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

  “I’m sorry I just don’t like the ocean, okay?”

  “Okay. I’m sorry.” She’s reluctant to meet my eye, but when she does, I try to lighten the mood. I bop her on the nose before offering her my hand. “Where to then?” I don’t want to scare her by trying to take her back to the hotel when it’s a sensitive subject for her. I’ll let her call the shots from here on out. I’ll do anything to not screw this up.

  “Can we just sit here for a while? I was enjoying the view.”

  I nod and plop back in the sand, far enough away to keep the tide from hitting us. My thoughts are racing and I’m itching for an explanation. What is she so afraid of? I can’t tell if she seemed mad or scared, maybe a little of both.

  I turn to stare at her profile. Her sandy blonde hair blows in the soft breeze. A small smile pulls at her lips. She likes the beach, just not the water. She takes everything in around her, utterly oblivious to the fact that everyone here is looking at her.

  She doesn’t fit in. She’s not a normal California girl. They know she’s different, special.

  Lila tilts her head back, letting the setting sun hit her, basking in its warmth. She leans back, pushing her palms into the sand and keeping her head angled up. Her earrings are little diamond studs, catching in the sunlight.

  “I’m sorry for pushing you before. I want you to know I’m not going to pressure you to do anything you don’t want to do.” I make my meaning known, letting her know she doesn’t have anything to worry about.

  “It’s stupid.” She sits up and her hair cascades around her face. I lean over, pushing a wavy strand behind her ear to see her clearly.

  “If it means this much to you, it’s not stupid.”

  “Oh no, it is.” She brushes the sand off her palms using the denim of her shorts. She turns to face me full on and I catch a slight redness on her cheeks, either from the sun or embarrassment. “Have you seen Friends?”

  “A few episodes when my mom had it on.”

  “Only a few—” She shakes her head. “Never mind, we’ll come back to that.” She tilts her head on a chuckle. “So, there’s this episode where they’re all at the beach and Monica gets stung by a jellyfish.”

  “Oh no,” I say, covering my mouth to disguise my smile. I already know where this is going.

  “It’s a whole thing and Joey pees on her because that’s the deal, right? You get stung by a jellyfish, someone has to pee on you. Wrong. Did you know that’s a myth?” I don’t answer the rhetorical question. Plus, I fear if I open my mouth, I’m going to lose it. “Yeah, well, my family and I were on vacation about ten years ago. My parents were both busy with work stuff and weren’t paying attention to me or my brother, Jackson, down in the water. Well, what do you know? A jellyfish decides I look like a tasty snack”—I don’t add that I also think she looks like a tasty snack—“and stings me. So, what do I do? I scream. My parents think Jackson is just terrorizing me and ignores my piercing screech of death. Then, logically, the next thing out of my mouth is asking my brother to pee on me. And he does. It stung like a bitch. It actually makes it worse. Who thought of spreading that rumor around? Anyway, my parents are both doctors so they were able to actually treat it, but to this day I hate going in the water. Little clear bastards.”

  I rub my mouth to physically wipe my grin away. Before I try to talk, I clear my throat to erase all signs of humor. “I’m sorry that happened to you. I promise not to force you into the ocean.”

  “Thank you.” She stares at me and rolls her eyes. “You can laugh. I know it’s ridiculous.”

  I let out a chuckle before coughing to stop myself. “No, it’s not. I swear I’m not laughing at you…but I did know it was a myth.”

  “Well, if you travel back in time, tell that to twelve-year-old me.”

  “You’ll be my first stop.”

  We stay on the beach until the sun sets. She’s in awe of the pink and purple colors dancing across the sky. Whenever I choose to retire, I’m going to move out here. I love Boston, but I could go without the cold months.

  I push to stand and help Lila up. She reaches for my hand and I see hers trembling slightly. She’s nervous, as if the minute I close the hotel room door I expect her to sleep with me.

  I’m not doing this for sex. Frankly, I don’t need her to get laid. I know it sounds cocky, but it’s just the truth. She’s here because I want to be with her and I’m not going to throw it away over something as trivial as sex. I just need to prove it to her.

