Fastball Flirt (The Boys of Summer Series Book 1) Read online

  Fastball Flirt Copyright © 2020 by Kelsey Cheyenne. All Rights Reserved.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  Cover designed by Vanilla Lily Designs

  Editing by Kristen at Your Editing Lounge

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Kelsey Cheyenne

  Visit my website at www.kelseycheyenne.com

  First Printing: September 10, 2020

  This book is dedicated to everyone who’s been fiercely protective of their dreams.

  And to guys in baseball pants. From all women, we thank you.

  CONTENTS

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  Epilogue

  1

  2

  3

  ACKNOWLEDGEMNENTS

  More from Kelsey

  ONE

  Lila

  “Hey, what are you doing right now?” I glance up from my textbook and motion to the open book sitting beside me on my bed. My best friend Bridget leans in, her eyes wide and already pleading.

  “Studying considering finals are next week.” My tone drips with condescension since it’s pretty obvious I was cramming before she walked in.

  “Okay, but can you study tomorrow? I was supposed to go to the Sox game with Phoebe but she got called into work or something and can’t go.”

  I groan. “Can’t anyone else go?” It’s not like I don’t like baseball. You can’t live in Boston and not like the Red Sox unless you want to be ousted for all of eternity. It’s just I have other priorities to worry about and a baseball game on a Tuesday doesn’t fall at the top of the list.

  “I’m sure they can but I want to go with you. Come on. After this year, you’re heading to grad school in Philadelphia and I’m heading back home to Florida. This could be our last chance to hang out.” She clasps her hands in front of her and pouts her lip, fully selling the puppy dog look.

  I close my textbook, leaving the highlighter in the spine to not lose my page. “Fine, I’ll go with you, but you’re buying me a beer.”

  “Deal.” She squeals. “Hurry up and change. We have to get going.”

  After I pull on my black skinny jeans and a basic blue Red Sox tee knotted at the side, we head out. Fenway Park is only about a ten minute walk from our apartment at Northeastern University. The weather is still warm from the day, but once nightfall hits, the air will become chilly. I have my jacket wrapped around my waist just in case.

  We walk through the entrance to the stadium and scan our tickets. The first place we go is to grab food and drinks. I’m carrying two large beers in my hands while Bridget balances a mountain of crab fries.

  We find our section and walk down the steps to the front row behind the home dugout. “Your dad get you these seats?” I ask.

  She nods. “Yeah, it’s his apology gift for the divorce. It’s how he’s sucking up to me this week.”

  “I’m sorry,” I tell her, though I’m sure she’s sick of the pity. Her dad is a part owner for the minor league under the Sox and he helps get players recruited up or something. He could get us into the upper level suites, but we prefer to sit front row and be right in the action.

  We’re still early despite the lines and watch as the players stretch and warm up. I’m dipping a fry in cheese sauce when Bridget gasps and stands up.

  “What?”

  She pushes her sunglasses down her nose as if to get a better look. “That new pitcher is warming up. He must be starting tonight. Number eighteen, Hollis Graham. He was called up right after college. Do you know how rare that is? He’s incredible and fine as hell. What I wouldn’t give to get a piece of that.”

  “Bridget, ew.” I laugh and she shrugs, brushing her blonde hair over one shoulder to look down at me.

  Still, I check him out. From what I can tell from here, sure, he’s cute. Most baseball players are, though. Those pants do wonders for their asses.

  He has a head of moppy dark brown hair under his hat. He’s tall and slender, like most pitchers are, but I can tell how fit he is under his uniform.

  Bridget sits back down next to me and takes a large sip of her beer, her eyes never leaving the pitcher.

  “Why don’t you go for it? Call his name, get his number, shoot your shot.”

  “Please. If I thought I had a chance in hell with him, I would. My dad would kill me if I came home with a baseball player. He always lectures me about how they’re not just players on the field, if you catch my drift.”

  I take a sip of my beer as the players jog into the dugout. On closer inspection, this Graham guy is pretty cute. I watch him walk down the steps and the team is only gone a minute or so before they emerge again and line up. The national anthem is played, the first pitch is thrown, and next thing we know, the game is underway.

  The Sox play against the Florida Marlins. The top of the first inning passes in a breeze. They get two hits but no runs. The Sox bat next and the bases are loaded, but the fourth batter, the first baseman, Joe Clark, strikes out. The collective groan echoes through Fenway.

  The second inning passes much like the first and Bridget gets up to grab us a couple more beers. By the third inning, our team gets a hit and I get to see the cute pitcher bat. Though pitchers aren’t usually the best batters, number eighteen manages to get on base.

  The girls in the crowd cheer a little louder as he gets on first and I catch myself cheering a little extra too. Bridget comes back with the beers and our top hitter, shortstop Danny Rhodes, is up. I stand to allow her to slide past me to her seat as he swings the bat and hits a home run. We cheer, almost spilling our beers, before we settle back into our seats.

