by Amy Faye
There was no damn way that he was interested in that kind of thing right now. His dad and him were still settling into the city. He didn't need to get a ton of attention—not even attractive female attention—from fans of a team he hadn't even officially signed for yet.
"Nice to meet you, Jeff. What brings you to town? Business, or pleasure?" She emphasizes the word 'pleasure' a little too much and then giggles at herself.
"Business? I guess? I'm—I don't know. Don't worry about it."
"Oh, wait, shit. Were you in, like. Some newspaper?"
"Maybe, but you're going to have to be more specific."
She shrugs. "I can't. I just remember seeing something about a Hess, at work."
"That could've been anyone."
"No, it couldn't," she counters. The bartender sets his drink down in front of him. He takes a mouthful, and it goes down smooth, so he takes a second.
"Okay, you're right. Anyone with my last name."
"There you go. That's true."
She's got a pint of something pale; when the bartender brings it back, she wraps her fingers around it. She's attractive. She's got a waist thin enough he could practically put his hands around it in a big circle.
He lets his eyes drift a little south of her face, just for a moment. For such a small girl, she's got a surprisingly… feminine figure. Surprising indeed. Surprising and erotic.
She leans forward and he gets a little view down her shirt a ways. The way her bra presses her breasts together. His eyes flick back up to her face.
"So what is it you do, Catherine?"
"Cathy, please."
"Okay, Cathy. What is it you do?"
"I'm a student."
"Oh yeah? What subject?"
"You have to promise not to laugh."
"Why would I laugh?"
"I don't know. Shut up. Just don't laugh, okay?"
"I promise not to laugh. Probably."
She gets an exaggerated annoyed expression on her face. "Then maybe I'll tell you. Probably. Eventually."
"Fine, fine. I won't laugh. Promise."
"I'm a dancer."
"Like. You mean a dancer, right? That's not a euphemism or something?"
"Wait, what? Do you mean, like, 'by dancer do you mean stripper?' No, I'm not a stripper."
"Are you sure? You could have a lot of success with it, I think. Might be a solid backup career."
She rolls her eyes. "I'll keep it in my back pocket."
"See? I'm helping you out already. I mean, I'd pay to see it."
"Oh yeah?"
She leans forward again and gives him a glance again. Whether it's intentional or not, he's not sure. But he tries not to gape openly anyways.
"Well, I mean. If you were offering."
"Too bad, then," she says, straightening back up. "I'm not that kind of dancer. I do ballet, mostly. Can't afford to specialize too much, if you want to get work. But that's what I do."
"You any good?"
"If I wasn't, I'd probably say something like 'I'm a cashier.'"
"True."
"What do you do?"
"Okay, don't get weird about it, though."
"I already told you mine, don't go acting like now you're some kind of hot shit."
"I'm a pitcher."
"Like, a baseball guy, you mean."
He hadn't thought of it quite that way. Like the full sum total of his career was 'baseball guy.' But it did fit.
"Sure."
"You any good?"
"I'm talking to the Tigers right now. Just waiting on the ink to dry, more or less."
"More or less?"
"There's little things. Nothing too big."
"What's that mean?"
"What do you mean, what does that mean? The terms of the deal aren't set in stone. But I mean, they have contacted me, they paid for the move."
"So things are pretty serious, then."
"You could say that, sure."
"But would you say that, though."
"I did say that."
"So you're going to be in town a while."
"Maybe."
His drink is empty, but it only takes a moment to signal to the bartender that he'd like another, and a minute later he's got a glass half-full.
"What's 'maybe?'"
"They tell me where to go. They trade me, I go somewhere else."
"Well, I'm not staying here. No chance."
"No? Don't like Detroit?" She looks at him with an expression of such impressive disdain that he can't help but smile. "That's a no, then."
"I wouldn't piss on this city if it were on fire."
"That's a fairly strong sentiment, if you don't mind me saying."
"I'm getting the hell out of here next summer, moving to New York. I can't stay here."
"Why are you here now?"
"Because I can't afford New York housing on Michigan wages."
"Good call, then."
She smiles. "I thought so, too."
"Yeah, you might have that one correct."
A brief silence. She's still smiling. Finally Jeff breaks it. "You know, you could always offer to buy me a drink. You have to watch your figure, of course, but if you've got money to burn—"
"Wish I did."
"Well, you know. It's the thought that counts. You can buy me a drink, and we'll pretend you're going to pay for it, and that way you can admit that you're attracted to me without having to, you know, say it out loud. And then, when the time comes to settle up, you just pout a little and ask if he'll take an I.O.U."
"Who says I'm attracted to you?" She raises an eyebrow, but she's still playing the game, and he knows it.
"You know who I am, don't you?"
"I know who plenty of people are. You think I'm attracted to Danny Devito, too?"
"I'm not Danny Devito, though, am I?"
She shrugs.
"That's one theory. If I had to pick between the two of you… well, I'd have to have the opportunity."
