Long Ball by Rae Lynn Blaise
Prologue
Omaha, in a lot of ways, is nothing like my native Venezuela. It’s flat and quiet and completely landlocked between miles of corn and soybeans. I miss the sprawling hills and explosive nightlife around the beaches. You don’t need to see the stars because of the lights all around you. Tequila flows like rivers and plantains fill my belly. Venezuela is real magic.
But Omaha has something Venezuela could never hope to have: professional baseball, county fairs with real American cowboys, and all the George Strait music a country boy could need. Light beer, big trucks, and finger-lickin’ barbeque while girls in tiny shorts and cowboy boots dance the afternoon away.
We have all of those things back home—the cowboys and music and fairs and beautiful women—but there’s something different up here. It’s like I’m in a John Wayne movie about to steal the girl and lock up the bad guys.
It’s the Duke’s courage I summon as I cut through the busy fairgrounds, stomach in my boots. I’ve been watching this girl for hours, trying to summon the courage to finally speak to her. We’re like magnets in the blazing Nebraskan sun—every time I turn the corner, there she is with a smile that blinds me.
She tosses her blonde hair and laughs with her friends, looking every bit the perfect American beauty. I bet that if she cut her finger she’d bleed red, white, and blue. I imagine her hair smells like wide open spaces and freedom. Her ass, wrapped in tight denim, almost has me singing the National Anthem.
God bless America.
Her hips rock in time to the music on stage and I’m captivated. The rest of the fair doesn’t matter, whatever my friends are talking about doesn’t matter, hell, George himself could come say hello and shake my hand and I wouldn’t look at him twice. She’s perfect. And I can’t make myself go say hello. I’m never the guy who can chat up all the pretty girls, and she’s more than beautiful.
“Don’t be a puss, Bonilla.” Carter shoves my shoulder. “You’re a Storm Chaser! We don’t get scared!”
I didn’t point out that he was the one dry heaving into a bucket the day we all thought he was being called up to the Royals, because I’m a good friend. But I thought it.
So I drain my beer and start this walk across the Omaha County Fair, trying to think of something witty to say to this gorgeous girl, when my brain flat-lines and starts spitting things out in Spanish that don’t make any sense. It was funny when I was a kid, not so much when I’m trying to, as Franklin says, “grow a pair.”
After some deliberation, I set myself up behind her, close enough to be tripped over, but not close enough to seem like a creep. She’s dancing in place to the cover band’s version of a George Strait song that I’ve loved since I was a kid, Amarillo by Morning.
Sure enough, by the second chorus, she trips over my boots and nearly falls. I move to catch her in a dip, like in the movies, but I fumble and she drops to the ground with an OOF!
“Are you okay?” I pull her up and try to hide the burning red flames in my face. Over her shoulder, I can see Carter and Franklin laughing their asses off.
“Sorry!” Her voice is sweet and melodic. She’s laughing, which I hope is a good sign. “I got so into the music, I didn’t even see you there!”
“Me, too.” My eyes wander to her hips, where she’s dusting herself off. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Golden.” She flashes another gorgeous smile and I’m filled with resolve. “I’m kind of a klutz, anyway. Are you okay?”
“I just had a beautiful girl fall into my arms, so I don’t think this day can get much better.” I smile at her and my stomach is in knots, waiting for her response. Another smile blooms across her face and I start doing mental cartwheels. “Can I buy you a drink to make up for it?”
“I should be the one buying you a drink. I stepped on your boots!” She gestures to the ground and I see a boot-sized dust print on the toe of my pair. I decide to never polish them again. “What’s your poison?”
You, I think. My boys back home would have said it, but the words freeze in my throat. Instead, I say, “Ladies choice, but a gentleman always pays.”
She laughs and waves me off. Tells her friends she’ll be right back and I can feel all of them sizing me up, judging me. Some things are universal, Venezuela or Nebraska, and this is one of them.
We settle on a pair of dark colored colas in clear bottles and an oversized bag of kettle corn. She clinks bottles with me and points out the different show animals in the pens. Her brother is showing a pig off in the distance, and it makes her wrinkle her nose.
“You don’t like pigs?” I tease. “Pigs are wonderful! Bacon!”
“Pigs stink.” She shakes her head. “And they eat a ton. Believe me, eating them is not worth the food bill. They are the cutest things ever as piglets, though. I always wanted to keep one as a pet, but they just get so big.”
“Savior of the cull day?” I tease. “It suits you. You look like the kind of girl who would adopt all the kittens in a kennel. Saving the day in your cute boots.”
“Farm cats are excellent for catching mice.” Her eyes are so, so bright. They remind me of wide open skies. “I never miss these fairs, though. Scott is the gentlest little farmer and I love seeing how proud he is of the animals he’s raised.”