“I get that. I do. You know, of everyone here, I’m the one to get that.”
“I know.”
“Get your head out of your ass.” He says it kind but firm, placing his hand on my shoulder. “Coach is already in a shitty mood and you’re supposed to be the one who keeps us all in line. Everyone can have their off nights, but yours are becoming more frequent. I’m the team fuck up, okay? Not you. You’re Big Daddy Bonilla who keeps the hens in line with Old Lady Doug.”
“Fuck off, Kemp.” Doug lobs, sorting sunflower seeds in his hand. He doesn’t look up. “Look, Jamsey, your two errors lead to two unearned runs and we’re down by exactly that many runs.”
“Thanks, Doug.” I grit my teeth and go back to looking through the sea of royal blue.
“Shut up and listen. Last week, Gregerson pulled damn near the same shit when he was on third. This happens. No one likes it, but it happens. Remember that and get your ass back in the game.”
Kemp lets out a low whistle and nods. “I like Doug. That old man knows what he’s talking about.”
I run my hands over my head and down my face, trying to get myself realigned with the game, with the spirit of baseball. It’s been shit ever since the bus, because all I can think about it starting my own family, and now how I probably already have one.
She didn’t look happy to see me. Half my brain tells me I should be pissed at her for never telling me. Cora could be mine. Cora has to be mine. Her mom knew where to find me and she never did. But I can make that up to them now.
All I can think about for the entire ninth inning is the birthday parties I’ve missed, and the Christmases I could have been Santa, and wonder if she’s already started losing teeth. How old are kids when they start losing them? Do I still have a chance to play Tooth Fairy?
Fortunately, it’s a 1-2-3 inning on all counts, riddled with strike-outs and pop flies. Bad for us, terrible, really, because we’d had a nice winning streak going on, but at least I couldn’t rack up another error before the end of the game. Errors are some of the most embarrassing things to happen to a ball player, and I’ve done nothing but rack them up over the last week.
Kemp is right. I’m off my game and I need to get my shit back together. If nothing else, I need to be someone Cora can be proud of. Having a famous daddy doesn’t mean shit when everyone only knows you because of the record number of errors you drop in a game.
“Next time.” Harrison slaps me on the back in the locker room. “It happens, man. Purge the shit in your system and we’ll get ‘em next time.”
“At least Coach doesn’t keep asking to see you in his office.” Kemp rolls his eyes and sprays on deodorant. “I feel like I need a frequent flyer card or some shit for back there.”
“Yeah.” My body stiffens at the mention of it, because he’s not wrong. I have no doubt Halstead is floating around somewhere, waiting for me to surface so he can tear me apart.
I hit the showers to drown in hot water and pretend this game didn’t happen. Days like this, I wish I’d stayed home and taken over the ranch. Things are so much simpler there. Muck the stalls, feed the chickens, mend fences. Errors aren’t the same there that they are here. Here, there are heavy fines and disappointment and crowds booing every time you go up to bat. There’s being benched and having Gregerson (that jerk) take your position.
I don’t think anyone actually like Gregerson, and it’s because he’s eternally waiting in the wings to scoop up someone’s position. Well, he can’t have mine. I’ll figure it out. I always do.
I’ll just come in for extra practice and hit the gym extra hard in the morning. My new goal is to be the kind of guy Cora and her mom want to be around, whatever that takes. I’ll do it. For Cora.
“Yo, Jamesy!” Carlos calls out as I leave the showers in nothing but a towel. Standing in the middle of the room is none other than the beautiful Shelbie Saint, dressed to the nines with a hint of blush around her cheeks.
“I didn’t want to barge in, but I got dragged.” She shrugs her shoulders a little and grins. Octivio very visibly checks her out from behind. Most of the rest of the guys, thankfully, are gone and probably out somewhere, drinking away the loss.
Technically, I owe them drinks. He Who Causeth the Loss Must Buyeth the Booze or some shit that Kemp made up. Based on the faces Carlos and Octivio are making, and the way Shelbie is trying to sneak glances at me without staring, I think I’m going to get off the hook.
