Love's Learning Curve

by Felicia Lynn

HA. She knows we won. Was she following the game? Wait … was she there?

  Me: Did you watch the game?

  Wait. Wait. Wait. Please don’t tell me I sat there all night wondering where she was, and she was there. I could have touched her.

  Buttercup: No, you weren’t pitching. Surprisingly, baseball is of little interest to me when a certain hotshot isn’t on the field. Hope you had a good night.

  HELL YES! And my night just got better.

  Me: I’m sure that certain hotshot is pleased with your loyalty and support. Sleep well, beautiful.

  God. I want to go to her. Why did I wait so long?

  Buttercup: He has more than enough loyal admirers not to concern himself with my support. LOL, I’m sure it wouldn’t make a difference if I were oblivious to his talents or his biggest fan. There are thousands just like me. You sleep well, too. *Night* <3

  But that fool only wants YOU! Believe me, if I could keep myself away from her, I would. I can’t, and I give up trying. Tomorrow, it’s on.

  Me: You bet your sweet ass he’d notice. Thousands of wrong ones can’t hold a candle to the right one. See you soon.

  My run this morning did nothing to expel the anxiety of his last text. See you soon. What does that mean? When will I see him? Not that I don’t want to see him because I do. I think. No, I completely do. I just want to know when. I feel like I need to prepare.

  I skip the cooldown portion of my run and stretching and run into the house. I barge into my room, not the least bit concerned about waking Morgan. I want her to wake up. I need her help, so I don’t bother to tiptoe around.

  I wanted to talk to her last night, but she was out for the evening doing what she does, and I failed at my attempt to stay up and wait. I’m dying to tell her about the text exchange, and I know if I wait for her to wake on her own, I could be waiting all day. That’s just not happening. The stack of beefy books sitting on my desk that accidentally tumbles to the ground creates a much larger rumble than I expected, but it works perfectly.

  “Oops … sorry,” I whisper when her eyes pop open, glaring in the direction of my desk where I’m standing. I attempt a sly smile. She groans as she stretches her arms over her head and grumpily sits up. She’s probably going to be in a terrible mood, but she’s awake. I know she won’t be able to go back to sleep once she’s woken, so I win.

  I plop down onto my bed across from hers after tossing my running shoes in the closet. I sit with my legs crossed, facing her not caring that I’m sweaty on my bed. I’ll wash my sheets later. There are more important things happening.

  “So did you have a good night?” I ask. Hoping anything she tells me will be quick, and we can move on to what I need to get off my chest.

  “Ugh … Charlotte … what the hell? Explain your huge stupid happy face. No one should be this happy in the morning,” she grumbles, as she removes her hair ties and wraps her locks into a messy bun on top of her head.

  I can’t even contain the squeals that come out of my mouth as I open the texts on the phone and toss it onto her blanket-covered lap. She picks it up with a huff and reads. Her expression changes rapidly. She looks up at me. “Char, oh my God. I thought you were done with him? When did all this go down?” She looks back at the text clearly rereading it.

  “Last night. It was out of the blue. What do I do now?” I ask, but it comes out more like a plea. Unfortunately, she looks as confused as I am.

  I grab the half-full bottle of water off my nightstand to drink while I wait for her to assess the situation fully. “Wow. I really don’t know. This is unexpected for him. Like seriously odd and out of character. Was he drunk?” I choke on the water and look up at her with a glacial stare. It’s hard not to take that question as an insult.

  I jump off the bed and snatch my phone out of her hands. “Nice, Morgan. Thanks a lot. Does every guy need to be drunk to show me a little attention or just him? I assure you he wasn’t even a little drunk any of the other times I’ve been around him, and he definitely didn’t need alcohol to get him through our date.” I don’t even give her a second to respond before I walk over to the closet and take out the clothes that I want to wear today. I head to the shower while she sits in stunned silence. I’m not sure which part has stunned her more, Ty’s text or the fact that I essentially just chewed her out. I reach for the bedroom door turning the knob and start walking out when she finally says something.

