Third Base (The Boys of Summer #1)

by Heidi McLaughlin

  “It’s worth it,” she says, holding my hand to her face. She moves my thumb slightly, kissing the pad before linking her fingers with mine. “You should probably put a shirt on. It’s cold out.”

  “I was planning on wearing the one you had on.”

  “Why? It probably smells like me.”

  “Exactly!” I wink and take my shirt out of her hand, putting it on. I go back to holding her hand because it feels good and I want to.

  We walk outside and the early spring air is frigid. I shiver, forgetting to grab a sweatshirt, and run us down the stairs and to my car. I help her in before sprinting to the driver’s side. I start the engine and crank up the heat, flipping the switch for the heated seats to come on while both of us shake from the cold.

  “I’m an idiot. I should’ve grabbed you a jacket.”

  “It’s okay, the car will warm-up in a minute.”

  I reach over the console and pull her into my arms. Science class taught me that body-to-body friction is the best way to combat the cold. Also nakedness, but I don’t see her letting me take her dress off. It’s only a matter of seconds before my butt starts getting warm from the seat and warm air is blowing in from the vents. I hate to let her go, but getting her home to her grandfather is her priority and I’m not about to put her in a position to choose. I can wait.

  The drive to her apartment takes only seven minutes due to the lack of traffic this late at night, or early in the morning, depending on how you look at it. I park along the street in the no parking zone closest to her door and jump out, racing to the other side so I can open the door for her. It’s evident that any guy she dated before me never opened her doors. She needs to get used to me doing this for her. It’s the way I was raised.

  I’m sure her neighborhood is safe considering Boston’s finest take pride in every neighborhood they work, but I’m still leery and hold her hand until we’re at the front door of her building. I stand behind her while she unlocks the door and step in with her.

  “Do you think the elevator is working?”

  “You don’t have to come up,” she says, standing on the first step. Even now, with her heels on, I still have the height advantage.

  “It’s not that I don’t want to walk you to your door, I just thought we could make out in the elevator.”

  Daisy laughs and pulls me up the stairs. It’s nice to see the tenants are quieter now than they were when I came to pick her up earlier.

  “Our luck, we’d get stuck and the fire department would have to come. If they showed up, we’d be all over the news and the BoRe Blogger would have a field day with you.”

  “Ugh, don’t get me started on that site.”

  “That bad, huh?” she asks as we reach her floor.

  I shrug and lean my arm against her wall as she unlocks her door. “Like I said before, some of the shit that gets posted isn’t accurate and it’s hard to have a life when he’s always lurking. I’d like to meet him and give him a piece of my mind.”

  “He? What makes you so certain it’s a guy?”

  “Because all the women love me,” I tease, pressing my lips to hers. The kiss is chaste, but lingering. I cup her face with my hand and hold her as long as possible. When she pulls away, she covers her lips briefly.

  “I need to go,” she says as we hear rustling behind the door.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow. Sweet dreams and Happy Birthday, Daisy.” I brush my lips against her cheek and turn away. Each step is more difficult than the last, and while part of me wants to turn around and go back to her, the other part wants to nurture whatever this is between us and see where it goes.

  Boston’s beloved Renegades are falling!

  What the hell happened?

  We’re five games into a nine game home stand and things are not looking good, people. It’s time to put your rally caps on and start yelling at these guys. Come on, we pay good money for our tickets. At least they can show up!

  Of course with the Yankees in town, the Renegades cower in the corner. Listen guys, the “curse” is dead. It’s long gone! Stop letting them win. Maybe Curt Shilling needs to remind us what the bloody sock looks like… that is if he weren’t suspended from broadcasting right now.

  Down in the minors, centerfielder, Cooper Bailey, is looking fantastic and batting .393. The prediction is that he’ll be called up soon, rather than waiting for Bainbridge to retire or ask for a trade.

  We, in the Renegade community, are thankful that our runs batted in are still (somewhat) higher than the runs we’re giving up – 154 / 139.