Jeff snorts. Cathy's got a mouth on her, that's for sure. And soon, if he has his way, it'll be on him, too. A good first night in the city, that's for sure. A very good night.
Chapter Three
Catherine shouldn't have been in the bar in the first place. So she shouldn't have been there when he arrived, and she sure as hell shouldn't have been talking to him. She didn't talk to boys. The only ones who she knew were dancers, and… she doesn't need to go over again why she's not going to date one of them.
Her mother was always going on about it, about how she needed to find a guy or her uterus was just going to shrivel up and die before she knew it. Maybe that would have been better.
Her uterus certainly hadn't shriveled up yet, though. That was for sure. Because she was very conscious of just about every part of her that made her a girl. The way he looked at her, the way his eyes raked across her skin was like he was undressing her with his eyes from the first instant.
"You want to get out of here?" His voice is just loud enough to hear over the music, still pumping through the speakers loud enough that you could feel every bass drum kick in your teeth.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It's too loud to talk, don't you think?"
Talk. Sure, that's what he was interested in. That was the fire burning in his eyes. His lower brain focusing hard on what it would be like to talk to her. Sure.
She leans in close to him. "I'm not that kind of girl."
"That's fine. But it's still too hard to talk in here."
She shrugs. He's not wrong. But where the hell else are they going to go? She's not going back to his hotel room 'just to talk' or to get another drink, or anything like that.
An image flashes through her of what that would be like. What that would feel like. Her knees wobble a little under her, and she settles her weight a little more on the stool underneath her hip.
He drops a couple of bills on the counter and starts moving towards the door. He doesn't ask before he takes a grasp
on her hand. It's not tight, and she could pull away, but she lets him pull her toward the door.
The feeling of his skin on hers is good. He's got soft hands, not anything like she'd expected from a sports guy. he must take good care of them. Then again, no doubt they're the most important part of his job, if his job is throwing baseballs all day. She lets him pull her out into the cold night air.
She shouldn't be going out there. She's going to finish her drink and go home. She's got to be up early to train before work. She's not going to go home just yet, though. Not the way things are going tonight.
The evening chill hits her in the face as he opens the door. Her skin gets real sensitive, and now what had been a comfortable guiding hand, attached to an attractive young man, burned her skin with his warmth. She imagined those hands in other places, doing other things.
He walks her over to a tall truck and leans his back against it.
"Sorry if you're a little cold. I have a coat in the back." He gestures towards the truck cab with his coat.
"You're just trying to get me in private, aren't you?" Her face is flushed and hot. Whether it's from the drinking or from the attention, Cathy doesn't know.
"You can't blame a guy for trying, can you? Pretty girl like yourself."
"And flexible, too," she adds, before she realizes what she's saying. Then her face is really hot. "I. Uh. Didn't mean that."
"No, please. Go on. Tell me more," he says. He's close to her, now. His body feels good against hers. Something might have been pressing against her hip. Something he makes no mention of, and she doesn't know how to respond to exactly. Something that she shouldn't be as interested in as she definitely is.
"I really should get home."
"And miss this lovely conversation?"
"Is that what this is?"
"For now," he says, and he winks.
"What else would it be, Jeff?"
"You know exactly what you're doing, don't you?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
Cathy leans back against the truck and stretches her back. She enjoys the way that he looks at her, even as he no doubt wants to pretend that he isn't doing it.
"Oh, I'm sure you don't."
"I'm sure I don't, either. Do you want to tell me what I'm doing?"
He smiles. An aggressive smile, almost angry. One that says that he likes a challenge, and one that says that he definitely sees her as a challenge. She almost melts under that look. Under who it's coming from.
"Well, if you're not sure, I have an early morning tomorrow. Supposed to go meet with some suits to finalize contract things."
"I have an early morning, too. I guess I should get going."
He pulls out his phone. "Before you go, just in case I need that twenty bucks back, how am I supposed to reach you?"
Cathy considers for a moment. How is he supposed to reach her? He isn't. Nobody is. She's barely got time in her day to do anything by herself, never mind with someone else.
Her blood pumps thinking about what kind of trouble she could get herself up to with a guy like this, though. She's found time in her day before. She'll find it again.
"Give me that."
She taps her number into his phone and sends herself a message. Then she hands it back. "There you go."
He looks down at it, where she's typed 'Hey, sexy' to herself. He's got a smile on his face when he cocks an eyebrow.
"You've got a very high opinion of yourself, don't you?"
"You don't think I'm sexy?"
She can see the way he grinds his teeth together.
"Where would you get that idea?"
"Are you saying you do think I'm sexy, then?"
"I didn't say anything at all."
"No, I guess you didn't. If you don't think I'm attractive…"
"I didn't say that, either."
"Then tell me. You think I'm hot, don't you?"
"Climb in the passenger seat and we'll find out," he counters.
She leans into him, her hands on his chest. His arm wraps around her waist, pulling her in closer. Her face is inches from his, his face filling her vision. He's really as good-looking this close up as he was before, which is a surprise all by itself.
