Perfect Catch

by Sierra Dean

  The rest of the players made their way out to the field, and once everyone was in place and the game was ready to begin, Alice rumbled a gruff, “Play ball.”

  Alex waited until the batter was in position then put down one finger against his inner thigh. Miles shook his head.

  Jesus, kid, questioning me already?

  He held down one finger, then three against the opposite thigh. Miles nodded and pulled back for the pitch. Alex had called for a slider—a curving fastball—but Miles was off in his delivery and the ball didn’t curve as it ought to, instead lining up perfectly for the batter, who smashed it into dead center field.

  One of the new recruit outfielders—a trade from Florida named Anibal—snagged the ball easily and threw it back. One away.

  For the first couple of catches, every time Alex wriggled his way up to a high crouch, he was conscious of the fact he was within touching distance of Alice. Yet she maintained a professional distance the whole time. When she squatted behind him to call the plays, she didn’t crowd him, and whenever she passed him a new ball, there was no attempt made to brush fingers.

  She was cool and aloof, and everything a good umpire should be.

  If she could do her job, he reasoned, so could he.

  By the time the third inning rolled around, he’d all but forgotten she was there. Only her feminine inflection when she said ball or strike stood to remind him there was a woman behind him and not any other ump. He had to admit, though, the enthusiastic way she cried You’re out after the third strike was thrown made her all the more endearing to him.

  In the fourth inning, things got interesting.

  A batter for the Twins, a new, young guy Alex had never played against before, came up for his second at-bat. He swung at the first pitch, an unquestionable strike. The second pitch was a fastball inching over the corner of the plate, Alice called, “Strike.”

  “What the fuck?” the batter grumbled, kicking the dirt next to the plate.

  It wasn’t out of the norm for guys to swear or make a fuss when they didn’t agree, but something about this kid’s tone set the hairs at the back of Alex’s neck on end. There was a venom to it he wasn’t accustomed to hearing.

  Frustration was one thing. Disagreeing with umps was as integral to baseball as peanuts or pine tar, but knowing Alice was the one standing behind him made Alex wonder if there was more to this than just simple annoyance.

  The next pitch was called a ball, but even so the batter muttered, “Come on, come on.” He choked up higher on the bat.

  Alex called for a plain fastball, wanting nothing more than to get this guy out of the batter’s box. He moved himself into position, prepared for the catch, and Miles threw a beautiful, clean fastball across the heart of the plate.

  The batter arched back dramatically, as if the ball had come within inches of hitting him. Alice, nonplussed by the showy gesture, called, “Strike three, you’re out.”

  “That was a fucking ball,” the guy countered, turning around to glare at her. His cheeks were red, either from too much sun or the rush of his anger. For the moment Alex wasn’t sure what to do. It wasn’t his job to be Alice’s knight in shining armor. He’d never stepped in for another ump when someone was bitching and moaning. Why should he treat her any differently?

  Yet the part of him with sisters saw an angry man, and a woman who was the focus of that anger. Decency more than chivalry told him he ought to remain between the two of them.

  “It was a strike,” Alice replied coolly.

  “Are you fucking blind?”

  “You bouncing back like a sideshow act isn’t going to convince me. And you swearing definitely isn’t going to make me change my mind. Sorry. It was a strike, you’re out.”

  Alex admired the way she kept her tone low and didn’t rise to meet the batter’s rage.

  “Fuck you.” The guy threw his bat in the dirt and took a step towards her, finger pointed at her chest.

  Alex was on his feet then, not exactly standing in front of her but hovering nearby should the necessity arise. Somewhere in his haste to stand, he’d shucked off his glove and mask.

  “This is your one warning. Pick up your bat, go back to the dugout and calm down.” Alice hadn’t counter-stepped, still holding her position behind the dish.

  “I’m not going anywhere until you admit you made a bogus fucking call. But what should I expect? Women can’t drive, why the fuck would they be able to call a goddamn ball when they see one?”

