Falling for Centerfield

by Sophia Summers

  “Wait, that was just because you ignored me to talk to another guy who you invited to sit with us at our table.” He lifted his chin. “What self-respecting guy sticks around for that?”

  “That’s the point. A self-respecting guy would have stuck around.”

  “Not in my world. Maybe in some hyped-up female power world, but men deserve respect too, and Big Dawg was not feeling the respect in that moment.” He knew the minute he said it, it was the wrong thing to say, but she took it well, considering.

  “Anyway, after the worst date ever”—he cringed—“you show up here and turn up all supportive of . . . of . . .” She waved her arms around. “Women’s issues.”

  “I do support women’s issues.”

  She paused in the flailing of her arms and stare open mouthed. “You do?”

  “Sure. You heard my dad. My mom’s into this stuff. She raised me right, little lady.”

  She groaned. “And yet, you call me little lady.”

  “A woman can have rights and be treated well at the same time, in my opinion. My mama also taught me that. A woman is for protecting and for supporting, for loving and for listening.”

  Her mouth hadn’t really fully closed since he started talking. He assumed it was a positive response. But he couldn’t tell. They walked toward the side exit. “I’m happy I saw you. I wanted to say, Harlow, I’m sorry for the way I acted on our date. I’d like another chance. And if you need me at this rally, I’m happy to go, though I couldn’t tell if the committee in there wanted me or not.”

  “Oh, they want you all right. But it’s a press thing. They want what your face in such a rally would give them—shock factor, publicity, interest, basically exposure.”

  “I can do that. It’s no different than what we did for the children’s center.”

  She didn’t seem to believe him, but it was the best he could do right now. “We good?”

  She shook her head, then shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “Just see me again.” He stepped closer, but she stepped back. “It doesn’t even have to be a date.”

  She lifted her chin and then nodded, slowly, once. “Okay.”

  Cole did his dance, then reached for her, pulling her close in an embrace. “Thank you Harlow. I’ll try to help you not regret it.”

  Then he slipped out the door before she could change her mind.

  Chapter 14

  Cole warmed up on the sidelines with Jimbo, one of the other outfielders, lobbing soft and easy passes to him. “Where were you, man?”

  “I had places to be.”

  “They had Joe in the outfield for practice.”

  “That’s a good place for him. Filling in when I can’t be here.”

  “That ain’t smart, Big Dawg.”

  Cole chucked the ball back at him harder than necessary. “Some things can’t be helped.”

  Jimbo grunted when the ball zinged into his mitt. “Just saying, Skip noticed.”

  Cole knew he would. But the children’s center had called with some trouble. He could have handled it over the phone, but the thought of bumping into Harlow around Belltown campus had been too strong a temptation. Probably not the best move of his career, but he could make up for it. What was the skipper gonna do? Bench him?

  They all gathered in the dugout, players all sitting in their batting lineup. Cole took his place toward the end. He was decent at bat, but he worked hard in the off-season and was excited for the fresh start on his batting average.

  Skip started in on his typical pep talk. “We’re going for the gold today, men. Before they know what’s hitting them, we’re gonna take ’em off the line, wring ’em out, and toss ’em in the trash.”

  Cole grinned. The man used as many mixed-up clichés as he’d heard come out of any mouth.

  The game started with the Sea Ray music, introducing the starting players by name as their picture went up on the board in the lights. He never tired of hearing it. Five years into the MLB, and it still felt like the first time.

  “And in centerfield, Joe Smalling.”

  A pit fell from his stomach to the ground, it dropped so far. No one met his eyes. Joe flexed and rolled his shoulders like he was the coolest thing to walk the earth.

  Cole made his way over to the skipper, who was telling the first batter to get on deck.

  “What you doing, Skip?”

  “My job. Get back to your lineup, Cole.”

  “You’re starting Joe.”

