I’ve no idea what we’re doing tonight; all I know is that we could possibly be having Chinese food. I was texting with Holt this morning in between classes. It felt so natural, and we were going back and forth about our favorite episodes from The Big Bang Theory. I claimed Amy as my favorite character. He claimed Sheldon, which then made him go off on a tailspin of how we’re meant to be together. It was ridiculous, but it also made me smile, something I feel like I haven’t done in a while.
“Will you stop messing with your shorts?” Priya asks in an annoyed tone. “It’s not the first time you’ve worn them, but this is the first time you’re self-conscious in them.”
“I know,” I groan and then take a deep breath, turning away from the mirror. It’s stupid, really. He saw more of my ass in my yellow bikini, and let’s not forget he’s had his hand down my pants already. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I don’t care about this stuff.”
A large smile plays across Priya’s lips. “Ahh, that’s because you like this guy.”
Trying to stay as casual as possible, I say, “No, I don’t.”
Priya lets out a laugh just as there’s a knock at the door. “Oh, there he is. Lover boy.”
Looking my friend dead in the eyes, I say, “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
Taking a deep breath, I open the door to our modest townhome and come face to face with Holt Green.
He’s dressed up, hair styled, looking sinfully handsome, and I realize in this moment, I have no chance of brushing this guy off. Not when I’m greeted with a whiff of his cologne and a sexy smirk.
Slowly, his eyes scan my legs, up my torso, and to my face. His eyes burn with lust. I can see it in the way he rubs his palms together and licks his lips, as if I’m the main dish for tonight.
Hell, I very well might be.
He might be the appetizer dressed like that. Jeans and a simple black T-shirt that clings to all the right places, he’s dressed down like me—thank God—but my heart rate still picks up at the sight of him.
“Looking fine, babe,” he says, leaning in and placing his hand on my waist as he presses a chaste kiss to the corner of my mouth. Over my shoulder, he waves to Priya. “Hey, Priya.”
“She’s nervous. Be kind to her,” Priya calls out before turning back to her phone.
Nostrils flared, I say to Holt, “I’m not nervous.”
“She’s nervous she looks too slutty.”
Why are friends like this?
Holt gives me another once-over and smirks as he says, “Nah, you look fucking good.” He takes my hand in his. “I’ll have her back at a decent hour.”
Priya waves while still looking at her phone. “Have fun, you two.”
Holt leads me out of the townhome, shutting the door behind us, and opens up the passenger side door to his BMW. I slip into the luxurious car, loving the feel of the smooth leather beneath me. I’m not a car person, nor am I ever impressed by cars, but there’s something about Holt’s two-door, sporty black car that has my stomach flipping.
After Holt gets in the vehicle and we’ve both buckled up, he presses the ignition button and then places his hand on my leg, resting it there as he drives.
It’s a territorial move, something I would expect once you claim the titles of boyfriend and girlfriend. Not something I would expect for the first date.
Or would this be considered the second date?
Maybe third?
Who knows?
“I can practically smell the gears in your head working overtime.” He squeezes my leg as we come to a stoplight. “Relax, Harmony. I’m not going to bite . . . at least, not right away.” He winks.
“Uh, how was practice?”
“Same old, same old. Ran a lot, worked on ball tracking techniques, lost my pants sliding into third, hit some bombs—”
“Wait, you lost your pants?”
He chuckles and makes a right at a stop sign, heading toward the lake. “It’s common for me. The first time it happened was my freshman year. I hit a triple down the right field line and booked it around the bases, the throw was close, and I was motioned to hit the dirt. I did some sort of side leap in the air, and when I landed on my stomach, my belt caught on the ground. As I propelled forward, my pants slid down my legs, rendering me pantless, ass up, and exposed. I ended up looking like a bare-ass ostrich reaching for the base. The third baseman whipped his gloved hand back with the tag and nailed me right in the back of the balls.”
I laugh out loud, picturing the entire thing in my head. “Oh my God, let me guess—there’s no video of this.”
He shakes his head, humor in his voice. “No, but if there were, I would be showing it to everyone I knew. In case you were wondering, I was safe. I held on to the base even though I was pummeled in the nuts.”
“What a hero,” I joke.
“That day, I was. We ended up winning the game because I was hit in with the winning run after I recovered. But a pants slip happens often for me. Not sure why it’s my thing, but it is. If you come to my games, you’ll be in for quite a show.”
“Is this you trying to get me to come root you on?”
“Wouldn’t hurt to have a fan in the stands. My parents make a few games during the season, but their schedules are pretty busy. Might be nice to have a local there wearing my jersey, boobs bouncing up and down in excitement as my pants get stripped from my ass while I slide into third.”
I lightly snort. “There’s something seriously wrong with you.”
“Possibly. Or do I just like to have fun?” he asks as he slides into one of many parking lots that look over Lake Michigan.
“I think you’re insane.”
He turns toward me once we’re parked and wiggles his eyebrows. “And yet, you’re on a date with me. What does that say about you?”
“That I’ve lost my mind completely.”
“Glad you can admit that.” He gives my leg another squeeze. “Wait right here.”
