Even the mere thought of scantily clad women can’t make me feel better. I’m so pissed.
The thumping in my ears drowns the male cackling coming from the kitchen area. The article doesn’t mention names, but everyone will recognize the nickname. The announcers started calling me Modern-day Babe Ruth after I belted out twenty-four home runs freshman year. The name stuck along with my stats.
“You bagged two girls in one night? When were you going to share it with the class?” Garret, our shortstop, peers over the kitchen island with a grin stretching as wide as the outfield.
Noah guffaws, but the sound gets drowned out by him drinking orange juice straight from the bottle. I don’t chastise him for either one while I toss my book bag beside the brown leather sectional. Grinding my teeth, I count to five as I sink into the cushions. The last thing I want is for the guys to know how pissed I am about the article. “That isn’t what happened.”
“I don’t know, Mr. Heartburglar. It sounds like to me you’re covering up for your ‘shortcomings.’” Noah, my supposed best friend since childhood, drops his gaze to my crotch. I flip him off which makes him laugh harder. He places the now contaminated OJ back into the refrigerator and steps toward the couch.
“I don’t have any shortcomings.” I may be somewhat selective about who I screw, but they always leave satisfied.
“What the hell is a Heartburglar anyway?” Garret asks, drawing another cackle from Noah. They plop their asses on the couch, and I notice the school newspaper in Noah’s hands. Of course, he has it open to the sports section. My hands clench into fists.
“It’s a play on words. Like...like—” Noah doubles over in laughter, unable to finish his sentence. And for some stupid reason, the question mark looming over Garret’s face prompts me to answer.
“It’s like the Hamburglar from McDonald’s.” I immediately wish I kept quiet when Noah belts out another howl. Seriously, the article isn’t that funny.
“But instead of stealing hamburgers, he steals”—Noah smacks the top of his knee with his palm as he tries to talk between laughter—“hearts. He steals hearts. The reporter is a freaking genius.”
“The reporter’s shit.” I glare at my asshole buddies.
“Oh, that’s classic.” Garret joins Noah in the five-minute laugh-a-thon all done at my expense.
“Seriously, do we know this Mel G.?” I look expectantly at the two of them. When we’re on the field, these guys have my back one hundred percent of the time. Off the field, I’m beginning to question their loyalty.
“Not a clue, but I like him,” Noah says. “Maybe you can do an exclusive interview?”
I flip him off again. “I didn’t have two dates. I didn’t even have one. I was with Isabella and Shannon for Christ’s sake.”
“Nope, it’s in print. It has to be true.” Garret points to the article lying on Noah’s lap.
When did my best friends become dickheads?
“It’s a gossip column, hardly the place for truth. Since when did CU News become a gossip rag? Is this what the school has succumbed to? Worrying about my dating life?” This is the third year I’ve attended Cessna University, and there has never been a gossip column. Why would they start now and place it in the sports section? This sacred section should only contain articles about the teams and players. Not this shit.
“You worried your reputation will be tarnished?” Garret crosses his arms behind his head and stretches his legs out. “There’ll still be plenty of hearts to steal but not for you.”
Noah busts out laughing. Again.
“It’s not that funny,” I bite out and then turn to Garret. “And you’re right, the girls will still be there.” I push off the couch and grab my bag. Before landing on the first step, I add, “For me, Garret. All for me.”
That gets him to stop laughing. Garret never hooks up with anyone. He goes home every chance he gets. Noah and I think he has a girlfriend back home, but he never mentions her. The only girl I’ve seen him with is Lexie, and they’re just friends. We’ve been teammates since freshman year, but he keeps his home life private. Outside of baseball, the only personal thing I know about him is his major. He’s studying to be an architect. He’s one hell of a shortstop and can easily go pro. I know he could. He’s just as talented as me, but he has no desire to take that path. Lucky bastard.
I push through my bedroom door and toss my book bag on my desk chair. The rooms aren’t large, but they offer privacy. Each player has their own bedroom that comes furnished with a full-sized bed and desk. Our fourth roommate, Dalton, hasn’t arrived yet. The coach informed us that he’ll be delayed but didn’t elaborate. As long as he has been working out, he won’t miss much on our end, but I think my other roommates are anxious to see if he’ll fit in here.