  Alice, who until that point had kept her face guard down, raised it up so nothing was obstructing her view of the irate batter. “Not only can I drive, Mr. Donaldson, I can throw you out of this game. How’s that for balls?” And without waiting for his response, she gestured boldly to the exit doors, a visible cue for the crowd and team managers of her decision to evict him from the game.

  “You stupid cunt.”

  The word made her flinch, but only for a moment. “Out.”

  The Twins manager was making his way across the field, clearly hell-bent on diffusing the situation before his man got tossed from the game. But anyone who could see the fuchsia color the batter had turned would know he was in an absolute rage.

  “I won’t listen to you. You’re a fucking hack. Fuck you.”

  The moment the manager—an older guy with a grandfatherly countenance—arrived at the plate, Alex assumed that would be the end of it. Donaldson had to chill out in the face of reason, which would presumably be what the manager would bring to the plate.

  “Teddy, what the hell are you doing, standing out here caterwauling like a madman?”

  “It was a goddamn ball. I want this bitch to admit it was a goddamn ball.”

  “Christ on a cracker, kid, you can’t talk to her like that,” the manager grumbled, going to reach for Donaldson’s arm to lead him off the field. The older man was looking at Alice instead of Teddy, trying to convey apologies through his expression without riling the kid up more than he already was.

  Teddy jerked free, and without meaning to, his elbow shot backwards. Alex didn’t have time to process what was happening before the hard point of Teddy’s elbow collided with Alice’s cheek. Her head snapped back like the scene was moving in slow motion. Alex stepped up to catch her in case she fell back, but in spite of the force of the blow, she remained standing. She was one tough lady.

  It didn’t matter that it was an accident, or his rational brain was telling him no good could come from reacting. Alex’s big-brother, white-knight instincts kicked into high gear.

  He swung without realizing he’d thrown the punch, his fist cracking across Teddy’s cheek.

  Unlike Alice, the batter went down like a sack of potatoes.

  Alex had just knocked the guy out.

  Chapter Seven

  “Hold still.” Alex sat back with an exasperated sigh and put the Ziploc baggie of ice he’d been holding on the bar counter. “If you keep flinching, people are going to think I’m the one who gave you the black eye.”

  “They’ll already think that even if I wasn’t flinching.” She took the ice, which was wrapped in a stained bar towel, and grabbed hold of Alex’s hand. This time he was the one to pull back. “Who’s being a wuss now?”

  Someone had bandaged up the cuts on his knuckles where the skin had split, but a swell of redness across the back of his hand showed where bruises would begin to crop up in the morning. Guilt bubbled up in her chest for the role she’d played in his injury. If his hand hurt too much to catch or bat, his position as the starting catcher could be in jeopardy. She would feel pretty bad if he missed opening day because he’d decked a guy for her.

  He must have sensed her tension because he held his hand still and let her place the ice on it with no further complaints.

  “Do they think you broke anything?” she asked. Alex had been required to have a full checkup after the game, as was typical of any injury. Only this injury was anything but typical.

  “Nah.” He wriggled his fin
gers under the bundle. “I’ll be okay. It just feels tight, that’s all. It’s going to look pretty badass, though.” When Alice didn’t laugh, he added, “I’ve gotten hurt worse by rebounding hits on the plate or flying bats. Trust me, if it was broken, I’d know.”

  She let out a small sigh of relief. Catchers bore the brunt of in-game injuries, so if Alex was confident he would be okay, she’d have to trust his judgment.

  “Why did you do it?”

  “Do what?” He seemed hell-bent on ignoring the question, raising his good hand to the bartender and flashing two fingers. Whatever it was he’d ordered, either he was double fisting, or he was expecting her to join him. She wasn’t sure what she wanted to do.

  Drinking with him seemed awfully close to a date. But she’d agreed to come with him after the game. It had been hard to resist his sweet hangdog look, and he had defended her against that belligerent asshole Teddy Donaldson. Joining him had been the least she could do, but did that extend to drinking with him?

