Third Base (The Boys of Summer Book 1) (21 page)

I
let out a loud snore after Shea pats me on the cheeks. She laughs and I can no longer pretend to be sleeping. Rolling over, I grab ahold of her and start tickling her sides. Her laughter is the best medicine and worth being woken up for. My niece is wearing a Boston Renegades shirt and even without rolling her over I know it says Davenport on the back along with my number.

Last night, even as we carried on with kitchen planning, the excitement from my mom and Shana’s voices didn’t wake Shea. I know it was for the best, but I miss her and want to spend as much time as possible with her. My saving grace is that I’ll be flying back by myself since we have an off day after we finish this series with the Mariners. When we do this, we run the risk of flights being delayed, but it’s worth it. I need time with my family.

“Hi, Unc,” she says, as she sits back on her knees. Shea’s tooth-filled smile is beaming and her baby blue eyes sparkle. I pull to her me and kiss her cheek, pretending to eat her ear. “Nooooo, monser,” she screams while laughing and tries to push me away.

My door opens and Shea scrambles under my blankets to hide from my mom. “Have you seen Shea,” she asks as she sits on the edge of my bed.

I shake my head. “Nope, last time I saw her she was sleeping on the couch.”

My mom sighs dramatically and Shea snuggles into my side. “Well, I just don’t know what I’m going to do Ethan. I wanted to take Shea to the park today and thought we could stop and get some ice cream, but if she’s lost –”

“Here I is!” she yells as she throws the covers up and away from her. My mom jumps in surprise and covers her mouth, causing Shea to laugh. Her blonde hair is a mess, and she has to use two hands to push it out of her face.

“Oh my goodness, Grammie thought she lost you.” My mom pretends to pout, and that clearly upsets Shea. Without hesitation, she’s crawling into my mom’s arms, patting her face and saying, “no, no, no, Grammie.” I think Shea is one of the best things that has happened to us, which is saying a lot because we have a great family.

“What time do you have to be at the field?”

I don’t know why, but I look at the clock that has always sat on my nightstand. Even today, my room is the same with my dark blue walls, oak desk and shelves that hold all of my trophies. The last time I was home I offered to clean it out, box up my stuff and put it in the garage, but my parents said no. They said this would always be my room. Shana’s was the same too, until she had Shea, and then it quickly became a nursery.

“No later than three,” I say as I sit up, my comforter falling away and exposing my chest. Shea laughs and says to my mom loudly, “Unc nakie.”

“Yes he is. Maybe we should leave so Unc can get dressed.” My mom picks up Shea, much to Shea’s displeasure. She screams, piercing our eardrums and reaches for me. My mom’s a pro though and doesn’t let Shea’s little tantrum bother her.

“I’ll be out in a minute,” I tell them both. As soon as my mom closes my door, I’m reaching for my phone. I know I shouldn’t care if
she’s
texted, but I do. When I press the home screen, it’s only Sarah’s name that displays. She’ll be at the game tonight, sitting behind home plate with my parents, Shana and Shea. And after the game I’ll be going to her place for an adult style sleepover where neither of us has to get up and go home in the middle of the night or worry about a three-year old barging in once the sun is up.

I shower quickly before dressing and heading downstairs for breakfast. Shea is sitting at the table, in her booster seat, picking at her pancakes. Her hair, while still messy, is now sticking to the side of her face with syrup. I sit down next to her, but far enough away that her hands can’t touch me, and dish up a plate of food. Aside from the pancakes, there are eggs, bacon, and hash browns, which on the West Coast are shoe string potatoes cooked together. This is how I prefer my hash browns. Not like how they’re cooked in New England.

My mom doesn’t always cook like this either, and right now I’m very grateful. There’s nothing better than starting your day off right with a home cooked breakfast.

“How’s your friend?” my mom asks, as she sits down at the table with a cup of coffee. She sips it cautiously before setting her mug down on the table. I set my fork down and swallow what I have in my mouth.

“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “Things are difficult, I guess.”

“What do you mean, you guess?”

I pour myself some orange juice and down my glass before refilling it. “I got mad at her last week for reading one of the blogs that’s always posting gossip and rumors. Early on, when she and I started talking, she mentioned some of the rumors and I was defensive.”

“Rightly so,” my mom throws in for good measure.

“Stone has me taking a media class, which is more like a chapter in their textbook because I only have to do it for two weeks, but it’s on the same campus where she attends school. I thought I’d surprise her on the first day and when I got to her computer station, she was reading the blog. When I asked her about it later, she became defensive, saying journalists stick together and started going on about freedom of speech.”

“Is that what she’s studying?”

“Yeah.”

“So she chose to follow the path that many journalists have carved out. They’re all about protecting their sources, their voice, and their rights to freedom of speech.”

I lean back in the chair and fiddle with my fork. “I’m all for freedom of speech, but when it’s lies to sell your product, in this case a high traffic blog that reports crap, I can’t support that. I’ve told her as much too.”