  He stopped, put a hand on Cole’s shoulder and stared into his eyes. “I’m gonna say this once. Mr. Stacy makes the decisions around here when he wants to. My advice, keep him happy.”

  Cole gripped his fists until his batting glove felt like it might tear in half.

  “And another thing. This might not matter much to you, but we’re docking your pay for not being here. Don’t miss practice. I won’t be sticking up for you much if you can’t be here when I tell you to.”

  Cole nodded. He had a point there.

  But what was Mr. Stacy’s problem? This guy, Joe, had nothing on Cole. Not his stats, not his popularity. Heck, the fans behind him in the outfield were gonna throw fits when they saw Joe back there. Why was the owner messing with him?

  The first half of the inning passed as if they were in a dream. Then he ground his fingers into his palm while Joe ran out onto the field for their inning. A responding disappointed crowd from the area of centerfield was satisfying but didn’t ease the hurt. He could almost imagine their heckling. Grandpa Frank, Cole called him. He didn’t know his real name. That man was gonna start calling out Joe’s failing stats one after another. The little kid, Baseball Whiz, he’d have things to say. Dang, he missed that kid already. What if he liked Joe better?

  Cole shook his head. He’d get in to play. It’s not like Skip would keep him out the whole game.

  But he did.

  And then Harlow wrote about it the next day in the Belltown Paper.

  And the mortification of losing his starting spot, of not playing an entire game stung worse when he thought about his Belltown U fans reading about it.

  And she didn’t mince words either, slamming him for missing practice, speculating about why the coach had lost trust in Cole as a player. “Is he washed up or just in a funk?”

  That last sentence grated more than any other. He whipped out a text to Harlow. Washed up? Really? At twenty six?

  It’s just a story, Cole. I have to tell them.

  That’s arguable.

  Well, what were you doing messing around in Belltown when you had a game the next day? Her angry emojis lined the screen for several rows. I feel like this is my fault.

  Of course it’s not your fault. I showed up without telling you, stayed even though you didn’t want me to, and made plans to see you again.

  She didn’t answer for a while, but the three dots were there, acting like she was thinking long and hard about something. Every time he checked back, the three dots were indicating her response.

  And then at last his phone dinged. Okay.

  Classic. He pocketed his phone. Not sure what to do to solve this problem, he was waiting for a call from his dad when the owner surprised him and called Cole. By video chat.

  “Hello.”

  “Cole, can we have a word?”

  “Sure, yeah.” Cole kept it professional, hiding his emotion. “I’ve been wondering about you today.”

  “I’m sure you have. It’s like I said the other day. You’re on the team for more than one reason. You can play, but other guys can play.”

  Cole gritted his teeth. Could they run as fast as he could? Did they have his super-high catching percentage? Instead of spouting off all the stats in the owner’s direction, he said, “You just looking for a marketing show, is that it? Someone to prance around for the camera?”

  “Well now, it’s more than that. But I’ve noticed a lot of promotion for children’s centers, for your girlfriend.” He cleared his throat. “And I don’t see a l
ot of marketing power channeled in better directions.”

  Cole bit his tongue.

  “And nothing for our team or the league, nothing to put fans in seats.” He eyed him over his glasses. The man worked out, tried to pretend he was a young guy, wore tight T-shirts and everything, but had to wear bi-focals. “I just need to see your loyalty to the club, to the Rays.”

  Everything about this conversation grated, but Cole was a businessman like his Dad. “What do you need from me, specifically?”

  The owner sat back in his chair, and Cole wished he could wipe the satisfaction from his greasy longer-than-necessary, thinning hair.

  “I need to see you at more of the local clubs.”

  Not at all what Cole expected. “Excuse me?”

  “Sure, hang with the ladies. Give the press a reason to talk about you . . . besides your do-gooder charities.”

  Cole shook his head. “You know the charity work is good for the team, right?”

