Long Ball(16)

Except.

I change the song to George Strait’s Carrying Your Love with Me and immediately I’m taken back to Omaha, five years ago. The sun, the heat, the animals, the beer.

The girl.

She was the most beautiful vision in cut-offs and boots, with beautiful blue eyes and a smile that broke my heart. She was my all-American girl. She was the love of my life in that moment. Everything was perfect in the back of my truck: the way we fit, the way her lips felt, her taste.

We made a baby in the back of that old, beat-up truck. We made love for hours, and as a result, we made a beautiful little girl who has my sister’s smile and her mother’s eyes. Our love made a family.

I look down and realize I have my cock in my hand. It’s almost surreal to look at. I should be freaked out at suddenly becoming a father. I should be angry that I never got to be there. I should be terrified that I’m now responsible for a life besides my own.

Instead, I’m more turned on than I was in the locker room, staring at a pair of tits. I close my eyes and see my perfect woman spread eagle before me, and I’m hit with the scent of her sex and the way she tasted. Instead of my hand, my cock remembers how tight and silky she felt riding me, naked, under the big, bright Omaha sky.

I can almost remember the feel of her nipples in my mouth when I come all over my coffee table, jizz flying further than I’ve ever marked it flying before. My hand doesn’t stop, my memories don’t fade, until there is nothing left for my cock to give and it lays in my hand, abused.

I clean myself up, but resolve has set in. I have to find this woman again.





5





“Hey lover boy!” George yells from the dugout. “Check this out!”

Kemp glances over his shoulder. “Is he talking to you or me?”

I shrug and immediately think of Cora’s mom and how a five-year-old memory made me cover my apartment in cum. “Probably you.”

Kemp snorts. “Probably. But I’ve been a good boy.”

“I don’t think Kemper Fife has it in him to be a good boy.” I snort and watch Kemp gingerly stand up. He’s been favoring his right knee and it doesn’t look good. One glare from him shuts up the comment I was going to make about him going to a trainer.

I get it, I do. The disabled list is a terrible place to be. This late in the season, a spot on the DL means missing the postseason, and that is something none of us want to do. But knee injuries are nothing to mess around with, either.

We join the others congregating around George’s copy of the Kansas City Star, and I freeze. Front and center is a picture of me and Cora. I’m hit again by how much she looks like my sister, and it’s just more confirmation to what I already know is true: Cora is my daughter.

Daughter. I have a daughter.

“Looks like you and Shelbie are adorable.” Carlos winks at me. “Using some poor kid as your honeypot, huh?”

“You know how I do.” I take the paper from George and stare at it. I want to frame this, the first photo ever taken of me and my daughter. In the shot, she’s curled up in my lap while I’m reading a book, looking as happy as could be.

“Aw shit.” Everett calls out. “Look at his face! I bet he’s already started naming babies with Shelbie!”

“Bullshit.” Kemp says. “He loves ‘em and leaves ‘em, remember, boys? Our Jamsey doesn’t settle down. He’s a Royal. We sow our seed and move the f*ck on.”

He doesn’t sound as convincing as he usually does during this well-worn speech of his, which catches my attention right away. I shoot him a look, but he’s too busy preaching to the other boys to look back at me. Could Kemp have found someone and not told me?

Then again, I have a secret daughter, probably, possibly, definitely, but maybe, and haven’t said a word to him, either. I don’t understand how women can just open their mouths and let their secrets fall out to others. Secrets can be damaging.

I don’t want Cora and her mom to think of me as some jackass playboy Royal who isn’t good enough for them. I want this family more than I want air.

“Can I take this?” I ask. George nods, barely listening as Kemp continues on his rant about free-coming baseball players and how sex greatly improves their game performance.

“Something Jamsey needs to consider!” Kemp yells as I break away from the others to read the article.

I’m only mentioned in passing, but that’s not what I notice. Below the picture of me and Cora, in bold text, is her name. Cora Holt. Just below the photo, set aside in a box, is a quote about the read-to-the-bus program by Cora’s mother.

Megan Holt.

The mother of my child. The angel of my wet dreams. The ruler of my poor, beaten heart.

Her name is Megan.

I pump my fist in the air and let out a small whoop! I can find her. With the internet and a name, anything is possible. Anything. My whole life feels like it’s finally turning in the direction it belongs.

The Rangers don’t even have a chance today. I’m a triple shy of the rotation, a highly sought after series of base hits that gets you a single, double, triple, and home run. They are rare, and I call bullshit on getting out at third, but I only half care. I catch every line drive, throw out a dozen guys at first, and kick general Ranger ass across the field.

They’re a big rival of ours and the crowd eats it up. As we run on the field at the end of the game to celebrate our 6-1 victory, I’m certain Cora and Megan are watching me. And I’m certain they are proud.