Rounding Third

C
opyright
© 2016 by Michelle Lynn

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in whole or in part by any means.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events portrayed in this book are the product of the author’s imagination or are either fictitious or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Editor: Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing,
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Proofread (First Round): Ultra Editing Co.

Proofread (Second Round): Behind the Writer

Cover Design: Perfect Pear Creative Covers

Visit my website at
www.michellelynnbooks.com

I
’m back
.

A thrilling and exhilarating rupture of pure pleasure ignites through me as the ball sails over the fence line. I circle the bases while my teammates crowd home plate to congratulate me on my twentieth home run for the year.

My eyes seek out Gus in the stands, a scout who’s been following me for two years. Gus is my angel. He’s kept tabs on me since I pushed aside my scholarship to Vanderbilt to play ball at Millcreek Junior College. Our smiles could compete for whose is wider because we both know what my killer game tonight means—I’m in.

The person who holds my future is seated right next to Gus. The short-statured Bud Lipton is the head coach for the Ridgemont Tigers Division One baseball team. He might not be smiling like Gus, but his signature curt nod in my direction speaks more than a cheesy smile. It says the third baseman spot is mine.

My throat locks up as I think of seeing two familiar faces on the Ridgemont campus, but I need to “face my past in order to soar toward my future”. Words of my preacher father, not me.

On my way back to the dugout, my eyes cast down to the dirt to stop the haunted memories of
her
jumping up and down with every one of my home runs in high school. Her long brown hair, pulled tight in a ponytail, would swing back and forth as her breasts jiggled under her
I Love My Ballplayer
T-shirt. Her blue eyes would reveal everything she felt, including heartbreak. The choking sensation grows tighter with the assurance that I’ll be close to her again, but my father’s advice rings in my ears once more. I’ve let the past dictate enough of my future. The time has come for me to face my mistakes and claim my girl.

We win the game, eight to two, mostly due to me. I’m not bragging, only stating a fact.

I’m out of the shower, wrapping my towel around my waist, when Coach Fritz calls me into his office. Tossing on a T-shirt and a pair of shorts, I pad into his office, noticing Coach Lipton and Gus seated in the small space. I inhale my last breath as a starved man. This is my moment to feast on my future. The moment that I should have claimed as mine my freshman year of college, has arrived.

“Crosby,” Coach Fritz starts talking.

My mind is running in overdrive.

“You know Gus, and this is Coach Lipton from Ridgemont.” He points to the two men in front of him, as though I don’t know who the all-star player turned coach of division one champs, two years running, is.

Coach Lipton stands, holding his hand out. “Lynch, we’re impressed.” His face is stone-cold, showing no signs of being impressed.

Was it my hitting, my fielding, or my ability to erupt from a mound of ashes with a few stubborn embers that continue to glow?

Needless to say, my past follows me, and everyone’s familiar with the story of the kid who held his dreams in the palms of his hands, only to demolish his future before he had the chance to claim it.

I shake his hand. “Thank you, sir.”

He stuffs his hands into his pockets, his lips not wavering from their firm line.

“When Gus suggested I come down here”—his eyes search the room for some recognition to which small town he’s in, and he quickly finds the name of our junior college printed behind Coach Fritz’s desk—“to Millcreek, I thought he was crazy. But, when he told me it was to see Crosby Lynch, how could I pass that up? You’ve been a mystery to me, boy.”

I take a deep breath, pushing back the emotions wanting to flood out. “Thank you for making the trip,” I comment to veer this conversation in any direction other than my past.

“Pleasure is mine. Let’s cut the bullshit. You know you have a spot. I know you have a spot. Our third baseman, Mike Ripley, signed a contract with the Cardinals, so you need to report to campus by the third week in August. The team captain, Braxton Brentwood, will contact you about lodging. See you on the field September fourth.” He curtly nods his head and strolls out of the room.

“Thank you, Coach,” I call out before inhaling oxygen, finally able to fill my lungs.