  “Char, I’m sorry. That came out wrong. That’s not what I meant. Please … come back. Let’s talk.” She frowns while holding her hands tightly in her lap. Her head tilts to the side as I stop mid-step. She looks sorry, and I immediately falter in my attempts to be mad at her. I step back into the room with my things still in my hands.

  “I just wanted your advice, Morgan. I waited up forever. I wanted you to help me decide what to do, even though I spent the entire night and morning thinking about it.” I shake my head slowly. Maybe asking her was a terrible idea as I’m suddenly frustrated that I went through the effort to wake her up hoping she’d be as excited as I am. Looking back, I should have known that she wouldn’t be because she still thinks he’s a playboy womanizer. She’d never approve, but she’s not seen him the way I have.

  “Okay. Talk to me. I want to help. Tell me what you’re thinking. I really am sorry, Char,” she pleads, looking actually very conflicted.

  “I want to go to his game tonight. Even if he doesn’t see me or even know I’m there, I want to see it. I was hoping you’d go with me,” I tell her, trying to remove the resentment from my voice. I don’t want to fight with her. I just want her to accept the situation for what it is and allow me to handle the risks. I don’t need her to rehash all the reasons he isn’t the right guy. I don’t even care. I want to do this on my own terms. I’ve had enough of following everyone else’s marching orders, including hers.

  I see the signs of her contemplation. She’s watching my face searching for evidence of my mood, and I’m sure she’s about to launch into another talk when she surprises me. “Okay. I’ll make some calls and get us good seats. Go shower. It’s an afternoon game.” My excitement at her acceptance comes out in a burst, bouncing as I screech and run off toward the bathroom.

  Morgan is amazing. The seats are perfect. We are in the second row behind the home team dugout, and I haven’t been able to take my eyes off a certain blond-haired hotshot every time he’s out on the field. My heart races like crazy when he walks back to the dugout hoping this might be the time he sees me, but he stays focused. His eyes remain trained on the ground each time.

  It’s the top of the last inning, and we’re leading for the win if he can hold them. I know nothing about baseball. Thankfully, the friends Morgan called for tickets, Jeff and Mike, had two extras, and they were happy to have us tag along. They’re sitting on the other side of Morgan while I sit in the last seat of the row. They seem nice, and Jeff is very interested in Morgan. I’m pretty sure she’s not offended by it. He’s handsome.

  The guys have been nice enough to explain what’s happening throughout the game. Morgan is pretending she cares just because she likes the attention. I, on the other hand, actually do care, so I’m asking questions, fully committed to learning the rules. I don’t want to sound like an idiot if I ever have the chance to see him again and baseball comes up in conversation.

  There’s one out. Ty’s concentration is ‘on spot’ the guys have said. Ty is apparently much more of a hotshot than I realized when I teased him with his new title. He’s considered a hot recruit for the MLB and is expected to go to a team in the first few rounds of the draft. I don’t really know what that means exactly, but it’s a really good thing and a big deal apparently. He’s one of the most popular and watched college players.

  And I really like him and hope the feeling is mutual.

  My heart races as I watch him. His movements are so precise. I’m lost completely with the hand signals and nods. The fluidity of his movements in his windup captivates my attention. His a
rms are powerful doing this, but I haven’t forgotten the feeling of them wrapped around me. They’re incredibly comforting as well.

  He throws the pitch, and the batter hits a pop-up ball to left field. It’s caught. Two outs. The stadium cheers, and he doesn’t even respond. It’s as if he can’t even hear it. The next batter steps up eyeing Ty and looking a little aggressive, but he doesn’t seem affected by it.

  Two strikes and one ball later, the chatter in the stadium is loud. The excitement is overwhelming, and after every pitch, you can’t miss the calls of his name. I even heard a crazy girl scream at the top of her lungs professing her love and proposing. There’s no way he didn’t hear her, but he didn’t even blink in her direction. She shut up after the fans in the stands chastised her, but I’m sure the lack of response from her love interest was plenty enough of a slap in the face.

