Cocky bastard.
Seeing the woman I spent a night worshiping to the sounds of the ocean was not on my bingo card for the day of my MLB debut, but I’m not mad at it. I may have a reputation of being a playboy because I enjoy the company of women—lots of women, if I’m honest—but there was something about the brown-haired goddess in a blue dress that’s kept me hooked since our night together last November.
I’m not a saint. Hell, I haven’t been a monk since our night together. Far from it. Even the memories from all my other escapades can’t stop the image of her coming undone—on my tongue, my cock, my fingers—from emerging when I’m alone. Not proud to say it’s happened when I’m deep in the moment with other people too. I’m in desperate need of alone time right now as I follow Coach Crenshaw out of the main office and down the tunnel under the field connecting to the clubhouse. The way her blouse pulled over her tits, the flare of her hips in a tight skirt, and as if she couldn’t get any hotter, she was wearing black framed glasses, giving every sexy librarian fantasy a run for its money.
“You ready, son?” Coach asks, interrupting my thoughts about Bree, or Gabby as he called her. Am I ready? That’s a loaded question if I’ve ever heard one. At twenty-four years old, I’m set to make my debut with and against some of my favorite players. Players I’ve idolized and emulated all my life.
Am I ready? This is everything I’ve been waiting for.
“Hell yeah, I’m ready, Skip.” I worked my way through the minor leagues pretty quickly after graduating college and getting drafted. My college team went to the College World Series all four years I played. I skipped single A altogether and only spent one season in double A before moving to triple A last year. Now, here I am joining the big leagues.
“Good. We need you, Chase.”
Last night, I was playing a road game for the Troubadours’ triple A affiliate in some no name town in the middle of Alabama, and today I’m in Nashville preparing to start as a major league shortstop. The turn is quick, but that’s the nature of the business. Everyone expects me to perform. Ineedto perform. I need to show my value to this team and make it undeniable that I should be the Troubadours’ shortstop no matter what. The unexpected injury of their normal shortstop may be my big break, but I don’t plan to make it easy for the guy when he returns.
“Keep your head clear and stay out of trouble. This is our year.” Coach doesn’t outright say so, but everyone is concerned that my off field “antics,” as the press calls it, will cause issues. Morality clause and all that.
“I won’t let you down, Coach.” I assure him and hope I didn’t just lie to the man I’ve looked up to my entire career. Coach Crenshaw was a player for the Dodgers in his prime before moving into coaching. He was most recently with the Tampa Tides before accepting the position in Nashville two seasons ago. There were rumblings about his departure from Tampa, but no one batted an eye when he followed his star players, Preston Fields and Ryan Miller, to the Troubadours a year after their trade. Crenshaw’s daughter, the Hollywood actress turned production company owner, Ivory Crenshaw, also lives here. Tampa’s loss was the Troubadours’ gain.
“I’ll give you a quick tour and then you should meet with the trainer to get your workouts and regimen before the gametonight.” Coach leads us out of the tunnel and into the ground floor of the clubhouse.
“This is the player’s entrance,” Coach motions to a side door as we pass. “The player lot is a surface lot, but it’s fenced in and offers direct access to this door.”
We continue down the hallway. The cinder block walls are painted in blue and white Troubadours colors. Motivational slogans are also scattered along the wall. I read the one that saysPlay Your Heart Outand smile. It’s a motto I’ve adopted for my playing style as well. I leave it all on the field. You have to love this game to play as long as we do. The seasons are long. The hours and travel are grueling. If you don’t love it, if you don’t play your heart out, then what are you even doing on the diamond?
Coach sees me staring at the wall and slaps me on the shoulder. “You don’t have to worry about that, son. I’ve seen you play. There’s no doubt you play your heart out every game. That’s the spirit we need out there. This team has what it takes to go the distance. The question is, do you?”
He leaves the question hanging and turns back down the hallway, pointing out the locker room, lounge, gym, strength and conditioning offices, and the cafeteria as he goes. He turns down another hallway and I see the double doors open at the end. The peek of blue sky and green grass tells me everything I need to know. This is the field. My paradise. The place I feel most comfortable being myself.