  NINE

  Lila

  The Uber back seems to take only half the amount of time as the way to the beach. I had hoped there would be a major traffic jam and we’d be stuck in the backseat listening to a shitty rap playlist for a while, but our driver was all too happy to get rid of us; like he was worried we’d rip each other’s clothes off in the back seat.

  His anxiety was irrelevant. I was pushed so far on the other side of the car I think I have the outline of the door handle etched into my side. I don’t know why I do this, why I freak out when everything is fine. I heard what Hollis said. He’s not going to pressure me or push me. He’s a genuinely good guy.

  But is he? I barely know him!

  The conscious mind is a real bitch sometimes.

  Once we’re back at the hotel, the reality of sharing a room and a bed with Hollis sinks in. What was I thinking? Why am I here? Who the hell am I anymore?

  I wish the elevator would slow down but apparently everything runs at lightning speed in California. The walk down the hallway also seems way too quick and I debate tripping just to buy myself some time.

  “So, wow, here’s our room.” I point to the door as Hollis digs for the electronic key. “Number six-fifteen. Right where we left it.” I see his lips curl into a grin as I ramble on.

  I already have a plan in place. As soon as the door opens, I’m going to complain about the room being scorching hot. Then I’ll turn the thermostat way down, freezing us out, forcing me to wear a bunch of long layers. I’m sure he’ll pull out a pair of reasonable long johns and then I won’t feel tempted to jump him and embarrass myself either.

  He pushes the door open and I follow him into the room. The king mattress stares at me like a little slut, beckoning me forward, throwing promises at me for what it has to offer.

  “Man, is it hot in here or what?” I search high and low for the thermostat behind the door before I’m stopped.

  “Lila?”

  “Oh, Hollis, you’re still here, huh?” I chuckle as if I’ve forgotten all about him. Silly me.

  “I’m not having sex with you tonight.”

  “What?” I stop searching for the thermostat and spin to face him, my hand clutching my chest, searching for imaginary pearls like a conservative southern woman in the fifties would.

  “I won’t lie. I mean, I hope it’s on the table at some point, but not tonight. You can stop panicking.”

  “You don’t…I mean…you don’t want to?” Great, my ego is bruised despite the fact he’s being a perfect gentleman and trying to put me at ease. Being a woman is some fucked up shit sometimes.

  He crosses the room, his eyes devouring me with every step. Now it really is hot in here. I press back against the wall and he enters my space. His hands plant beside my head, caging me in. My eyes roam over him, traveling down from his moppy brown hair and dark, devilish eyes.. A sinful smirk tugs at his lips and I want to bite the bottom one, to taste him.

  “Lila, Lila, Lila. God, I love saying your name.” I love hearing you say it. “Don’t mistake me being a gentleman for indifference.” He leans in, pecking my cheek and leaving soft, peppered kisses across my jaw and down my neck. “I want to fuck you and if it wouldn’t totally freak you out, I’d take you right here against this wall.”

  “What’s stopping you?” My voice betrays me. It’s breathy and wanton. If I were religious I’d probably have to recite three Hail Marys based on my tone alone.

  “You are. I’m not touching you until
you ask me to.” He backs away with a smile.

  “But you kissed me just now.” Why am I arguing with him?

  “You’re right. I’ll stop doing that too.” His grin takes up his whole face and I want to kick myself.

  I’m not a come and get it kind of girl. I don’t make the moves on guys. Hell, guys don’t even make moves on me. I’ve lived my life almost completely devoid of relationships and emotions. I thought maybe I’d be like my parents and fall in love with my work instead of with a partner. Clearly, based on my interactions with Hollis, I don’t know the first thing about being a girlfriend or attracting a man.

  I’m basically the human embodiment of a stroke, unable to form full sentences.

  “So…what happens if I kiss you? If I…want…to take that next step?” I can’t look at him while I ask him these things. I’m like a middle schooler taking sex ed for the first time, embarrassed by the words clitoris and ejaculation.

