Squeeze Play

by Aven Ellis

  The flag is rolled back up, the audience cheers, and the players head back to the dugout. Now my anxiousness increases. I know I’m mere minutes away from seeing Brody behind the plate.

  “We have some new faces on the roster this year,” one of the announcers says. “Probably the biggest acquisition has been Brody Jensen, who caught last for Miami.”

  “Turn it up!” I yell at Katie.

  “I’ll rewind,” Katie says, parking her spaghetti on the coffee table. She rewinds and stops right as the camera shifts from the field to the bullpen, where Brody is still warming up.

  There’s no denying I get butterflies when I see him.

  “Brody is a rising star in this league,” the announcer continues. “Not only does he have a huge arm and rapid-fire release, but he can hit with power. Brody had a .302 average last year with Miami, so you also have someone who can drive in 80 runs a year and hit more than 25 home runs. Great, great acquisition for the Soaring Eagles.”

  I have no idea what all of this means, but I can tell Brody is a star.

  A star who never once acted like it when I threw coffee all over him today.

  I wait impatiently as the rest of the Opening Night procedures are run through, and then the ceremonial first pitch is announced and I see Brody.

  My heart pounds against my ribs the second I do. He’s behind the plate, no mask, his dirty-blond hair tousled and blowing in the April breeze.

  I take in everything about him, including the way the navy jersey stretches across his frame, the one with Soaring Eagles in white script across it, as he lowers into catching position, waiting for the pitch to be thrown.

  The man on the mound is a war veteran, and he throws the first pitch to Brody. He catches it, and with a huge smile on his face, trots up to greet the veteran and shake his hand.

  My pulse quickens when I realize he gave me that same smile: bright, sincere, and engaging.

  “He’s so good looking,” Katie says, interrupting my thoughts.

  I blink as they go to commercial.

  “He’s clever,” I say before thinking.

  “Clever?” Katie asks.

  “Yeah. Very funny and quick with his words,” I say, recalling our conversation. “No matter what I said, he had a response, which is rare.”

  “Interesting.”

  “I know, it’s weird.”

  “No, it’s interesting hearing you talk about him. You know, because we’ve been friends for four years now and you’ve never talked about any guy like this.”

  I shift my attention to the car commercial to avoid her perceptive gaze.

  “Yeah, well, he’s not going to email me, so it’s irrelevant.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Um, somehow I don’t think he’ll miss the bucks it will take to have his sweater cleaned.”

  “Um, that’s obvious, but you know—stay with me here—he might want to talk to you again.”

  The game comes back on, and I fall silent as I mull that thought over in my head. No. I don’t need this will-he-or-won’t-he-email thought pattern in my head. I need to watch this game, satisfy my curiosity about him, and move on to reading my book and preparing for a full day at work tomorrow, one that will not include Brody.

  I frown. While I know this is reality, why does this seem disappointing?

  I shake the thought from my head and resist the urge to pick up my phone and Google Brody while I wait for the game to start. I don’t want to give Katie any more fuel for her you like him! fire.

  The players trot out of the dugouts to the field, and I wait for another glimpse of Brody. Graphics are thrown up on the screen, announcers are blah-blah-blahing, and then I see him.

  He’s standing at home plate, his catcher’s mask pushed back on his head as he waits for the game to begin.

  Damn.

  He’s crazy hot.

  Finally, they are ready to play ball. While I feel like I’m watching a foreign-language movie with no subtitles, I can’t help but be amazed that I met the man behind the mask today.

  The pitcher delivers the ball, and the Philadelphia player swings and misses, and the ball goes right into Brody’s glove.

  “Strike one,” the announcer says.

  Brody moves to his knees and throws the ball back to the pitcher. Then he resumes his crouching position.

  Ooh. I bet Brody has amazing quads from having to crouch all game.

  I have a thing for strong legs.

  I shift my attention back to the TV, amazed at how seamlessly my brain can move from Brody’s quads to the game as if this is a normal thought process.

