Squeeze Play

by Aven Ellis

  That’s not him.

  But this is.

  Pissy rubs her head against his chest, and Brody sinks down on the couch, stroking her tiny head.

  “Do you have any cereal?” Brody asks.

  I grin. “I need to buy Cocoa Krispies, but I do have Fruity Pebbles and Fruit Loops.”

  “May I have a bowl of Fruity Pebbles, please?”

  “You know what attracts me to you? How wild you are,” I tease as I go into the kitchen.

  “I’m so wild. Let’s go crazy tonight. Would you mix in some Fruit Loops with it?”

  “No!” I gasp in mock shock.

  “Right? I told you it was an insane idea.”

  I retrieve two bowls and pour the same mix of fruity cereal in each. I was good on calories at the game, so I can have some, too. I add milk and bring them back to the living room, sitting down next to Brody.

  “Cheers,” I tease, handing him a bowl.

  He laughs. “We’re so out of control.”

  “We can’t be contained,” I say, dipping my spoon into the bowl and taking a bite.

  “Hayley?”

  I turn to him, chewing my cereal.

  “I like us like this,” he says, re-settling Pissy across his massive thighs. “I like that we can hang out and eat cereal. I like this as much as our fancy dinner out last night. I find you just as beautiful in your jeans and T-shirt as I did in your dress. We don’t need to be out at bars or clubs; I like being here. I prefer this. I prefer you.”

  My heart races from his sentimental words. I know what I’m feeling for him isn’t infatuation. Or insta-love. I’m falling in love with Brody because of the man he is. The man who will eat cereal and tell me I’m beautiful and take care of my kitten.

  This is the man I can see forever with.

  “I want only you,” I admit after I swallow. “And this, exactly this.”

  Brody leans forward and places his bowl on the coffee table.

  “My schedule during the season is brutal,” he says, his voice growing quiet as he strokes Pissy’s lush gray fur. “I know you’ve been staying up late to spend time with me, but I know you can’t keep that up. I don’t want you to. You have a career, and I like that about you. I don’t expect you to go to every game. I don’t expect you to travel on the road like some player’s girlfriends and wives do. Whatever time we have, we have, and that’s enough because it’s with you. So, if you need to go to bed, go to bed. I’m a grown-ass man. I can read or watch TV or play with the cat. Don’t give up your whole schedule for me, Hayley. I’m not going anywhere. I know what I have with you, and this is what I want, in whatever time I can get it.”

  My throat goes thick. He wears his heart on his sleeve for me. I’m never going to be the baseball girlfriend who can stay up all hours with him, sleep in, go to every game, and hit the road with him. It would be easier if I could do that, if I could be that woman.

  My life makes it harder.

  But he doesn’t care because it’s me.

  I lean forward and kiss him.

  “I’m so glad I’m with you,” I say.

  “Same. And I’m glad you’re the one giving me Fruit Loop kisses.”

  I laugh. “You’ll get more of those later. Much more.”

  “Don’t you need to go to bed?”

  “Life is about balance,” I say, dipping my spoon back into the bowl. “Fruity Pebbles, make love, go to bed. Any objections?”

  “None,” he says, grinning at me, “except I’m going to reorder that list. I want to make love now.”

  He places Pissy on the floor, which makes her hiss, but all I see is desire in his pale-denim eyes.

  Oooh, I’m so falling for him.

  “It’ll go soggy,” I tease, but I don’t care about cereal at the moment.

  “Cereal,” Brody says, taking the bowl from my hands, “can be re-poured. Can I take you to bed now?”

  I giggle. “Yes. Yes, you can.”

  As he kisses me, I know I don’t care what challenges we face. I’m falling in love with him, and I’m pretty sure he’s falling for me, and as hard as logistics might be, we can face them together.

  Because nothing else matters.

  Chapter Thirty

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

  Today’s Question: What could you be doing that would benefit your workplace environment and make you happier and more fulfilled at the same time?

