Long Ball(8)

“I know how to be quiet.” He shoots a wink at me.

“Bull. I used to be your roommate, remember?”

Gregerson clears his throat loudly and reads off his phone. “Royals shortstop Jamie Bonilla was seen cozying up to The Dot’s Shelbie Saint after a landslide victory against the Seattle Mariners Saturday night. Witnesses report they were dancing, laughing, and getting their freak on in a sleazy club bathroom by the end of the night. Miss Saint was reported as saying his cock was lackluster, but not to worry, because she has a shallow…”

“Hey now!” I laugh, rolling my eyes and pulling my jersey on. I hope to the heavens there is nothing actually out there, because my mom would kill me dead if she found me in the papers with some girl in a club. I can already hear her voice in my ear, talking about how she raised me better than this.

“Come on, man. My cock is mighty.”

“Yeah, and my pinkie is eight inches long.”

The clubhouse descends into its usual chaos: insults, innuendo, and Kemp still humping things and players and the air we all breathe. It’s business as usual, really, but the guys won’t leave me alone about it as batting practice rages on. Coach’s daughter, Ally, takes pity on me and brings me an extra scoop of ice cream on her rounds after everyone else hits the showers.

She’s a sweet kid, real na?ve, and sort of reminds me of a younger me, if I were a chick and American, at least. “I think they’re just jealous Shelbie Saint wasn’t picking them up,” she whispers conspiratorially. “She’s really beautiful.”

She is. Shelbie was easily the sexiest woman in that entire club, and she was ready for me to take her in a dirty bathroom. It seemed a little out of character for someone so classy, but maybe our connection was stronger than I thought it was. Maybe the alcohol made me think we were connecting like we actually were.

Maybe I should call her.

The boys still don’t let up come game time. We’re deep in our series against the Mariners, vying for champ of our division, and that didn’t stop a single one of them from hollering “Aye, papi!” at me all night. Not even by the fourth inning, where we are down 2-5.

“Come on, lover boy.” Coach Bart winks at me as I head into the dugout for the top of the fifth inning. “Get your head out of Shelbie Saint’s skirt and back in the game. You could have caught that line drive Trujillo belted out.”

“Sorry, Coach.” I grimace. “I thought I knew where the ball was heading and I was wrong, that’s all.”

“Not the first time someone has been distracted by a pretty girl.” He rests a heavy hand on my shoulder before putting on his helmet. “But let’s see if you can make up for it with the bat, eh?”

“Aye, papi!” Carlos croons, taking a few practice swings. “Gonna hit a ball for your pretty lady tonight?”

“Depends,” I shoot back. “How does your mom like it?”

That really gets the dugout going. We fall back into our usual banter, but my heart is only half in it. All I can think about is Shelbie’s dangerous curves and the way her mouth felt on mine. And how I haven’t called her yet, but I should.

Right?

“Don’t hate on big papi over here.” Kemp breaks up the mess. “He is a changed man!”

“Bullshit!” Octivio snorts. “Jamsey falls in love every thirty seconds. This Shelbie thing won’t last. He’ll have a new lover by the seventh inning stretch.”

“I do owe your mom a date.” I high-five Kemp. And I’m grateful to him. Yeah, I used to be a tiny bit more of a man whore, but after my mom caught me in the mix of some nasty stuff and threatened to come up here, I straightened up. She gave me this whole lecture about how I was ruining the way people look at Venezuela. And come on--I can’t have that. I’m a man of honor.

But I do happen to fall hard and fast for a lot of different girls. Did. In my past.

“If you ever manage to stick with a girl until the ninth inning, I’ll be shocked.” Harrison shoves a wad of chew in his mouth and winks at me. “But that’s how it oughta be, man. Hello, goodbye.”

“You’re an animal.” Kemp points at him with the bat. “No wonder why you’re always single.”

“Look who’s talking.”

“Point, Harrison.” I chime in, trying to derail the conversation from my love life.

Could there be a love life with Shelbie? Could she be the one? She’s absolutely gorgeous and she’s on television, which, okay, sounds shallow, but that means she understands the demands of someone who always has their face plastered on a screen.

Edwards may be in baseball for the fame, but most of us just want to play ball. Everything else is a perk. Or, sometimes, a raging headache.

My turn up to bat doesn’t alleviate the buzzing in my head and it shows with a terrible strike out. I swung at shit I had no business swinging at because all I could wonder is if Shelbie was watching. If she is, she’s bound to be so disappointed in me right now. Dropping balls, swinging out. This is not the Jamie Bonilla the Royals fans know.

“Get ‘em next time, Bonilla,” Coach Halstead pats me on the back.

“Remember who’s watching!” George croons. “Gotta play up for your lady!”

“Which one?” Everett shoots back.