All of Me

by Jennifer Bernard

  “I have no plans to hook up with anyone,” Sadie said as she followed Donna out of the park. “I got too burned the last time. It’s not worth it.”

  “You don’t know unless you give him a chance. You can’t just give up on men forever. What’s the fun in that?”

  They turned a corner, reaching downtown Kilby, admiring the prom dresses draped in the window of Kilby’s Happy Days Boutique and the dusty old Coca-Cola bottle display in the window of the hardware store.

  “By the way, I watched your new boyfriend on public access the other night. He struck out two and walked eight. Didn’t seem like a good balance to me.”

  Sadie had watched the game too, although it would be more fair to say she’d watched Caleb. The rest of the players had all blurred together. “I know. I felt bad for him. Everyone’s saying he’s a brilliant pitcher, and they can’t figure out what’s wrong with him.” She shivered. “Not my problem. Remember how Hamilton wanted me to go to every single practice because I was his ‘good luck charm’?”

  “I remember. I always thought he deliberately screwed up when you had to miss a game, just to make you feel guilty. But Caleb is a pro, Sadie. He wouldn’t pull shit like that.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I’m not dating him. He hasn’t asked, and I wouldn’t say yes if he did.”

  Donna grumbled but didn’t argue anymore. While Donna paced outside in little circles, Sadie went inside the Sacred Grounds, a new organic, New Age café, and bought them both sweetened iced tea.

  When she came out, LucyBelle, a girl she’d known in high school, was chatting with Donna. When LucyBelle spotted her, her eyes widened, she made a quick good-bye and continued her jog, her hot pink spandex flashing down the sidewalk.

  “Lucky me, I guess I’m still the town slut,” Sadie said, hiding her bitterness behind a joking tone.

  “Ignore her.” Donna made a furious gesture at LucyBelle’s back. “We’re going to get out of here, Sadie. We’re going to save our money. You’ll become a Supreme Court justice and pass a law against stupid gossip. And I’ll . . .”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’ll figure something out.” Another shadow passed over Donna’s face, but then she tossed her gorgeous red hair and took Sadie’s arm. “Something really good, you’ll see.”

  The next time Caleb called, Sadie was at home. Her mother was experiencing one of her occasional bursts of energy and had begun a weird decoupage project that involved cutting out photos of movie stars and pasting them onto high-heeled shoes. Sadie offered to help, in the spirit of “whatever made her mom happy.”

  When the phone rang, her heart leaped and she nearly cut off Angelina Jolie’s head with her scissors. “Hello?”

  “It’s Caleb.”

  Excitement jolting through her, she scrambled to her feet. “I have to take this, Mom. It’s for work.”

  Brenda Merritt nodded vaguely and wiped a hand across her forehead, leaving a streak of glue along her hairline. Sadie took the phone and a glass of iced sweet tea into her bedroom and closed the door. She sat cross-legged on the bed, tilting her face toward the ceiling fan lazily moving hot air around the room.

  “That was your mom?” Caleb sounded out of breath, and she heard outdoor noises around him.

  “You’re calling kind of late, aren’t you?”

  “Sorry, the game just ended. I’m walking back to the hotel. Are you about to go to sleep?” His voice deepened in that way that turned her to Jell-O.

  “No. How was your game?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  “Why wouldn’t I want to know?”

  “Christ, I don’t even want to know. It was a train wreck out there. So you live at home?”

  “For now. My mom’s kind of . . . needy.” She’d tried living on campus for a while, but then the Hamilton Disaster had happened—a huge setback for her mother’s mental state. Brenda was slowly coming out of it, but Sadie couldn’t leave her alone until she was stronger. “If I moved out, my mom might eat nothing but peanut butter crackers,” she added, trying to make light of it.

  “To be honest, I see nothing wrong with that. I like peanut butter crackers.”

  She smiled and reached for her iced tea. “Good to know.”

  “Yes, you’ll know what to make me when you invite me over.”

  She nearly choked, and spurted iced tea onto her bedspread. “Excuse me?”

  “You know, to talk about the Catfish image problem. Strictly business.”

