Game On(8)

“I was pretty tired, though, so I went to bed early,” I lied.

“Alone?” she asked.

“Yes alone.” I shook my head. Being totally and completely inappropriate was something of a specialty of hers.

“That cute boyfriend of yours didn’t go to Austin with you for a week away?”

A week away from what? I thought. From spending the day on my couch? But I hadn’t even thought of asking Nick to join me. In fact, I had been looking forward to being away from him. Maybe he was right; maybe I was stifling his creativity. And maybe he had been stifling mine.

“We broke up, Mama,” I told her.

“Oh.” Another inhale. “That’s too bad.”

“You never liked him.”

“I never met him,” she reminded me.

“Well, you wouldn’t have liked him,” I informed her. It was the truth.

“So you’ve said.” The next inhale was long. “I just don’t know why you keep dating these boys you don’t think I’ll like, hon. Doesn’t say much about your taste in men.”

“Or maybe it says something about yours,” I mutter under my breath, knowing that in this case, I was definitely standing in my own glass house with a bag of rocks I shouldn’t be tossing in her direction. Besides, it wasn’t her fault that Nick broke up with me. It might have been her fault that I had been with him in the first place, but I’m pretty sure scientists are still undecided about how much impact a mother’s dating habits have on their young, impressionable child.

Mom had dated some questionable guys; there was no doubt about that. And was it really my fault if I seemed to be following in her footsteps? I didn’t want to, of course, but maybe I couldn’t control what I was interested in. It was unnerving that so many of my ex-boyfriends had resembled quite a few of the “uncles” I’d had growing up. And we didn’t talk about my birth dad.

“He didn’t care enough to stick around,” is what my mom always said. “So he’s not worth our time or worry.”

Took a while before I believed it myself.

The practice field came into view.

“Mom, I gotta go,” I said. “I’ve got my first interview today.”

“With the fancy ball player, right?” she asked, and I could hear her blowing smoke into the receiver. I could practically smell the nicotine through the phone.

“That’s right,” I said as the cab dropped me off near the side entrance. I headed towards the field and as I got closer, there Nathan was, in uniform, talking to a girl in the stands. He had an amazing butt. Like, a bounce-quarters-off-it, hold-on-for-dear-life butt. A baseball butt, I guess. Better to fill out those white pants. Probably a result of all that running and squatting and whatever else they must do to stay in shape. I didn’t even care how he had gotten it, I was grateful just to have a front seat view of it.

Baseball players had never really done it for me. I loved sports, especially baseball, but athletes had never been my type. My best friend throughout high school was a huge sports fan—he had been the one to take me to my first football game, my first basketball game, my first everything, really. Sport-wise. But when it came to the guys I crushed on, guys like him had never fit the bill. I had always gone for the guys who looked great in the dim light of a bar—guys who were lean and long, a little dirty and whole lot dangerous. Nathan was nothing like those guys. Strong and broad, he knew how to fill out that uniform. It fit him perfectly, snug in all the right places. His face, mostly obscured by his baseball cap, boasted an impressive jaw line, one that I remembered well from last night.

What would have happened if I had taken him up on his offer? Taken his phone number? Taken him back to my room, ripped off all his clothes, and had my wicked way with him? For an hour. Or four.

“Is he the one with the great ass?” My mom’s voice interrupted my fantasy.

“Mom!” I coughed, forever embarrassed by her bluntness. Even if she was right. At least our combined taste seemed to be improving. But still.

“What?” she said, sounding offended. “I can’t notice a great ass? Please. I’m menopausal, I’m not dead.”

“I have to go,” I said. He hadn’t noticed me yet, his attention still focused on the girl in the stands. She looked younger than me, but not by much. I couldn’t help feeling a little jealous of the undivided attention he was giving her. Of course, I had no reason to be jealous, so I was immediately annoyed at myself for feeling that way.

“Call me later, tell me how it goes,” my mom said.

“OK,” I said, unable to pull my eyes away from him. I hung up the phone and shoved it back in my purse. Narrowing my eyes, I tried to wipe all my lustful thoughts from my mind. This was my chance to prove myself to my fellow journalists. I needed to do a good job with this interview. I needed to do a great job. I had to make him trust me. I had to make him comfortable. You can do this, I told myself. This is going to be your homerun, Sophie. Your home-f*cking-run. Knock it out of the park.

I went over what I knew in my head. Nathan Ryder, twenty-two, Houston-born star pitcher for the Longhorns. If the rumors were true, he had a good shot at the Majors right out of college. It wasn’t an opportunity most college players got, but everyone was saying that this guy was special. I was here to cover the last game before the MLB draft. If everything went according to plan, Nathan would end up graduating college and heading straight into the big leagues. And I was going to be there to report on it.