My heart begins to race. My palms get sweaty. The anticipation of stepping onto this diamond for the first time as professional player at the highest level is humming through my body. I bounce on the balls of my feet at the bottom of the stairs leading to the field, a ritual I do every time before taking the field in a game. It’s habit now. Coach waits patiently while I get myself together, then nods and leads me up the stairs. The Nashville skyline is the perfect backdrop for the stadium. The offices linethe outfield, and my eyes immediately go to the top floor where we just left Bree.Gabrielle. Fuck.
In my mind she’s Bree, the woman who was both vixen and princess as we danced in the middle of a beach bar and indulged in the pleasure of each other’s bodies until the wee hours of the morning. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to think of her as Gabrielle. The woman I met upstairs hasn’t reconciled with the version I’ve relived in my mind since our night together. If I’m not mistaken, I see the silhouette of her body standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows now. Wishful thinking or not, I love that she’s up there, that she’s back in my orbit, regardless of what she calls herself. The urge to make her mine flashes in the recesses of my mind. It’s a foreign feeling for me to want more than one night with a woman, but the lingering thought of having her in my bed again and her staying the morning after doesn’t have me immediately running in the other direction.
Shaking free of my rogue thoughts, I take in the stadium before me. Emotions threaten to overwhelm me at the enormity of this moment. I’m thankful Coach led me up here before I have to put my game face on. Turning to him, I hold out my hand and he gives it a firm shake.
“Thanks, Coach.” My voice is gruff with restrained emotion. He nods, clapping my shoulder again. I’m beginning to realize this is something he does to express his feelings with his players. I can’t wait for him to coach me on the field.
“When you’re ready, head down to the conditioning offices and ask for Sarah. She’s the trainer in charge and will get you set up with your routine.”
“Yes, sir.” He walks off the field, leaving me to take it all in. The lush green grass of the outfield. The shadowed white base lines that will be freshened by the grounds crew before tonight’s game. The empty spaces where the bases will be. The dugouts at field level that are empty now but will soon be filled with gear. My gear included.
I take the hat off my head and run my hands through my hairin disbelief. I made it. Covering my face with my hat, I bow my head and say a silent prayer of thanks to God above and my parents for getting me here. They couldn’t make the trip tonight on such short notice, but they’ll be at a game soon. All the sacrifices they made to get me in camps, practices, summer ball. I owe everything to them.
I stay another few minutes before heading back down the tunnel to get to work. There’s a lot to be done before the game tonight.
After a grueling session with Sarah going over stretches, team expectations, and an in-depth tour of the gym, I’m starving. She says lunch is set up in the cafeteria and shows me the way.
“Hey Rook, welcome to the show,” Preston Fields greets me from a table in the center of the room where he and Miller are finishing their lunch.
“Hey, thanks.” I walk over to formally introduce myself. “Chase Bennett, great to meet you.” I hold out my hand and he stands to grip my hand in a firm shake.
“Preston Fields, but you already knew that.” He chuckles to himself.
“Team captain, veteran second baseman, and all-star MVP multiple years running,” I recite a few of the facts about Fields. He’s earned his reputation as a leader on and off the field. He’s at the top of his game even in his early thirties.
“Don’t inflate his ego, kid.” Miller stands and shakes my hand next. “Also, it’s co-captain. I’m your other captain, best catcher in the league, and the better looking of the dynamic duo.” Fields rolls his eyes as Miller laughs. It’s easy to see who the comedian of this duo is. Not only are they co-captains, but they’re best friends who went to college and played on the Tides together before both asking for a trade to Nashville.
With the Troubadours being in their inaugural season that year, a trade of two veterans to a losing team took the baseballworld by storm. Everyone knows Fields asked for the trade to be closer to Ivory, but the mystery of why Miller asked for his trade has yet to be solved. Are they really that great of friends that he refused to stay behind? I don’t buy it.