  Silver lining, folks, we gotta find it!

  GOSSIP WIRE:

  It took much digging, but I’ve been able to unearth the identity of Mr. Ethan Davenport’s girlfriend. Yes, even though he has yet to confirm that they’re dating, taking her to the Rotary dinner was HUGE and didn’t go unnoticed by anyone. The young woman occupying Boston’s Most Eligible Bachelor’s time is none other than University of Boston’s Daisy Robinson. We wish her luck!

  Travis Kidd was spotted at the Chevy Dealership the other day. Why is this news? Well, because his father owns a Ford Dealership. I think Thanksgiving may be a bit awkward in the Kidd house this year.

  Manager, Cal Diamond, has been seen going in and out of the Cancer clinic recently. A call to the front office yielded nothing. We hope that whatever’s going on, Mr. Diamond and his family are in good health.

  The BoRe Blogger

  I hate the Yankees.

  Of course, I grew up a Seattle Mariners fan, so it’s what we do. We hate teams that continually beat us and win every possible title that comes their way. When the Renegades drafted me, it basically became law that I not be a fan of the Yankees. Honestly, you don’t find many people in Boston who are. And if they are it’s because they’re not from here, although, if you go to any other city, chances are, you’ll find Yankee or Braves fans everywhere. We can thank cable TV for that. Another thing you never do once you’ve been a Renegade – leave and become a Yankee. It’s a guaranteed way to lose the respect of your fans.

  As a major league player, I have goals: Win a batting title, Homerun Derby title, World Series title, and bat for the cycle... just to name a few. I like to remain optimistic and think that I can achieve each goal with the Renegades, but in order to do so I need to be consistent and right now I feel like I’m not. It’s still early in the season, but that’s no excuse. My off-season training prepares me for these moments. I shouldn’t be failing my team or myself.

  It’s the bottom of the fifth and I’m on deck. Preston Meyers is up to bat, ahead in the count and with no outs. Steve Bainbridge is on third after a deep right field pop-up by Kayden Cross allowed him to tag from second.

  One look at the scoreboard tells me that if we want to win this game, we need to get some hits and base runners otherwise we’re going down… again. And frankly, I’m sick of losing to the Yankees.

  Meyers drills one out to centerfield, scoring Bainbridge easily, and makes it to second, standing up. Bainbridge and I exchange a high-five after he crosses the plate, and he tips his hat to the fans, thanking them. I’ve wanted to talk to him about the rumors that the BoRe Blogger keeps posting, but the time is never right. Personally, I don’t want him to leave. He’s my mentor, someone I look up to on the team.

  The closer I get to home plate, the more my eyes are trained on Daisy. The BoRe Blogger asked me to comment on whether or not she’s my girlfriend and I gave the same standard “no comment” tweet back. She’s a girl, and definitely a friend, so the title makes sense, however it means something when you put those words together and label them. In this day and age it’s hard to tell if women want a label, or if they’re too independent for something like that. It’s also an awkward conversation to have, and something I’m not good at doing. Hell, just thinking about bringing it up with her makes my hand twitch with nerves.

  Daisy cracks a smile, but shies away by pulling her hat down. The BoRe Blogger published her name, effectiv
ely ruining any privacy I thought we’d have, and making her a target of sorts at the game. If I don’t do well, people are saying shit to her and that pisses me off. My game performance has nothing to do with her… okay maybe it does a little bit, but not much. If anything, she makes me want to work harder to impress her more. It’s stupid, I know. I should want to work hard to better myself, not for some chick. But I can’t help it. One look at Daisy and I’m weak in the knees and willing to follow her around like a lost puppy dog.

