Cleat Chaser

by Celia Aaron

  I whipped out my wallet and threw down my card before yanking my cell phone from my pocket. My thumbs flew over the screen as I sent a text to Kyrie.

  If you still love me the way I love you, be at the game tomorrow night.

  Patrick ran my card and handed it back. I sprinted through the door and out to the parking lot. The sun was blinding from how dark it had been in the pub.

  I scanned the lot and saw Braden’s Mercedes backing out. Sprinting up to the car, I beat on his window and he jumped and threw a hand up in defense.

  The window lowered slowly. “Jesus fucking Christ, you animal!”

  “I sent her a text. Let’s do this shit!”

  He threw the door open and I barely dodged it. His chest was heaving up and down with each breath, his teeth grinding, jaw tight. Braden stepped from the car and his lips were mashed into a thin line, then they slowly turned up to a grin.

  “Was it my dramatic exit? Nailed it!” He laughed.

  I picked him up in a huge bear hug and squeezed the oxygen from his lungs, then started dry humping him up against the car. “You like that shit?”

  “Oh yeah, give it to me, daddy!”

  Our laughter echoed through the parking lot when a lady walked by with a stroller, gawking at us. We both stood to attention.

  “Good afternoon, ma’am.” Braden’s cheeks were puffed out, a laugh waiting to explode from them.

  She kept walking, shaking her head and mumbling.

  “So what’d you do?” He bounced around on the balls of his feet like a fighter about to enter the ring.

  “Sent a text, saying I loved her and for her to come to the game tomorrow.” I grinned at his excitement.

  “Nice!”

  “Just hope she takes me back.”

  He smacked me playfully across the cheek and pointed a finger in my face. “Easton Holliday doesn’t take no for an answer. Don’t be a whore.”

  I was a hot fucking mess the entire day, ever since I woke up. It was torture not to text Kyrie, but everything I needed to say was better said face to face.

  Don’t fuck this up, Easton.

  Hopping in my truck, I sped off toward the field. When I arrived, Richards was getting out of the car in front of me. Fuck.

  He shot me a glare and I saw the dark shadows around his eyes. It made me smile for a moment, and then everything came rushing back—my anger at him, the look on her face when I asked her if she had feelings for him. It would take a while to get past, but I’d decided Kyrie was worth it.

  I waited for Richards to disappear before getting out of the truck. Braden whipped into another spot. Thank God.

  He’d help keep me focused if Sean decided to run off at the mouth. We strode toward the clubhouse. Braden looked down at his phone and then glanced up to me and smiled.

  “Text from Nik. She’s not for certain, but she thinks she’s convinced Kyrie to come.” He nudged me with his arm.

  I tried to play it off. “Oh yeah?”

  “Mmhmm.” He pushed open the door and I followed behind.

  I still couldn’t believe Coach hadn’t called me in to discuss—well, rip me a new asshole over—fighting with Sean. The prick was nowhere to be seen as we stripped down and started to get ready for the game.

  Braden had a foot on the bench, strapping his shin guards on. “I know it doesn’t help things, but Richards is starting tonight. Just wanted to get that out of the way.”

  “The fuck? Why?” I tied one of my cleats.

  “Graves is hurt. Tendonitis. Coach is moving him up in the rotation.”

  Fuck! I should’ve been concerned for Graves, but all I could think about was Kyrie having to watch that motherfucker on the mound all night. He was good too, which made things worse. He usually lasted well past the seventh inning.

  What if he runs her off? It’ll ruin everything.

  Braden must have sensed me warring with myself in my mind. “Hey, snap out of it, bitch. You come in and win the game, and then go win the girl.”

  “Fuckin’ A.” I grabbed a ball from my locker.

  “I wonder why Coach hasn’t said shit about the fight?”

  Braden looked away. “I don’t know, man. Maybe Richards has steered clear. Not hard for you pitchers to do. Fuckers don’t have to play every day.” He turned back with a toothy grin. “I’ll see you out there.” He smiled and ran off, his spikes clacking on the concrete once he reached the hall leading to the dugout.