  Alice didn’t make the best decisions when she drank.

  Matt had convinced her he was charming because she’d been drinking when she met him. And while he was still alluring when she was sober, when she was drunk he’d been downright irresistible.

  She already thought Alex was cute and sweet and more than a little dangerous to her defenses. It probably wasn’t the best idea in the world to give him additional ammunition to bring down her walls.

  The bartender set two beers in front of them, then poured two shots of whiskey into lowball glasses and put one in front of Alice and Alex each.

  “Whiskey? Seriously?” Alice asked.

  “What? It’s good for you. Makes bruises heal faster.”

  “You’re so full of shit.”

  Alex picked up the shot and tipped it towards her. “Be that as it may, drink up.”

  “Is that your idea of an argument?”

  He nudged the glass towards her. “Take your medicine.”

  A whole series of arguments scrolled through Alice’s head like the credits of a movie on fast forward. She shouldn’t, should she? But hell, what was one drink? She had taken an elbow to the face only a few hours earlier. Didn’t that give her some freedom to drink a little?

  “Oh, what the hell? Cheers.” She clinked her glass against his and tried to ignore his triumphant smirk. “One drink.”

  Alice could count strikes like nobody’s business, but she was not as gifted in counting shots.

  It didn’t help that the bartender kept taking the empty glasses away. How on earth could she be expected to keep track without having the evidence lined up in front of her?

  She was drunk.

  There was no disputing the evidence. Everything around her had a slightly hazy quality, and she was feeling awesome. It was an interesting side effect, the way drinking chased away the heavy bitterness that followed her day in and day out, and replaced it with a buoyant cheerfulness.

  And flirtatiousness unfortunately.

  She knew she shouldn’t be touching Alex’s arm so often, and deep down she was also aware he wasn’t as funny as her giggles might suggest, but she was helpless to stop herself. Once the drunk-Alice ball got rolling, there was no stopping it.

  She really shouldn’t have taken the first shot.

  But if she was already in full-on boozy mode, she might as well surrender to it. Have a little fun. She was young still, well youngish. But being a single mom tended to get in the way of any kind of social life. Since Kevin had moved in with them, things had gotten easier, but she felt trapped by her life sometimes.

  She must be drunk if she was even willing to think something like that. No matter how true it might be.

  Alice wouldn’t trade Olivia for anything, but she did regret her past decisions. She’d been a stupid teenager who mistook lust for love, and it landed her with an unexpected pregnancy and a no-good baby-daddy who just made her feel bad for getting knocked up.

  Given the chance to do things differently with Matt, she might have chosen another path. What nineteen-year-old wanted a baby? And what twenty-eight-year-old wanted to feel so goddamn awful about being out with a handsome, funny, wealthy baseball star?

  Nursing her beer, she stared at Alex, wondering if there was a way to read a person’s true character simply by looking at them long enough. It was an unfortunate truth that Alice was not the best judge of men. While Alex seemed like a solid enough dude, she had to ask herself how much was posturing and bravado.

  How much of any man was posturing and bravado, though?

  She snorted into her drink.

  “Is there something in my teeth?” He flashed her his pearly whites. “You keep gawking at me like there’s something in my teeth. Or my nose.”

  Seeing him check himself for wayward food, Alice was taken aback by how adorable he managed to be. His eyes had grown heavy lidded from the booze and the warmth inside the bar, but it gave him a seductive bedroom-eye quality, making her think of how he might look at her as they both fell asleep.

  That’s dangerous thinking, missy.

  Her hand rested on his forearm again. The muscles there were taut, like corded wire. If years of batting had done that for his arms, what must years of crouching behind the plate have done for his thighs? Or for his butt?

  Right then, she wanted very badly to find out.

  “I’m not going to have sex with you,” she blurted.