  “Riiiight.” She grabbed a towel from her laundry hamper and blotted the spilled tea. “Because hanging out with me will definitely help the Catfish image problem.” As soon as she said that, she winced. Caleb knew nothing about “Slutty Sadie.” And she wanted to keep it that way.

  Unfortunately, he didn’t miss a trick. “What does that mean?”

  “Oh . . . nothing. Just . . . you should be working with kids or animals. Not a plain old assistant to the mayor.” She tossed the towel back in the hamper and wandered to her desk, where everything blurred together because all her attention was on the voice in her ear.

  “Sadie, the last word I’d use for you is ‘plain.’ The last.”

  “I didn’t mean it that way. You don’t have to compliment me.”

  “I’m not. I’m just telling it like it is. You’re . . .” He seemed to be struggling for the right words. “You’re like a fastball with a lot of juice.”

  “A lot of ‘juice’?”

  “Yeah. Movement. Life. Energy. When a pitch has that, we say it has ‘juice.’ ”

  So he thought she had movement, life, and energy. Maybe before Hamilton she had. Now, not so much. “Do your pitches have juice?”

  “Yes. Too much.”

  His gloomy response made her smile. “Better too much juice than not enough, right?”

  “Maybe. The hell if I know. So what does your mom do when she’s not eating peanut butter crackers?”

  “She works at Kroger. Collects tabloids. Tells me to stay away from boys. Sleeps. A lot. She has trouble coping with the modern world.”

  “Sorry.”

  She shrugged, as if he could see her. She smoothed her hand across the bedcovers, thinking of the nights she’d spent huddled under them, hiding from the world, with only her giant stuffed panda for company. Juice? Yeah, right.

  “And your mom is right. You should stay away from boys. I know, I have twin brothers and they’re pesky little monkeys.”

  “Really?” Images of two mini-Calebs swam across her vision, towheaded and gray-eyed. “Do they look like you?”

  “When they stand still. I take care of them during the off-season. I’m a stay-at-home brother. My sister has them when I’m playing.”

  “What about your parents?”

  “Long story.” His voice dropped away for a moment, while she thought about the fact that he took care of his twin brothers. That didn’t sound like something a spoiled athlete would do. She heard a horn blare as a car sped past, then a door opened and closed. “Sorry, just got to the hotel. I have to go, the guys are waiting for me. Just one more thing.”

  “What?”

  “Stay away from boys.”

  She snorted. “Don’t you dare say I need a ‘man.’ ”

  “Absolutely not. I was going to say ‘you deserve a man.’ ” And without giving her a chance to get the last word, he hung up. She uncurled her hand from the receiver. It had gone numb and tingly from gripping so hard.

  Then again, the rest of her was just as tingly.

  Over the course of the next endless road trip—Albuquerque, Reno, Las Vegas—Caleb had more ups and downs than a bouncy castle. Each game, he’d begin well. In his first outing against the Isotopes, he struck out five before anyone could touch him.

  But the second he started feeling good about his groove, something would change. All of a sudden his fastball would lose its edge, his control would slip, and the batters would jump all over him.

  He’d spend the rest of the game
in the dugout, watching one ridiculous promotion after another. They didn’t lighten his mood much, not even Bubble Wrap Night, in which every fan got a piece of bubble wrap so they could attempt to set a world record for simultaneous bubble-wrap popping.

  Against the Albuquerque Isotopes, he pitched four outstanding innings, walking only one and striking out five. Then he gave up six hits in a row, the last to a guy with a .100 batting average. His performance gave him plenty of time to brood in the dugout during the seventh inning mooing competition staged by the Isotopes.

  Maybe he should polish his mooing skills and win himself a free steak dinner.

  He wasn’t the only one who noticed the pattern. Mitch, the pitching coach, videotaped him during each game, then edited together those key moments when things started going downhill. The two of them watched the results on Mitch’s iPad in the visiting clubhouse of the Reno Aces, the coach on the bench, Caleb toweling off next to his locker, watching over his shoulder. The overhead TV was tuned to the Friars-Dodgers game. The rest of the team was finishing up their showers, wandering past the long table loaded with the postgame meal, and texting their wives, girlfriends, or hookups.