  It is indeed a gift.

  But Katie is still winning with her carb-loading capacity.

  The second pitch is delivered, and then whack! The Owls player hits the ball and runs to first base.

  “That guy is a good base stealer,” Katie says, pausing to take a sip of her wine. “I’ll be curious to see if he runs on Brody.”

  Um, okay. Katie might as well have spoken in Russian, but I nod anyway, as I’m sure she’s right in whatever she told me.

  The next Philadelphia player steps up, and I see Brody flashing his fingers, which is obviously some kind of secret signal to the pitcher. Wait. Why does Brody have yellow fingernail polish on? I squint at the TV, and for sure, he has yellow on his fingernails. He didn’t have that on this morning when we talked. It must be so the pitcher can see his hands better.

  I should suggest a bright coral, I think with a smile. I have a color by OPI called Cajun Shrimp that would be perfect.

  The pitcher nods. Hmm. This must mean he accepts whatever Brody told him to do.

  Ha, I need to tease him about having secret codes. The only secret codes I have are ones I get for signing up for newsletters in order to get a ten percent off code emailed to me for my first purchase.

  And for wearing yellow nail polish, even if it is part of his game.

  Wait. I’m never talking to him again.

  What am I thinking?

  “Luis Martinez had a great season last year, batting .353,” the announcer says of the Philadelphia player.

  Shawn Jordan, the pitcher, delivers again, but this time, the announcer calls it a ball.

  “High and away, ball one,” he says.

  Again, more Russian.

  Ha. Or Charlie Brown teacher-speak. Now that’s what this baseball language sounds like to me.

  Brody flashes more signals. Shawn shakes his head to the first one.

  Hmm. He must not have liked Brody’s suggestion.

  Brody flashes more signs, and the pitcher nods.

  Ah, we have an agreement.

  Wow. I’m grasping baseball better than I thought I would.

  Shawn pitches, and the Philadelphia player swings, missing it.

  “Strike one,” the announcer says.

  Yay!

  “Great pitch,” Katie says.

  Brody gives more signals, and Shawn agrees with them. He goes to pitch.

  The second the ball is caught by Brody, he immediately stands up and fires the ball, his mask falling off and his leg kicking back in the process. Shawn ducks, and I hold my breath as the Philadelphia runner heads for second. The Soaring Eagles player gets the ball and swipes it across the Owls player’s fingertips with his glove.

  “Runner going and he’s out!” the announcer cries. “Cut down on the perfect strike from Jensen. What an arm on this kid!”

  The camera shifts back to Brody, who is picking up his mask. He takes a moment to run a hand through his luxurious hair, his pale blue eyes all business now, and puts his mask back on.

  Whoa.

  That’s badass.

  Smoking hot.

  And something tells me thoughts of Brody Jensen are going to linger long in my head after I’m done watching this game tonight.

  ***

  I finish up writing in my bullet journal at my desk in my room. It’s nearly eleven o’clock, and I’ve managed to select my outfit f
or tomorrow so I don’t have the problem of what to wear in the morning. I’ve made my overnight oats and put them in the fridge so breakfast is ready when I am. I also made my annoyingly healthy bento box-style lunch and even looked up where the apartment gym is so I can go first thing after work.

  Okay, I feel good about eliminating any potential problems getting ready in the morning, and I feel better putting my first workout in my planner so I can begin to tackle the extra ten pounds problem.

  I’ve also washed, toned, and moisturized my face and brushed my teeth. Now I’m sitting in my tank top and floral drawstring pajama bottoms, and I’m about fifteen minutes away from bed.

  I turn on my bedside lamp. Then I switch off the desk light, closing my bullet journal and picking up The Ultimate Modern Girl’s Guide to Self-Motivation, Zen, and Being the Absolute Best You Now! I slip under the covers, flip open the book, and grab my pen off the nightstand. Every night, I’m going to work on these questions to improve myself and prepare for a successful future.