  He waved his hand. “Pshaw.” He said it like they do in the movies and not for the first time, Cole wondered if this guy was for real. “Grandmas like charity. People who spend money like superstars. Gimme a good scandal, or even a relationship. Hollywood is right here. You’re handsome enough. That would be something. Let’s get you on the front pages more often. And, if you’re out late, or need to lie low, or not show up for a game to increase speculation . . .”

  Was he even listening to himself? Cole couldn’t believe the direction of this conversation.

  “Then we have Joe.”

  Suddenly, Cole felt like he was living on a reality TV show. Even one week ago, the idea of clubbing and hanging with the ladies would have seemed like a perk to his job, but now . . . Harlow’s blue eyes, smiling up at him through a curtain of shiny blonde hair reminded just how she would feel if he were to go chasing any ladies. But he nodded his head. “I see what you mean. I’ll do my best.”

  “Excellent. I appreciate your team attitude, Cole. I’m glad we brought you on. You and the Six Pack are the hottest news in the last five years. Let’s capitalize on that some more, shall we?”

  “Understood.” He wanted to end this conversation and figure out what he would really do to keep this guy happy.

  “Excellent. I look forward to seeing your handsome mug all over the internet. I want your name trending.” He ended the call.

  Cole let out a long breath. What happened to just playing ball? He closed his eyes. The worst part about baseball was all the politics, the networking. He just wanted to catch the ball. Hit the ball. Run.

  He thought back to the first time he met his dad. His parents told him he was four at the time. He remembered a big man with nice eyes walked into the center for foster kids where he was playing. The man had a baseball mitt and a ball. Cole’s eyes followed him like he was something special. The new stranger looked around the room until his gaze fell on Cole, and he started to come closer. Cole remembered being nervous, scared to death, that the man wouldn’t like him. Ask him a question he couldn’t answer. Afraid he would turn around and shake his head at the case worker and walk away. Cole swallowed, and made himself look him in the eyes. The man returned his gaze, and then his face broke out into the largest grin Cole had ever seen.

  And Cole’s heart had filled with hope.

  His soon-to-be dad had knelt down in front of his four-year-old self. “Do you want to play some catch?”

  Cole had leaped up. “Yes!”

  The two had been best friends ever since. Hours and hours and hours of throwing and catching and throwing and catching. His dad had taught him how to soften up a mitt, how to choose a good bat. Every time Cole stood at the plate he thought of his dad while he worked on his stance. Touch your heart, grip the bat, wiggle, wiggle, rotate the bat, then wait. Wait. Wait. Then swing! He smiled, thinking about it. Everything he most loved in life was tied to his father and baseball.

  Only since he’d started playing for the majors, since the last year at Belltown when they became big news, did he realize baseball at this level was no longer simply about playing the game.

  He sighed. A couple more years on the Rays, and maybe it would be time to start talking to the Mustangs. If he could just keep Mr. Stacy happy. Then he could sign the deal of a lifetime. But two years doing that man’s bidding, even in his private life, felt like an eternity. And he knew Harlow wouldn’t stick around.

  Lost, sad, uncertain. He picked his phone back up and called Harlow. He surprised himself with his choice. When he’d reached for the phone, he thought for sure he’d be calling his dad.

  Harlow’s voice on her voice mail filled his ear. “Hey Harlow. Just wanted to hear your voice. And now I guess I did, on your recording. But it’d be good to hear you, you know, live.” He said the dumbest things. “So anyway, hello. Bye.” He tapped the button to hang up. Then shook his head. Sometimes he felt so natural around her and sometimes like an awkward fifth grader. Like now, when he was being real.

  But he was drawn to her, like no other woman he’d ever met. And now he’d have to strain their relationship before it even started. He winced thinking about her reaction to any coming press Mr. Stacy was asking for. Women? Dates? Clubs and the Hollywood crowd? What woman would want to be with such a player? Not the keeper kind of woman. And that’s what he wanted from Harlow, he realized just then, a keeper kind of woman.

