping further away.  One brow shoots up before she continues.  “At the last home game, you were spotted blowing kisses in the stand to none other than Charlotte Baker, daughter of the governor, and soon-to-be-announced presidential hopeful.  Are the two of you an item?”

No fucking way!  This is what she wants from me?  ESPN just reported speculating I’m in the top five of MLB draft prospects, which she knows about because she mentioned it, and she wants to discuss blowing kisses?

It’s not as if I can avoid answering the questions.  I’m locked in here, but I’ll be damned if I’ll let Charlie be dragged through the press on my behalf when she’s already dealing with that with her family.

Being as vague as possible, I tell her, “Charlotte is someone I value a great deal in my personal life.  But right now, my focus is one hundred percent on the field and working with my teammates to make a successful season end.  As I've said before, baseball owns my heart. I don’t have a lot of space or time in my life for anything beyond that.”

The devious grin on her face grows.  “College women everywhere will breathe a sigh of relief and cheer that baseball’s most eligible bachelor and top five MLB draft prospect, claims to remain single and hasn't been swept off his feet.  It'll happen eventually, Ty.  I sure hope I'm still around to report the news when it happens.”  Her laugh is a little too bold following her comment.  It leaves me feeling a bit uneasy with her assumptions that she actually knows something legit and is trying to get me to fold and tell-all.  Not happening.  I don’t kiss and tell.

Returning the laugh with a side of my own evil, I reply.  “Don't hold your breath on that, Jessica.  I don't see that in my future.  The only long-term commitment anyone will see in my future is with this sport.  Have a nice day, ma’am,” I say as I turn and speed walk to my truck.  I start it and get the hell out of there as fast as I can to head home for my ordered rest and breather
.
 

“Four hours.  Are we kidding?  That was torture,” I complain to Morgan as we walk to her car from the spa we’ve been at for far longer than I thought was reasonable.  Now here I am, all dolled up.  My hair is styled just the way my mother wanted it and the same with my makeup.  Hanging in the back of Morgan’s car is the garment bag with the dress I’ve been told to wear tonight.  Ugh. 

 “That was a glorious day, Char.  You’re so bitter.  I don’t think you could figure out how to relax if a manual was written just for you.  Your mom may be crazy, but her pampering game is strong, and I totally approve.”   Morgan probably should have been Sandra Baker’s daughter.  Clearly, she’s a better fit.

“Whatever.  I can definitely relax under different circumstances, and you know it.” I glance her way, extra annoyed with her exuberant cheerfulness and constant praising of my mother today.  Morgan’s been acting a little bitchy since the car ride this afternoon.  She’s perfectly happy with me when I do exactly what she thinks is best, but if I stray from that at all, she can be very catty.  I’m used to it, but her little digs do hurt more than I show or care to admit.

I’ve been in a terrible mood all day today.  I’m frustrated I’m not at Children’s Hospital setting up for Maisey Taylor’s ninth birthday party and celebrating the PET scan results that indicated she’s still cancer-free.  On top of that, I have a paper due soon that I’d much prefer to fine tune.  Then the obvious fact that I look like a pageant queen with caked-on layers of makeup and stiff, crunchy hair from all the product they used. 

I haven’t seen Ty in two days, which also isn’t helping.  Between his practice schedule and my classes, study sessions, sorority meeting, and working on my paper, there’s been no time.  He’s asked every day for just a few minutes, and it killed me to tell him there weren’t any.  Our call this morning was brief, and I haven’t text him since because the day just seemed to slip away from me. 

Now, we’re headed to the convention center where we’ll have just a few minutes to change and take a breath before the party starts and my father announces what everyone in the country already knows.  The media will be swarming tonight.  The campaign manager prepped us all on how to answer questions from the press, but I’m hoping they won’t ask me anything.  I’m already sick of the hoopla, and it’s just starting. 

More lies.

When my father is announced with his
perfect
family, we walk into the packed ballroom to loud applause, camera flashes, and bright lights.  The pace we take behind my father walking into the mass of people is very slow.  Shaking hands and smiling, I lie confirming over and over to the strangers how proud I am of ‘my daddy.’ 

Thankfully, I approved of the dress my mother’s stylist had selected for me.  It’s a navy blue fitted lace dress with
three-quarter sleeves and a scalloped hem to my knees.  It’s actually quite perfect, and something I’d gladly wear again, but my mother was not as thrilled.  To her disappointment, it looked a lot better on the model than it does on me, but she and I both know I’ll never meet her standards.

We finally reach the stage with a couple of dozen people standing in front of the chairs to applaud my father’s arrival.  Behind the podium just to the left are three empty chairs reserved for us.  The stage lights are blinding as we stand on stage unspeaking, smiling to the crowd and waving.  My face physically hurts from this fake smile, and we’ve only been in the room less than thirty minutes.  Please, for the love of God, I hope this night goes by quickly.

The speeches are over, and we’re mingling around the room.  Countdown to leave—two more hours.  Morgan has stayed close to my mother’s side in an effort to be a buffer between the two of us, but I hate it because now I have no escape person.

I passively stand at my mother’s side in the semi-circle that’s formed around her.  I attempt to avoid engaging in the conversation she’s having with Morgan, her mother, and a few others while just nodding and smiling at the appropriate times.  Morgan glances over at me, and I see a slight twitch before her gaze moves just over my left shoulder.  Not wanting to bring obvious attention to look back to see what’s caught her attention, I wait hoping to see a hint in her demeanor.