One Look

by Harlow James

  One Look

  A Sports Romance

  By Harlow James

  Copyright © 2019 Harlow James

  One Look, A Sports Romance

  Cover Design: NET Hook & Line Design

  All rights reserved. No parts of the book may be used or reproduced in any matter without written permission from the author, except for inclusion of brief quotations in a review. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, establishments, organizations, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously to give a sense of authenticity.

  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. The eBook may not be re-sold or given away to another person except when loaned out per Amazon’s lending program. If you’re reading this book and you did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then it was pirated illegally. Please purchase a copy of your own and respect the hard work of this author.

  Sometimes we have to trust the timing of our life.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Three Years Later

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  EPILOGUE

  Title Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 1

  Jake

  You know that Eminem song from 8 Mile, where he raps about throwing up his mom’s spaghetti because he’s so nervous before he goes on stage? Yeah? Well, that’s exactly what I’m doing right now. Except I’m not about to go on stage.

  “Fuck,” I garble behind the next heave of my lunch, consisting of the leftovers from the celebratory dinner my mom made for me and my family last night at my condo.

  “Dude, are you okay?” My teammate, Rocky calls from outside the stall. And yes, he was named after THE Rocky Balboa.

  “Yup, just peachy,” I reply before dry heaving once more. There can’t possibly be anything left in my stomach.

  “Hope you didn’t eat something you will never want to eat again,” he knocks on the door. “I threw up sushi once and I swear it ruined it for me.”

  Wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, I answer. “Just my mom’s spaghetti. I’ve thrown it up once before, so I’m sure I’ll be fine.” I’m trying to be optimistic, but the truth is, I’m not sure I’ll want that meal again for a long time.

  I reach forward to flush the toilet, then stand and brace my hands on my hips. Well, it’s not the first time I’ve thrown up before a game, and I’m sure it won’t be the last. I glance down at the orange jersey and white pants of my uniform, hoping I didn’t stain them from consequential spatter. Nope, we’re all good.

  Why am I upchucking my lunch, you ask? Well, because today is my first game in the MLB, a goal I’ve been working towards since I could hold a baseball. The sport was the only thing that drove me to succeed in school, besides my parents breathing down my neck and demanding I get good grades because athletes need to be more than just strength and brawns. So not having decent accolades in school meant that I wasn’t allowed to play ball. Once it became clear that I had talent though, the dream of playing for the majors one day became the ultimate prize. So I studied hard, trained harder, and here I am, just moments before I take the field in my debut game for the OC Rays.

  I leave the stall and walk towards the sink, washing my hands and rinsing my face from the beads of sweat that accumulated from my pre-game workout over the toilet. I reach into the cabinet beneath the sink and retrieve the spare toothbrush and toothpaste the team provides for instances just like these, smearing the minty reprieve on the brush and getting to work to erase the stench of my leftovers.

  Deep blue eyes stare back at me, mocking me with their fear. I’ve always been nervous before games, but nothing to this extent. I run my free hand through my dirty blond hair and down over the scruff lining my jaw, feeling as though I have a traveling itch I just can’t scratch. My stomach is still in knots as I brace my hands on the counter, finishing up with the toothbrush and leaning over the sink in preparation for round two.

  “Don’t worry, dude.” Rocky comes up behind me, his dark features presenting themselves in the mirror. “I’m pretty sure all of us have tossed our cookies at one point in our careers, and probably all of us before our first game in the league too. I know I did,” he shrugs. “Consider it a rite of passage,” he winks at me in the mirror before patting me on the back and turning for the door.

  “Yeah, thanks,” I call out to him over my shoulder.

  I blow out a long breath while I stare at my reflection in front of me.

  This is it. This is life changing. This is the dream.

  Then why do I feel like everything in my life is about to change after tonight?

  Oh, because it is.

  I will no longer just be Jake Calhoun, third baseman for the Chico State Wildcats, or Jake Calhoun, brother and son of an all-American family. I’ll no longer be a nobody, although playing college ball increased my popularity a bit.

  Now I am Jake Calhoun, starting third baseman for the Orange County Rays, a rookie hoping to help my team make it to the world series, and a professional baseball player consistently under the microscope and scrutiny of all of America.

  I find my way back to my locker, grab my glove and bat, fashion my hat tightly on my head, and saunter down the hall, meeting the rest of my team in the tunnel before we emerge onto the field.

  Eddie Salazar, our star pitcher, who came in as a rookie last year, saddles up next to me as the announcer introduces the team.

  “You got this, Calhoun. I swear, I’m getting déjà vu watching you right now, getting ready to take the field for your first game. This is what we’ve been working for since we were kids, am I right?”