My mom rests her hands together on the table, but doesn’t say anything. Even as I tell the story, I’m not sure it makes any sense. Everything that went down didn’t need to. I think about calling her, but I’m not sure I have anything to say right now. Once this road trip is over, I’ll see her and can honestly say I don’t know if I’ll talk to her. Those thoughts actually hurt. It also hurts that she hasn’t reached out to me to apologize. Hell, maybe I’m the one who needs to grovel.

“I think it was a fair request.”

“I thought so.”

“You like her though?”

I nod and pick my fork up. I hate to admit that I like Daisy, but the truth is I do. I could see myself with her in the future. None of that matters now though.

“Maybe she’ll come around,” mom says as she stands and starts clearing the table.

“Maybe I’ll hit for the cycle.”

My mom laughs, but I don’t find that funny. “Stranger things have happened, Ethan. Sometimes you just have to put all your eggs in the basket and pray you don’t drop it.”

“Well, if I do that I may not have any eggs left. Doesn’t that defeat the purpose?” I look at her questioningly, willing her to hit me with a witty comeback.

“When you stand at the plate, what are you doing?”

I scratch my head, pondering her question. “Batting?” I say with hesitation.

“Taking a risk,” she says. “You don’t know if you’re going to walk, get a hit, foul out, or get hit by a pitch, but you stand there, repeatedly, over and over again. Sometimes the risks are worth it.”

Mom stands and starts cleaning off the table. When she reaches for my plate I put my hand down on her wrist and shake my head no. I’m not done eating. I refuse to let her risk her life by stealing my food.

“In coming,” I yell, giving the guys ample time to cover up before I bring Shea into the club house. This isn’t a surprise visit by any means, but I do need to warn them to make sure their potty mouths are zipped up tight because she’s three and repeats everything.

Shea is on my shoulders when I walk in, having to duck under the doorway so she doesn’t hit her head. All the guys love her and reach up to give her a high-five once we’re inside. She is, of course, decked out in full BoRe fashion even though she’s being bred as a Mariner fan. Her legs move back and forth the more attention she gets and as soon as I put her down, she’s running in a full sprint around the room. Club houses are big kid playgrounds for the most part, but even the littlest of kids can have fun in here.

When Shea runs by Branch Singleton, he scoops her up in his arms and spins her around while making airplane noises. Singleton has a son, but he never gets to see him. I don’t know all the specifics, but the baby mama drama was too much, and he doesn’t like to talk about it. I do know he pays a shit ton in child support and that his son lives in Phoenix where the mother moved after the baby was born.

I let the guys entertain Shea, although it’s likely the other way around with the way she has them all wrapped around her finger, while I get ready. For being three, she’s outgoing and loves attention. Shana and my parents ensure that she experiences a lot of different social situations in order to teach her about stranger danger.

Once I’m dressed and ready, I hold Shea’s hand as we walk down the corridor leading to the field. She wears cleats, like me, only hers have plastic spikes and her tiny baseball glove is tucked under her arm. Mine is already in the dugout, waiting for me.

My dad is waiting for us at the top of the dugout since he’ll be keeping a close eye on Shea during warm-ups. He and Cal Diamond, our manager, are in an in-depth conversation, but he makes eye contact with me briefly as Shea and I climb the steps and step out onto the field.

“I’ll take her with me, if you want to hit,” Kidd says, as he stands near us.

“Me too,” Bainbridge says. With both of them being in the outfield, she has less of a chance to get hurt.

“Do you want to go with Steve and Travis to the outfield?” I ask her, pointing toward the outfield. She clutches my hand a bit tighter and tries to mold herself to my leg. I imagine being three and looking around the baseball field. This place is enormous for an adult, so the size must be overwhelming to a toddler. It takes under a minute until she decides that yes, she does in fact want to be out there.

In a picture perfect moment, my niece is walking hand-in-hand with my best friend and mentor, and the people that are here early are eating up every minute of it.

“Hey, Stud.”

The sound of Sarah’s voice comes from behind me. The nickname she gave me in high school, sticking even today. When I turn to see her, my world shifts on its axis. I don’t know what I was expecting, maybe a white coat with her dark brown hair in a bun for starters. Instead, I’m graced with the woman I was once madly in love with wearing a version of a BoRe t-shirt that I’ve never seen before, showing off her curves and ample cleavage. She beckons me with her finger and, as if it had me on a string, I’m walking toward her.

“Hey, Doc,” I say, taking her all in. “Although, I have to say, you don’t look much like a doctor to me right about now.”

When Sarah smiles, her light brown eyes light up. She’s beautiful, always has been. And I’d be a fool to ever tell her no.

“We can play doctor later,” she whispers into my ear, sending a jolt right to my cock.

“I look forward to it.” I back away slowly, trying to undress her with my eyes. I know what’s waiting for me. Hell, I watched her transform from a girl to woman while I caressed every inch of her body. That’s a definite benefit from being her boyfriend for so long.

I wink before turning away and adjust myself. As soon as my hand touches my cup, I count one in my head. I’ll be sure to tweet the BoRe Blogger how many times an adjustment was made tonight so his statistical count isn’t skewed.