Third Base (The Boys of Summer, #1)(3)
Each game, we meet out in centerfield to stretch for fifteen minutes as a team before breaking off into individual warm-ups. By team, I mean mostly starters and a few of the pitchers that will be working tonight. The rest of the guys linger in the clubhouse until it’s time to work on individual stuff.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, as I catch up with him. He puts his arm around me and makes stupid eyes at me.
“I see you looking at her, grabbing your meat diddler in between batters.”
“There are thousands of people in the stands, I could be looking at anyone. Besides, every time I look back you’re touching your schlong dangler, so don’t even think about giving me any shit.”
He shrugs. “I see her looking at you, too.”
“Really?” I ask, pausing mid-stride.
“Nope, but you just affirmed my suspicions that you’re into her.”
I shake my head and push him away. He stumbles a few steps before righting himself. “Ask her out,” he says in his infinite wisdom.
“Nah, it’ll just be more fuel for the BoRe blogger and Stone is already annoyed with me. He doesn’t need a reason to trade me.”
Kidd bellows out a laugh, bending over and holding his stomach. I’m not sure why it’s so funny – the thought of me being traded – but you don’t see me laughing.
“Dude, even if you started dating the fan, Stone isn’t going to trade you.” He puts his arm around me and turns me toward the stands. “More than half the people in the stands are wearing your jersey. You’re his young rising star, and aside from screwing up last year, which really wasn’t your fault, you’re the golden ticket.”
Growing up, I knew I wanted to play baseball. I didn’t care who drafted me, but I knew that once I had a team, it’s where I wanted to stay. I worked my ass off in high school, earning a Division One scholarship to Oregon State. My junior year, we won the national championship and from then on, I knew nothing was out of my reach.
“I want to be the next Derek Jeter.” I imagine legions of fans standing and cheering for me as I tip my hat to them in thanks.
“No, you don’t. You want to be Ethan Davenport. Be you, no one else.”
He slaps me on the shoulder with his glove, leaving me to look out over the stadium. People file in as the smell of hotdogs and popcorn moves through the air. Their laughter mixes with the music, creating a happy ambience. Without even thinking, my eyes travel over to where I’ll spend half the night. I’m out too far to see, but everything tells me that the first seat in row C, section sixty-five is occupied.
It’s game night at Lowery Field and the Boston Renegades are about to take on the Baltimore Orioles.
After the National Anthem, we take the field. Kids are standing up and dancing, trying to get on the Jumbo Tron. I remember trying to do the same thing when I was a kid and my dad would take me to the Seattle Mariners games. I always tried to get on, or get a high-five from the Mariners’ Moose. Small moments like that can make a kid’s night at the ballpark. Catching a home run or a foul ball is the icing on the cake.
As I’m jogging to third, I let my eyes wander to the fans. She’s there with her ball cap on; the seat next to her is still empty. The slight movement of her head has me thinking that she’s watching me. I purposely walk over to the Orioles’ dugout and talk to one of my buddies from college, Justin Shaw. He’s a relief pitcher and I’ll likely be facing him tonight.
“Shaw,” I say as I quickly glance over the top of the dugout and our eyes meet. I smile and she turns away but not before I see a slight grin. Justin comes out of the dugout and we bro hug – something I probably should’ve done before the game, but she wasn’t sitting there then.
“Don’t strike me out later, okay?”
“No promises, Davenport.”
Shaw walks with me to third before he trots off to catch up with the other pitchers heading to the bullpen. Before I take my first grounder, I look back just once to catch her staring. Maybe I should ask an usher to bring her to the lounge after the game, or ask the front office who owns those seats. However, asking the front office either means waiting another day or waiting until I get the nerve up to go in there. I make a mental note to grab an usher during the seventh inning stretch. There’s a good chance she’ll blow me off, but I won’t know until I try.
The first to bat for the Orioles is a lefty. I’m poised and ready for anything that comes my way. He swings, undercutting the ball, which flies up high in foul territory. I take three steps forward and four to the side, waving my hands to let everyone know I’ve got this. The ball lands in the pocket and my right hand comes over automatically, closing my glove. I take the ball out of my glove and instead of throwing it to Jasper Jacobsen, our catcher who is waiting for it I toss it into the stands at the girl who has caught my attention. She yelps in surprise, but snatches it like a pro. I wink and motion to Kidd that we have one out, even though I know he’s aware of that fact.
I’m trying not to pay attention to what’s going on around me, but as soon as I catch a glimpse of a replay of me throwing the ball to the girl on the Jumbo Tron, I stop and watch. When the camera focuses on her face, I find myself trying to memorize her features so that when I see her later tonight, hopefully, I won’t get caught staring. From what I can see, even with her hat pulled down, she’s beautiful, and seeing her getting shy on screen just tells me that I need to know her.