“Zip it,” Marcus said, his voice quiet, but still managing to cut through the noise. “Don’t talk about a teammate that way.”
“What, she can’t take it?” Caleb asked, slugging down half the beer in his glass. “She better toughen up, then. I’m just busting on her a little. I’d do it to any of the guys.” He paused. “I mean, if they sucked as bad as she did tonight.”
On second thought, maybe being here was less fun than it had seemed to be at first.
“Hey, Kordell,” Dimitri said. “That one over there in the sundress keeps checking you out. You should go over and say hi.”
Caleb squinted towards the bar, where a group of three young women did seem to be pretty interested in what was going on at their table. “Yeah, they’re not bad,” he said. “Think I like the redhead better.” He stood up, managing to bump into the table and tip over a couple of beer glasses. “Come on, Jonesy, be my wingman.”
“Yeah, why not,” Jonesy said, finishing off his beer. “Right behind you.”
“Want another?” Raffy asked, once Caleb and Jonesy were out of earshot.
Very definitely. She nodded and held out her glass.
Someone ordered some nachos and cheese fries, and the personnel at the table fluctuated, as girls joined them on and off, and a few of their other teammates wandered over to the bar, and guys went off to play pool, or go to the men’s room, or go fool around with—new friends—in the parking lot, or whatever.
Hector put his arm around her shoulders. “Want to sign up for the next game?”
“Sure,” she said, since it probably didn’t matter that she wasn’t very good at pool. Wicked sucked, even. As she did, at all games and sports. She got up, using the edge of the table to help herself balance.
And, predictably, Marcus looked over—and she pretended not to see him. The dance of masked drunkenness they had been doing all night.
There were other people lined up to play ahead of them, and she and Hector sat at a small table off to the side.
“Wait a second,” he said, and went back to their former table to liberate a pitcher of beer, and then refilled both of their glasses.
“Thanks,” she said, and drank some. Drank quite a lot.
Hector sat down in the chair next to hers, instead of the one across the table. “Caleb’s a blowhard idiot,” he said. “I’m really sorry about the way he’s been acting.”
“Good pitcher,” she said.
Hector shrugged. “Million-dollar arm, maybe, but he’s got a fourteen-cent head.”
Wait, that wasn’t quite right. “Don’t you mean ten-cent head?” she asked.
“No,” Hector said. “I’ve known guys dumber than him. Fourteen cents is about right.”
Which struck her funny, and she laughed. “So, tell me about your screenplay,” she said.
“How do you even know I’m writing one?” he asked.
Right now, she couldn’t quite remember. “I just do,” she said. “Tell me about it.”
He ducked his head. “No, it’ll sound stupid.”
His hair—such nice, thick black hair—was flopping so perfectly over his forehead, that she wanted to touch it. Smooth it back, maybe. “No, I really want to hear about it,” she said.
“It’s about a guy who isn’t as good a baseball player as he thought he was,” he said. “And how he deals with that.”
Really? “Come on, no, it isn’t,” she said, although she wasn’t sure.
Hector grinned, with those teeth that never stopped being glorious. “Okay,” he said. “It’s, um—well, it’s a thriller. It’s about an exchange student doing his junior year abroad—but, he’s actually a spy. And he gets caught up in the middle of a big terrorist plot, and, of course, there’s a girl, and—well, it’s high concept, and exciting.” He frowned. “At least, I hope it is.”
“Tell me more,” she said.
Which he did, and it was so noisy, that she had to lean closer to hear. They talked about his script, and then, about what movies they liked, and he refilled their glasses—and when he shifted his position, suddenly, his knee was touching hers, and neither of them moved. Except, possibly, a few fractions of an inch closer.
He looked at her; she looked at him.
And neither of them said anything.
He was so handsome. And he was lean, in a speedy gap hitter way, not like a slugger. And his mouth. Such a nice mouth. She really liked his mouth.
