The Perfect Catch

by Meghan Quinn

“Why those three?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” I wiggle my brows at him, which grants me the biggest eye roll of the night. “They sure know how to wear a uniform well. You know what I mean?”

  “You’re one of those girls—a cleat chaser.”

  “I take offense to that.” I lift my chin in defiance. “I am not a cleat chaser. I just know when an athlete wears his uniform properly.”

  “And what’s properly?”

  Getting comfortable, I start ticking off my responses on my hand, one finger at a time. “First of all, the jerseys should never be too baggy. I hate when players step up to the plate with these blousy tops partly undone. What’s so great about Giancarlo is his jersey is tailored perfectly to his chest and arms, giving us the perfect snapshot of what he has on underneath. And then there are the pants. Baggy pants look like sweatpants, therefore, they look sloppy. And every baseball player should wear their pants at their knees.”

  “Not all of those guys wear their pants high, and I don’t either.”

  “I know. It’s why you don’t win an award in the jersey department. Wearing your pants at your ankles is a blemish to your overall appeal.”

  “Appeal?” His brow arches. “I lose appeal over not pulling my pants up around my knees?”

  “Easily. And what about the whole ‘slump’ thing?”

  “What ‘slump’ thing?” he asks, looking more agitated than before.

  “You know, when a player feels as though they’re in a slump, they decide to change something up, like shave their beard, get new batting gloves . . . wear your pants high.”

  He mulls that over, his fingers raking over his five o’clock shadow. “Not everyone believes in slumps.”

  “Do you?”

  Another thoughtful pause. “If I didn’t, then I would think I lost all my talent overnight.” He sighs. “Hell, sometimes I do believe that.”

  “You know that’s not the truth,” I say, seeing an ounce of vulnerability past his tough exterior. “We all have our moments.”

  “Yeah, I’ve been having a moment all season. Not sure it’s referred to as a moment when it’s lasted for months.”

  “Maybe you need to switch things up, then.”

  “What do you mean?” he asks. “Hit left-handed?”

  I chuckle. “I mean, if you really want to throw everyone a curveball—see that baseball reference?” I wink, and he rolls his eyes. “Then by all means, hit lefty, but I was thinking more of your routine. What do you currently do?”

  “As a routine?”

  I nod. “Yeah. Wait.” I hold up my hand. “Let me guess. You wake up, and instead of dragging your body to the coffeemaker, you prefer a cold shower instead.” His face remains neutral. “And then you make some kind of pre-workout drink because, not that I’m looking or anything, you have a lot of muscles, and muscles usually come along when you do things like that.” I hold up my arm and flex, showing off nothing. “See, no pre-workout drink, no muscles.” The corner of his mouth lifts and I find such great joy in such a small movement. “After you suckle your drink—”

  “I don’t suckle.”

  “Good to know.” I pretend to write a note in my hand because I’m nervous, and when I’m nervous I do stupid things. “Walker Rockwell doesn’t suckle—noted.” I close my hand like a notebook and say, “Then you work out and probably have some form of post-workout protein drink followed by another shower, drive to the stadium, more training, maybe a meeting, more training, then getting ready for the game, more workout drinks . . . am I pegging you correctly?”

  “You have me showering too much.”

  I tap the side of my head. “Saver of water, I like that.”

  He shakes his head in humor, almost as if to say that he can’t take my ridiculousness, and I don’t even care that I might be making an ass of myself, because he looks relaxed, he looks open, ready to talk. He doesn’t look as if he’s about to shut me down any second. And that, my friends, is a giant improvement, something I can be incredibly happy about.

  Chapter Thirteen

  WALKER

  “Have you always been a big baseball fan?” I ask. I’m impressed with how much she can talk about the sport.

  I’ve run across my fair share of cleat chasers, some I’ve gotten lost in on occasion until I learned my lesson, but none of them have ever had the kind of insight that Kate has when it comes to baseball.