After fishing the laptop out of my bag, I plop on my bed and fire it up. I have one mission—to find everything I can about Cara Gonzalez. The girl plagues my thoughts. She’s a damn mystery I can’t quite figure out. And I don’t know why I’m so hung up on her. Sure, she’s beautiful, but the girl drives me crazy. She hasn’t been overly friendly. In fact, it’s quite the opposite. She hasn’t shown any interest in me.
Not once since arriving here have I had to chase a girl. Truth be told, I’ve never chased them. There is a reason Shannon calls me Gee-Gee, and it has nothing to do with my name and everything to do with my label. It started in junior high when people recognized my talent. The girls, well, they recognized my looks and dubbed me Triple G. which stood for gifted, genius, and gorgeous. The name hit all of my areas: talent, smartness, and looks. Stupid, I know, but the name stuck with me all throughout high school. It drove my girlfriend, Jasmine, crazy.
But even on campus, I can’t go anywhere without someone flirting. That’s just how it is. Everyone knows I’m destined for the major leagues. That knowledge alone brings forth a swarm of cleat chasers and reasons for not committing to one girl. Aside from not trusting their intentions, I vowed to stay single and focus on baseball and studies after Jasmine broke up with me. There’s a reason my dad tells me to stay focused. I was a mess after Jasmine’s and my split. There hasn’t been one girl to consume my thoughts, until now.
Baseball never came up in conversation earlier, but Cara surely knows who I am. How can she not?
I waste no time logging into CU-Pal—Cessna’s own social media site—and ignore the notifications blowing up the app. It won’t take a genius to figure out what they’re about. I’m on a mission and thanks to biochemistry class, I know Cara’s last name. But the high from knowing her full name does me no good. She’s a ghost. Even my search on the normal social media sites comes up empty. Gonzalez is way too common of a name. I must’ve looked through fifty Cara Gonzalezes before tapping out. I’m beginning to think she doesn’t want to be found, and that intrigues me more.
Who the hell are you, mystery pole crasher, and why do you act as if you hate me?
After logging back into CU-Pal to clear the notifications, I cringe. Most of them are tagging me to the article, but a few team members are sending me memes. Great. I’m a Goddamn meme. Practices are going to be fucking lovely.
I double-check the time I received the first notification. Eight thirty. Right before class. Maybe she did read the article prior to class and believed it. Shit, Garret may be right, and this will tarnish my reputation. I was serious before. There isn’t anywhere on campus I can go without some girl checking me out. Is that about to change?
I ponder that for a minute and realize I’m okay if that happens. My heart should be skipping into panic mode at this assumption, but all I can think about are dark brown eyes staring at me with disdain and ways to turn her misguided thoughts about me around.
What’s even more puzzling is why I care. Or why I have this need to protect her. She’s tough, that’s apparent, and she doesn’t need protecting or even want it. But that doesn’t negate my desire to want to be around her.
For the life of me, I can’t think what
I’ve done to piss this girl off. Our last encounter wasn’t bad. In fact, other than her hitting the pole, I thought it went well. Sure, I flirted, but she didn’t once nibble at my bait. She certainly didn’t glare at me like I was the earned run to her perfect game.
I lean back against my headboard and cross my legs at my ankles, trying to think what the hell changed. It has to be this fucking article. If that’s the case, then her attitude pisses me off more. She should want to find out the truth rather than believe some shitty lies in a college campus newspaper.
My jaw clenches. Your days are numbered, Mel G. Make no mistake—I will find out who you are if it’s the last thing I do.
Chapter Five
CARA
A hot flush stains my cheeks as I squeeze my blueberry tea tighter. Lexie sits beside me on the retro turquoise couch inside Captain’s Cup, a quaint café on campus. She just told me what she discovered, and the information isn’t settling well. I feel as distressed as the antiqued shiplap lining the inside of the cafe. So much for the owner’s peaceful nautical theme. My stomach feels like it’s onboard the S. S. Poseidon and capsized by a huge tidal wave.