Then, the name of the captain echoes in my head. Brax is the team captain? I knew I’d be facing him if Ridgemont took me. But as captain? No fucking way. My gut twists, as I know we’ll be a surprise to one another. He tried to keep our friendship intact, tried to release my pain with alcohol and girls, but he gave up. I haven’t talked to him in a year and a half.

Gus eagerly jumps to his feet, shakes Coach Fritz’s hand, and comes over to me. “This is everything you’ve been striving for. Don’t fuck it up.” Then, he follows Lipton out the door.

I release a long, steady stream of air.

The opportunity to play for the Tigers is everything I’ve been working for. The problem is, once you get a taste of one thing, you can’t help but want more. And Ella is my more.

“I’m proud of you, Lynch. Good luck up in Ridgemont.”

I stand on the opposite side of Coach Fritz’s desk. He’s the man who gave me my first opportunity. During my entire freshman year, the man dealt with my incompetence, my lateness, and my don’t-give-a-shit attitude. He hammered me into place and made me the ballplayer I am today.

“I cannot thank you enough for the opportunity to play for you, Coach.”

He waves me off, never one to accept a thank-you.

The chairs behind me could belong to a psychologist, considering all the players who fill them on a weekly basis. His open-door policy, his willingness to hear all our problems, is the reason he’s not a Division One coach and instead stuck in this small junior college, but I’m not sure he’d prefer it any other way.

“We were lucky to have you for the short time. You were never meant to be in the junior leagues.” His fingertips press to the desk, and his body stiffens. “Listen to me, Crosby. Your eyes need to be on the future. No distractions. Braxton was your high school friend, and your girl attends Ridgemont as well, but your focus needs to be on your career after college. I’ve never coached someone as teachable as you. You have a naturalness that not many are born with.”

I shake his hand. “I promise. Eyes ahead.”

I walk out of my coach’s office for the last time as a Millcreek Spartan and on my way to becoming a Ridgemont Tiger. I wish I were more excited, but that knot in my stomach and the vision of her eyes almost scare me enough to make me pass up the best opportunity I’ve had in two years. Almost.

* * *

M
y beat
-up Chevy pickup pulls up to the baseball house after a long two-day drive.

Brax decided to text me the address instead of opting to call. Not that I minded because I’m sure both of us feel the awkwardness of our situation.

Currently, I’m parked in front of the house that resembles a shack hit by a wicked thunderstorm. Windows are open with curtains flying out of the top ones. Littered across the front porch are beer cans, red Solo cups, and cigarette butts.

What the hell have I gotten myself into?

“Just go in,” my little brother, Spencer, says next to me.

For a moment, I forgot he was here.

“I literally feel my stomach twisting.” My teeth scrape along my bottom lip, and suddenly, facing my past seems like the most moronic thought I’ve had. “I haven’t talked to Brax in a long time,” I admit.

But my brother already knows that. He’s been my constant through the years. The one who’s been there for me. My best friend, if I ever accepted another one.

“Hey, remember Dad. Eyes ahead.” He opens the door, leaving me no choice but to man up and deal with my shit.

I climb out of the truck, and I swing my duffel bag over my shoulder, kicking beer cans off the littered pathway the entire way to the porch. The door flies open before I can press the doorbell, and a cute redhead stops. She’s curvy and sexy, in a pin-up model type of way. Her eyes light up, like she’s been starving for weeks and I’m her next meal, and her tongue licks her bottom lip.

“Fresh meat.” Her eyes give me another once-over. “Go Tigers.” She raises her fist in the air, making her shirt rise, allowing Spencer and me to catch a glimpse of her underlying tit. She circles around us, smacking Spencer on the ass and saunters down the stairs.

“Fuck, I wish I had followed in your footsteps with baseball.” He pretends to fall against the side of the house with his hand clasped over his heart. “You have the opportunity to nail a ton of pussy.”

“There’s only one I’m concerned with.”

“Eyes ahead,” he murmurs and steps into the house.

Again, my brother is my biggest confidant, and he’s probably equally as terrified as I am about me coming into contact with Ella again.

“Well, well, you must be our new third base.” A guy with a long dark beard and track pants hanging off his hips enters the living room.

