He makes quick work of the first three batters, getting a fly out to right field from the first hitter, and striking out two andthree with a total of ten pitches for the inning. He pulls his hat from his head and runs his hand through his wavy brown hair as he nears the dugout, and his cheek dimples with the smile he sends my way.
I hold up my hand and wiggle my open palm side to side, as if I’m scoring him a fifty percent for what was clearly an A-plus outing. Hunter grips his chest and mouths, “Ouch.” And then he dips into the dugout and out of sight.
“Yep,” my dad utters.
“Shut up,” I snap back.
His stubborn, smug laugh is the last word.
***
Hunter makes it through five innings, and other than an iffy call that earns him a walk, he finishes with four strikeouts and one earned run. Just over sixty pitches, too, which I know from being schooled by my father, is pretty fucking efficient on the mound.
“Looks like Roddy . . . was right,” my dad says. I’ve been waiting for him to pipe up.
“Yeah, I know,” I sigh. I’m playing up my disappointment for show, and I think my father can tell. There were a few times I was audibly impressed, breaking out the finger whistle more than once when he strutted off the field after closing out an inning.
He is the real deal. And I don’t have to know a lot about baseball to see it. It’s in his presence. It shows in the hard line of his jaw that flexes when he digs in to throw with a little extraoomph.It’s obvious by the way he sits away from the rest of the team until he’s done pitching, locked in, and studying whoever is coming up to face him next. And it’s in the way he takes it all in and never makes the same mistake twice.
Hunter might not realize it, but Roddy’s tough love is also genuine love. He likes him. He meant it when he said he saw the talent shining in his heart. It also might be why he made that bet with him the other night and urged him to talk to me. Perhaps there’s a part of Roddy that thinks Hunter Reddick might be good for me, too.
“Hey!” A short whistle chirps from the dugout.
I lean forward and find Hunter’s blue eyes peering at me from beneath his Maverick’s hat. I can’t quite see his entire face, but his brow rises, lifting the brim of his cap with it, and he holds up a ball. He flicks it forward and back with his wrist a few times, and I hold out my hands ready for him to toss it. I’m relieved that I catch it when he finally does, especially given the anxious middle schooler perched on the edge of his seat down our row. That kid has been grabbing foul balls left and right.
“Souvenir, huh?” My dad brushes his hand against mine, and I unfurl my fingers to show off the ball. Only then do I see the note scribbled in blue ink between the seams.
Did I earn dinner?
My lip pulls up on one side automatically, and my cheeks warm as I glance back to the dugout to find those same blue eyes peeking back at me and awaiting my answer.
Hunter’s brow lifts again, and it tickles me the way his hat raises every time.
“I don’t know,” I ruminate, knowing full well I’ve crossed that mental barrier when it comes to him. I’m going to say yes.
Lucky for Hunter, he doesn’t have to wait through me toying with him.
“You can pick her up . . . at seven,” my dad says, somehow finding enough breath to really shout his words to Hunter—as well as the dozen or so fans seated immediately around us.
A few people giggle, and a pair of college girls sneer at me. They have not been shy about ogling the taut fabric huggingHunter’s thighs and ass every time he walks back to the mound. To be fair, I’ve ogled too. I’m just a lot more subtle about it.
“Fine,” I finally say.
Hunter jumps up from whatever step he’s perched on, and for a fraction of a second, I get a glimpse of his entire face, boastful smile and all, before he drops back below the dugout roof for the rest of the game.
Chapter 7
Hunter
This truck is literally the only nice thing I’ve bought with my money. You can’t head to Oklahoma and Texas in your mom’s old sedan and get taken seriously. These parts call for a truck. At least, that’s the excuse I made to justify blowing through seventy grand on something that started depreciating the moment I drove it off the lot.
Dad was on board, which helped ease the guilt.
Mom was not, which ramped the guilt right back up.
That’s how it goes when you’re the son of an accountant and a salesman, I suppose. Two schools of thought when it comes to money, though even my dad has to admit my mom is right about all things financial more often than he is.
Still, the lift kit and running boards are pretty tight, and the roll bar I absolutely do not need but had to have adds a certain legitimacy to the entire vehicle. The splurge felt warranted. I worked my ass off for that signing bonus. And the sponsorship deal I inked with Big Man Protein Drinks has already more than replaced the funds.