  I threw on the rest of my gear and grabbed my bag, then headed out for the bullpen. When I walked past Coach’s office, the door was cracked and I heard him talking. “Son, what the fuck happened to your face?”

  Richards was in there? Fucking great.

  “Nothing, Coach. Took a spill while I was biking.”

  I leaned in closer to the door. Why would he lie?

  “Goddammit, son! Biking? What in the fuck were you thinking?”

  “I wasn’t. I’m sorry.”

  “Nothing we can do about it now. Get the fuck out of here and stay off the goddamn bike until the season’s over.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Shit.

  I started down the hall when Richards came through the door. His stare was like fire in the back of my skull.

  “Holliday.” His word echoed off the walls.

  Be fucking cool. Do not ruin your career, Easton.

  I turned and walked back toward him, until we were a few feet apart. “Yeah?” I leered at him.

  “I don’t like you.” He smirked and I wanted to smack it off his goddamn face. “But we have a job to do. I made up an excuse to Coach.”

  I set my bag down. “I heard.”

  “Tell Braden I took care of it and to stay the fuck away from me unless it’s baseball related.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I lifted my cap and pushed my hair back from my brow before sliding it back down on my head.

  “Right. Like you didn’t send him to talk to me?” His foot tapped on the ground.

  “No.”

  He smiled this time. “That little fucker.”

  I grinned a little, now curious to what that sly bastard pulled. “What’d he say?”

  “That I needed to stay the fuck away from Kyrie and make up a story for Coach. For the team and for my health.”

  I shook my head. “I didn’t put him up to that.”

  “He’s a devious little prick. And, for the record, his threats didn’t do shit for me. All the same, I came here to play, not feud with another pitcher.” He looked up at the ceiling and then back to me. “Let’s just keep our distance and do our jobs. Deal?” He held out a hand.

  I hesitated, but thought about Kyrie’s article. Smoothing things over with Richards would help me smooth things over with her. Reaching out, I took his hand. “Deal.”

  I’d been standing up on the bullpen bench all game, squinting to see if Kyrie was in the stands. She was.

  It was the longest game ever, at least it seemed like it. A pitcher’s duel. We’d scored a pair of runs in the seventh, and now they had runners on first and second with one out in the ninth. I was warming up, trying to stay focused. Looking out to make sure Kyrie hadn’t left the game, I saw a base hit shoot up the middle to groans from the crowd. The runner on second rounded third and headed for the plate as our centerfielder fired the ball to Braden.

  The runner slid into home, kicking up a dust cloud, and it was too close to tell what happened from the outfield. The umpire’s arms shot out, indicating he was safe. Fuck!

  Boos roared through the stadium, and the runner from first made it to third. Coach sprang up from the steps of the dugout and signaled for me. The outfield wall swung open and I jogged across the warning track. Cheers erupted for Richards as he strode to the dugout.

  The ground shook beneath me from the music blasting through the speakers, and the stadium soon engulfed my view from all angles. I trotted out to the mound where Coach and Braden awaited. Forty-thousand people were on their
feet and my eyes were fixed on one person, the only one I cared about.

  Our eyes locked and a tentative smile spread across her face. It wasn’t something I usually did, especially considering part of my job description was intimidating batters. But I let a smile slip. For her.

  The stadium went wild and I glanced up to the screen in centerfield to see the camera zoomed in on Kyrie and Nik. Apparently, our relationship had gone public, and people knew about the story in Style and Substance.

  I blew her a kiss to rev up the crowd as I neared the mound, and my mind was at ease, simply from her smile. It was time to focus on baseball.

  “You about done, loverboy?” Coach smirked.

  “Sorry Coach. I’m focused. Ready to go to work.”

  “Goddamn better be.” He slammed the ball in my mitt and glanced to Braden. “We need a strikeout, son. And I don’t need to remind you about what happened last time you faced the asshole on deck over there.” He nodded toward their cleanup hitter.