  I nod back at him, afraid to open my mouth to speak in trepidation that more spaghetti may come out.

  “Ladies and gentlemen!” The announcer’s voice booms through the stadium. “Let’s hear it for our OC Rays!”

  I’ve heard cheering before, even at my college games it was impressive given that Chico State had one of the top teams in the league. But nothing beats the sound of the echoes of adoring fans bouncing off the walls of a major league stadium. That’s a sound I plan to commit to memory as I soak it in through a deep breath while closing my eyes.

  Rocky comes up and pushes me from behind, almost forcing me to land face first on the concrete, breaking me out of my trance.
/>
  “Fuck, Rocky! Seriously?” My heart is already beating wildly in my chest from nerves, but now it’s rattling from adrenaline and a fear of falling.

  “Come on, Rookie! Let’s play ball!” He mocks me while jogging backward as the entire team makes our way onto the field. If the guy wasn’t my teammate and a legitimate friend, I’d definitely be chasing after him in retaliation.

  Emerging from the tunnel is like stepping through the pearly gates of heaven because a baseball field---to me---is just that. Heaven.

  The green grass is crisper than you can imagine, almost fake in appearance. The white lines marking the diamond are precise and polished, waiting to be destroyed by cleats of grown men running around frantically in the desperate attempt to score a run. The lights are almost blinding if you stare directly at them, which I learned the hard way NOT to do back in college. But they cast a white haze and glow over the field, blocking out the distinct features of fans in the stands except for those closest to the field behind home plate and the dugout for our team, just situated off third base, where I happen to be jogging towards as my introduction is made over the loudspeaker.

  “And debuting at third base in his rookie year, number twenty-three, Jake Calhoun!”

  The eruption of cheering from the crowd lights a fire in my chest. These people are cheering for me, a normal boy born and raised in Chico, California, who worked hard and got a tiny bit lucky enough to make his dreams come true.

  And there’s the spaghetti again threatening its way up my throat.

  “That’s our boy!” The sound of my mom’s voice pulls my eyes to my family in the stands, slightly to the right of home plate from my view on the field. My parents are standing in front of their seats, my mother more so jumping up and down rather than standing, while my older brother and younger sister beam with pride beside them, whistling and hollering above the noise.

  My family is the best. They’ve supported me through every game, every injury, and every goal I’ve managed to crush. Having them here at my MLB debut is climatic. Neither my brother nor my sister ever dabbled in sports as I did, but they were the most faithful cheerleaders for me as I grew up and pursued the majors. I’m lucky enough to have siblings I can stand and parents that molded me into the man I am today. I wouldn’t be where I’m at in my life without them.

  I offer a small wave before finishing the trek to my position at third base, silently absorbing the surrounding atmosphere.

  “Let’s do this, Rookie!” Rocky calls over to me from his position at shortstop, breaking me from my encompassing daydream.

  Even though the guy has done nothing but rib on me since I joined the team officially a few months ago, I’m glad to have him as my right hand (or rather left hand) man. Rocky Perez is one of the top shortstops in the league. He’s known for making insane plays and his team spirit, as well as his interactions with the fans. Rocky is a critical member and unofficial captain on this team. The guys respect him, strive to be him, and count on him to talk us up and down when we need it.

  Once the rest of the team has been introduced, and the visiting team takes their place in their dugout, the first game of my professional career is underway.

  I’ve played hundreds of baseball games since I was five, worn dozens of different team jerseys in every color of the rainbow. I’ve learned how to focus on the elements of the game despite the chaos of the crowds and the hackling of fans of the opposing teams. I’ve channeled my anger into the way the bat connects with the ball instead of another player’s face when I feel like I’m losing control. And I’ve practiced techniques and drills for catching and throwing until I was making the movements in my sleep.

  I’ve lived and breathed baseball since I was five. I can turn everything off once I hit the field and do my job with astounding ability. I’ve prepared for this my whole life. But nothing could have prepared me for the moment after I hit my first career home run when I glanced over the dugout just to the right of third base and my eyes froze.

  Nothing could have prepared me for her.

  Chapter 2

  Dani

  “The best part about baseball games has to be the popcorn!” My younger brother, Conner, is stuffing his mouth full of the buttery kernels while attempting to speak.

  “I think I caught that, but why don’t you finish chewing before you try talking again.”

  “Oh, the boy is just excited is all,” Gramps bellows next to me, louder than necessary, but normal, nonetheless. “It’s opening day! And I can feel it, kids! This is our year!”

  Gramps has his orange OC Rays cap on, the same one he bought at his very first game he attended with his dad. It’s torn and ratted all to hell, but he’s not one to break tradition. Gramps believes in superstition, much like most baseball fans and players, and he refuses to replace his hat.