  “You know what it looks like to me?” Mitch asked. “Like aliens took over your body in the sixth inning. Aliens from a planet without baseball.”

  Caleb rolled his eyes. “I might use that one on the press next time. Don’t blame me, blame the aliens. Is that really all you got?”

  “I could read the big profile of you in Sports Illustrated, but I’d rather eat glass.”

  “Profile? On what a disaster I am?”

  “I didn’t read it. The PR girl told me about it, but she didn’t look too happy.”

  Wonderful. Just what he needed, SI on his back.

  “We could order another MRI, but I don’t see the point, since you’re not feeling any pain. It’s something else. It’s either something in your head or it’s invisible aliens.”

  The annoying baby-faced shortstop zipped over to them. Caleb had since learned that his name was Jim Leiberman, and that he had a lightning-quick glove and an adequate batting average. He seemed to be everywhere and know everything. The only way to get rid of him was to use his nickname, Bieberman, after the pop star. That was guaranteed to drive him crazy. “I read the Sports Illustrated article,” he said, “and I think it’s baloney. I’d put my money on aliens. I used to go searching for ET in the woods behind our house.”

  “When was that, last year?” Mike Solo asked, snapping a towel at him. “There’s no such thing as aliens. And if there were, why would they pick Hart? If I was an alien looking for a body to inhabit, I’d pick a curvy blond one. Like the announcer for the mooing contest. Did you see her? Imma ask her out.”

  Caleb shook his head. Mike’s vow of celibacy didn’t mean no girls at all. He seemed to attract them like honey.

  “Too late,” said Dwight Conner, slinging his bag over his shoulder. He beckoned to the clubhouse attendant. “You got that reservation, dude? Table for two, in a corner with a river view? Champagne chilling?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Dwight, with a smug smile at the rest of them, tipped the attendant five bucks. “Good work, man. See you slackers tomorrow.” And he strolled out of the room as if accompanied by his own personal slow jam soundtrack.

  “That’s just wrong,” Mike shook his head with a disgusted look. “I really liked that girl.”

  “She wasn’t even blond, dickhead,” Caleb pointed out. “She’s a redhead.” And now that he thought of it, she resembled Sadie’s friend, Donna.

  “You noticed her too, did you?”

  “Only because I watched every damn second of that mooing competition. Don’t worry. Not interested.” And to be honest, he really wasn’t. He hadn’t pursued any of the invitations that had come his way this road trip. None of them seemed as entertaining as calling Sadie and joking around with her. In fact, that was his plan for tonight. Grab some grub, hit the sheets, and press speed dial. Yes, he had her on speed dial now. He was about to ask if they could Facetime.

  He really didn’t want to think about the implications of that.

  “Can you assholes clear out of here?” Mitch waved his arm at the other players. “We got work to do.”

  “What’s to figure out?” Mike said. “Next time he pitches, make him wear a tin hat to keep away the aliens.”

  That got big laughs, so big that Mitch put away his laptop in disgust and stalked off.

  Caleb wasn’t at all surprised when he found a baseball cap covered in tin foil taped to the front of his locker the next day.

  The only thing that saved his sanity on that crazy road trip was talking to Sadie every night. He’d spend an hour or so on the phone with Tessa and the twins, who kept asking him questions about Bingo, when they weren’t talking about karate or their endless games of Clash of Clans. Then he’d call Bingo to make sure he hadn’t skipped town. With his family responsibilities completed, he’d settle in for a long, satisfying conversation with Sadie. Mostly he teased her and told her funny stories from the clubhouse. The tin foil hat totally cracked her up. But they also talked about movies and cars and her fear of spiders and his obsession with the X-Men comics and whether blueberry pancakes were better with or without whipped cream. Normal, silly, fun stuff, but when it was Sadie’s husky voice talking about whipped cream, he nearly came in his pants.

