The Dugout(32)

“Do you have any friends that are girls?”

“Not really,” she answers, but doesn’t seem to be sad about it. “Girls have never really gotten me. While everyone was getting ready for prom, I was helping my brothers condition their gloves. When they were all working at the mall, getting discounts for all that girly stuff, I was wiping the sweat off my brow as an umpire.”

“You were an umpire?”

She quickly holds her hand out to the side and points her finger while sounding out a very loud “Stirrrrrrr-ike!”

The heavy and boisterous sound causes me to buckle over and laugh. I was so not expecting that from her, but hell, I really liked it.

She wiggles her eyebrows at me. “You like that? No one messed with me out of sheer fear that I would strike them out and make it loud enough for the entire baseball park to hear.”

“That’s fucking amazing,” I say, still laughing. “When I was in high school, we had a female umpire who didn’t take shit from anyone. She wore her pants incredibly high.”

“Past her belly button?”

“Yeah, almost to her boobs.”

She nods in understanding. “Yup, the pants they give you aren’t made for women, so you really have no choice but to wear them up around your nipples. Very unpleasant for everyone.”

“Are you telling me the pants aren’t part of your wardrobe anymore?”

“Saving them for when I go out on a date.”

“How often is that?” The personal question strikes me as odd, but then again, I’m curious. Does Milly date? She seems to be so laser focused on her interests, that dating might not be on her list of things to do.

Shyly, she turns her eyes away and says, “Not as often as you probably do.”

“I don’t date,” I state. “Don’t have time for it, and I have things I need to focus on, goals I need to accomplish. Dating would get in the way of that.”

“Makes sense.” She avoids eye contact with me but picks up another chip, this time taking a massive scoop of guac. She stuffs it in her mouth and then glances up, a big smile on her face as she says, “That good?”

A small spout of guac flies from her mouth and hits me right in the cheek. Her eyes widen and I bust a gut one more time as her face turns beet red. With my index finger, I flick off the guacamole and wipe it on my napkin.

“That was perfect.”





Chapter Eleven





CARSON





“How much time do we have again?” Milly asks, looking at the clock on her phone after dropping the last ball in the bucket from the hour of tee work we just did.

“Until three, and then I have to head to the field.” I was able to score some time in the batting cages before practice, which is always a crutch because of the amount of equipment we have here, but I’m not going to lie, going to field six is growing on me. It reminds me of where I came from, and helps the worries drain from my body so I just enjoy the game.

“It’s two thirty now.” She reaches into her backpack and pulls out a glove. “Let’s do some front toss.”

“As in . . . you’re going to pitch to me?”

She cocks a hand on her hip. “Is there a problem with that?”

“Nope.” I shake my head. I learned very quickly to never question the girl.

“Good. Now grab your glove, I need you to warm up my arm.”

“Bossy.” I send her a wink, letting her know I’m only kidding. I lean down to my bag, take out my glove, and then walk over to her, taking hers from her hand to examine it. “Nakona. Great brand.”

“It’s what my dad lived by. It’s lasted me over ten years, so I’d say it’s good.”

I rub my hand over the conditioned leather, the perfectly shaped pocket, and the tightened lace that hold the fingers together. “Do you fix gloves?”

“Yeah, can you tell?”

I nod. “Yeah, this glove is impeccable.”

She takes mine and examines it. I watch her face closely as she spreads the fingers—some space shows between them. She rubs her hand over the heel—it’s a little dry—and then she sticks her hand inside where the padding has probably dwindled by now. “This needs help.”

I chuckle. “He does, but I never learned, given I spent all my time on the field.”

“He?” She cocks a brow at me.

“Thor. Don’t you name your glove?”

“Of course,” she states, as if it would be preposterous to think otherwise. “I’m just surprised you made him a boy. Almost every guy I know refers to their glove as a girl.”

“He’s manly, he looked like a Thor, so I went with it. What’s your glove’s name?”

“Simon.”

“Simon?” I laugh. “Wow, that’s not manly at all. Does Simon play with his calculator a lot and sharpen pencils?”

Chin held high—I’m sure she thinks she’s taller—she says, “In fact, Simon is the observer, the teacher, the expert. He’s the one who delivers the knowledge so gloves like Thor can earn multi-million-dollar contracts.”

Tou-fucking-ché.

I scratch the back of my neck. “Can’t argue with that.”