She can smell the cologne he uses—not overdone, just enough to hint at a vaguely woodsy scent. It's attractive and just enough to get the message across. Just enough to be tempting at this distance. But she can't afford to be tempted.
"Maybe later," she says, and pulls away. She can see his teeth grinding again. It looks hot, accentuates his already-attractive jawline.
"I'm going to hold you to that."
"You'll have to catch me first," she answers, and heads away. Her keys come out easily. The alcohol isn't getting to her too much. Two glasses isn't so much.
What's really got her intoxicated is the tingling running all through her insides. The question of just how much trouble she could have gotten up to if she'd let herself.
And how much trouble she could still get up to later, if he'd still let her.
Chapter Four
His arm wasn't sore, which was strange and uncomfortable. He should have been throwing more. He should have been working it. If he didn't train a little, he'd get soft. He'd lose track of his game.
There would be time to do it later. But skipping out on morning practice just for a little meeting with some suits, missing out on training… he forces his face to stay positive, even as his mood sinks further.
Why the hell does he even have to deal with this stuff? There's nothing for him to do, not really. There might be some argument in favor of him joining in these talks if he was actually going to do or say anything in it. But he won't. Dad's not going to let that shit happen. No way in hell.
"Mr. Hess, Jeff. Nice to see you both."
The voice from the doorway almost surprises him. Head down. Nothing to worry about at this point. No reason to worry about any of it in the first place. They're past the point where you worry about stuff.
"I know it's a Saturday, and you've probably both got other things to take care of today. We'll be talking to each other for several days, so we'll keep things short today."
Good. That meant more time for practice. Well, no. That was too charitable.
More accurately, it meant that he was losing less of his time. That whatever time they were going to spend, he wasn't spending now.
"How's the arm?"
Jeff looks up, realizing somewhere in the back of his mind that they're clearly speaking to him, but at the same time not quite registering the comment.
"I asked how's your arm."
"Oh. Fine. Better than fine. Feels great."
It was only half a lie. It felt better than normal, even. And if he didn't beat it back into shape, then that would be when the problems started. Some guys like to stay fresh all the time. They train, and then give themselves a day, two days, maybe three, to rest before games.
It means that they can bring some real god damn heat when they start. Stuff that Jeff dreams about. Oh, he's fast. Nobody's ever doubted that he's fast. But he could be something even more special if he took a few days off and let himself rest.
Then after three innings, when his shoulder started to get a little tired, he'd have already lost ten miles an hour on his fastball. Now instead of having staying power, he'd be sitting there in the fourth with batters who've all been watching his 102, now they're swinging at 90s.
He'd get creamed, and he'd get creamed bad. So he doesn't do that sort of shit because it's a bad career move for him. Maybe the other guys can make it work. Jeff doesn't risk it. He stays tired. He goes out tired, and for six to eight innings, he stays just about tired.
Right around the time that he hits 'exhausted' is when he finishes his workouts. Including warm-up, 115 pitches or so in a game. Workouts can be upwards of 200, so really he never gets that tired in a game. By the time a coach pulls him, he's just about starting to feel it.
Dad's talking about numb
ers. There's not much point in listening. He learned that when he was thirteen. There was no point in listening to the numbers because if there was ever a question, the answer was, 'we'll talk about it later,' and then later the answer would be 'don't worry about it.'
So it's an easy choice. He lets Dad worry about it, or he gets all bent out of shape. It's not like Dad's skimming the money. He doesn't need it, after all. He's already got plenty of his own. Besides that, ten percent is plenty.
"What do you think, Jeff?"
"I'm just excited to be joining the organization," he says. It's what he always thinks. Keep his mouth shut, talk the options over with Dad well in advance, and once Dad knows what he thinks let Dad make the calls.
That's the first thing that he learned in sports. Listen to Coach. Let Coach decide what you're doing. There's no reason to think too hard. An athlete who thinks too hard is an athlete who under performs.
Too many players get it in their head that they can outsmart their coach. Sometimes, they're not wrong. Occasionally. But if you are afraid of that happening, you chose the wrong coach in the first place.
Jeff Hess has never chosen the wrong coach, because he knows where his priorities are. Ever since he felt that sting in his fingers, all the blood forced right into the tips—since he felt the soreness in his shoulder that came from throwing a little leather-wrapped ball as hard as he could whip his arm—he knew what he wanted to do.
Dad recognized it, too. Developed it. And ever since then, through middle school, through high school and into college, the first question was always, 'who's coaching there' and 'do they know their ass from a hole in the ground?'
That way, you get the synergy that you need. First of all, trust the coach. Second, trust the catcher. Third—if you've got any doubts about the call, shake him off. If he insists, see numbers one and two, and throw the god damn ball.
Dad leans in close, and Jeff goes from halfway listening to all-the-way listening.
"Things alright? You seem a little quiet."
"Just don't have anything to add," he says back.
"You sure?"
"Sure."
"Good. Let's get home, then. I gotta get ready."