  A few calls in, holed up in yet another bland hotel room after another lackluster outing, he got more personal than usual, and asked her if she was seeing anyone.

  “No. No. No, no, no.”

  “Okaaaaay.”

  A long pause. When she spoke again her voice sounded strained. “Has no one said anything to you about me? Anything . . . um . . . well, anything at all?”

  “No. I don’t talk to other people.” True story. He talked to the team members, Bingo’s probation officer, and that was about it.

  “Okay.” The relief in her voice made him wonder. “Anyway, no, I’m not seeing anyone. I was, but I broke up with him a year ago.”

  Good thing they weren’t Facetiming, because she might see the satisfied smile he couldn’t hide. He didn’t like thinking of her with someone else. “Sorry about that,” he said insincerely.

  “No need. It was a disaster. Not at first. When we first started dating, he seemed really sweet. He used to slip me chocolates in study hall.”

  Really sweet. No one would ever describe him that way. No problem. He’d just have to convince her that “really sweet” was all wrong for her, and a big nasty ballplayer was what she needed. Because every time he talked to her, the feeling grew: they would go to bed together. It wasn’t an “if,” it was a “when.”

  “Was this the ‘bad experience’ your friend mentioned?”

  “Yes. He turned out to be a jerk. On an epic scale. So if you ever hear anything . . . about me . . . don’t believe it, okay? Or at least ask me about it.”

  The pain in her voice made him want to tear the guy apart, whoever he was. “I don’t listen to other people. I like to form my own opinions. I’ve driven a few coaches crazy that way. You don’t have anything to worry about, Sadie. Unless you try to tell me how to pitch.”

  She laughed. “I do have one suggestion. You could try taking your shirt off. Maybe all that fabric’s getting in your way.”

  Oh, man.

  His cock stirred as he pictured stripping off his shirt and rolling around the sheets with her, all hot and tumbled and juicy and laughing. He took hold of himself, feeling his shaft harden in his fist. Yeah. Probably a really good thing they weren’t Facetiming.

  “Anyway, that part of my life is over for now,” she said, all stern and back to business, as if her little slip into flirtation had scared her. “I’m completely focused on my job now.”

  His smile dropped. Well, he’d just have to convince her there was more to life than work. “What happened at the mayor’s office today?”

  “Meeting about the slugs.”
>
  “The slugs?”

  “The horn-toed slug. They’re endangered. Probably because boys like to drop them down girls’ shirts.”

  Damn, why’d she have to mention her shirt? He could see her, so slender and sexy, her long torso begging for his tongue. He gripped his cock tighter and dragged his attention back to what Sadie was saying. She was talking in a kind of laughing, husky voice that seemed to have the same effect as the hand wrapped around his dick.

  “The girls were supposed to scream and try to take their shirts off to get rid of the slugs. It was a game, but I used to feel sorry for the slugs. They didn’t ask to be dropped down some kid’s shirt.”

  “You felt sorry for slugs?”

  “Yes, of course! I started rescuing them, because the boys would stomp on them to impress the girls.”

  “After they dropped them down their shirts.”

  “Exactly.”

  “You have a soft heart, you know that?” Maybe it was wrong, but he wanted her to use that soft heart on him. Not to mention her soft body, her soft cool hands . . .

  “Anyway, it turns out the slugs are a special kind only found in our area of Texas. And the population is dying out. There’s a conservation group, Save Our Slugs, and the mayor’s gotten involved. For some reason she loves the slugs.”

  “So let me get this straight. The mayor loves the slugs but she hates the sluggers.”

  “Cute, Catfish. Very cute.”

  There was that flirty tone again. When she talked like that, he wanted to jump up and down like a kid with a new toy.

  “Call the reporters. Sadie Merritt thinks I’m cute.”

  “I bet all kinds of people think you’re cute.”

  “Maybe I don’t care about them.” He could practically hear her blush over the phone. Then his own words flashed back at him. Slugs . . . sluggers.

  “That’s it!” In his excitement, he took his hand off his dick and sat up against the headboard, banging his head. “That’s how the Catfish can look good.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Save the Slugs.”