  I watch as Graham rounds the bases and I swear I catch his eye before he heads back into the dugout. I’m probably being narcissistic though, living in the world of wishful thinking.

  The fourth inning starts and Graham heads to the mound to pitch. He throws three strikes and the first batter for the Marlins heads back to their dugout. The next player comes up, tapping the wooden bat four times against the home plate. Whatever superstition he’s practicing falls short because he strikes out with three balls too.

  The third player approaches the mound and the crowd is on the edge of their seats. I watch the pitcher, looking f
or any sign that the stress is getting to him. He lifts his cap, wiping his right arm across his forehead, ball in hand.

  Eighteen is laser focused as he nods to the catcher and throws the first pitch. It’s an unintentional ball, where it’s outside the range of the strike zone, but at least it’s not a hit. He just has to avoid three more of those throws.

  The next pitch is a strike and the crowd seems to sigh in synchronicity. Two more pitches to go.

  Heaving a deep breath, Graham throws his next pitch and it’s another strike.

  I take a sip of my beer, the tension in the air getting to me. When the last ball is released, I lean forward in my seat, watching the ball. The player swings and misses.

  The crowd stands and cheers, hollering and calling out Graham’s name. His smile is boyish and cute; he’s definitely young to be in the major leagues.

  He jogs over and lifts his hat in the air in a wave, acknowledging the love he’s receiving from the crowd.

  “Great inning, Eighteen,” I call as he approaches the dugout, becoming a little more uninhibited thanks to the booze running through my veins.

  He spots me and does the boyish head nod thing all the cool guys do to say hi. I push a strand of my dirty-blonde hair behind my ear, my smile as broad as his.

  “He totally heard you,” Bridget tells me and my cheeks heat because I think she’s right.

  “Did I just totally embarrass myself?”

  “Nah, I’m sure he’s used to it.” Glancing around the stadium at all the other girls calling his name, I’d bet she’s probably right.

  Every girl has the fantasy of catching the attention of a famous person. Be it a rock star, an actor, or a professional athlete. We want to feel special. For a minute I did, but my best friend kind of ruined that for me.

  I’m barely paying attention as the next inning passes. The Marlins manage to score, but we’re still up two to one. It’s been a pretty slow game so far. In fact, if Bridget wants to leave early, I’m game. The more I get to study, the better. I’m about to ask her when the inning ends and the Sox jog out of the dugout to take the field.

  “Hey!” I look up and see the cute pitcher standing before me in front of the dugout. I glance around to see who he’s talking to and he chuckles. When I make eye contact again, he lifts a ball up in his right hand, turning his wrist so it catches my attention, before tossing it to me.

  With a wink and a smile, he jogs to the mound. I hold the ball in my hand, a weird treasure I’m not sure what to do with. It’s not as if I’ll place it in a glass case and cherish it for all of eternity just because he signed it. He could’ve given it to a kid or something.

  “Let me see it!” Bridget yanks the ball out of my hand before I can protest.

  I finish off my beer as my bestie gasps and grabs onto my wrist. “Ow,” I wince under her grasp.

  “Lila, look.” She holds up the ball and I see a note in boyish chicken scratch marking it up.

  Wait for me after the game

  I blink multiple times as if I’m learning to read for the first time or my eyes are playing tricks on me. Something. There’s no way this is real.

  “Holy shit. You’re going to sleep with Hollis flipping Graham.”

  “What? I’m not going to sleep with him.” I yank my arm from her grasp and roll my eyes.

  “You have to. For me. Take detailed notes. Measurements even. If you want to record it, I promise I won’t show anybody else.”

  “Bridge, ew. Stop.”

  “Why? You could get famous. I could be the Kris to your Kim.” She sighs. “Hollis freaking Graham. You lucky bitch. What are you going to do?”

  I smile behind my hands before turning to face my best friend. “I guess I’m going to wait for him after the game.”

  TWO

  Lila

  “Where am I supposed to wait? In my seat? Out front?” I’m panicking as Sweet Caroline plays before the bottom of the eighth.

  “SO GOOD, SO GOOD, SO GOOD! Oh, sorry, what?” I yank my best friend’s arm in an attempt to force her back into her seat.

  “Bridget, focus. Stop singing. I’m in the middle of a crisis here!”

  She sighs and falls back into her seat with obvious reluctance. “Why? A hot professional baseball player wants to meet you. Maybe that’s all it is. At the end of the day, he’s just another guy. Stop thinking about him like he has some kind of God complex.” She takes a sip of her third—no, maybe fourth?—beer as the crowd around us settles from the tradition and the Marlins take the field.

  I stopped drinking, not wanting to be a sloppy, drunken disaster when I meet Hollis-freaking-Graham after the game, but damn, I could really use a drink right now.

