Third Base (The Boys of Summer Book 1) (3 page)

“Don’t strike me out later, okay?”

“No promises, Davenport.”

Shaw walks with me to third before he trots off to catch up with the other pitchers heading to the bullpen. Before I take my first grounder, I look back just once to catch her staring. Maybe I should ask an usher to bring her to the lounge after the game, or ask the front office who owns those seats. However, asking the front office either means waiting another day or waiting until I get the nerve up to go in there. I make a mental note to grab an usher during the seventh inning stretch. There’s a good chance she’ll blow me off, but I won’t know until I try.

The first to bat for the Orioles is a lefty. I’m poised and ready for anything that comes my way. He swings, undercutting the ball, which flies up high in foul territory. I take three steps forward and four to the side, waving my hands to let everyone know I’ve got this. The ball lands in the pocket and my right hand comes over automatically, closing my glove. I take the ball out of my glove and instead of throwing it to Jasper Jacobsen, our catcher who is waiting for it I toss it into the stands at the girl who has caught my attention. She yelps in surprise, but snatches it like a pro. I wink and motion to Kidd that we have one out, even though I know he’s aware of that fact.

I’m trying not to pay attention to what’s going on around me, but as soon as I catch a glimpse of a replay of me throwing the ball to the girl on the Jumbo Tron, I stop and watch. When the camera focuses on her face, I find myself trying to memorize her features so that when I see her later tonight, hopefully, I won’t get caught staring. From what I can see, even with her hat pulled down, she’s beautiful, and seeing her getting shy on screen just tells me that I need to know her.

When the inning is over, Kidd runs by me, slapping me on the ass. “You better hope she’s a penis lover,” he says, laughing all the way into the dugout. I don’t have time to mess around with him or listen to the other guys giving me shit about what I did. Besides, it’s not like they’ve never thrown a ball into the stands. So what if I purposely aimed it at a female, who also happens to be cute? In my defense, I didn’t know she was pretty until after I gave her the ball. I did it because she was staring at me and I wanted the reaction. Now, I’ve got it.

Our first and third base coaches head out to the field just as the Orioles pitcher finishes his warm-up. Up first is Kayden Cross, six year starter and first baseman. He’s recently come out of a broken engagement that has hit him fairly hard. He’s a good example of someone who can’t separate his personal life from work. They had met in the front office and after they got serious, she quit. I guess she didn’t like being taken care of because she took a job in California before breaking it off with him. This happened during spring training while we were in Florida. When he came home, she was gone.

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.

B
eing 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 during 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.