They looked at each other, and she could tell that he was possibly noticing her mouth, too. And that maybe he thought her breasts were a little less—nondescript—than she had always considered them.
He reached out and rested his hand on her leg, and she let it stay there. Considered covering it with hers.
Was he going to lean over and kiss her? Was she going to kiss back?
Hell, yes.
Did she want him to do it right away, or was it kind of exquisite to draw it out?
Either.
Both.
Yeah.
There was a lot of tension. Good tension. The best tension.
This was awesome.
CHAPTER 25
She and Hector kept staring at each other, and she wasn’t sure if she had ever looked into anyone’s eyes quite so intently.
Should she touch his leg now? Yeah. It was going to be warm, and strong, and once she did that, maybe they could—
“Last call, guys,” someone said.
They both looked up, Jill feeling more than a little confused, her hand in midair.
“Time to call it a night,” the person said.
Marcus. Naturally.
“You want to give us a little space?” Hector said, through his teeth. “We’re—”
“We have a game tomorrow,” Marcus said. “Come on, let’s get moving.”
She already had a big brother; she didn’t need a second, self-appointed one. “Everything’s fine, Marcus,” she said. “If you want to head home, you should—”
“You’ve both had enough,” Marcus said. “Come on, we’re out of here.” He turned. “Scott? Danny? Harvey? Anyone else need a ride?”
Jill was going to argue—and it looked like Hector was ready to slug him—but, everyone who wasn’t already paired off and in some stage or other of a hookup, was getting up, settling the tab, and about to head out.
Fine. Whatever. She reached into her pocket for money, and dropped a few more bills on one of the tables, not even looking to see how much it was.
Marcus sighed, picked a couple of the bills up—twenties, maybe?—and gave them back to her.
“I’m tipping,” she said.
He ignored that, just ushering her towards the door.
She was aware, walking outside, that she was pretty damn drunk—and it was fine. Fun, even.
Although maybe she wanted to be careful not to fall down or anything, because that would be a dumb way to get injured.
“Is anyone drunk driving?” she asked.
“No,” Marcus said. “Why do you think I sat in a crummy bar all night, when I’d rather be home getting some sleep? The others are all within walking distance.”
Okay, whatever. She tripped over the curb—but, didn’t go all the way down, at least.
Four of her teammates were crammed into the car, which smelled like spilled beer. There was some kind of rowdy conversation going on, but she was tired enough just to sit in the back, half on Scott’s lap, leaning against the door, dozing slightly.
Marcus dropped everyone else off first, but she stayed where she was, in the backseat.
“Is that really necessary?” he asked, instead of pulling away from the curb.
Damn right. She texted Lauren, sharing the information that Marcus was a self-righteous, power-mad jerk.
“I am not your chauffeur,” he said through his teeth. “Please sit up front like a normal person.”
Since when was she allowed to be a normal person? Besides, he was treating her like she was a disappointing child—which was
bugging her.
“Try not acting your age,” he said. “This is incredibly tiresome.”
Lauren had texted back, but her phone was kind of smeared, and it was hard to read the screen. So, Jill just sent her another message about how annoying Marcus was.
“Are you trying to make me feel like Driving Miss Daisy?” he asked.
That one penetrated, and she felt insulted, but was damned if he was going to berate her into moving. “You are such a prig,” she said.
He whirled around. “I’m going out of my way to help you, and you just called me a prick?”
“Prig,” she said. “With a g. Open your damn ears.”
Now, he sighed. “Come on, I’m really tired, Jill. Give me a break and sit up here.”
She lurched grumpily out of the car, and made her way into the front passenger’s seat. The seat belt was unnecessarily complicated, and she fumbled with the catch, trying to fasten it correctly.
Marcus sighed again, and reached over to connect it for her, like it was totally easy or something.
Her phone rang, and her eyes weren’t focusing quite right, but it looked like Lauren, so she answered. “Hey, whassup?” she asked.
“Did you pocket-text me?” Lauren asked.
Jill laughed. “No. I texted texted you.”