  He winds up again, and I can barely follow the ball into the glove of the catcher. The umpire calls a strike, and the stadium explodes. He drops his head and walks off the mound in the direction of the dugout as his teammates run up beside him patting his back and obviously giving accolades. He’s smiling, but it’s not the smile I know.

  Fans around us yell out their ‘congrats’ and ‘good jobs’ to the guys before they step down into the dugout one by one. Most the players wave and acknowledge the praises, but the hotshot my eye is trained on doesn’t look up from his path as he walks.

  I shock myself when I call out to him, knowing he’ll probably not acknowledge it, but I can’t really help it. The desire to praise him is overpowering. “Great job, Ty!” I call out, but with everyone around me yelling, my congrats are drowned in the sea of noise. His step falters, and he stops. He looks up into the crowd searching for something and not following his teammates into the dugout. His eyes are roaming through the crowd. I look around too trying to figure out what he’s looking for.

  When I look back to see if I can follow the trail of his eye, I realize he’s found it. He’s looking at me, and he’s smiling the trademark worthy side-smile. He points at me, brings the palm of his hand to his lips, and kisses it before blowing it at me. His eyes never lose contact, and right there, in the second row of the baseball stadium, I melt. I have no words, but that’s okay. He got the message when I caught his little kiss and brought it to my heart by placing both hands on my chest.

  He shakes his head and jogs to the dugout to catch up with his teammates, and I don’t stop following him with my eyes. Just before her ducks in, he winks at me giving me one more extra-special moment. My God.

  I don’t even realize how many people are watching the interaction until after the players are all off the field. I look around, immediately feeling a loss at not being able to see him, but the smile on my face is permanent.

  Morgan clears her throat gaining my attention, and when I look at her the shock on her face is unmistakable, but what really gets my attention are the other glares shooting my way. The number of females around me who are staring daggers in my direction is slightly scary. I’ve apparently just made some enemies, but I don’t care.

  “Let’s go,” I tell Morgan, as she looks around seeing what I see and quickly agrees. I grab Morgan’s hand and start leading the way out as Jeff and Mike follow closely behind us attempting casual conversation.

  When we’re up in the concession area, Morgan runs into the ladies’ room, and I stand to wait for her just outside with the guys. My phone vibrates in my back pocket. I pull it out unlocking the phone and see the notification and the butterflies go crazy.

  Hotshot Baseball Boy: Don’t leave. Wait a few minutes. I’ll meet you at Gate C. Stay inside the stadium, please.

  Oh … wait for him? He wants to see me? Wait … I need to tell Morgan I’m staying. I don’t think it’s an issue since we rode here in Jeff’s car. I tell the guys I’ll be right back and walk into the ladies’ room past the line telling those in line I’m just washing my hands. I find Morgan at the sink and step in next to her. Our eyes meet in the mirror, but I don’t bother a coded conversation with eye gestures. There’s no time.

  “So I’m going to stay here. I’ll meet you back at home later.” My smile tells the rest of the story, and her only response is to mouth non-verbally ‘Oh, my God.’ She seems excited for me even though she’s surprised. I’m glad she finally got to see the side of Ty that I see. I dry my hands and walk out anxious to respond to his text.

  Me: On my way to Gate C. Wow … that was an impressive game. You really are a hotshot. I’ve seen it for myself! Can’t wait to hug you. <3

  They leave me inside the stadium at Gate C to wait, and I stand to the side watching the people exit around me for several minutes. The crowd dwindles rather quickly. I keep my phone glued to my hand wanting to make sure I don’t miss any messages. I’m not sure how long I’m going to be waiting, but I have no issues waiting for hours if that’s what it takes. I’ll just get comfy. I lean my shoulder against a wall and play with a strand of hair that’s escaped my bun thinking about his blown kisses and winks while I watch everyone exit. More importantly, I wait for him to come in and find me. My face flushes. Could he be more perfect?