He hops out of the car, rounds the front, and then opens my door for me while holding out his hand. I stare at it for a brief second, the width of his palm sturdy and inviting. Holt, a gentleman? If I saw him from afar I’m not sure I would believe he’d open doors on a date, but after getting a brief glimpse into his life, I find it very fitting . . . and endearing.
And sexy.
I take his hand and he helps me from the car, shutting the door behind me.
He takes me to the trunk and asks, “Are you okay with carrying some things?”
“Yeah.” I chuckle. “Who would say no to that?”
He shrugs and pops his trunk open, revealing an insulated cooler, a large blanket, and a smaller cooler, which I’m assuming has drinks in it. He hands me the blanket, and with a teasing glint, he asks, “Can you handle that?”
“I carry drinks on a tray for a living. I can handle a blanket.” A blanket that smells like absolute heaven. I need to know the kind of laundry detergent this guy uses because it smells like a dream.
“You’re right.” He reaches out and squeezes my bicep. “Look at those Arnolds popping.”
“Arnolds?” I ask as he pulls out the coolers and another small bag and then shuts his trunk. I take the small bag while he picks up the coolers.
“Arnold Schwarzenegger. Tool bags usually refer to their biceps as Arnolds.”
“Ah, and since you’re a tool bag . . .”
He winks. “Precisely.”
Chuckling, we walk toward the lake and find a secluded spot nestled under a threesome of trees that offers just enough shade from the descending warm summer sun. Holt sets the coolers down and takes the blanket from me. Quietly he unfolds the blanket and lays it out on the grass. When I glance toward the lake, I notice the Chicago skyline in front of us. It's a beautifully crisp backdrop, and for the first time in a while, I can feel excitement bloom in the pit of my stomach.
When was the last time I went out on a date? I can’t even remember, and I don’t think I�
��ve ever had a man open a car door for me, either.
I watch Holt set up the picnic himself, not wanting to step in and help him because it seems as though he has a process. But as I stand there, watching him, I can’t help but wonder why he’d be so interested in a girl like me.
Not to sound like a Debbie Downer, but he seems to have it all. The future, the talent, the charisma. Holt Green is the type of guy that you just know is going to make something of his life. I, on the other hand, don’t have a lot of promise. Look at my background, where I come from. The cards aren’t stacked in my favor, and the only thing I really have going for me is pure determination to make something of myself.
I guess that has to account for something.
“Hey, what’s with the crease in your brow?” Holt asks, standing after he set everything up.
“Nothing.” I shake off the negative thoughts and plaster on a smile. “So, is this how you impress girls?”
He doesn’t answer right away, but instead studies me, and I’m nervous he’s about to call me out, but instead of diving deep into my mood shifts, he says, “Girl.”
“Huh?”
“This is how I try to impress a girl. Singular. One girl. You.”
I roll my eyes. “Oh, please. As if you haven’t dated other people.”
“I have. But I’ve never worked this hard on a date before. In the past I’ve taken girls to a restaurant and left it at that. This is different. You are different.”
There’s no teasing tone.
There’s no smirk.
He’s dead serious, and that makes me uneasy.
Like I said to Priya earlier, he’s too perfect. He’s going to break my heart. I can feel it already, because with every smart comeback, every smile, every time he even looks in my direction, I feel my pulse pick up, and I can sense my body wanting to lean in toward him, soak him up.
But I don’t know him. I don’t know what his plans are. I don’t know what his track record is when it comes to girls. Is he looking for a relationship? Is he looking for a one-night stand? Relationships scare me, but one night with Holt Green I fear would never be enough.
Before I can stop myself, I ask, “What are your intentions?”
He chuckles. “Are you playing the role of the protective father and the girl I’m trying to date? Because that would be a first for me.”
“I’m being serious, Holt. Before I sit down and get swept up into whatever you have planned, I need to know your end goal here. Is this a one-night thing for you? If so, please be honest so I can get in the right frame of mind for it.”
Taking a step forward with his eyes sincere and intent upon me, he cups my cheek and says, “This is not a one-night thing for me. This is me wanting to spend time with you, wanting to get to know you more, with no hope to take it any further than that tonight. Okay?”
“Sooo, your intent is to date me?”
He chuckles lightly as his thumb rubs over my cheek. “Yes, Harmony. My intent is to date you. Hopefully multiple times—that’s if I can win you over.” He glances at the picnic setup. “How am I doing so far?”
I take in the setup. As I predicted, Chinese food in carryout boxes is lined up next to the insulated cooler, which has a small bud vase of flowers on top. The Brentwood Baseball logo screen-printed on the blanket reminds me exactly who I’m on a date with, but instead of being intimidated or annoyed, I’m in awe.
I was so quick to judge Holt when I first met him at the diner. He was the epitome of everything I despise here on campus. The entitled jocks.
But he’s anything but that, and I’m seeing that more and more with every second I spend with him.
“I think you’re doing a pretty good job so far.”
He gives himself a fist pump like a dork and then takes my hand in his, linking our fingers. “Are we good with the overprotective father questions, or do you have more?”
“I think we’re good.”
“So, can we enjoy our date now? Because I’m starving.”
“Me too.”