There was a pause.
“Are you all right?” Lauren asked.
“I am fine,” Jill said, making sure to pronounce each word correctly. “Even though I suck.”
“What’s going on?” Lauren asked. “You sound weird.”
“Well, I’m being kidnapped by a total jerk,” Jill said, “but—”
Lauren had such an anxious—and loud—reaction, that Jill had to move the phone away from her ear.
Marcus shook his head, pulled the car over, and then plucked the phone out of her hand. “Hello?” he said. “Is this Lauren?” He listened briefly. “Okay, this is Marcus.” He laughed. “Yeah, that Marcus. Did you see anything about the game tonight?” He listened. “Well, some of the guys talked her into going to a bar, and she had a very good time, so I’m driving her home to make sure she gets there safely.” He paused again. “I had a couple of Cokes, actually. Why don’t you talk to her now, while I’m driving.” He listened. “Okay. Have a good night.” He passed Jill the phone. “Here.”
So, Jill talked to Lauren for the rest of the ride, allowing as how Marcus wasn’t a kidnapper, but was controlling, and mean, and very patriarchal—a word she couldn’t quite get out of her mouth right—and that giving up nine runs had sucked, and that she sucked, and that maybe she should quit and go to college, except she would probably suck there, too, and flunk out—and on and on, along those general lines. She also promised that she was okay, and that she would drink a lot of water before she went to bed, and that she would, in fact, go to bed and try to sleep it off.
As she hung up, Marcus parked in front of the Wilkinses’ house, and turned off the engine.
“Have you ever been drunk before?” he asked.
Not like this. So, she shook her head.
“A lot of guys away from home for the first time party their way right out of baseball,” he said. “Or college, for that matter. Or, at least, squander their skills by not taking care of themselves.”
Who died and appointed him God? “I had one bad night,” she said. “You’re already writing off my career?”
“I don’t want you to write it off,” he said.
She had a few damn beers. So what?
“The curveball and change weren’t working, and you didn’t have much command,” he said. “It happens. You learn from it.”
She really didn’t feel like listening to someone else tell her what a bad pitcher she was.
“And you might be mad at me right now for breaking it up with Hector,” he said. “But, tomorrow, you’re both going to be glad that our stud lefty pitcher didn’t have a public make-out session with our center fielder.”
“We weren’t making out,” she said. Although she damn well wished that they had been.
“Hey, if you think that’s a good career move, go for it,” he said. “Next time, I’ll just shake my head and go home.”
Good. Might give her a chance to live her own god-damn life. But, instead of responding, she opened the door and staggered her way out of the car. “Thanks for the ride.”
“Make sure your phone is charged,” he said. “I’ll call you early, so that you don’t miss team stretch.”
She acknowledged that with an abrupt nod, and then concentrated on making it across the uneven grass, stumbling more than once. She also managed to drop her house keys twice, while trying to open the back door—only to figure out that it was already unlocked.
Mr. and Mrs. Wilkins must already be asleep, since most of the lights were off, but the harder she tried to stay quiet, the more noise she made. Of course, it didn’t help that she kept tripping over things.
She managed to get down to the basement without falling, at least. Then, she was on her way to the bathroom when she heard someone, and focused blearily up the stairs, where Mrs. Wilkins was standing, in her bathrobe and slippers.
“Are you all right, Jill?” she asked.
“Yup,” Jill said. Except that was probably way too loud. “Just turning in.”
“Are you sure?” Mrs. Wilkins asked.
“Yup,” Jill said. “Sorry. Was trying to be all quiet and stuff.” She wrenched at the bathroom door—and was surprised when it actually opened quite easily. “Oops. Um, good night. I better get some sleep.” Then, she closed the door, without waiting for an answer.
It didn’t seem like she was going to throw up—whew—and she drank a bunch of water from the sink faucet, scooping it up with her hands and not worrying that she spilled a lot on her clothes. She was about to change out of them anyway, right?