She’s never seen me with this little clothing before, and it’s sort of a turn on. It’s like everything becomes background noise when she looks at me. She doesn’t look at me like I’m a failure. Shelbie looks at me like she wants to eat me.
God willing, I want to let her.
“We’re going to go meet the guys.” Carlos backs out of the room, dragging Octivio with him. “We’ll tell everyone you’re a bit, um, busy.”
The door thuds shut behind them, leaving us alone in a very quiet room. And I’m half naked. I do some quick math and realize I could have her under me in less than 10 seconds. Immediately, my cock jumps beneath the towel.
I don’t think she sees, until she blushes a little more and looks away.
I want to remind myself I’m a changed man. I do. I am. But right now, the way she looks, the way she’s looking at me? All I want to do is get lost in her body and forget this day happened. It’s how I used to recover from losses and the urge to do the same comes creeping in.
“I thought you could use some company after tonight.” Shelbie smiles and this time doesn’t drag her eyes away from the lower half of my body. I resist the urge to drop my towel. “I know all the guys are going out, but maybe you want to come over to my place and have a drink?”
There goes my cock again, leading the parade of my libido across the locker room floor. My hands clench my towel, ready to rip it off so she can get on her knees in that tight skirt and low cut shirt and fuck me with her mouth until the day goes fuzzy. Instead, I tighten it and smile. “What about my place? It’s not far from here and I can be ready in five minutes.”
“Text me your address and I’ll meet you there.” She winks and disappears out of the room.
Because I can, I drop my towel and stare at my achingly erect cock, and whisper, “Soon.”
I’ve never gotten dressed faster in my life. The only time I’ve driven faster to my place is when I almost missed practice one day due to a killer hangover caused by Kemp. I’m in damn near peak physical condition and I still have to catch my breath by the time I roll up to my penthouse. She’s waiting for me, still dressed in the tight red skirt, and I want to undress her before we even get inside.
She must feel the same, because her mouth is on mine before I get the door unlocked. We tumble into my living room, kicking off shoes and tugging on shirts. Her hands dig in my hair and mine fumble for her bra strap.
“I’ll make you forget all about the loss tonight,” she whispers in my ear.
Okay, not exactly what I was hoping for, reminding me of my catastrophic failure tonight, but okay. Her bra strap yields and her breasts come tumbling out of the push up bra. They aren’t as perky as they looked wrapped up, and I hate that. Be proud of your body and don’t lie to me.
Still, I remind myself that a pair of tits is a pair of tits and I just need to fuck them and forget everything.
Except something is wrong.
Everything is wrong.
Nothing feels… right. Her lips feel dry and her hands are cold. Even her tits, which are usually blissfully warm on a girl, feel frigid. My dick isn’t getting the memo that a beautiful girl is here to make us forget everything, either.
“Watch my hair,” she hisses for the thirtieth time.
I’m just going about this all wrong, that’s all. She clearly wants me, I want her. I just need to figure out how to crack this weird professional persona she’s got going on. Sex is about getting dirty. Hell, our first time together was in a bathroom, so clearly she knows how.
“I have a charity
event in two weeks, black tie affair, super fancy. Will you be my date?” I have her in my lap and nuzzle on her neck. “It would be an honor to have someone as beautiful as you by my side.”
Jackpot. She lights up like an arcade. “Of course!”
Off goes the shirt. Up goes the skirt. I can smell her sex and my dick finally gets the memo. She just needs a little extra work, I guess. But I can work with that.
Her hands venture down into my pants, but her hands are just as cold as the rest of her. Even all revved up about the charity event, kissing her feels lackluster. Something is wrong here and I can’t figure out what.
When she starts audibly sighing, I make the decision to just cut the cord. “I’m so sorry, Shelbie. That game was really tough. I just… I think I need to be alone for a little while. Figure out where I went wrong.”
Shelbie slowly climbs off my lap and readjusts her hair, nodding. “I once dated a guy from the Braves, and he watched the tapes a million times after a loss. I get it.”
“Yeah. I thought… I’m sorry.”
