Third Base (The Boys of Summer Book 1) (7 page)

Daisy’s name is right below Sarah’s. It’s funny, here I am trying to put the moves on Daisy and my ex is texting about hooking up when I get to town. My relationship with Sarah is the one thing the BoRe Blogger doesn’t know about, and hopefully never will. I don’t know what I’d do if he found out about her and starting posting shit. Besides, I’m not the only guy on the team who has women in the towns we visit.

I think about erasing Daisy’s number. I don’t need it and will probably never use it again. Thing is though, I can’t bring myself to swipe left and hit the red delete button. And that, alone, speaks volumes.

I
strike out for the third time in this game, ending the inning. I slam my bat down, breaking it in two, and throw the piece left in my hand toward the bat boy. The umpire says something, but I’m walking away from him so I can’t hear him. My batting gloves and helmet are next as I throw them toward the dugout and walk to third base. The only saving grace is that we’re winning.

The bat boy brings my glove out without saying a word to me. Usually, he has something sarcastic about the umpire to offer up after I strike out, but not today, and it’s probably for the best. My current mood is less than stellar. Not only did my morning not go as planned, but as the guys started showing up so did the razzing. I get it. I do the same thing when one of the guys hooks-up. It just sucked that it was over before it even started. Everyone had a comment about Daisy and each one pissed me off more than the last. I know we’re family, but sometimes shit goes too far.

During warm-ups, I positioned myself so I could watch for her to come down the stairs to her seat. When she finally appeared, I changed positions and kept my back to her. Part of me was hoping she’d bring someone with her to show me she’s with someone and it’s not just that she’s not interested in me. But, as always, she showed up alone, wearing the same hat, with her long hair in a braid, and her bag crossed over the shoulder of her white and black Renegades shirt. I didn’t want to see her looking for me, or catch me looking at her. I haven’t looked over once since she arrived. I refuse to acknowledge her. It’s petty, but my damn feelings are hurt because she thinks the rumors she’s read about me are true. She didn’t even try to get to know me to form her own opinion, just went straight to what she’s been led to believe by people who know me about as much as she does.

“I think someone is trying to get your attention.” Easton Bennett, phenomenal short-stop for my beloved Renegades, motions toward the stands. He’s standing next to me as we take practice grounders while our closer, Kenjiro Tomita, warms-up.

“Eh, she’s just another fan,” I say, shrugging it off as if she’s no big deal. In the grand scheme of things, she’s not. I shouldn’t care about what happened this morning, but I do. I had hoped she and I could have a good time together. That’s what I get for thinking.

“Hit it and quit it already?” He bends to field the ball and does some twisty shit to get it back to first basemen, Kayden Cross.

“Not even close.” I field the ball and send it back to first. “I think I came on too strong and scared her away.”

“I’d say she probably wants a second chance.” Bennett walks over to his spot on the field and pushes the dirt around where he’s going to stand. I’m tempted to look over at her, but it’s not worth the aggravation.

I want to get this game finished and get on the plane. Three days in Florida will be welcome reprieve from the cold weather. I’m ready for the sun, the sand and plenty of women. I think that’s what I need, someone to get my mind off the little mind fuckery I was trying to play on it last night and this morning. Thinking that I could get to know a fan was a momentary lapse of judgment and something I’ll never do again. I’m better at the no name ladies that like to pay attention to me. It’s better that way. They know what they want and how to get it – and most don’t ask a lot of questions. Plus, I’m usually drunker than shit.

The top of the ninth gets underway and just like that; Tomita has two batters already sitting down. I raise two fingers in the air for the outfielders even though all they have to do is turn around and look at the scoreboard to see the outs. It’s a practice from little league through high school and college. It makes me feel better knowing I told my teammates, just in case.

There’s one batter left and then we’re on the road for six days. After Tampa Bay, we’re heading to Baltimore to face the Orioles again. Hopefully we fair better than the two and two we did for this home stand. A sweep would be nice.

The last pitch is sent toward home; it’s a swing and miss, with another broken bat. I feel his frustration. We meet at the pitcher’s mound, raise our hats and start tapping each other’s in a sign of solidarity in our win. Most of us wave to the crowd, as I usually do after the game, but not today, especially not toward my favorite side of the field.

I’m the first one off the field and quickly make my way to the clubhouse. As usual, the reporters call my name but after today’s performance, even if I were allowed to talk, I’d have nothing to say. I played like shit. I let a chick get in my head and distract me from my game and that can’t happen. Even back when Sarah and I broke up, I was focused. I have to be focused at all times because at any given moment my name could be on the waiver wire. I don’t want to give General Manager Stone any reason to trade me.