  I wonder if Brody is home yet.

  Dammit.

  This has been happening all night. I watched the whole baseball game, eagerly trying to catch glimpses of Brody. When he was at bat, all I could think of is how I was so close to him. Teasing him. Making him smile. How it made my heart flutter when I did . . .

  The response I had to him had nothing to do with the fact that he can crush the crap out of a baseball, as Brody had a huge hit that sent him running all the way to third base and got another player across home plate, which turned out to be the winning run.

  I can’t believe how exciting it was to see Brody hit that ball, to see his speed as he ran around the bases and how his new teammates cheered when he did.

  I cheered with excitement for him, and when my mom called in the middle of the game to see how my first day at work was, I let it go to voicemail so I could celebrate his success in real time.

  All of this for a man I’ll only see on TV from now on.

  Ugh.

  Anyway. The workbook. I go back to reading:

  Make sure you get ready for tomorrow by turning off all electronic devices an hour before bedtime. Give yourself space from social media. Unplug from the day and allow your brain to rest.

  I snort laugh. Ha! They obviously don’t know my brain doesn’t have an off button.

  I did put my phone face down on my nightstand, which was hard enough as it was, and technically that didn’t happen until ten o’clock, but hey, I’m making progress.

  I decide to turn it off completely so I have no temptation to do another Google search on Brody. While I have already learned he has a rarely used Instagram, hasn’t sent a Tweet since last December, is from San Diego, has a fraternal twin named Brady, and has played ball since he was drafted in high school, there’s so much more I could learn.

  But I’ve already learned too much as it is.

  Because I feel like with every little fact I unearth, I want to know more. These are all components of the man I met today, but I want to know the real stories behind these pieces.

  From the man I met in the coffeehouse, the one who gave me a hard time, the one who kept up with my crazy brain without batting an eye.

  I want that man to tell me his story.

  And it’s disappointing that will never happen.

  I close the workbook and push it to the side of my queen-sized bed that remains pristine because it’s vacant. I roll over and reach for my phone, ready to shut it off, even though that feels like cutting off a major artery to the outside world.

  This book is totally right. I should not have this unhealthy kind of relationship with my phone.

  I flip it over in my hand. My phone informs me Pinterest has new salad pins for me. Feeble yay. I need more salad in my life.

  If only I liked salad.

  But then my eyes catch something else.

  My Flashmail.com account has sent me an inbox notification:

  You have one new email. From: BJensen33@quickmail.net

  Chapter Five

  I gasp the second I see the email address. My hand begins to shake. I read the notification over and over, convinced my brain is playing one huge joke on me and I’ll put the phone down, flip it back up, and find a notification for an email from the As Seen On TV website with some promotion.

  I put the phone down and swallow. I’m losing my mind. I’ll flip the phone over and my normal assortment of crap will be in my inbox.

  I flip it back over.

  You have one new email. From BJensen33@quickmail.net

  Oh, my God!

  I have an email from Brody.

  My heart is pounding so loud I can hear it. I tap on the notification and the email pops open on my screen:

  From: Brody Jensen BJensen33@quickmail.net

  To: Hayley Carter Hayley.carter@flashmail.com

  Date: April 3, 10:55 PM

  Subject: Financial impact of Hot Meaningless Sex Solicitation

  Ms. Carter,

  This is Brody Jensen. You threw coffee on me today in an attempt to get my attention for a meaningless sexual encounter. While you changed your mind on that and declared it was an accident, you did offer to pay for the dry cleaning of my sweater and pants. You’re in luck. Both items are machine washable (Attachment 1) and since both are dark, they can be washed in the same load using one cup of detergent (Attachment 2.)

  In conclusion, you owe me one cap full of All detergent. It has to be All Sensitive Skin formula; I’m brand particular.

  Please let me know when you’d like to bring me said cup of detergent.