  I feel a hand at the base of my spine from the opposite direction I’ve been watching, but instead of alarm, I feel a spark shoot up my back and I know it’s him. I look over my shoulder and meet his eyes as the fire from his touch continues to dance across my nerves.

  It makes my body sing. He turns us around placing his hand on the small of my back again and looks down at me with the smile that I know. He’s changed out of his uniform and is wearing loose fitting jeans and a tee shirt. Looking no less hot in this than he did in baseball pants.

  “Hi. You came to the game.” It’s a statement, but I heard the question in it. He places his lips on my forehead while I answer, and it takes effort to concentrate on my words and not the amazingness of how his affection makes me feel.

  “Well … my favorite player was pitching tonight. I couldn’t miss it. You should have seen it.” I beam up at him when he releases his lips from my head and laughs.

  He turns around placing his hand on the small of my back. “Come on, buttercup. I can’t wait to hear more about your favorite player.” And he leads me back into the stadium and through a door with long halls behind the stadium.

  I’ve never wanted to get out of the stadium as quickly as I do right now. I run to my locker not caring that Bobby is mocking me by blowing kisses. I don’t know where that came from, but I’ll take his playful taunting in stride. She came to see me, so I feel like the winner in this. And right now, I don’t have time to deal with him. I have to text Charlie before she leaves. Yanking my phone from the locker, I type out the message and press send as quickly as my fingers will move, hoping she gets it before it’s too late.

  I don’t stand around waiting for the reply, making good use of my time instead by changing quickly. I can’t be bothered to shower right now as I normally would. As soon as the coaches come in here and say what they need to say to release us, I’m out the door. Even if she’s left, I’ll find her. I have to see her.

  It’s going to take a shit ton more than teammates riling me up to kick this grin off my face. We won, and she was here to watch it. I had no idea she was coming to the game. She could have mentioned that last night, but I’m kinda glad she didn’t. That was a damn perfect surprise to end with.

  I look up at the guys laughing at Bobby’s antics and catch the eye of our catcher, Jackson, just as he blows a kiss at me. I dodge that shit like a bullet just as I hear the text alert on my phone. Jumping for the device holding the answers of my fate, I wonder how I’ll spend the next hour. Either I’ll be on a mission to find the girl, or she’ll be right outside these walls waiting for me.

  I must look like a tool when my fist pumps at her reply. She got it in time, and she’s fucking waiting for ME. I’m not even sure why I’m so excited. I have no plans and no idea what to even do to entertain her, but I’ll figure it out on the fly. T
he fact remains that I AM spending time with her; the details aren’t important.

  The coaches come in, identify some of the pivotal plays, and thankfully, talk business quickly before releasing us. I’m out the door before they can even finish the sentence and rushing through the back halls to the gates.

  The park is empty with the exception of a few lingering workers and fans, but I see her immediately. She’s wearing cute fitted jean shorts that end just above mid-thigh with a couple of well-placed holes. She has gorgeous legs. Her tank top is baggy in the school colors, and I’ve never been prouder. The only thing better would be to get her in a shirt with my name on it. Hmmm … goals.

  When I finally have her in my arms, I kick myself for waiting a week to make it happen. It’s all on me. I could have found time during the week. I chose to avoid this, but I realize my loss immediately. The kiss to her forehead is instinctual. I need the feeling. I crave the live wire shock of energy that rushes between us. She feels it too; her breath catches, and I just hold on enjoying the moment.

  Her tipped lips make her eyes sparkle, and that little gift is enough to soothe the loss of my lips on her. I can’t wait to get my lips back on hers. Talk about magic. That’s as good as it gets for me so far.

  I lead her through the back halls and out to the team parking lot, avoiding the locker room and any possible ridicule from the guys. I’m thrilled when I don’t run into anyone as we walk to my truck.

  I don’t know what she wants to do tonight. She may have plans; even though I can’t imagine it’s anything I’d want to do, if it means being with her, I’ll invite myself to tag along. I need to make up for a week’s time. “What’s your plan tonight, babe?” I ask hopeful that she doesn’t have anything planned, and I don’t have to share her attention.