  “You mean the ball he took to the ribs?” Braden laughed.

  “Yeah, well he got Easton tossed out of the game. Now didn’t he?”

  “Shit won’t happen again.” I clenched my fist at my side.

  “Better fucking not.” He turned to Braden. “Give us a sec.”

  “Yes sir.” Braden trotted back to home.

  Coach stepped up on the mound, his gin-blossom nose and weathered cheeks closer to my face. “I don’t give a fuck what cockamamie bike riding bullshit Richards fed me earlier. I’m not an idiot. My players don’t get in fights at a bar without me hearing about it.”

  “Coach—”

  “When you’re on the mound, it’s to work. When you’re with your team, you’re at work. You boys are like family to me. I don’t want to see you fuck up your career.” He kicked at the dirt.

  “It’s behind us. I’m here to do my job.” I adjusted my cap.

  “Good. Now go impress that pretty girl up there. She’s a keeper.” He smiled and winked, then stepped off the mound.

  “Yes sir.”

  I stepped up to the rubber, my domain, and started my warm up pitches. The fucker on deck was smiling and I could see him talking to one of his teammates. Then he held his hand up to his brow and scanned behind home plate before staring at Kyrie. He and the other player both laughed, and he mocked the kiss I blew her.

  Focus on this hitter, Easton.

  I finished my pitches and the ump called the batter to the plate. He dug in and waved his bat toward me. Braden flashed a sign for a fastball. The stadium was a roar until I started my windup, and the whole place went silent. I pushed off the mound with my back leg and fired a fastball straight into Braden’s mitt.

  The umpire shot his arm out to the side and the place went crazy. Strike. I held my glove up, signaling for Braden to get the ball back to me. I liked to work quick.

  Heading back up to the mound, I readied myself for the next pitch. Braden wanted a slider. I shook him off and looked at the runner. He called for a fastball and I nodded. I rocked back and fired it by the hitter again. It sounded like a shotgun blast when it hit Braden’s glove and the umpire called out, “Strike two!”

  I glanced up to Kyrie and noticed Kasey had made her way into the stands and was giving me the finger. I tried not to grin. She hugged Nik and Kyrie, and most likely grabbed their asses. She hadn’t been to a game in as long as I could remember. Her excuse consisted of something about a ritual and eating a pint of ice cream at just the right pace while situated in front of the TV. Athletes were superstitious, so I never questioned it.

  Seeing her there sent a rush of happiness coursing through me. I wasn’t sure why. Focus.

  Calm and collected, I watched as Braden called for the slider. This time I obliged. At the last second I flipped my wrist and whipped my hand around. The ball started toward the middle and dove down and away. The hitter lunged as he swung, and missed.

  Cheers erupted through the stadium and Braden tapped his glove on his chest protector before firing the ball back to me. I watched their hitter sulk back to the dugout as he passed the son of a bitch who ran his mouth off about Kyrie during our last encounter.

  Don’t let him get to you.

  He tapped the dirt from his cleats with his bat and dug his back foot in and twisted it. I glared at him below the bill of my cap, holding my glove up so that all he saw was my eyes.

  Braden called for the slider and I nodded. The ground was rumbling from the roar of the crowd as I went into my wind up. I threw it exactly like the last pitch, and the big bastard swung and missed.

  “Fuck!” He almost fell on his face before righting himself.

  People stomped in the stands and the tension in the air was palpable.

  “Pussy.” The batter’s jaw clenched and he glared out at me.

  I returned his glare with a wink, and he looked like his face might explode.

  “Keep winking asshole, when I go home with her later.” He nodded over to Kyrie.

  I glanced over and she was at the net, just like she always had been. His words didn’t mean shit to me. I knew I had her regardless of what happened. It gave me a confidence I’d never known existed.

  I stepped back up, and Braden called for the slider again. My head shook and he threw down the same sign. A fastball was coming whether Braden wanted it or not. Somehow, I knew it was the right pitch.

