“You gonna pick . . . your chin up?”
I turn to my right and glare at my father.
“My chin is just fine,” I protest. I may have been gawking a bit. Fine. A lot.
I’ve always liked watching long toss. When I was a kid, I would bet my sister on how far one of the players could throw. I always believed they could throw farther than she did, and I won those bets half the time. Hunter, however, moves farther than my longest expectations. By the time I shift my gaze back to the field, he’s moved to the opposite foul pole and is easily zinging the ball across the outfield to Roddy without a single hop. When he starts to jog back toward us, Roddy holds up his glove and props his mask on top of his head as he saunters toward my father.
“I thought I saw a familiar face over here,” he says, tucking his glove under his arm before stepping over the baseline wall to visit my father.
A hulk of a man, Roddy bends in half and hugs my father to his side before reaching his hand across my father’s body to shake mine. I give his palm a squeeze and smile, a little embarrassed to be here. Of all the Mavericks players, Roddy is the one to know my hardline stance on dating these guys—anyguys. He doesn’t seem to be judging me with his gaze, though, and that’s probably because he’s happy to see my dad.
“How are you feeling, Coach?” Roddy kneels to make it easier to look my dad in the eyes and hear his start-and-stop speech,and I let the two of them catch up while I focus on the leg stretches Hunter is completing mid-field.
He squats, facing me, and pushes the brim of his hat up just a touch as the sun catches his blue eyes. He’s a hundred feet away, and I can’t be certain, but I think he’s staring at me. He pushes one knee toward the grass, stretching his quad. His chest puffs up with a deep breath, his shoulders somehow widening their span before he switches legs and repeats it all again.
“He’s the real deal, you know?”
“Huh?” I snap out of my stupid, embarrassing trance again to meet Roddy’s eyes.
He nods toward Hunter.
“The kid’s the real deal on the mound. He’s got the stuff to go far. But don’t you dare breathe a lick of that to him, you hear?” Roddy stands but keeps his chin low and his eyes on mine.
“I wouldn’t dare. Hell, I might not even talk to him after this game.” That’s a lie, and we both know it.
Roddy chuckles.
“Sure, you won’t,” he says, pulling his mask down and turning his attention to my dad. “Enjoy the game, Coach.”
I stew with my thoughts, mentally protesting what I know is true—I’m a little into Hunter Reddick. He’s fucking hot. And I’m so very single. And yeah, maybe it would be nice to feel a man again. For a little while. What’s the harm?
“He’s got you figured . . . out,” my dad teases.
“Who does?” I pull my water bottle from the cupholder in front of me and unscrew the cap.
“They both do,” my dad huffs out with a laugh.
“Hmm.” I hum because I’d like to think I’m more complicated than the cliché girl who crushes on the hot, young pitcher.
Hunter finishes his stretches, picks up his glove, and makes his way toward us. I force myself to look away. I busy myselfwith my phone at first, then lean forward and look down my aisle to count the bodies in the seats, squinting to pretend I’m looking for someone. When enough time passes that I feel good about the coast being clear, I turn my attention back to the field, and Hunter is long gone. My stomach tightens, and the squeeze grows stronger the longer I scan the dugout and then the bullpen in search of him.
I’m such a hypocrite.
“Ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to Sun Oil Stadium, home ofyourSweetwater Mavericks.”
I stand and hold out my hand to help my father steady himself on his feet. We brought the chair today because I wasn’t sure how easy it would be for him to navigate his walker through this old stadium. There are a lot of quirks to the layout, including random chunks of concrete where walls once stood. We parked the chair at the back of the section near one of the seat attendants, and despite the awkward length of the stadium steps, he managed to tackle them on the way to our seats with my help. I’m proud of him.
The announcer goes through the usual drill, mentioning all the quirky mom and pop businesses in Sweetwater that sponsor the summer season every year, and I whistle when there’s a shoutout to Earl’s Big Easy. I think half the team does the same. In a college town where most of the bars are wannabe clubs with loud dance tunes blasting until midnight, Earl’s remains tried and true to its roots. It’s a pub in every sense, with giant TVs sketchily hung on walls and Mavericks gear as well as some from the college slapped on the walls. The pool tables are well-worn, but the Saturday night bets still get placed between old timers. Every new class of Mavericks players gets schooled in darts and served some of the best microbrews in Oklahoma until the weather turns cold and they all head off to warmer places for the off-season. Earl’s daughter, Daisy, was nice enough to giveme a job when I came back home, despite my lack of bartending experience. I’m a quick study. It’s why I did so well in school until I had to drop out.
My palms sweat as the players’ names are announced one at a time and they line up for the national anthem. It’s a decent crowd for a Thursday game, and I’m beginning to realize people came out here today for one reason—him.
“Your starting pitcher, the number one draft pick by the Texas Rangers out of Pacific Coastal University, Hunter Reddick!”
There’s an audible roar from the few thousand gathered for today’s game, and my father’s voice is in the mix. He cups his mouth and does his best to holler as he jabs me with his elbow, urging me to join in. I roll my neck reluctantly and push two fingers into my mouth so I can whistle. I normally use this skill to break up fights, but I guess I can use the skill support of Hunter today.
We quiet down for the anthem, and I keep my gaze fixed on Hunter’s back the whole time—number thirty-four pops from the crisp white in blue lettering. How fitting that he’s wearing such a storied number, Nolan Ryan’s. I wonder if he really is as good as Roddy says.
My dad and I settle into our seats, and Hunter takes the mound. He’s methodical through his warmups, snapping the ball into Roddy’s mitt and walking in a slow half circle around the mound after each pitch. His jaw works, and I hold my breath waiting for him to spit to the side. Of course he never does though, instead blowing a massive pink bubble before snapping his gaze to me and fucking grinning. Dammit—not only am I caught, but I also can’t ding him for chewing tobacco. He just keeps notching out green flags.
