The Dugout(27)

“Toothpaste?” he asks, lifting off the wall. He holds out a to-go cup and says, “Hot chocolate, wasn’t sure if you liked coffee.”

“Thank you,” I say, trying to hold back the cheesy grin itching to appear. “And yes, toothpaste. I didn’t want to meet up with you smelling like a gargoyle.”

He snorts mid sip of his drink. “Thank fuck for that.” With his other hand, he holds up a small bag with the blue label everyone on campus is familiar with: Frankie’s Donuts. “Brought us a little morning nibble. Figured we could eat really quick and then get to work.”

Try not to drool. It’s not very often I get to have Frankie’s Donuts and when I do, I go on a crazy binge. Jerry and Shane have seen far too many donuts taken down in the time they’ve known me and after every binge, I always wind up in a crazy sugar coma with a sick belly that lasts me the rest of the day.

But it’s worth it every time.

“Frankie’s Donuts are my favorite.”

“Yeah?” He holds a key card up to the door to unlock it. A beeping sound fills the brisk morning air and the door pops open. Carson holds it open for me and I quickly walk inside, him closely behind me. “What’s your favorite?”

“Blueberry streusel, of course.”

“Ha, that’s my friend Knox’s favorite too. And you’re in luck. I got one, hoping you’d eat it so I could have the lemon curd.”

“Lemon curd, really? I never would have pegged you as a lemon kind of guy?” We walk down a barely lit hallway, make a right, and then he throws open a door to a large roomful of batting cages. Good God, this is my mecca.

“Why, do I not look dainty enough to appreciate a fine pastry filled with lemon?”

Too caught up in the batting cages, I give him a non-committal sound and walk farther into the space, taking in the deep cages, nets, and buckets of balls in each, the artificial turf, baseball tees—so many tees. It’s pristine, beautiful, and I wish this was a place I worked in every single day.

“Uh, did you hear my joke?” Carson asks, stepping up next to me. “Or are you too caught up in having an eye-gasm over the batting cages.”

Once again, my cheeks flame. “Sorry,” I mutter, glancing at my cup of hot chocolate. “It’s just a really nice facility.”

He laughs and nudges my shoulder toward the cushioned benches along the wall. “Let’s eat and then get to work.”

We both take a seat, and he hands me my donut. I act like a lady and resist shoving the entire thing in my mouth at once, but instead take reasonable bites, despite it being incredibly difficult.

I’m mid bite when I catch him staring at me, not just staring, but really studying. I check out my donut to make sure I haven’t gone hog wild on it—nope, still plenty left. Oh God, is there something on my face? In my teeth? Is there toothpaste bordering my lips? I’m tempted to take a napkin and wipe down my entire head, but instead, I shyly ask, “Is there something on my face?”

He doesn’t answer right away, instead, he lifts his hand and flicks the brim of my fisherman’s hat that I tossed on this morning without even thinking about it.

“What’s with this thing? You look like a fifty-year-old alumni wearing it. You’re just missing the matching polo.”

I tug on the side. “You don’t like it?”

“I mean . . . it’s . . . hell, it’s kind of awful.”

“Oh.” When Shane and Jerry tell me they hate the hat, I just wash off the insult and keep moving along, but now that Carson is saying it, I feel embarrassed.

“No need to blush or anything.” He sets his donut down and reaches into his backpack. “If you’re going to be my coach, you have to look the part.” He pulls out a T-shirt and a black Brentwood baseball hat. “It’s a female cut so it won’t be huge on your head.” He hands it over and I stare at both items in awe.

“You got me a hat and a shirt?”

“Hell yeah.” He smiles. “You need to coach me in style.” Boldly, he takes my hat off and quickly replaces it with my new one, which oddly fits perfectly. No adjustments needed. He pulls on the brim of the hat and says, “There, perfect. Now we’re in business.”

Feeling shy and grateful, I say, “Thank you so much. This is really awesome.”

He chuckles, a hearty sound I’m starting to really like. “I think you’re the only girl I know who would get excited over seeing batting cages and receiving a baseball cap.”

“I told you I was different.”

“And I told you I like different.” He winks and then shoves the rest of his donut in his mouth as he stands. “I’m going to do a few laps and warm up. You have time to work on your nutritious breakfast.”

He takes off, jogging to one end of the cages and then to the other, all the while, my heart is racing a mile a minute, my stomach is churning with butterflies, and for the first time since I’ve run into Carson Stone, I’m willing to admit it: I might be crushing on him just a little.





Crack.

The baseball flies off the tee and straight to the back of the batting cages, a ripped line drive that would take off any pitcher’s head.

It’s been a while since I’ve worked with Cory. He doesn’t get home much and when he is home, the last thing he wants to do is swing a bat after a long and draining season, so I’m not used to seeing such power hit through the strike zone and zip the ball as hard as Carson does. I love my eight-year-olds, but they have nothing on the pure power coming from Carson’s swing.