If I had to guess, the redhead is his.

“Don’t mind the beard. It’ll be gone starting hell week.” He holds his hand out to me. “Oliver, first base.”

“Crosby. Nice to meet you.”

My brother clears his throat next to me, and Oliver’s eyes glance over.

“This is my brother, Spencer. He’s an incoming freshman.”

Oliver’s outstretched arm moves from me to him. “Hey. You hang around here, and you’ll have a killer freshman year.” He winks. “The rest of the guys are out. You’re at the top of the stairs, second on the right. You share a bathroom with Brax.”

“Thanks, man.” I walk toward the staircase.

“Hey, if you need anything, ask.” His genuine smile peeks through his chaotic facial hair.

“Thanks.” The old wooden steps creak under my feet.

“Shit, when was this house built?” Spencer asks the same question I was thinking as he walks behind me.

It’s either old, or it’s been beaten to shit between the wild parties. Parties equal fun. I could use some fun.

“Let’s get my stuff in my room, and then I’ll drop you off at the dorm.”

“I’m going to walk,” he says.

I whip around at the top of the stairs. He knows no one here, much less the way to his dorm.

“Why would you walk?”

He’s been acting odd ever since he found out I was accompanying him to Ridgemont. But, no matter how much prying I do, he keeps his mouth shut. I guess maybe I should have considered that he wanted a life away from me, one where he wasn’t the brother of Crosby Lynch. So, I’ve let the needed conversation fall to the sideline.

He shrugs. “I didn’t want to disturb you. This is a big step. I thought Brax would be here, and I wanted to be by your side when you faced him.”

“Is this the first day of kindergarten, and you’re my mom?” I throw my duffel on the queen-size mattress in the corner. “Fuck, Spence.” I shake my head because him taking on the big-brother role is my fault. “Don’t worry about me, okay? I’ll be fine.” A new knot forms in my stomach with the thought that I’m ruining what should be the time of his life. “Go. You don’t even have to tell people we’re related.”

The desk chair squeaks along the floor when he pulls it out to sit down. “Are you kidding me? I’ll get pussy by mentioning that you’re my older brother.” He smiles, but there’s something off and not genuine about it. “I know it’s hard.”

I sit down on the bed, praying the previous occupant was celibate and I’m not sitting on any dried up stains. I know I’m grasping for straws because he was a ballplayer after all. “It would have been easier if another college had taken me, but I had no choice. If baseball is where I want to go, along with getting a degree, I need to put the issues here behind me. I’m sorry my past is always messing with your life.”

“I’m where I want to be.” There’s disbelief in his eyes. He’s not buying my I’m-healed speech, but it’s the first day of college for him, and we’re not going to dwell on my shit. Again.

“Come on. Let’s get you to your dorm.” I leave my bag on the bed. I’ll unpack after Spencer is settled.

“Okay.” He stands and inspects the room I’ll be calling home for at least the next year—two, if I’m lucky. “It’s not that bad.”

The patched up spackled walls tell me Mike or his predecessors had a temper, but it’s four walls and a bed. Enough for now.

“I’ll barely be here anyway. Hold up, I’m going to use the bathroom real quick,” I say.

Spencer heads down the hall, and I duck into the bathroom where I find another door is open into what I suspect is Brax’s room. I know I’m right when I spot a 2005 World Series poster with the Chicago White Sox. I laugh, remembering how much he liked them. Brax thought he would be the next A.J. Pierzynski.

Brax is definitely still messy. His contact lens case is open on the counter, next to his tipped over bottle of solution. Shaving cream and a razor sit hanging over the edge of the sink, along with rows of unopened condom packages, as though he were urgent to find one and dumped the whole box.

This should be fucking great.

After I wipe my washed hands down my jeans because there’s no hand towel, I exit the bathroom and find Spencer in a headlock.

“Damn, you’ve gotten strong,” Brax says, moving the two of them around in a circle.

His blond hair is shaved close to his scalp, and I smile, because of the familiarity of the scene. Since Little League, he’s always shaved his hair before the start of school.