  If you would like to discuss further, I will be at Mochas & Macchiatos tomorrow around 7:30 in the morning. I’ll be the guy in dry pants. ;)

  Sincerely,

  Brody

  Butterflies go mad in my stomach. My heart hasn’t stopped racing, and I have the biggest grin on my face.

  Brody wants to see me tomorrow.

  Hot Guy.

  I click on his attachments. The first shows a measurement of detergent in the cup and the second shows him pointing to the tag on his sweater, which says “Machine Wash Cold.”

  This email screams volumes about him. He doesn’t take himself seriously. He’s fun.

  Oh-so-clever.

  Clever is hot.

  This is absolutely the best email I have ever received.

  “Katie!” I yell. “Katie, oh my God, Katie, come here!” I leap off the bed and begin pacing around my room, staring at the email in a mixture of giddiness and shock. “Katie! Brody emailed me!”

  Within seconds, the door flings open to my room. “What?” she cries, her eyes wide.

  “He emailed me!” I give her my phone, and Katie’s eyes bug out of her head.

  “Oh, my God!” Katie cries. “Brody Jensen wants to meet you for coffee!”

  “I know!”

  We both squeal like preteens at their first concert. Then I regain myself, and so does Katie. She clears her throat and hands me back my phone, as if we both remembered we’re supposed to be more mature than that.

  “At seven thirty in the morning,” Katie points out, going straight for the facts now. Of course, that’s Katie’s thing; she loves facts.

  “Yes.”

  “You realize he doesn’t have to get out of bed until like eleven. Brody doesn’t have to be at the ballpark until the afternoon.”

  “Wait . . . Are you saying he’s getting up that early to meet me?”

  “I sincerely doubt he’s getting up that early to obtain laundry detergent. He likes you.”

  The gravity of this hits me.

  Brody Jensen, professional baseball player, wants to meet me for coffee tomorrow.

  To get to know me.

  And all I want is the chance to get to know him, too.

  “I’ve got to email him back,” I say, flopping back on my bed.

  “This is so exciting!” Katie says.

  “I can’t believe it,” I admit, looking up at her. “Kat
ie, I know I’ve always said I liked a certain type. I always said I wanted nothing but to build my career at this point. I always pushed guys away. But with that one encounter, I feel like everything has turned on its head. Within a second, all my ideals changed. Is that weird?”

  “No,” Katie says softly. “It’s life. Brody came into it and now things are upside down for you. But in a good way, Hayley. For once, you’ve opened your eyes to something new and unexpected, and you’re willing to explore it.”

  I realize she’s right. Normally, I would have blown Brody off based solely on his age.

  But something about this man drew me in.

  And there is nothing I want more than to see him tomorrow morning.

  ***

  The Ultimate Modern Girl’s Guide to Self-Motivation, Zen, and Being the Absolute Best You Now!

  Today’s Question: What truly makes you happy?

  I pause on the sidewalk in front of Mochas & Macchiatos, overwhelmed by a mixture of extreme excitement and a need to throw up from nerves. It’s a few minutes before seven thirty, and time to have coffee with Brody.

  Coffee with Brody.

  I repeated those delicious words in my head at least a thousand and two times before I finally crashed off into sleep. I swear I’m running on four hours. I got up extra early to get ready and catch the train.

  I emailed him back last night, not knowing if he’d be online to respond, saying I was agreeable to his proposed conversation. He replied back with his number, telling me it was not for sexual hookups but to tell him if I was going to be late or couldn’t make it.

  He’s oh-so-mischievous.

  Which is oh-so-sexy.

  I take a moment to check my appearance in the coffeehouse window. Today, I’m wearing a white silk blouse, adorned with multi strands of faux pearls along with another pencil skirt, because I’m obsessed with them. I think they are so professional and polished. This one is a pink and chocolate brown tweed, and I’ve paired it with a cute chocolate-brown cardigan. My short hair is stylishly tousled, and my pointy-toed pale pink pumps punctuate my outfit.