  It’s interesting. Makes me appreciate her as more than just someone to help me clean up my image. She’s cool to talk to, something I never thought I’d think when I first met her, given her fierce business persona, but I guess she needs to be cold when dealing with dicks such as myself.

  She’s warmed up, though, and a small part of me likes it.

  “Grew up loving the sport. I have two older brothers and one younger who played but were never good enough to move past high school. But we’d spend our allowance on going to games. We’d always sit in the nosebleeds, bring our binoculars, and have the time of our lives. When this job became available, I knew I had to apply.”

  “Where did you work before?”

  “The Children’s Hospital outside of Chicago. I did special events there. We actually met three years ago for a brief second. You were touring the facilities and handing out signed memorabilia with some of your teammates. It was a brief passing and quick handshake, but we did meet before.”

  “St. Francis?” I ask, not being able to picture the pint-sized beauty in my head.

  She nods. “Yup. Worked there for a few years until I moved over to the Bobbies. I still can’t believe I got the job. I feel as though I have to pinch myself every morning to remind myself this job isn’t a dream. I love it.”

  “You like working with temperamental jocks?”

  “You’re the only one who gives me gruff.”

  I sit taller in my chair. “Kaysen Wagner is the shyest guy on the team—he’s easy to work with?”

  “Mm-hmm.” She nods. “He’s so shy that he just does what I say. It’s nice. Trust me, you’re the most difficult.”

  I pick a piece of lint off my pants. “Well, someone has to make part of your job hard.”

  “Yeah, thanks for that.”

  “Anytime.” I lean back and study her—the smile crossing her face, her freckles that peek past her makeup, makeup she doesn’t need.

  She’s beautiful. Curvy with deep brown eyes and a sexy laugh . . . Christ, I’ve never thought a laugh could be sexy before.

  Nor have I sat down for hours just talking to a woman.

  Not anymore.

  Not after I realized being a professional baseball player has its drawbacks, and one of the biggest ones is trying to decipher who’s genuine and who isn’t. There are so many women out there trying to trap you that it makes it tough to date. So, when I meet a woman who can actually hold my attention, converses with me easily, it feels . . . incredible.

  “If you weren’t playing baseball, what would you be doing?” Kate asks, interrupting my thoughts and bringing me back to the conversation.

  “Not sure. Never thought about anything else.”

  “Okay, so if your leg breaks in half tomorrow from someone sliding into home, what do you do next?”

  “Knock on wood,” I say, leaning over to the coffee table and giving the hard surface three knocks with my index finger knuckle. She chuckles and waits for my answer. I give it some thought and then say, “Live a simple life on all the money I’ve saved and invested.”

  She lets out an irritated sigh and asks, “What if you didn’t have money to fall back on?”

  “Then I didn’t listen to my dad well.”

  “You’re starting to make me angry.”

  “I can tell. Your nostrils are flaring.”

  She slaps the armrest. “Can you just play the game? Is that too hard to ask?”

  That temper, just like mine.

  I fucking like it.

  But unlike me, attached to the temper is a softer side, a compass
ionate side. She listens, she responds. She’s genuinely interested in getting to know me. Not the baseball side, but just me, Walker. Not sure I’ve ever sat down and chatted with someone like her before.

  “I haven’t thought about it. It’s always been baseball. Even if it’s not fun anymore,” I add, trailing off.

  “Not fun anymore?” Her feet hit the ground. “How can you say that?”

  I grip the back of my neck, my palm getting sweaty from my stupid admission. “Too deep. Skim the surface.”

  “But if our catcher doesn’t like playing baseball, then that’s a problem. We need to fix that.” She stands and looks around, almost unsure as to what she’s going to do next.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Trying to get you to love the game again.”

  “Not necessary.”

  “Walker—”

  “Kate, don’t fucking ruin this by digging too deep.”

  “I’m not trying to ruin anything, but maybe that’s the problem. Maybe you’re having a hard time because you don’t love it.”