As soon as I’m in the clubhouse, my gear is coming off. My hat and glove are the first, followed by my dirt filled cleats. My mother used to make me undress in the garage when I was younger, saying her house isn’t a locker room. I never understood it until I got to high school and had a locker room to change in. After the first time I took off my cleats and dirt piled up in front of my door, I was thankful I didn’t have to clean up the mess.

The guys come in, loud and rowdy. They’re satisfied with the win. Most played well and have reason to celebrate. I exchange some high-fives with them before I head to the shower. The night before a road trip, things are hectic. We leave right from the stadium and fly at night. By the time we get out of here, two buses will be waiting for us, one for the team and the other for personnel. The best part is we don’t have to go through security. We have our own TSA personnel on site that checks each of us before we board the bus. Then the police escort by Boston’s finest gets us to Logan Airport.

Our chartered flight, on our custom plane, will be ready when we arrive. Each flight has the same flight crew, which makes it easy. They know what we want without asking. The flight attendants are strictly off limits; at least that is what Diamond says. He doesn’t want anyone screwing up the relationship we have with the crew. I don’t blame him and think maybe the same rule should apply for fans, although, if that rule existed none of us would ever find dates.

As soon as we land, I’m jostled awake by Kidd. I slept through the three-hour flight and feel like complete shit. My neck is stiff, my mouth is dry and my ears are plugged. I don’t even remember getting on the plane, much less deciding to take a nap.

“Now you’ll be good to hit the bar,” Kidd says. His words are muffled, but it’s the same thing every time we land someplace. I move my jaw back and forth, trying to unplug my ears, but it’s not working. He takes my head movement as a positive response and slaps me on the back. He’s ready to party and get laid.

The air is stifling when we step off the plane, but the heat is welcomed. It’s unusually warm for Tampa Bay this time of year and an early heat wave mixed with the ocean air has laid down a thick blanket of humidity. Still, the heat is a welcome reprieve from the cold of Boston. I’m cautious to hold the handrail as I descend the stairs onto the tarmac. My head is still in a fog from my impromptu nap, mix that with the heat and I’m feeling less than stellar at the moment.

Two charter buses and a U-Haul truck idle not far from the plane. The second bus is always for the players; it’s how the Renegades staff has set it up. Traveling, at least for the team, is easy. All we have to do is check our travel bag in, the same one every member uses, and get on the bus. Renegades staff does everything else for us. We’re spoiled, but we appreciate it.

I follow my other teammates as we step onto the bus. A few of the guys have their ‘usual’ seats and most of us know not to even think about sitting in them, but for the most part it’s a free for all. I like to sit in the third row, left side and next to the window.

Kidd sits down next to me and pats my leg. “You, me and a dozen single ladies.”

Sometimes his enthusiasm is overboard and other times it’s catching. I can’t help but smile. I’m game to go out and have a good time even if that just means the hotel bar. We can usually find a few girls to party with and have a good time. The only thing that sucks is that Kidd and I share a room. We’re not the only ones, but I do dream of the day when my contract says I get my own room.

The hotel is nice. A six-star resort as my mom would call it. I don’t pay attention to shit like that. I only care if the room is clean, food is hot, and the bed is comfortable. Everything else is just a luxury and makes me wonder if it’d be cheaper for teams to start buying hotels in each town they travel to. It might save them money and be able to offer lower ticket prices to fans. But what do I know? I’m only a baseball player.

By the time we’re ready to get off the bus, our room keys are being distributed. Kidd and I take ours, exit the bus and head straight to the bar. As soon as we walk in, the bartender tells us we have an hour. Kidd and I sit down and order.

“No way are we picking up chicks in an hour.” I turn, resting my elbows on the bar and look out over the patrons. There are four, not including the two of us. The other people are couples and looking very cozy with each other.

“I guess you’re my date for the night.” Kidd puts his arm around me and bats his eyelashes. I push him away and turn back toward the bar. Sports highlights are playing on the television. Right now we have basketball, baseball and hockey – its fan central overload for a true sports fan. On any given night, you can flip through at least three channels to watch some type of sporting event.

I fish my phone out of my pocket and take it off airport mode. It’s only a matter of seconds before the notifications come in.

“Why do you even have notifications on?” Kidd is looking over my shoulder, watching as my phone keeps registering text messages, Twitter alerts and Facebook posts.

“I like to see what people are saying about me,” I say, shrugging. I pick up my drink and almost spit it out when I see Daisy’s name come in as a text message. I angle my phone away from Kidd and contemplate whether I want to know what she has to say. I opt to read my twitter alerts first.