  After adjusting everything humanly possible, I step up to the plate and show my bat. With it cocked back and ready, I wait for the first pitch. This pitcher is taking his sweet ass time, and it’s pissing me off. He looks from me to Meyers - who is just off second, waiting to see what I’m going to do - and back to me before delivering the pitch. I know I’m swinging for the fences on this one. He’s sent me a meatball right down the center. I step forward, rotating my hips and shoulders as my bat comes around. The sweet sound of wood and hard rubber colliding has the stadium of fans up and out of their seats. Someday I want to be so respected that I can wait and see who catches my homerun, but this is not the time. I drop the bat, watching the ball fly into the stands before I start jogging to first to start my trip around the bases. Fireworks go off in centerfield, music plays and my teammates are at home plate to greet me as soon as I cross.

  I glance quickly at the scoreboard and see that now we’re only down by three runs. We have a few innings left to score and hold the Yankees to no more runs. More high-fives are given when I enter the dugout. The adrenaline is pumping and I find myself clapping loudly as our designated hitter, Branch Singleton, walks toward home plate. Everyone’s on their feet with their rally rags flying through the air, cheering as loud as they can over Branch’s music.

  “Why don’t you move her to the correct side?” Travis Kidd stands on the stairs beside me, cocking his head in the general direction of Daisy and smirking.

  Shaking my head, I spit out a few of the sunflowers seeds I’ve been sucking on and continue to lean on the railings with my arms dangling over. “She has season tickets and likes it over there.”

  “But if she’s behind you, or with the other wives, she can ogle your ass a bit more.”

  “You’re such a dumbass.”

  “Just sayin’,” he says as he spits out whatever’s in his mouth out.

  “I don’t want her hassled by the wives. You know whose wife is out for blood right now and Daisy doesn’t need to be subjected to that shit, plus we just started seeing each other. I don’t want to scare her away.”

  Bainbridge’s wife is on a rampage and hell bent to find out who Steve has been screwing behind her back. She’s texted all of us, asking questions, but the truth is, if he is doing something like that, none of us know about it. Not that we’d tell her either. There’s solidarity in our brotherhood and that pisses her off so she’s been going after the wives.

  We all stand tall when Singleton smacks the ball into the outfield. We raise our arms, thinking it’s gone and groan when the centerfielder jumps up and snags the ball out of the air before it clears the wall.

  “Shit,” a few of us mumble as Singleton returns to the dugout. He’s pissed and throwing his helmet at the wall with a string of slurs coming out of his mouth. To make matters worse, he was traded from the Yankees to Boston a few seasons back and has held a grudge ever since. The trade didn’t make sense – Branch is one of the most consistent DH’s in the league – once his name hit the trade wire, teams started a bidding war. Even if they didn’t need him, they wanted him. Boston wasn’t even the highest bidder, but they are the archrival of the Yankees, and Branch wanted to stick it to them. Most of the time he does.

  There are those moments, when you’re in the lead and the outfielder makes an amazing catch, and you give props to your teammate for hitting it deep enough that the outfielder has to work to stop the run. But then there are times when you don’t speak about the almost homerun that would’ve put your team within two runs rather than three down. This is the time when you just ignore the “what could’ve been” and let your teammate stew.

  Jasper Jacobson, our catcher, is up next. He takes the first swing and hits a grounder right to the short stop. Jacobson is fast and has the ability to beat out the throw to first, but not today. Next, second baseman, Bryce Mackenzie, steps up to the plate. The crowd is still somewhat loud, but has died down considerably after the last two outs. Mackenzie takes the first two pitches without even flinching. The third pitch is also a ball, giving me hope that the pitcher is tiring and maybe we can wear him down in the next inning, as long as his relief doesn’t come in.

  Mackenzie swings at the next pitch and I’m thinking it must’ve been a damn meatball because he was ahead in the count and now the right fielder is taking a few steps in to catch his pop-up. The inning is over and we’re still down by three runs. We take our sweet time coming out of the dugout as the music starts to play and the Jumbo Tron lights up with the Kiss Cam. I’d love to take Daisy to a game and get on the Kiss Cam. It’ll never happen though, unless we go to a Celtics game, because there is no way in hell I’ll stand out in the freezing cold in Foxborough to watch the Patriots. Checking out the Bruins, on the other hand, would be on my list of things to do in Boston.