  “Excuse me?” He stopped with his glass halfway to his mouth and eyed her with an expression somewhere between concern and bemusement. “I wasn’t aware I’d made an offer.”

  “An off… What? No, that’s not what I’m… Look, listen.”

  Alex set his drink down and stared at her. Why did he seem so much less drunk than her? That wasn’t fair.

  “I’m look-listening.”

  “No sex.”

  “Are we talking just tonight, or is that a flat no sex? Like, ever?”

  “Ever.” What was she talking about? Why? He was cute. God she was being stupid. “I think?”

  “No. I reject your offer. Try again.”

  Alice was stymied. He couldn’t ignore her insistence, could he? She had been raised to believe if a woman said no sex, that was it, end of story. Yet here was Alex trying to make her…negotiate terms?

  “This isn’t a merger.” Suddenly she wished she had another drink in her hand.

  “I hate to argue, but isn’t that exactly what sex is? A merger?” His grin was contagious, and she found she was smiling back at him in spite of herself.

  “I’m not going to barter with you about this.” She put on her most serious face, but it couldn’t have been too convincing because he laughed at her.

  “Okay. But tell me why. And none of this I don’t date ballplayers nonsense. That’s all smokescreen. Pretend I’m some random dude you happened to meet on the side of the road. What then?”

  “Hypotheticals like this are stupid. You aren’t a random guy. You are a baseball player. And I don’t date ballplayers.”

  “I think your rule is stupid.”

  “Then it’s a good thing it’s not your rule.”

  “But I want you to break your rule.”

  “No.”

  “So give me a good reason why you won’t.”

  “Why do I need a good reason? It’s my rule. I shouldn’t need to explain it to you.” She felt like she was arguing with a kid. When Olivia had been three or four, she’d gone deep into the why phase, and Alex was reminding her how frustrating that had gotten. Especially because she couldn’t tell him her real reasons.

  “Want to know what I think?” he asked.

  “Not particularly.”

  “Too bad.” He picked up his whiskey, downed the shot in one swig and tilted the empty glass towards her. “I think you like me.”

  “I bet you think a lot of people like you,” she countered.

  “A lot of people do like me. I’m a popular guy. But that’s not the point. I think you, Alice Darli
ng, in particular, like me. Like me like me.”

  “I’m sorry, are we in the ninth grade? Did you just say like me like me.”

  “I did.” Totally shameless.

  Who was this guy? They’d barely spoken to each other beyond the awkward dinner at her place, yet he’d punched a guy in the face for her and was now trying to convince her she ought to, what? Sleep with him? Date him?

  Alex Ross was unlike any man she’d ever known, and more than anything, she feared he would turn out to be exactly like every man she’d let her guard down for in the past. History was doomed to repeat itself, wasn’t that how the saying went? Once upon a time she’d trusted a baseball player with her heart, and to say things had gone poorly was the understatement of a lifetime.

  Why did she want so badly to believe Alex might be different?

  Why was she even willing to consider giving him a chance?

  He smiled at her, his boyishly round cheeks blushing red from the alcohol.

  “So what if I do like you?” she said after a lengthy pause.

  “Hear me out.”

  “Fine.” She leaned back in her chair, thinking this ought to be good. Her brain was feeling a bit like a shaken can of pop, all fizz and no real substance. She wasn’t sure she’d be able to tell a compelling argument from a steaming heap of bullshit.

  “You don’t date baseball players.”

  “I know.”

  “So let’s pretend I’m not one.”

  Hadn’t they gone through this already? He must have seen the apprehension on her face because he held up one finger to silence any arguments she might try to make.

  He continued. “I’m Alex Ross. I’m a…carpenter.”

  When he held out his hand, she stared at it blankly, then after some consideration finally accepted the handshake. “Alice Darling.”

  “What do you do, Alice?”

  “I’m a waitress.” That was an easy one. Not even a lie. She still wasn’t sure where he was going with this. Pretending he didn’t play baseball didn’t change anything, did it?