  As I go through Belinda’s entire back history of submissions for the newsletter, my workbook question runs through my head on a loop. Off the top of my head, I think I could easily come up with a top twenty list of things that would improve communications at Expanded World.

  Like new articles.

  Today, while editing Belinda’s submission, it rang familiar to me, so I’m going through her previous submissions because my gut swears I have read it before. I take a sip of my Earl Grey tea as I click on the February newsletter and wait for it to pop up on my screen.

  Ding!

  I flip over my phone, which I have out on my desk, and a tingle shoots through me when I see Brody’s name pop up on the screen.

  For the first time in a week, we both slept according to our normal schedules. I went to bed before one in the morning, and I left Brody sleeping when I slipped out to go to work. I can’t explain the comfort I felt in watching him sleep in my bed with Pissy curled up at the top of his head.

  I dropped a kiss on his forehead before going out the door, and while he didn’t wake, his mouth turned up in a sweet smile as my lips brushed him. My heart felt so full at that moment I thought it would burst. I swipe open his text:

  Morning, my gorgeous Cherry Blossom. Are you having a big cup of Earl Grey?

  I smile as I message back:

  You must know me, because I do have a big cup with me. Bonus if you can tell what I’ve added to it.

  I get a response within seconds:

  Hit of lemon. Do I win a prize of my choosing? If so, I choose you.

  Oh, swoon. Feels. Smitten. Falling.

  You name it, I’m feeling it for this man. I reply:

  You win me. :)

  He messages back instantly:

  Good. Am making breakfast for Katie. Oatmeal, eggs, fruit, and coffee. She slept through her morning class. Poor girl. She keeps apologizing, but I told her to stop.

  Warmth rushes through me. I can see him taking care of Katie because that’s who he is. Sweet and thoughtful.

  I reply:

  Your sweetness is the ultimate sexiness. Thank you for taking such good care of her.

  He texts back:

  Don’t saint me yet. I’m eating it, too. LOL.

  I smile and another message comes in:

  When I woke up, I had a message AJ sent at three in the morning. Wanted to know if Katie was OK.

  My eyes pop when I read that message.

  Interesting. AJ had a date but was still asking about Katie?

  Ooh! That could be good for two reasons: One, he’s a good guy and is concerned for her well-being, or two, he is interested in Katie. He easily could have asked Brody about her when he got to the clubhouse today. Was he thinking about her so much he had to send Brody a text at three in the morning?

  The archived newsletter finally opens on my screen.

  Wait. It could be bad for one big, huge, awful reason: AJ is a womanizer and senses Katie could be an easy pick-up.

  I need to research AJ later at lunch, starting with looking through his Instagram and Tumblr.

  Keeping those thoughts to myself, I compose a reply:

  That’s sweet of him to make sure she was OK. I know she’s embarrassed more than anything else.

  The second Katie woke up, I got a string of “did that really happen, holy shit, I’m so embarrassed, why did I mention Mufasa to AJ, can you believe I was in his lap, I’m never going to wait with you for Brody ever again, I will die if I see AJ, DIE, I can’t go to a baseball
game for the rest of summer” texts.

  She has nothing to be embarrassed about. About to run back to my place now. Gave Pissy some treats. I’ll stop at the pet store and get her some variety. I only found chicken. Unless that is all she likes? Also-want to stay over at my place after the game? I can pick you up when I leave the ballpark.

  How can this man make me fall for him with text messages? How?

  Because he’s unlike any man you’ve ever known, that’s why.

  I eagerly text him back:

  Pissy will only eat chicken for me, but something tells me she will happily eat anything if you are the provider. And yes, I’ll spend the night at your place.

  Brody replies:

  I’ll go shopping for Pissy before I hit the park. Will text you later. Can’t wait to see you tonight.

  I grin as I put my phone back down. Now that my evening is sorted, I can get back to work. I scroll through the newsletter, with the same old graphics and same outdated font, looking for Belinda’s contribution.

