Recognition hits.
Time stops.
The zap of electricity hits again as if I touched an electricfence. A shiver works its way through my body. Draining my beer, I can’t help but wonder if this sensation will have the same lasting effect.
She returns her gaze back to Juan. “Just a quick getaway. Can I have the tropical martini, please?”
I felt relaxed when I first sat at the bar. Now, I feel amped from her presence alone.
After serving her drink, Juan drops a fresh beer in front of me. Trying to sort my thoughts, I take a deep gulp from the glass and turn my attention outside. I vaguely hear the two of them chatting beside me but do my best to tune them out. Every now and then the shiver returns with the most intoxicating sound I have ever heard. Her laugh. I could get drunk off the sound of her laugh alone instead of the beers Juan continues to pour. Why am I reacting to her in this way? I’ve never in my entire life felt an instant attraction this intense. Sure, I occasionally enjoy the company of a beautiful woman, but baseball is my first love. My true love if I am being honest. Nothing and no one will ever come before my love for the game. People come and go but baseball has always been my constant.
If I’m being honest with myself, it’s not just her presence that has me feeling out of sorts. This vacation sounded like a good idea until I had a moment to sit in my thoughts after the last minute packing and travel. This is the first time since middle school I’m not gearing up to play this month. Hopefully, this postponement is over quickly. I don’t know what I’d do without baseball this season. It’s my release. My happy place.
After a rough off-season taking care of my dad while he recovered from his operation, I need my routine. I didn’t intend for baseball to become my full identity. Somewhere along the way it just happened. Every day is consumed with preparing my body and mind for the game—training, practice, endorsements, hanging with the team, talking to my agent. Before long, baseball was all I had. Almost ten years in the league wears on you and your personal relationships. The friendships I’ve managed tomaintain with my schedule are all baseball players. But we’re spread all over the country and only see each other when we play against each other or on the off chance we can vacation together in the off-season. A lot of those friends have their own families now. I am one of the only single guys. Some have even retired, making it harder to keep in touch.
Looking at the woman perched on the barstool chatting away with our bartender like they’re long lost friends, I wonder if it is time to change that. If I had someone in my life, the unknown of the season might not be so bad. If I had someone at home, maybe I wouldn’t feel so lost without a glove on my hand and cleats on my feet.
The sun has started to sink beyond the horizon by the time I focus back into the conversation swirling around me. We make eye contact almost immediately. She doesn’t miss the opportunity to say something. “Oh, there he is. He’s back with us now, Juan.”
“Ah, you’re right. Maybe he heard us talking about food. He hasn’t eaten either, you know.”
A warm buzz hits my bloodstream from the alcohol and lack of food. There’s no telling how many beers I’ve had at this point. Juan kept my glass full the whole time I was zoned out.
The green-eyed woman giggles. “We should make sure he gets some food in him.” She talks to Juan like I’m not even here, but I catch the glimmer of humor in her expression. Her eyes are a little glassy from the booze. She seems to be looser than when she first came in.
“Food would be good,” I respond lamely.
Her lips tip up slightly at the corners then she straightens in her seat like she is meeting a business contact. “Ivory, and you are?” She extends her hand across the bar.
Leaving her question hanging in the air, I stand, grabbing my beer in the process. When I reach the chair beside hers, I place the hand not holding my beer into her extended palm. Her skin is soft. Her long, manicured nails are a contrast to my short nailsand callused hands from years of workouts and holding baseball bats.
“Preston,” I introduce myself. My large palm encompasses her small one in a handshake. Her shake is firm, not flimsy and weak like I expect from my interactions with flirty women in bars before now. Nor like I expected from the woman that does in fact grace magazine covers and the silver screen. Her handshake tells me there is more than meets the eye when it comes to the infamous Ivory Crenshaw. She can hold her own despite what the tabloids might have us believe.
That same jolt of electricity I felt when our eyes first met earlier hits again. Her eyes widen slightly at the contact. I wonder if she feels it too. Ivory pulls her hand back and relaxes into her chair when I make no mention that I recognize her. The relief is clear in the way her shoulders drop slightly and her face softens.
Pulling the chair out, I settle in as we each sit on a corner of the bar.
“What brings you to Belize, Preston?” Ivory’s eyes dance in the setting sun as I settle into the barstool.
“A quick getaway.” I smirk, parroting the words she told Juan earlier, giving away that I was listening even though I acted like I wasn’t.
“Where from?”
“Tampa, you?” Her eyes widen subtly despite her best efforts to appear unaffected by mention of my current home, which happens to be where her father lives and coaches. Not everyone makes the connection between Coach Mike Crenshaw and Hollywood’s Sweetheart Ivory Crenshaw. Coach likes to keep his private life private and definitely does not mention his daughter around the team. It’s an unwritten rule that players are prohibited from a relationship with the coach’s daughter. Plus, baseball players are horn dogs. No father would willingly put their daughter on a player’s radar.
“Los Angeles.” If she recognizes me, she doesn’t say, just as Idon’t even though I know exactly who she is. I can respect that she wants to enjoy what little anonymity she may have. Since we were teenagers, her name has been all over the world. The media was relentless in her early twenties following her everywhere and printing unflattering articles about her, even though her only crime was being a college student. We went to college at the same time, which is the only reason I know. My fellow teammates and classmates at the time lusted after her hardcore.
Juan interrupts our small talk to let us know the kitchen is closing soon. After explaining a few local delicacies on the menu, Ivory and I place our orders.
Feeling like I interrupted her dinner, I turn to Ivory. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be presumptuous that you would want to share a meal with me.”
“Well, lucky for you, there aren’t any better offers at the moment.” She looks around as if to say “there’s not a soul in sight so by default we’d be eating together anyways.” I like her sense of humor.
“I’ll take it then.” I lift my glass in a cheers. Ivory is no longer drinking the martini, instead raising a Pina Colada in her shaped glass.
“To new friends on a quick getaway.” Her smile is small but no less potent when she clinks her glass with mine. My own smile breaks through without second thought before we both sip our drinks.
CHAPTER FOUR
