“Uh, let’s see . . . we got an early case of the summer brew from Oklahoma City. It’s an IPA with a hint of citrus.” She stows the washcloth beneath the bar, then spreads her palms out along the bar top and tilts her head, finally looking me in the eyes.
A faint smile pulls on my lips.
“I’ll try that, then. If you recommend it.” I maintain eye contact, and our gaze lasts that little extra second that usually tells me everything I need to know. She’s intrigued by me, I’m sure of it. She didn’t look away first. I did.
“I don’t drink, so I can’t recommend anything. But the guys seem to like it, so . . . comin’ right up.” She pats a hand on the bar top and steps back a few steps, keeping her eyes on me before glancing over my shoulder, then turning around.
I twist my neck to see what caught her attention and find Roddy and the guys all staring our way. I grimace and shake my head. Fuckers are going to make this hard. They all lift their beers, and Roddy gives me a thumbs up. I don’t have to see or hear it to know they burst into laughter the second I turn around.
“So, how much?” Renleigh slides my beer toward me, then rests her elbows on the bar top as she nods over my shoulder.
“Huh?” My pulse kicks into a higher gear as I try to play dumb. Thankfully, her gaze is fixed on the guys behind me rather than my throat, because I just swallowed an invisible rock.
“They bet you to come talk to me, yeah? Or . . . is this one to take me home?” Her eyes flit to mine, and I freeze, instantly trapped.
“Oh, uh . . .” I puzzle my face, pulling my brow in as I glance down at the beer, rotating the glass with my fingertips. “That’s not why I came over here, but they did . . . uh . . .” I grab the back of my neck as nervous laughter slips from my mouth.
A mischievous grin snakes into her cheeks.
“I’m caught, aren’t I?” I give in, dropping my chin into my neck as I squeeze my eyes shut.
“’Fraid so, rookie,” she says, patting the space next to my IPA. “Good news, though. This one’s on the house.”
I chuckle softly and utter, “Thanks.”
I linger, not ready to abandon my quest, while Renleigh takes care of a few customers on the other end of the bar. I take a few sips from my beer and hold up a finger to my teammates, buying myself time. I can salvage this. A guilty smile has always worked for me.
“So, what do you think?” Renleigh nods at the beer as I pull it down from my lips.
“Mmm, it’s good. I taste the citrus.” I don’t taste shit, but I need this banter to continue.
“Good to know. I’ll keep pitching it that way,” she says, her gaze flitting to me in fits while she busies herself making a rum and Coke.
“Speaking of pitching,” I segue, squinting my eyes at the cheesiness of my line. I went for the cheese on purpose. It’s better to look like a hapless fool than an asshole.
“Oh, wow. So, you’re a pitcher, then, huh? I wouldn’t have guessed.”
I roll my shoulders back and cradle the half-empty beer mug in front of me.
“You were right about the rookie thing, but I don’t plan on being here long. I was the number one draft pick,” I say, whispering that last part, though loudly enough that the guy sitting next to me turns to give me a once-over.
“Well, shit. You are Hunter Reddick. You really throw a hundred pitches during that college playoff game?” the guy says.
I smirk boastfully on the side closest to him but keep my eyes on Renleigh.
“One-hundred-fifteen, actually. Could have gone a dozen more, too, but ya know . . . coach didn’t want to stress the arm.”
More like I was starting to get a little wild, but nobody needs those details. Coach pulled me in the ninth before I gave up the winning run. Saved that for our bullpen.
“Ha, well. You better worry about stressing the arm in Texas when you get there. They can’t hit worth shit, so it’s all on you, buddy. Good to meet ya, though.” The guy pats my shoulder with a heavy hand as he heaves himself from his stool and carries his drink to the pool tables in the back of the bar.
“Number one draft pick, huh?” Renleigh’s tongue is pushed in her cheek, and even though she’s teasing me with her words, I sense she’s also a touch impressed.
“Yep. Seeing my mom cry happy tears was probably the coolest part about it all, to be honest.”
I’m not making that part up. My mom put in a lot of hours driving me from camp to camp, practice to practice, game to game. My dad’s job requires a lot of travelling for sales, but he showed up for the big things. He was there for draft day, too. No tears from his eyes, though. Just lots of bragging, which also felt pretty nice.
“All right, rookie. How much is on the table for this little wager?” She pushes a few buttons on the register again, this time counting out bills in the drawer before zipping them into a deposit bag.