She blows me a kiss. “Call me later. Even later tonight if you want.” With a wink, she’s gone.
I collapse on the couch. What the fuck is wrong with me? I put on some Dierks Bentley and crack the volume on my sound system up. Fuck the neighbors. Fuck everything. I had a beautiful girl in here and I couldn’t make it work.
I could have had my daughter, my own flesh and blood, in the stands tonight and I fucked it all up.
Shelbie isn’t the one for me. I try harder with her than I have with anyone else and it always feels like plastic. Every girl feels like plastic. No one feels like home. Except.
Except.
I change the song to George Strait’s Carrying Your Love with Me and immediately I’m taken back to Omaha, five years ago. The sun, the heat, the animals, the beer.
The girl.
She was the most beautiful vision in cut-offs and boots, with beautiful blue eyes and a smile that broke my heart. She was my all-American girl. She was the love of my life in that moment. Everything was perfect in the back of my truck: the way we fit, the way her lips felt, her taste.
We made a baby in the back of that old, beat-up truck. We made love for hours, and as a result, we made a beautiful little girl who has my sister’s smile and her mother’s eyes. Our love made a family.
I look down and realize I have my cock in my hand. It’s almost surreal to look at. I should be freaked out at suddenly becoming a father. I should be angry that I never got to be there. I should be terrified that I’m now responsible for a life besides my own.
Instead, I’m more turned on than I was in the locker room, staring at a pair of tits. I close my eyes and see my perfect woman spread eagle before me, and I’m hit with the scent of her sex and the way she tasted. Instead of my hand, my cock remembers how tight and silky she felt riding me, naked, under the big, bright Omaha sky.
I can almost remember the feel of her nipples in my mouth when I come all over my coffee table, jizz flying further than I’ve ever marked it flying before. My hand doesn’t stop, my memories don’t fade, until there is nothing left for my cock to give and it lays in my hand, abused.
I clean myself up, but resolve has set in. I have to find this woman again.
5
“Hey lover boy!” George yells from the dugout. “Check this out!”
Kemp glances over his shoulder. “Is he talking to you or me?”
I shrug and immediately think of Cora’s mom and how a five-year-old memory made me cover my apartment in cum. “Probably you.”
Kemp snorts. “Probably. But I’ve been a good boy.”
“I don’t think Kemper Fife has it in him to be a good boy.” I snort and watch Kemp gingerly stand up. He’s been favoring his right knee and it doesn’t look good. One glare from him shuts up the comment I was going to make about him going to a trainer.
I get it, I do. The disabled list is a terrible place to be. This late in the season, a spot on the DL means missing the postseason, and that is something none of us want to do. But knee injuries are nothing to mess around with, either.
We join the others congregating around George’s copy of the Kansas City Star, and I freeze. Front and center is a picture of me and Cora. I’m hit again by how much she looks like my sister, and it’s just more confirmation to what I already know is true: Cora is my daughter.
Daughter. I have a daughter.
“Looks like you and Shelbie are adorable.” Carlos winks at me. “Using some poor kid as your honeypot, huh?”
“You know how I do.” I take the paper from George and stare at it. I want to frame this, the first photo ever taken of me and my daughter. In the shot, she’s curled up in my lap while I’m reading a book, looking as happy as could be.
“Aw shit.” Everett calls out. “Look at his face! I bet he’s already started naming babies with Shelbie!”
“Bullshit.” Kemp says. “He loves ‘em and leaves ‘em, remember, boys? Our Jamsey doesn’t settle down. He’s a Royal. We sow our seed and move the fuck on.”
He doesn’t sound as convincing as he usually does during this well-worn speech of his, which catches my attention right away. I shoot him a look, but he’s too busy preaching to the other boys to look back at me. Could Kemp have found someone and not told me?
Then again, I have a secret daughter, probably, possibly, definitely, but maybe, and haven’t said a word to him, either. I don’t understand how women can just open their mouths and let their secrets fall out to others. Secrets can be damaging.
I don’t want Cora and her mom to think of me as some jackass playboy Royal who isn’t good enough for them. I want this family more than I want air.