  He finally gave in and shook his head at me, then he set up behind the plate. I kicked up my leg and fired it as hard as I could. The batter swung and grunted, the ball already in Braden’s glove by the time his bat came around.

  “Holy shit.” Braden shook his glove hand like he’d just punched a concrete wall, before he took the ball out and threw it back. I looked up to centerfield and the screen read “101 mph”—the hardest ball I’d ever thrown in my life. The stadium was bedlam when the numbers flashed across, and Coach’s jaw was practically on the ground.

  “Jesus son, do it again. Fuck,” he called.

  Even Richards was up in the dugout with the rest of the team, cheering me on.

  The place was electric, and the current shot through my body. I looked down at both my feet on the rubber and then over to Kyrie, her green eyes sparkling from the lights of the stadium, fingers wrapped in the net. Everything seemed like slow motion—sounds, movements.

  I looked to the plate and Braden didn’t even throw down a sign, only waved the pitch on with his glove hand, then held up a target.

  “Fuck it, Easton.” His words were low and deep, like they’d been slowed on a record player.

  Their hitter glared and spit in front of the plate, his back foot churning against the dirt like he was squashing a bug under his cleat.

  I went into my wind up and kicked my leg, all the raw energy built up in my legs transferred into my arm as I whipped it around and released. The ball shot past the hitter and into Braden’s glove.

  There was a pause, a split second of complete silence, and then the umpire turned and punched his fist out to the side, followed by the other. “Strike three!”

  Braden fist pumped with his free hand. “Yeah motherfucker!”

  The screen in centerfield flashed “102 mph.”

  Braden took off toward the mound as the players from the dugout rushed onto the field. The fans roared, hugging and high fiving as a dog pile formed in front of the mound, me in the middle.

  All I could see were bodies on top of me—legs, arms, cleats, gloves, and more crotches than I ever wanted to experience. I shoved my way through the chaos, teammates slapping me on the head before I finally wrestled myself free and stood, staring at my pitching muse as she gripped the net, smiling.

  Two reporters came out of the dugout and tried to corner me, but I barreled through both of them and ran over to the wall. I hopped over it in one smooth motion as the whole crowd watched. People darted out of the way, slapping at my shoulders as I ran to her and froze, staring at the only person I wanted to see.

  KYRIE
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  I COULDN’T CATCH my breath as Easton stalked through the crowd, his eyes on me as fans slapped him on the back and urged him forward. Knowing a storm was coming was one thing. Knowing it was coming right at you with no chance of reprieve was something entirely different.

  He stopped in front of me and before I could so much as say hello, he pulled me to him and crushed me in a kiss that sent fireworks skittering to every nerve ending in my body. The crowd erupted into a steady roar, but it all disappeared as he bent me back, his baseball glove pressing into the small of my back, his lips warm and firm against mine, and my soft body molded to his hard one.

  It wasn’t a kiss-cam sort of kiss. It wasn’t one you’d want your children watching. But it was one that I enjoyed every second of. His tongue circled mine, and I wrapped my arms around his neck. He straightened, lifting me right along with him until my feet dangled off the ground, my heels hitting the deck and me giving zero fucks about them.

  When he finally came up for air, he smiled and dropped a lighter kiss on my lips as the stadium continued to erupt in whoops and cheers. Breathless and turned on, I buried my face in his neck to avoid the multitude of camera phones filming us from every angle.

  “Make me proud.” Kasey slapped him on the back and slung her other arm around Nikki.

  “Come on.” He ran an arm under my legs and scooped me up, carrying me through the stands and back down to the field. Sitting down on the wall, he dropped the short distance to the ground and hurried to the dugout.

  Reporters ran up and started shouting questions, but he ignored them. I kept my face buried in his neck, not ready for the spotlight he’d just put on the both of us.

  Pressing through the players, he carried me through the locker room and into a side area, slamming the door behind him. Three massages tables were arranged inside, the edges of the room full of icing equipment, barrels, and bandages. He set me down on a table, and shoved another against the door.