  “You’ll have to wait and see.” He winks and heads into the bathroom. A few seconds later, I hear the water turn on in the shower.

  I gather my things from my bag to shower once he’s done and set them on the edge of the bed. I lie back on the mattress, sprawled out, focusing on every word he said. I can’t quell the desire coursing through me at his promise.

  He’s being a gentleman and I’ve never witnessed anything sexier. He could have any woman he wants, yet he wants me here, and I can’t fathom why. I’m awkward and difficult. Our time together has an expiration date and sex is basically off the table until I grow a pair and make a move. Yet, he hasn’t kicked me to the curb and doesn’t seem to regret inviting me.

  Hollis is an enigma and I like him a lot.

  Ten minutes pass and the shower turns off. After a few more minutes pass, Hollis walks out of the bathroom in nothing but boxer briefs. His dark hair is still damp and the water droplets are sliding down his back and abs. I immediately want to lick every one of them up.

  I can’t focus on them for long, though, because my eyes are instantly drawn to the package wrapped neatly under the black briefs. The bulge is enough to have my eyes bugging out of my head. I sure hope he’s a show-er and not a grow-er because I can’t imagine that thing getting any bigger and being able to fit.

  This man is hell bent on torturing me and by the look on his face, he knows it. “What? I never promised to make it easy for you.”

  I don’t think I slept at all last night. I pretended to be asleep when Hollis crawled out of bed this morning, but I doubt I fooled him. He seems to know me better than I know myself. It’s like he’s in my head, reading my thoughts, anticipating my anxieties before I can verbalize them. I wonder if he got any sleep last night. On the plus side, he doesn’t pitch today. I’m not sure he’s even going to pitch at all in this series. I still don’t quite know his pitching schedule.

  On the nightstand, I see he left a ticket for me for the game. The game isn’t until 7:05 tonight, which means I have the entire day to myself. I think. I’m not exactly sure how his day to day anyway, whether he’s pitching or not.

  I debate crawling back under the covers and going back to sleep, but my stomach has other plans. It growls so loud I’m afraid it’ll wake the people in the next room. Reluctantly, I force myself out of bed solely because I spot a coffee pot on the dresser and it’s calling my name. Even if it’s shitty hotel coffee, caffeine in any form is much needed today.

  While my coffee brews I head into the bathroom and I’m grateful Hollis isn’t here to see me like this. My lack of sleep shows in my face. The dark circles under my eyes rival a raccoon’s.

  The click of the door unlocking has me yelling from inside the bathroom. “Um, no maid service please, I’m still in here!”

  I don’t know what time it is, but maybe I should hang a sign on the door so no one comes in.

  “It’s me.” Is my sleep-deprived brain causing auditory hallucinations in the form of a sexy pro pitcher? I open the door, and sure enough, there’s Hollis in the flesh. Bless him, he’s holding two coffees and a bag I only hope has something edible. “Thought you might be hungry.”

  “You’re a Godsend.” I snatch the bag from him and sit cross-legged on the bed before digging in. I pull out two breakfast sandwiches, one labeled bacon and one labeled sausage. I hold them up, silently asking which one is mine?

  “Take your pick.” I toss him the sausage sandwich and rip open the wrapper to the bacony delight. I moan when the egg, cheese, and bacon bagel hit my tongue. My stomach rumbles loudly, approvingly.

  He hands me a coffee which I happily accept and down half the contents in one swig. Hollis is sitting in the chair by the desk facing me. Every time I catch him looking at me, I notice a smirk on his lips and a glimmer in his eyes.

  I glance down at my appearance. I’m ravaging this breakfast sandwich like it’s the first food I’ve seen in weeks. My oversized t-shirt I bought from the men’s section in Target says Dunder Mifflin Paper Company on it and my shorts are hidden underneath. My hair, by what the rude bathroom mirror told me, is doing its best interpretation of a rat’s nest.

  Damn, I’m sure he’s glad he brought me along now. I’m a catch.

  “Is this everything you’ve hoped for and more?” I say around a bite of cheesy goodness.

  “You have no idea.”