She left her polo shirt and khakis on the bathroom floor, and pulled on a T-shirt, not really caring that it was inside out—and had been in the laundry basket. She set several alarms on her phone, since she couldn’t remember what time she was supposed to wake up. Then, she flopped down on the bed—and fell asleep in what felt like about forty seconds.
When the first phone alarm went off, she slowly woke up, still lying facedown. She listened to the annoying sound for a minute, feeling exhausted, disoriented, a little sick to her stomach, and quite unsteady.
And, briefly, panicked, since she might have overslept. So, she lunged for the phone, relieved to see that it was only nine-thirty, and she had plenty of time. Maybe? She actually wasn’t sure when today’s game was. Or even what day it was.
She sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing her face and trying to shake off whatever drunkenness remained. Hard to believe people did this on a regular basis, if they woke up feeling this lousy.
A few minutes later, her phone rang. Marcus, of course.
“I’m up,” she said.
“Good,” he said.
She was going to look like an idiot, but— “What time is the game today?” she asked.
“Six o’clock start,” he said. “But, you’ll have an early session with Sofia before team stretch, so get there by noon, at the latest.”
Right, okay. “See you at the ballpark,” she said.
“Yeah,” he said, and hung up.
After a very long shower, and chugging a cold Gatorade from the mini-refrigerator, she felt functional enough to attempt going upstairs. Mrs. Wilkins was in the kitchen, and Mr. Wilkins was—she hoped—off golfing.
“Good morning,” Mrs. Wilkins said, as she poured herself a cup of coffee.
“Um, good morning,” Jill said. “I’m sorry I got home so late last night. I hope I didn’t disturb anyone.”
Mrs. Wilkins shook her head, but definitely looked tight-lipped.
She should probably apologize—or was it better to pretend that nothing had really happened? And what if Mrs. Wilkins didn’t realize that she had been drunk?
And what if a large group o
f leprechauns came in and started dancing around the room and making breakfast for them?
“Are you hungry?” Mrs. Wilkins asked.
God, no. Although it would be too much of a cliché to shudder. “It’s pretty early,” Jill said. “I thought I might just have some juice, and maybe a piece of toast.”
“Do you need aspirin?” Mrs. Wilkins asked.
Probably, yeah. But, she was damned if she would admit it. “Um, it was very inappropriate for me to come rolling in drunk last night, and wake you up like that,” she said. “I’m sorry. It’s not something I plan on doing again.”
Mrs. Wilkins looked startled. “Oh. That’s direct.”
Better than letting it fester. “I had such a bad game, that the guys wanted to cheer me up,” Jill said, “but I got too cheerful, I guess.”
Mrs. Wilkins studied her for a moment, and then fixed a second cup of coffee, which she handed her. “If it makes you feel better, it’s not exactly unprecedented. We’ve almost never had a player stay here who hasn’t had some ups and downs.”
The thought of milk in her coffee seemed gross this morning, but Jill added a good amount of sugar. “And yet, you keep inviting us back,” she said.
“You seemed pretty clean-cut,” Mrs. Wilkins said, and smiled at her. “Until I started getting to know you.”
So, apparently, her coming home roaring drunk was the secret for making them relax a little with each other? Well, whatever worked, right? She didn’t want to remember all of the stupid things she had done last night—but, it occurred to her that there was a phone call she really ought to make.
“I think I upset a friend of mine last night,” she said. “Do you mind if I take a minute and call her?”
“You’re actually living here this summer,” Mrs. Wilkins said. “You need to try and start feeling at home.”
Jill nodded, and went out to the dining room, speed dialing Lauren on the way. “Hey,” she said.
“Are you all right this morning?” Lauren asked.
Somewhat. “I’m sorry that I was so stupid,” Jill said. “I—well, I guess I drank quite a lot.”
“No,” Lauren said, “really?”
Understatement, yeah. “I was completely inconsiderate, and I apologize,” Jill said.
A Season of Daring Greatly Page 28