  “Of course that’s the problem, or one of the problems. Doesn’t take a psychologist to figure that out. If you’re doing something you don’t love, then you’re not going to be able to perform as well as if you do love it, unless you’re some sort of phenomenon.” I stand as well and pocket my phone. “It’s late. I should get going.”

  “So, how long has it been since you stopped loving it?”

  “Long enough.”

  “Are you really going to short answer me now?” She smirks and bats her eyelashes in a joking way. “We’ve come so far. Think of all we’ve talked about tonight, from cake to baseball, to fishing, to . . . uh . . . what else did we talk about?”

  “How to wear my uniform.”

  She snaps her fingers at me. “Yes, your uniform. We’ve conversed on a gauntlet of topics. Don’t you want to touch upon this one? It would just add to the camaraderie we’ve developed.” She bats her eyelashes more.

  It does nothing to break my wall.

  “No.”

  She smacks the back of the chair in frustration. “God, you’re annoying. Don’t you see I’m trying to help you? If we figure out the source of your displeasure, then—” She pauses, as if a lightbulb has just turned on in her head. “Oh my . . . is it”—she leans forward and whispers—“girl problems?” She winces and cringes at the same time.

  “No,” I answer in an exasperated tone.

  “Is that the only word you know?”

  “No.” I hold back my smirk.

  “Okay, so no baby mama drama or creepy, trolling, lingering ex we need to worry about?”

  “No. I don’t have time to deal with any of that shit.”

  She bobs her head up and down. “Cool, cool. And no children that you know about?”

  “What the hell are you doing? Writing up a dating profile for me?”

  “Would that be something you want me to do? Because I’ve done a few for my friends and, dare I say, I have a knack for it? Three out of four of them are happily in relationships while the fourth is living her best life looking for fun rather than love. But they all give me credit because of my brilliant profiles. Interested?” She wiggles her eyebrows.

  “No.”

  “Ugh.” She flops back in her chair. “God, you’re no fun.”

  “Sorry to burst your misconception about me.” I start to move away.

  “Hey, where are you going?”

  “To bed.”

  “But we’re not done here,” she challenges as I take a step back.

  “We are.”

  I start to walk away when she says, “We are so not done, Rockwell.”

  We really are.

  Without letting her get in another word, I walk away, shutting down whatever she was going to do next.

  This was stupid, sitting down with her, letting her get to know me like that, but then again, did I really have a choice? My career is hanging on by a thread at this point. If I was actually hitting the goddamn ball, this probably wouldn’t be as big of a deal as it seems, but having a bad reputation and not performing is two strikes—one more and I’m fucked.

  When I reach my room, I shuck my shirt and pants and head to the bathroom, where I quickly brush my teeth and take a piss. It’s nine o’clock, way later than I thought. Did the time really go by that fast with Kate?

  Once I’m ready for bed, I drop my boxer briefs and climb into yet another stark hotel bed. I pick up my phone to torture myself and scroll through the negative comments about me when my phone rings.

  Roark.

  “What?” I answer.

  “And here I thought that maybe you were dead. Good job ignoring me.”

  “Wasn’t in the mood for a lecture.”

  “Yeah, well, I wasn’t in the mood to deal with the shit storm you laid down today either. Christ, man, what the hell were you thinking?”

  “Clearly, I wasn’t.” I let out a long breath. “Cutler caught me off guard, got under my skin, and I snapped.”

  “You seem to be snapping a lot lately.”

  Because I’m tired, aching, and can’t seem to find the joy of going up to the plate anymore.

  “I’m working on it.”

  “What can I do to help?”

  “Ease the fuck up.” I drag my hand over my face. “I just need everyone to ease the fuck up. Give me space, let me figure this shit out.”

  “I can do that, as long as you promise me you’re going to put on a smile for the camera and not say another goddamn negative thing.”

  “Fine.”

  “Fine? How about a promise?”

  “I said, fine.”

  “I don’t want to be a dick to you, Walker. I’m doing my damnedest to make sure you stay with the Bobbies. I need you to give me a little help.”