  I stop scrolling for a second. I have the desire, on my own time, to create a mock-up of a new newsletter with a fresh, clean appearance that is easy on the eyes and has a great title that makes people want to open the email. I want to be proactive and prove that I can help create better communication tools. I also want to ask if I can write posts for the website and attend some social media workshops. I’ll need to research and compile all these suggestions and ask Belinda for permission to do even just one of them.

  Belinda hasn’t responded to my first helpful suggestion, and she will probably be annoyed when presented with a list and a passionate employee of, oh, ten days pleading her case. According to my parents, my plan is too aggressive, but I can’t ignore Brody’s words in my head, telling me to be myself, my energetic, can-do, Mary Richards-inspired self.

  If I want to be true to myself, I can’t be afraid. I have to channel my inner Mary, make this list, and plead my case, without fear of failure.

  Ugh. I’ve only been in a real-world workplace for ten days, and I’m already conflicted.

  My parents have so much experience in office settings with decades of dealing in that difficult, political world. Perhaps they are right and I do need to sit down, do as I’m told, learn more about my environment, and try to blend in for the time being.

  Even if I have to sit on my hands and bite my tongue to do so.

  Ugh. I hate that idea.

  I take another sip of tea and find Belinda’s contribution. I begin to read, stopping two paragraphs in.

  It’s the same article she just submitted, about assistive technology in the classroom.

  The opening paragraph is different, but the second and third paragraphs are exactly the same as the article she just sent me.

  My stomach lurches. Belinda didn’t write anything new except that first paragraph, which tells me this wasn’t a mistake. She is simply recycling an old article and doesn’t care.

  Nobody has called her out on this? Maybe it’s the first time she’s doing it and perhaps she feels overwhelmed with gala stuff; but I don’t know, it’s lazy.

  And wrong.

  Ugh. Is this the organization I’m working for?

  I close out of the screen, knowing there is nothing I can do about it now, and go back to my inbox. I open a new email, this one from Yvette. She is passing on some information about a dyslexic artist who is having a gallery show coming up in DC the first week of May and it might be great to promote on our social media channels.

  People like Yvette, along with Mariah and Addison, are going to be my saving grace in this organization.

  I go to the website of Jeremy Woodland, the artist, and am awed by what I see, sculpture that reflects his feelings about dyslexia. There are books bound shut in barbed wire and bookcase filled with wonderful books, all encased in cement, unable to be pulled out. Tears fill my eyes as I click on the pictures, knowing this is the pain so many people with dyslexia go through. It is why early intervention is critical, why funding programs for educators is key, and why continuing to fund research efforts must never end.

  If I were in charge, I’d interview Jeremy Woodland and have him do a guest blog for us on his artistic journey. Yet Belinda wants content we control, so if I were to write a blog about it, it would have to meet her criteria.

  With a wicked smile, I click over to Jeremy’s website and purchase two tickets for the opening night reception at the gallery in the Dupont Circle neighborhood. I don’t know if Brody can go, as I didn’t check his Soaring Eagles schedule, but if he can’t, I’ll take Katie or Addison.

  My inner Mary Richards might be muted.

  But she’s not dead.

  And she is going to blog about this exhibition.

  ***

  “Let me see what you’ve got,” Brody says, flipping me a baseball.

  I groan. We’re in West Potomac Park on a beautiful Saturday morning in April, and Brody is giving me a crash course in Baseball 101.

  “Brody, you are going to laugh your grown-ass man ass off,” I say. “I’m a terrible athlete. I just worked up to fifteen minutes on the recumbent bike.”

  Brody wraps his strong arms around me and draws me into his soft flannel shirt. Mmm. He smells like fabric softener, a shower, and spicy cologne.

  I could drink this in all day and be absolutely content.

  “I would never laugh my grown-ass man ass off at my girl,” he murmurs before kissing the top of my head.

  His girl.

  Now I want to run through the green fields of West Potomac Park singing like Julie Andrews in the intro to The Sound of Music, but I decide it’s best to stay snuggled in Brody’s arms and inhale the delicious combinations that make up the scent of him.