“Can I take this?” I ask. George nods, barely listening as Kemp continues on his rant about free-coming baseball players and how sex greatly improves their game performance.
“Something Jamsey needs to consider!” Kemp yells as I break away from the others to read the article.
I’m only mentioned in passing, but that’s not what I notice. Below the picture of me and Cora, in bold text, is her name. Cora Holt. Just below the photo, set aside in a box, is a quote about the read-to-the-bus program by Cora’s mother.
Megan Holt.
The mother of my child. The angel of my wet dreams. The ruler of my poor, beaten heart.
Her name is Megan.
I pump my fist in the air and let out a small whoop! I can find her. With the internet and a name, anything is possible. Anything. My whole life feels like it’s finally turning in the direction it belongs.
The Rangers don’t even have a chance today. I’m a triple shy of the rotation, a highly sought after series of base hits that gets you a single, double, triple, and home run. They are rare, and I call bullshit on getting out at third, but I only half care. I catch every line drive, throw out a dozen guys at first, and kick general Ranger ass across the field.
They’re a big rival of ours and the crowd eats it up. As we run on the field at the end of the game to celebrate our 6-1 victory, I’m certain Cora and Megan are watching me. And I’m certain they are proud.
“Way to get your mojo back!” Kemp slaps me on the ass. “Proud of you, man!”
“Thanks, bro.” We hug it out and celebrate all the way back to the locker room.
I briefly catch a glimpse of Shelbie chatting it up with Octivio in the dugout as we go. I send him a wink of blessing and haul ass to the showers. I have a girl to find.
“Wanna catch a drink?” Kemp calls over the shower stall. “You owe us for last night, but you also kicked ass today and need to be rewarded.”
“Rain check.” I’m already out of the water, mind spooling. “I’ve got business.”
“Is this about Octivio and Shelbie?” Kemp follows me, still dripping. “Because I know you saw them in the dugout and I know he keeps making comments about her tits, but you know he’s harmless and— “
“Nothing to do with that.” I throw on a s
hirt and wave him off. “I’ll tell you more later, I promise.”
“Don’t be a bitch.” Kemp grins. I notice he winces when he sits. “But also, call me and tell me everything later.”
I Google up Megan’s phone number and address on the way to my car. Thanks to a website Everett pointed me to after we were both catfished by strippers from Portland two years ago, I’m able to find her easy. I plug the address in my GPS and am out of the parking garage before most of the parking lots around Kauffman are empty.
She doesn’t live far and my stomach is in knots. The good kind, though. Soon, so soon, I’m going to be able to talk to Megan again, for the first time in five years. This has to be fate. Kate said Cora’s dad isn’t in the picture. From the sounds of it, there’s no man in the picture. What are the odds that Megan and Cora would be here, and single, in my home?
I could have been traded. I could have never been called up to the majors. Okay, that’s a total lie, I’m an amazing short stop and there’s no way I would have been stuck in Omaha. But anything could have happened. Yet, here we are, in the same city. I read a book to her daughter.
Our daughter. Probably. Definitely. But possibly.
Very, very likely my daughter.
My cheeks hurt from grinning the entire drive. I pull into her driveway without even paying attention to anything around me, just those three little numbers on her house: 403. This is where my Megan lives. This is where my Cora lives.
This is where my family (probably, but definitely, but probably) is.
As soon as I turn off my truck, I freeze.
I have literally no plan. I have nothing to say. I just got in my car and drove over here like an idiot. What if Megan was actually at the game and the car in the driveway isn’t hers? What if she’s at the grocery store? What if the fact that I looked up her address and basically stalked her here totally freaks her out?
In hindsight, I should have called first. I slam my fist into my steering wheel. If I fuck this up because I was over eager….
The curtains in the front window catch my eye and a tiny pair of blue eyes peaks out at me. My heart immediately soars. It’s Cora. She disappears from the window and in her place comes Megan, looking more beautiful than I ever could have hoped to remember.
Long Ball: A Secret Baby Sports Romance Page 5