  Bridget is right. He’s just a guy and I have nothing to worry about. Maybe I won’t even like him. He’s probably a huge weirdo. I mean, who invites a stranger to hang out with them after the game? Unless he’s going to kill me or something. What if he’s a secret serial killer?

  “I can sense you spiraling and it’s annoying. Take a deep breath and focus on the game.” I try as I stare at the scoreboard. The Sox are up four to one, but we don’t get another hit this inning.

  I’m eager for Hollis to take the mound again. Maybe I’ll get a sense of what he’s thinking or feeling before meeting up with him. I’m out of luck when I realize Hollis isn’t pitching, and instead, the Sox brought in a closer for the ninth.

  I pop in a stick of gum, though I fear I’m going to crack a tooth with my aggressive chomping.

  I should be grateful when the inning is over. Excitement should be pumping through me. My heart and southern border should be buzzing with possibility and anticipation.

  The stands clear out. The other people in our row are annoyed when they have to step over me because apparently, I’ve turned into a stone statue, unable to move.

  “It totally makes sense now why you don’t date.” On a normal day, I’d have a witty retort on the tip of my tongue ready to knock my best friend down a peg. Right now, though, I barely remember my own name.

  Bridget is right, though. All through undergrad, I entertained maybe a handful of dates. High school was pretty much the same, though I had one serious boyfriend who dumped me the minute we went to separate colleges. No long distance for him. I believe his exact words were, ‘I just want to get the real college experience, you know? And you should too.’

  Roughly translated, it means he probably has at least one STD by now.

  “Do you want me to go...?” My neck all but snaps as I spin to look at her. She holds her hands up in surrender or, quite possibly, fear. “Okay. I’ll stay as long as you need me.”

  The minutes pass and the stadium empties out. How long am I supposed to wait here? Is this a cruel game he plays on unsuspecting women? See how long the crazy, desperate girl will wait for him? Why am I even bothering to wait for him? I have more important things to focus on. Like school. In less than five months, I’ll be starting fall semester at the University of Pennsylvania. Who needs a man, anyway?

  With the feminist mantra repeating in my head, I stand and grab my best friend’s arm. “Come on, let’s go. It’s obviously a prank and he’s not coming and I’m done sitting here, looking like an idiot. I don’t want to get trapped here when the lights get turned off and the gates are locked.” I huff after taking a deep breath. Who knew ranting could take so much out of you?

  “That’s an interesting theory, but do you mind if I tell you mine?”

  Slowly, I spin on my heel, hoping Bridget has somehow developed a man’s voice.

  No such luck.

  “Hello, Mr. Graham. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Bridget turns to me with a look that can only be explained as a ‘what the fuck?’ expression.

  He chuckles. It’s a deep, rich sound as chocolatey as his hair. “Please, call me Hollis.”

  I want to say something witty like, ha ha and you can call me tomorrow but I only have about four brain cells left and they’re all being used to remind me to
breathe.

  I’m acutely aware of something jabbing me in my side, but I can’t seem to acknowledge it. “Hi, Hollis, I’m Bridget. I’m such a big fan. This is Lila.”

  “Lie-luh.” He practices my name on his tongue and I want to die hearing him say it. “Is that short for Delilah?” I shake my head no, my mouth too dry to form words. “That’s different and very pretty—”

  “If you say just like you I swear…” Of all times for me to find my voice. Please, God, open a sinkhole right here and suck me in. “Shit. Oh, I mean, crap. Uh, I’m sorry.” I grimace and turn to ascend the stairs, knowing there’s no way in hell he wants anything to do with me now.

  “Where are you going?” He laughs again.

  Apparently I’m very funny. Whodathunkit?

  “To crawl into a hole, probably.” Bridget is giving me eyes as if I’m the crazy one here.

  “Well, Lila, I’m sorry I kept you waiting. I can assure you it was not a trick. I know it’s late and you probably have some place to be, but tomorrow afternoon is our last game in the series. Could I take you out to dinner?” My skeptical side is screaming at me. Why me? Out of the thousands of fans here, a good portion of them being women, likely college students like me, why would he single me out of the crowd?

  “She’d love to.”

  “Bridget,” I chastise.

  “What? I thought you still weren’t speaking.” She shrugs and digs into her purse, pulling out her phone and an old receipt. She sits back down and scrolls through her phone quickly. I should ask what she’s doing, or at least respond to Hollis, yet I can’t seem to agree to his offer…and I also can’t seem to disagree with it.

  “Here.” My best friend offers Hollis her receipt as if he’s going to throw away her trash. How rude? “This is our address. We live right down the street by Northeastern. Also, there is her phone number. She’ll be ready tomorrow. I promise.”

  “Thanks.” He pockets the paper and it’s the first time I noticed he’s changed from his uniform. His dark hair is slightly damp and he’s wearing a black suit, collar open at the top without a tie to hold it together. He glances at me, his gaze unwavering. “Will I see you tomorrow?” He’s still asking permission.