  My brain hasn’t caught up to the fact that I look like Anna from Frozen when she woke up on coronation day and I’m sitting here with Hollis Freaking Graham. My anxiety hasn’t caught up yet either, which is probably for the best. I can actually hold a conversation with him when I’m not overthinking everything to the nth degree.

  After I finish off my breakfast, I toss everything in the trash and glance at the clock to see it’s after nine. I brush my teeth, and Hollis is still sitting in the exact same spot when I come back out. I return to my perch on the bed and broach the subject of today.

  “What now? What’s your game day usually look like?”

  “I have a few hours to kill. I want to get to the stadium by two.”

  “Really? But the game isn’t until seven…and you’re not even pitching.” It’s obvious how in the dark I am regarding the goings on of major league baseball.

  “You don’t think I got this body by sitting around and waiting for games where I pitch.” Well, some parts of it weren’t manufactured in the gym. My face heats as the memory of his extra-large package comes to mind. “Lila, what are you thinking about right now?” His tone is mischievous, like he knows exactly what’s on my mind.

  “Nothing. You know, like I said last night, it’s just super warm in this room. I’m flushed. The thermostat must be broken. We should probably call someone about that.” I fan my face to sell my story.

  By the glint in his eye, he doesn’t believe a word I’m saying.

  “Uh huh, sure.” He gets up and joins me on the bed, his back against the headboard and his legs crossed at the ankle. He’s the picture of cool, meanwhile, my anxiety has decided it’s time to wake up for the day and turn me into a mumbling, incoherent human disaster. “I’m going to hang out here before I head to the stadium. Wanna watch a movie?”

  Wanna watch a movie? One might assume it’s a simple yes or no question. The minions controlling my brain, however, realize the implications of my answer. Yes could mean, sex me now. We’re Netflixing, time to chill! A no could be perceived as a blow off. I don’t want him to get sick of me and think I’m not interested in him.

  “Lila, it’s just a movie.”

  I mentally slide on my chastity belt before leaning back to stare at the TV and not register one word of whatever it is he turns on.

  TEN

  Hollis

  I love batting practice. Most people wouldn’t assume that of me as a pitcher, but it’s true. It’s my opportunity to show my teammates as well as the other teams that I’m not just a position player. I’m not a typical pitcher, unfocused on my at bats.

  My batting average is higher than some of my teammates. I f
ell in love with the sport, not solely pitching. The American League doesn’t usually have pitchers go to bat. We have a slot for a designated hitter to take the place of the pitcher. It’s an old rule but one the league almost always abides by.

  The coach makes an exception for me. He knows I can hit. He’s not afraid to forfeit the slot for the designated hitter when I pitch. For that, I’m grateful. He sees my value and isn’t afraid to capitalize on it despite what the league suggests.

  The human body is a machine of muscle memory. My hands itch whenever I see a bat, to feel the weight in my hands as I swing the wood. Adrenaline pulses through me whenever I hear the smack, the ball connecting with my bat.

  I always wanted to play second base. It was my comfort zone, but when you can throw a fastball at ninety-eight miles per hour, the coaches don’t sit back and ignore it. Since high school, my position has been on the center mound. Now it’s my home. It’s what I’m known for. It’s given me everything I’ve ever dreamed of and more. I can’t be mad about that. It would be selfish to resent the game or my coaches for merely seeing my potential. I was born to pitch.

  The downside is not being able to play every game.

  When I walk into a stadium, any stadium, I feel at home. I feel at peace. It’s like the sky opens up and shoots rays of sunshine out my ass. Like I’m floating on cloud nine. I get high every time I touch the grass.

  It’s my dream job, I look forward to it every fucking day, which is a foreign concept to most. But for me, my dream job is condensed into nine months. For a pitcher, my career might last six years, on average.

  We play 162 games in any given season. As a pitcher, I only get to start roughly thirty-two of those games.

  Thirty-two days out of an entire year, I get to do what I love.

  An average of 192 games in an entire career. That’s it.

  I sound spoiled and whiny. I get a big paycheck to sit on my ass for the majority of the year.