To be fair, journalism isn’t a career I want to pursue. Thank goodness because I’ve been slapped with lesson number one in journalism: have your facts straight. Or maybe, it’s never make assumptions. Either way, I submitted an article with inaccurate facts, and I feel like a complete idiot. Maybe I should’ve ordered peppermint tea to soothe this sickening feeling.
“Who was he with if it wasn’t a date?” My voice squeaks out the question as I try to stave off the panic. I knew writing that piece was a bad idea. Why did I let my prejudices get in the way?
“His sister.” She belts out a laugh but quickly covers her mouth with her hand.
“Oh, don’t even try to hide your amusement,” I scoff. This is way worse than I thought. I scan our surroundings, but there isn’t anyone sitting around us to overhear. “Are you sure it was his sister?”
“Yep. The second girl. Apparently, the first girl was Isabella.” Lexie says her name as if it’s a disease. “And she’s only a friend.”
Isabella eyed Braxton like he was a piece of meat she was going to tear into. I think she’s a little more than a friend. “Are you sure there’s nothing more between them?”
“Well, well, well. How’s the saying go? Speak of the bitch and the bitch shall appear?”
“Devil,” I correct, shifting my gaze to the recipient of Lexie’s scowl. She’s petite but muscular. Her long, auburn hair is pulled into a high ponytail, and even dressed casually, she reeks of money and style. I sigh. Isabella would be beautiful now, wouldn’t she?
“Bitch works in this scenario. And yeah, they’re just friends, but that’s only because of Braxton. If he gave her the slightest indication of liking her, she’d run with it.”
I can totally see that. “I take it you two don’t get along.”
“Not on your life. She thinks the dance team owns the rights to the baseball team. Plus, she hit on Garret once and wasn’t taking the hint to back off.”
I detect some territorial issues, but Lexie has insisted Garret and she are just friends so many times in the past I quit pressing. I eye the auburn-haired girl one more time. Another tsunami hits my stomach before turning back to Lexie. “I bet Braxton was pissed.”
“Yeah, when I talked to Garret, he said Braxton played it off as if he didn’t care, but he knows him too well. Braxton was fuming. According to Garret, he went and hid in his room the rest of the evening after they teased him. Heartburglar.” Her mouth stretches to a wide smile. “That’s classic.”
Good grief, if my mother’s fear comes true and the earth splits open and swallows me whole, I’ll be one happy reporter. How am I going to live this down? I knew this assignment was bad news. But it’s not like I had much choice. With picking my minor so late, the choice classes were filled, and I don’t have any wiggle room. My adviser went out of his way to hook me up with this gig.
“Do you know what this means?” Seeking her empathy, I look expectantly at Lexie. Her permanent grin kills that notion. I press on. “It means my article is nothing but what Alan wanted it to be—a true rag piece that spreads lies to get attention. I’m the supermarket tabloid of CU.”
“You’re overreacting. It’s not that bad.” She takes a drink, and I might believe her if her shoulders didn’t shake with laughter.
“Yes. Yes, it is. When Alan laid out his plans, I wanted to report the truth.” I toss my head against the slick vinyl cushion and let out a moan. “No one is ever going to take me seriously.”
“I don’t understand why the paper wants to add a gossip column anyway.”
“The way Alan explained, he thinks it’ll draw people to the sports section. He has some crazy notion that no one but jocks ever read that segment. And I guess, since my brother’s a professional ballplayer, he thought I’d be a good fit. Don’t know why he thought I’d be good at gossip.” He doesn’t know me on a personal level. It isn’t like my transfer paper states “girl causes drama.” I don’t understand because I’ve kept low-key since transferring here.
But it’s not like I cause drama for the sake of drama. Negativity just seems to find me. Moving out here is supposed to redefine my role. My fresh start at a new beginning. I deserve that after the past year I’ve been through.
The corners of her eyes crinkle as she studies me. “I didn’t think anyone knew about your brother.”