  After taking our warm-up grounders, the heart of the Yankees line-up steps up to the plate. I take a step back and get into position. My eyes are steady on his bat, watching every wiggle that it takes. He starts the rotation and the wooden weapon comes around, smacking the white leather ball toward me. I move into position, ready to use my body as a shield to stop the ball. It bounces nicely into my glove and in one swift rotation, the ball in and out of my mitt, into my hand and being thrown accurately to first base.

  It’s a three up, three down inning; in fact, the rest of game is played out like that with us losing five to eight and dropping yet another home game to the Yankees. This loss puts us even at fourteen and fourteen – a shitty way to start the month.

  Our cleats clank as we walk down the corridor to the clubhouse. The press is already there, waiting for interviews. The mood is subdued. It’s not just the fact that we lost, but that we have put ourselves in an early hole and holes in the majors are hard to climb out of.

  “Ethan, care to give us a few words?” Yes! I’d love to talk about my homerun or the outs that I made, but I’m not allowed, not yet at least. I want to talk about how well we play together as a team and how I support our pitching staff. I know I can answer simple questions with canned answers.

  I smile my normal half grin, half grimace and wave. Media training starts tomorrow at the University of Boston, with a ten a.m. class. I thought about complaining, but it means I can see Daisy earlier and maybe even eat lunch with her while I’m there. That thought, alone, makes me turn in my man card. It should be the other way around. She should be asking me for time, and yet here I am mapping out when I can see her, eat with her and just be near. I’m turning into such a girl.

  When we are traveling, I’ll take the class via live feed. It’s not ideal, but I want to be able to give interviews and this is what the GM thinks is best. I only have to take the course for two weeks and let the class interview me before I’m cleared for press interviews.

  The vibe in the clubhouse is subdued. No one is talking and the only noise being made is by us when we undress. I suppose there isn’t much to say. We lost, yet again, and have to face the Tampa Bay Devil Rays tomorrow and the following two days before we have an off day and fly to Toronto.

  “Do you have plans tonight?” Kidd asks, as he stands next to me in nothing but a towel around his waist, which he is holding together with his thumb and forefinger.

  I shake my head and pull off my shirt, tossing it in the laundry bucket. “Sleep.”

  “With your girl?” he waggles his eyebrows, and steps away before I can punch him in the shoulder.

  “No. I have class tomorrow. I thought it’d be best if I showed u
p without any bags under my eyes.”

  “Man, I can’t believe Stone is making you take media classes.”

  “Yeah well, when you tweet out your address like a fool, management starts to wonder how fucking smart you are. Clearly, I’m an idiot.”

  “You said it, not me.” He says as he slaps my back. “What are you going to do about your girl back home?” he asks as he waits for me to head to the showers.

  “What do you mean?” Truth is, I haven’t even thought about Sarah for a few days, especially after my epic date with Daisy. She’s been the only one on my mind and between the phone calls, texts and seeing her for a few minutes after the game; she’s all I’ve had time to think about.

  “Don’t you have, like, a standing hook-up deal?”

  His words cause me to freeze. My mother knows about Daisy, but I’m sure Sarah hasn’t read up on it, or saw us online because she’s busy training to become a doctor. Sarah will be expecting to hang out. I’m now in a situation where I don’t know what to do. Any other time, it didn’t matter because I haven’t had a girlfriend since Sarah. Do I call Daisy my girlfriend? Do I give her that label?

  If it were anyone but Kidd asking me the question, I’d dodge it, but he’s my best friend. “I don’t know,” I say as I head toward the showers, hoping that the hot water will provide the answer to my upcoming conundrum.

  Even after a valiant effort by Preston Meyers and Ethan Davenport, the Renegades came up short against the Yankees, dropping all three of their home games to them with a cumulative nine to fifteen in the runs category. It wasn’t until Sunday’s game that the Renegades were able to get their bats swinging and break out of the two run hold the Yankees had them in by putting five up on the board.