  Chapter 15

  Harlow was relieved that for once, the Six Pack news didn’t center around Cole. This time Ryker had hit three home runs in a game, and since all the sports pundits were talking about it, Harlow had to talk about it too. She was happy for him. One of the home runs was not an automatic, but he was so dang fast, he beat the ball to the plate. An in-the-park home run just made the story even more amazing.

  Her intercom from her desk phone blared out her boss’ voice. “When are you sending that story about the home runs?”

  “Almost done.” She sighed. She had pitched an idea about a new company coming to the next town that was offering split shifts and work-from-home opportunities for women with small children. But he had been bored before she could take a breath.

  She tried to focus, to get ahead on some of the articles she had to write, but her mind kept drifting to Cole and his response to the reporter. “If a woman says she’s being picked on, I believe her.”

  He had no idea how profound a statement that was, probably no clue that very thing was being debated nationwide surrounding women. And to him it had slipped out so naturally. The other women were swooning as soon as he left. Perhaps she could make it work with him, date him. Maybe he wasn’t like the other guys, maybe he had changed from the player he had always been? She shook her head. Cup pong came to mind and a shirtless Cole dancing on the table. She knew these were the famous last thoughts of every girl right before she let some guy break her heart, but she couldn’t help it. Something was different about Cole, something real, deep, and she couldn’t believe he was not sincere in their quiet moments alone. And suddenly she missed him. And she wanted to see him.

  Before she could change her mind, she tapped his contact on her phone. He picked up right away. “Harlow, babe.”

  She cringed, but knew he meant it in the best way. The man had more terms of endearment for women than the day was long. “Cole.”

  “What’s up?” He seemed a little distracted, but happy, into her maybe.

  “Just wanted to hear your voice.”

  The silence on the other end made her nervous. Then his quiet voice responded. “I need to see you.”

  Her heart thrilled. “Me too. I mean, I need to see you too.”

  “I’ll be there in about five hours.”

  And then he was gone. And she leaned back in her chair and hugged the phone to her chest. He was coming. And as hard as she had tried not to fall for him, she felt herself dip closer and closer. Maybe he was as good as he seemed when they were alone. She could at least try and find out.

  She finished up a few projects at wor
k and then headed home. Anticipation filled her with energy. She jumped in the shower, took extra time on her hair, picked out her favorite outfit, and whipped up some easy pasta just in case they were eating in. Brushed her teeth three times, paced the floor, and jumped when the doorbell rang.

  It almost banged against the wall, she whipped it open so fast. And there he was. Green eyes sparkling back at her, oversized sweatshirt, Nike shoes, jeans. She pulled him inside and melted into his arms.

  He wrapped her up against him and rocked with her. “I needed this.”

  She nodded up against his chest. “I did too. Thanks for coming.”

  Then they moved to the couch. “We can eat in, I made pasta—or go the Glass Onion. Or something.”

  He studied her, his gaze traveling over her face, leaving tingles everywhere he looked. Then he ran a hand down her arm. “I want you all to myself. Pasta and slapjack?”

  “Slapjack? Isn’t that the game where all you have to do—”

  “Is slap the jack? Yes, and I added a few more rules.” His eyes twinkled back at her and her stomach flipped. “Okay, slapjack it is, Big Dawg style.”

  She led him to the kitchen.

  “Mmm. Spaghetti?”

  “Yes, simmered for hours, my mother’s famous recipe.”

  “Really?”

  “No way. Who has time to watch sauce simmer on the stove? Straight from the can.”

  “My favorite.” He reached into the noodles and grabbed a few, dangling them over his mouth. She looked away from his lips devouring dinner.

  She’d made a ton. And just as she suspected, he piled it on. The mountain of food towering over his plate made her laugh.

  As soon as dinner was over, they spread a blanket on the floor, turned on some music and got out the decks of cards she kept in her game drawer.

  “So, you have to play with at least two decks.”

  “That could take all night.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “You complaining?”