I huff a frustrated grunt. My brother set up a trust to pay my tuition under a business name for that very reason. The last thing I want is people discovering my brother plays professional ball. Back at my other college, I became instantly popular when the information leaked. It was hard deciphering between genuine friends and users who wanted to meet AJ or get game tickets.
“Most don’t, but my adviser told him in order to secure me a ‘journalist’ spot.” I emphasize the word journalist with air quotes because what I’m doing is so far from journalism. “He’s sworn to secrecy, and to make sure I’m safe, we went with a pen name.”
“Ah, so that’s why you used Mel. G. How did you come up with that one?”
“It’s a play on my real name Carmella—Mel G.”
“That’s clever.” She takes a long slurp of her Frappuccino until she hits bottom.
“I suppose, but this is disastrous since the article is bogus.”
“Don’t beat yourself up over it. Believe me, Braxton’s ego is big enough to handle this.”
True. He may not have dated two girls in one night, but he does think he’s God’s gift to women. After spending one class period with him, that’s my take. “Still, I have a bio lab with him. How am I supposed to look him in the eye without feeling guilty?” I ask, but she answers with a laugh. “So not helping, Lex.”
The door swings open and draws my gaze to a guy entering. His starch-like button-down and khaki shorts are easily recognizable. He’s the guy who was sitting across the lab table in bio. My mind clicks through names. Tristan. Bryce. All that comes to mind is Frat Boy, which I’m sure would be highly offensive.
Frat Boy’s eyes widen when his gaze lands on mine. The corners of his mouth lift as he gives me a nod. Shit, he caught me staring. The last thing I want is him getting the wrong impression. I return the gesture, but when I turn away, my gaze lands on Isabella sitting two seats away from us. The Braxton topic is off-limits.
“So, how are the classes looking?” Lexie asks, changing the subject. This is why I love her. She looks out for me.
“I’ll be doing a lot of studying this semester, but I really like the courses.” I take a long sip of my hot tea. Despite Mom’s protest, I’m happy about transferring to Cessna University. It’s the break I needed. “I wish you were living on campus with me though. It sucks not having a roommate.”
“Really?” She quirks an eyebrow at me and shakes her head. “Roommates suck. Especially if you’re stuck with a stinky one.”
�
��True, but not all of them are bad. You wouldn’t be.”
“I’m an awesome roommate, but it makes no sense for me to spend the extra money.”
“Yeah, I commuted back in Philly, so I understand.”
“Hey, Cara,” a deep voice interrupts.
I glance up to mocha-colored eyes staring down at me. Frat Boy relaxes his squared jaw but exudes a level of confidence that isn’t overbearing. Isn’t at all cocky like a certain person I know.
“Hi, uh, we’re in bio lab together, right?” I try to hide my blunder with a smile. His name still escapes me.
“Yeah, Tryce Wellington.”
I internally groan. Definitely a frat boy. “Well, Tryce, it’s nice to officially meet you.”
“Most definitely.” His stare lingers in that uncomfortable way before he finally turns toward the door. On his way out, he adds, “I’ll see you in class.”
“Now, there’s a prime example of a guy not coming across as a douche canoe,” I say after he leaves, totally ignoring the creepy vibe he emits.
“What? You actually liked him?”
Those deep brown eyes play through my mind. His dark hair has a slight wave to it even though he keeps it close-cropped and styled. He’s hot in a preppy sort of way but seems nice. “What’s not to like?”
“Nothing, I guess. Just surprised is all. You never showed any interest in guys.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t really know him.” My thoughts stray back to Braxton, and I tap my finger against my lip, the scope of what I’ve done churning my stomach.
“Let it go.”
“What?”
“I can tell the article is still bothering you. Let it go.”
The afternoon sun filters through the window and highlights Lexie’s platinum blonde curls. I would joke that not only does she look like Elsa from Frozen but also sounds like her, but I’m not in the mood. “I can’t help it. I feel like I need to issue an apology or something.”
SWINGING STRIKE: Cessna U Wildcats Book One Page 4