  “I know.” I take a deep breath. “Working on it.”

  “Good. Now get some rest and finish up this away trip with some hits. I’ll touch base with you when you’re back in Chicago.”

  Get some rest. Get some hits. Get along with Cutler. Get your attitude in gear. I’m so fucking sick of being told what to do. And now, I have a five-foot-five community events coordinator telling me I need fixing.

  I just want them all to leave me alone, and then maybe, maybe I’ll work out how to fix it myself.

  Chapter Fourteen

  KATE

  Ugh.

  I squeeze my eyes shut while my hands stay clasped together.

  Come on, Walker. You’re better than that.

  He steps out of the batter’s box and angrily adjusts his batting gloves, undoing them and then strapping them back together. He takes a deep breath, holds his bat up in front of him, and stares at it for a few seconds before stepping back into the batter’s box.

  Three and two, two outs, and the Bobbies are down by one. The last pitch Walker chased out of the strike zone would’ve been ball four.

  Nerves build up in the pit of my stomach as if they’re playing game seven in the World Series rather than a regular season game.

  Ever since the long conversation I had with Walker, I’ve felt this weird connection with him and I can’t seem to shake it. I saw a slice of vulnerability in his eyes when we were talking, and I fear he doesn’t show that side of himself very often, which is the reason why I have this overwhelming need to cheer him on, to want to see him do great things despite his surly attitude.

  The pitcher winds up and delivers the pitch, a high fastball that Walker swings at and misses.

  Fuck.

  “Kate, can I speak with you?” Audrey, my boss, asks.

  I spring from my seat and answer enthusiastically, “Of course.”

  I join her on the couch in the back of the visitor’s press box where she’s set up, looking over all of her events.

  I take a seat and try to erase the nauseated feeling I have over Walker once again striking out. At least he has an RBI under his belt tonight, a deep fly to left center that scored
a run, but even after that hit, I could tell he wasn’t happy from the scowl on his brow.

  Something needs to change and I have an idea on how to make that happen.

  “Okay, want to talk about the Firefighters Ball?”

  “Sure.” I fold my hands on my lap. “I’d love to.”

  “Are you familiar with it?”

  “A little,” I answer honestly, wishing I’d had more time to research the event. I wasn’t sure Audrey was going to bring it up since she’s taken the lead on the event.

  “Not a problem.” Did I mention how nice Audrey is? One of the best bosses ever. “Every year the Bobbies host a ball at the Navy Pier Ballroom. Have you visited that space before?”

  “Yes, it’s breathtaking. We did an event there for St. Francis once and I couldn’t get over how beautiful the space was. And the staff was a pleasure to work with.”

  “They truly are. We have a little over one thousand people attending, from baseball players to firefighters to some of the most prominent people in the city. It’s invitation only and all the proceeds go to the firefighters and the families who’ve lost a loved one while in service. We have a silent auction and the plates are one thousand dollars a head.”

  “Wow.” I feel my eyes widen. “That’s a lot of money.”

  “It is, but it’s worth it. We’re auctioning off memorabilia from past and present players, season tickets, and luxury box seats. Our partners have also offered some wonderful auction items that will raise a lot of money. Our goal is to raise one million dollars.”

  “That’s a hefty goal.”

  “It is, but we hit it every year. We make it fun for the attendees, making sure it’s not stuffy but actually entertaining. We always do a casino night, which goes over very well. We bring in professional casino dealers, set up all sorts of games, and add live music, performers, and delicious food. It’s one of my favorite nights of the year. Plus, it’s black tie, which makes it that much more fun, at least for the ladies, since we get to dress up.”

  “Sounds like so much fun. What can I do to help?”

  A smile pulls at the corners of Audrey’s mouth. “I was hoping you were going to ask that. Since you’ve been developing a close relationship with all the players, I would love for you to be the athlete liaison. We not only need to figure out who’s attending, but we’re also going to need some of them to make speeches, as well as be introduced personally to some of our important donors.”