  My man.

  “Show me what you’ve got, Carter,” Brody says, jogging away from me across the grass.

  I burst out laughing at how far he’s jogged. Um, he really has no clue how horrible I am at sports.

  “Brody,” I say, shaking my head. “You need to move a lot closer.”

  “Hayley, I’ve only moved out thirty feet.”

  “Come. Closer.”

  He moves up another five feet.

  “Brody, we’ll be here all morning if you don’t move in.”

  “I have faith in you, kid,” Brody says, winking at me. Then he pounds his fist into his glove a few times before crouching down into his catcher’s position. “Fire it right here, Ace.”

  “Ace. Ha-ha.”

  Brody flashes me that grin, the one that makes his dimple pop out. I will bear this humiliation only because I utterly adore him.

  I toss the ball overhand and oy vey! It arcs up and drops down with a dull thud.

  About three feet from me.

  Brody rises from his catcher’s position, and I decide to have fun with my lack of baseball skills.

  “I told you to move up,” I say knowingly.

  That does it. Brody begins laughing, and I do too. He moves over to me, pausing to pick up the baseball, and drops his arm around my shoulders.

  “Okay. We have a little work to do,” Brody quips.

  “Just a smidge.”

  We both crack up.

  “Let’s start with this,” Brody says, dropping his glove onto the grass and taking my hand, flipping it over and putting the baseball into it, gently curving my fingers around it. “Did you know a baseball only has one continuous seam?”

  Oh, I like the way this feels, with his fingertips touching mine as he explains his life’s passion to me. The moment is so magical it nearly takes my breath away.

  “Really? Only one?” I ask, staring at the worn baseball in my hand. “It looks like more.”

  “Yeah, it does,” Brody says, tracing his fingers over the red stitching on the ball. “One seam, one hundred and eight stitches. When you hear people referring to a two-seam or four-seam fastball, they are referring to how many seams your fingers cross when throwing the ball. Let me teach you how to hold the four-se
am.”

  He moves my fingers over the ball so my index finger, middle finger, and thumb are on the baseball. “You grip the ball across four seams,” he explains, “and the four seams rotate when you throw it in this straightforward motion.”

  Brody moves my arm back in the motion of throwing, speaking about velocity, the spin on the ball, and gravity. I don’t understand everything he’s telling me, but I listen in awe. He has so much passion when speaking about baseball; I’m impressed by the depth of his knowledge on this one single pitch.

  After a few practices with Brody guiding my arm in a throwing motion, Brody has me release it, and with success, it actually travels!

  “There you go, Cherry Blossom,” he says, his face breaking into a brilliant smile. “Your first four-seamed fastball! Your nickname will be Ace before you know it.”

  He goes to retrieve the ball and turns back around, smiling at me as he picks it up. “What?” he asks, as if noticing the look of admiration on my face.

  “You’re brilliant,” I say simply.

  “What? No. This is baseball,” Brody says, as if that discounts all his intelligence.

  “No. This is you. You’re passionate about this game, and your intelligence is so obvious when you talk about it.”

  “This game saved me,” Brody admits, his raspy voice soft. “I threw myself into it. It’s not that I’m brilliant; I just lost myself in it.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” I say firmly, taking the ball from his hand. “You love this game. You are intelligent about this game, but that’s because you’re intelligent. You are. I see it every day, Brody. I only wish you could see it yourself.”

  I take a moment to cup his face in my hands, drawing him closer to me. “You are brilliant, and I’ll tell you over and over, Brody. That’s a promise.”

  I press my lips against his, letting him know how much I care about him. Brody breaks the kiss and gazes down at me, tracing his thumb across my cheek, and I love the feeling of his rough skin against mine.

  “I don’t know how I ended up in that coffeehouse at the same time as you, but I thank God every day that I did,” Brody whispers.

  I smile up at him. “Me, too. Now show me some more pitches, and then I’ll take you home and make you a great brunch.”