He tugs me down to the blanket. I sit cross-legged, and Holt stretches out his long legs. Wanting to be more comfortable, I slip off my shoes and set them to the side while Holt goes through the different takeout boxes.
“Beef and broccoli for the lady,” he says, handing me a takeout carton. “Are you sophisticated enough to use chopsticks?” His brow raises in curiosity that makes me laugh.
“I’m going to disappoint and say I need a fork.”
“Ah, I knew there was a flaw in there somewhere, but it’s an easy flaw we can fix.”
He whips out two sets of chopsticks and tears them apart. He then rubs them together a few times, examines the sticks, and then holds out a pair to me.
“What do you expect me to do with those?”
“Learn.” He holds up a pair for himself. “I’m going to teach you how to use them in one minute. It won’t be hard, and then when you show up at your next fancy outing, you’ll dazzle your friends with your talents.”
That makes me laugh out loud. “Pretty sure my friends couldn’t care less if I know how to use chopsticks.”
“Then maybe a future skill when you’re at your fancy business meetings speaking about all the positive things in the world.” He nudges me. “Humor me.”
“I hate that you might be right.”
“I’m proud of you for not being so stubborn.” He reaches out and takes one chopstick from me. “Now take this one and pinch it with your thumb and index finger.” I do what he says. “Perfect. And see this little hole you made? Slip the other chopstick through it like this.” He slips it through. “Now take your middle finger and press against it. That’s your base, and you use the top chopstick to move around and grip.”
I test it out and it feels really awkward, but I see what he’s saying.
“Yeah, just like that.” He hands me the carton of beef and broccoli and says, “Now go in it at an angle, never up and down. Scoop and pinch.”
I dip the chopsticks into the carton and awkwardly fumble with a piece of broccoli a few times before I grip it. In surprise, I look up at Holt. “I did it.”
He genuinely smiles. “You did. Now bring it up to your mouth and eat.”
Nervous it’s going to fall, I dip my head and meet my hand halfway. I take hold of the broccoli and bite down.
Holt laughs and claps at the same time. “There you go, babe. You did it.” He nudges my leg. “Don’t you feel accomplished?”
“A little, yeah.” I shyly look him in the eyes. “Thank you for teaching me.”
He wiggles his eyebrows. “I can teach you more things that involve your hands.”
I roll my eyes. “Should have seen that coming.”
“In all seriousness, you’re welcome. I take kisses as tips.” He puckers his lips and closes his eyes, moving in closer to me. I plant my palm against his face and push him away.
“You’re going to have to try harder to get a kiss.”
He motions to the picnic he set up. “This isn’t worthy of a kiss?”
“It is, but you have to hold thoughtful conversation with me to seal the deal. Not constantly allude to sexual things.”
“Ah, you want to tap into my intellect.” He picks up his chopsticks and pops open a carton that seems to have some sort of chicken in it. “I can do that. What do you want to talk about?”
I give it a thought and then ask, “What’s something you’ve always wanted to try but haven’t yet?”
His brow raises in surprise. “Okay, jumping right in, I see.” He pops a piece of chicken into his mouth and chews while he thinks. Once he swallows, he says, “I have two things. Want the immature one first?”
“Yes, let’s get that out of the way.”
“It’s nothing sexual, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Shocking.”
Laughing, he hands me a water and a napkin that he didn’t hand me earlier. I take a sip from the water as he says, “Disik is a total b
astard.”
“Your head coach, right?”
He nods. “Yeah. He’s the best coach in the country, hands down. But a total bastard, and any guy who has ever played with him would agree with that statement. I’ve never seen the man smile. He always looks as if he’s permanently trying to squeeze a fart out.”
I laugh out loud and cover my mouth. “Oh my God, you’re right. I’ve seen pics of him and that’s a very accurate statement. His face is always scrunched up.”
“Doesn’t change, ever,” Holt says before handing me an eggroll. It seems so natural, so casual, as if we’ve been eating meals together for years. “The only time I think he knows joy is when we’re conditioning.”
“He doesn’t smile when you win?”
Holt shakes his head. “No. He expects wins. Winning doesn’t make him happy. Winning ensures he’s not angry.”
“Well, that must be fun.”
He shrugs. “You get used to it. There weren’t many coaches I grew up with that treaded on the kind side. Always pushing, always asking for more.”
“Okay, so what does this have to do with the question I asked you?” I ask before taking a bite of my eggroll, and oh my God, is that good. I need to find out where he got this food from.
“What’s one thing I’ve never done that I wish I could do? Easy, tell Disik to fuck off when we’re running foul poles.”
I nearly choke on my eggroll when I let out an uproarious laugh. I cover my nose and take a deep breath before saying, “Wow, I was not expecting that.”
“Don’t get me wrong, I like working out.” And it shows. “But Disik gets in these moods where he just wants to torture us for no reason. We’ll sometimes spend an entire practice just conditioning. He makes us run foul pole to foul pole, either sprinting or doing burpees or bear crawls, or whatever maniacal thing he came up with that day. And in those moments, I want to stand up, look him dead in the eye, and tell him to fuck off.”
The Strike Out Page 9