  Conner is wearing our dad’s cap, the same style Gramps has. His dark brown hair sticks out from underneath while curling up the sides, reminding me of how much he looks like our dad and how fast he’s growing up.

  Baseball has been a part of my family for as long as I can remember. Going to Rays’ games with Gramps and my parents were some of my fondest memories of my childhood. Although my parents are no longer with us, Gramps has kept the tradition alive and we have never missed a home game since he inherited his season tickets all those years ago. Our seats behind the dugout along third base have become a second home to my family.

  “You say that every year, Gramps,” I sweetly remind him while stealing a handful of popcorn from my brother.

  “Hey! Get your own, Dani!”

  “You can share, butthead. It’s not like we can’t get more,” I state matter-of-factly while rubbing his head.

  “Will you stop doing that, please? I’m twelve now, not five!”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot how grown up you are now,” I tease.

  “Knock it off you two and pay attention. The first pitch is coming.” Gramps gestures out onto the field just as Eddie Salazar winds up and throws a fastball, the batter eagerly swinging but missing.

  “Strike one! That’s right, Salazar! That’s how we start the game!” Gramps’ shouting is drowned out by the surrounding applause, but he hasn’t even reached his loudest volume level yet. By the end, I’ll be turning down his hearing aid so he can’t make himself go even deafer.

  The next pitch is thrown and this time the batter connects, sending the ball straight down the third base line where the new player, Jake Calhoun, quickly catches the ball and pelts it across the field to Brandon Cash at first base, securing the out before the runner makes it there.

  “That Calhoun was worth every penny!” Gramps shouts over at me and across Conner’s face between us. I swear, I’m surprised Conner isn’t going deaf yet.

  “Yeah, we shall see, Gramps. He’s getting a pretty nice paycheck for a rookie,” I reply, knowing just how much each player makes on the team and all of their stats.

  Baseball is one of my obsessions, much like my Gramps and my brother. It’s in the Peters’ blood. My Gramps played growing up, my dad following behind him, and now Conner is making his way up through the league in our town. None of the Peters’ men ever made it to the MLB, but the passion for the game runs through our veins, and baseball rules most conversations in our household.

  I take a moment to study Calhoun, watching his posture and walk as he returns to his station next to third base after his successful play. I must say, for a rookie, he’s got the professional vibe down. The way he holds himself and studies the field screams confidence. He knows what he’s doing, and that’s downright sexy. Curiosity makes me want to study him a bit more, my eyes rarely leaving him throughout the rest of the inning. Calhoun doesn’t see any more action while out on the field until it’s his turn up to bat.

  One reason Jake Calhoun secured his spot on the OC Rays was not only his prowess as a third baseman but also for his ability to smash a home run when it counts. His batting average is impeccably high for a twen
ty-five-year-old, fresh off the A-team.

  The swagger in his step as he walks to home plate catches my attention, my focus zeroing in on the way his pants hug his ass. This isn’t the first MLB player whose rear I’ve admired, but there’s something about Jake Calhoun that has definitely caught my attention. He takes his place, digging his foot into the hard dirt and hoists his bat into place behind his head.

  “Let’s see if this boy can knock out a home run in his first game,” Gramps yells over at me, momentarily breaking me from my trance on the man garnering my attention towering over home plate.

  “Ball,” Conner declares as the ball flies past the plate and smacks the glove of the catcher. The call made by the umpire matches Conner’s declaration, making Gramps beam with pride.

  “At least he’s got a good eye,” Gramps claims as the next pitch goes whizzing past the plate. Ball again.

  I shift in my seat, leaning forward on my knees to get a better look at this man. I’ve always found the game and players fascinating, but something is drawing me to number twenty-three like I’ve never experienced before. His presence on the field is captivating.

  The next pitch comes through and Calhoun connects with the ball this time, sending the stitched leather flying through the air, arching over the middle of the field. The center fielder for the other team is running as fast as his legs can carry him, but the ball flies over the boundary fence just as he plows into the wall.

  “Home run!” Conner and Gramps shout as they stand and celebrate the score. The crowd is wild on their feet as I join in on the commotion.

  Calhoun rounds the bases in a celebratory run, the smile plastered on his face electric. It’s the first glimpse of emotion I’ve seen from him and the string pulling me towards him tightens from his display of elation. I can only imagine what he must be feeling after scoring his first home run in his debut game. And if I thought his smolder was sexy, his smile is downright sinful, those pearly whites shining when the stadium lights hit them. The camera follows him around while he circles the bases, giving the audience and myself an up close and personal look at him. I can’t lie; the camera loves him. That grin is lethal.