“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said as I reached forward and started the car. “My mother wasn’t in that exact situation, but in one very similar. She never divorced my step-father. She stayed with him until the bitter end. She died from a drug overdose about nine years ago. She did what she had to do to stay alive, and in the end, that’s what killed her. Not my step-father.”
Wrigley shook her head.
“My mother loved baseball,” she said into the silence that’d lapsed between us. “Loved it so much, yet I never really wanted to know anything about it. I regret that now, which is why I went to that first game.”
I found myself grinning despite the shitty topic.
“I’m glad.”
“You’re glad that your ball hit me in the face?” she teased.
I chuckled. “Yeah, I’m glad my ball hit you in the face.”
At that, we both burst out laughing.
***
“So, Diamond, Dodger, and Wrigley. That’s a pretty intense love of baseball to name your kids after three such significant baseball terms. Why Wrigley, though? Did she love that field?”
I found myself solely focused on her, and I couldn’t help but be intrigued by the smile that lit her face.
“My mother said I was conceived at Wrigley Field. She said it was only fitting.” She shuddered. “I’d rather not think about that, though. Then I have to think about my mom having sex, and as far as I am concerned, that never happened. I was immaculately conceived.”
I snorted. “I once walked in on my mother and father doing it on the couch. I walked in with three of my friends, and they all saw, too. It was the single most humiliating thing I’ve ever witnessed.”
Wrigley slapped a hand over her mouth. “That’s awful!”
It was.
“So I think I got you beat in that department at least,” I started, my eyes going back down to her wine glass. “Do you want more, or are you okay?”
We’d had dinner. We’d chatted and gotten to know each other. And now we were sitting in front of her house in my car.
I’d made a pit stop to an all-night grocery store and picked up a bottle of their most expensive wine and a couple of plastic glasses so we could drink it.
Though, we’d never gotten out of the car long enough to use them how I’d intended to use them.
Turns out, Wrigley was in love with my car almost as much as I was in love with it.
“I’m fine.” She shook her head, eyeing the bottle.
I snorted and poured another glass—all the way to the top.
“I swear, I feel like you’re trying to get me drunk,” she joked.
I shrugged. “I may get you drunk, but I’m not going to capitalize on your drunken state if that’s what you’re worried about.”
She licked her lips. “Maybe you should drink more so that you forget that you’re chivalrous.”
I eyed the single glass that I’d been nursing since we started talking in her driveway two hours earlier and smiled. “I’m not much of a drinker, to be honest. And, when I do drink, I usually gravitate toward whiskey. I’m not sure about this wine business yet.”
“Wine business?” she teased.
I shrugged. “You know what I mean.”
And she did. Her smile gave her away moments later, too.
She turned her face away from me and continued to study the car. Something she’d been doing for a while.
“What?”
“I’m just surprised that you have a car like this,” she said. “I always wanted one almost exactly like this. I used to have this tiny little Hot Wheels car that was almost identical to yours. It was painted a silvery blue with sparkles on it, and it had these fat racing tires. I used to take it everywhere with me. It’s just a little surreal to be sitting in a car that is so similar to it. I still have it sitting on the windowsill in my bedroom.”
“I had one, too,” I admitted. “But, I gotta say, I thought girls weren’t supposed to play with boy’s toys.”
She flipped me off, and I started to chuckle.
Holding out my hand, she took it, and then I tugged her closer.
I didn’t pull her all the way into my lap and kiss the daylights out of her like I wanted to, but I did tug her into the curve of my arm and squeezed her in tight.
She felt good up against my body. Right. Like she was meant to be there.
“Did you always want to be a baseball player when you were younger?” she whispered quietly, taking a sip of her wine after she spoke.
I made a disagreeing sound. “No. I wanted to be a basketball player. Baseball was my second sport. The love I had for basketball was unreal. My senior year in high school I was told that I needed to pick one sport and focus on it, because I was equally good at both. When I asked the coach which one he thought I should do, he told me that I needed to make that decision on my own. I went home and asked my mom, and she was the one who helped convince me to play baseball. I made the right choice in the long run, but I still love to play basketball when I have the time.”
“Why would you not choose basketball if you loved it more?” she questioned, looking up at me.
She smelled like the wine she was drinking and a sweet cinnamon flavor that she’d already informed me was her perfume. I wanted to bury my nose in her neck and inhale.
Luckily, I managed to keep that desire under control.
“Basketball is my favorite sport, but in all honesty, I had a better probability of making it in baseball. Not to mention, if I fucked up and had to go to school for an actual job, I wouldn’t have made it. I’m severely dyslexic. You have to be nineteen to get drafted for basketball. Baseball you only have to be graduated from high school and not attending college. If I had to wait, I would’ve had to get a job in the real world. And then probably wouldn’t have even bothered going to the draft at all. Baseball was just the way to go.”
“Hmm,” she hummed. “My sister is dyslexic. I know how you feel, kind of. She struggled to make it through high school. It was letters for her. Now she works in a bank and does awesome, but I swear to God, getting her through freakin’ high school was a lesson in patience.”
“I cheated my way through high school,” I admitted. “It was fuckin’ horrible. I couldn’t do half of the shit I needed to do, and the only way I could keep my grades up to play was to schmooze the teachers and be sneaky. It was a nightmare, and the day I graduated, I’d felt like a two-ton truck had been lifted off of my chest.”
My eyes had closed, so the feel of her hand on my thigh caused me to jolt.
She brought her cup back to her mouth and took another healthy sip, but didn’t remove her hand.
“George?”
I lifted my hand and let my fingers trail through her hair. “Yeah?”
“Do you know the Muffin Man?”
I found myself grinning. “The Muffin Man?”
“The one on Dreary Lane.”
I burst out laughing.
“I kinda like you,” I wheezed.
She turned her face into my chest. “I kinda like you, too.”
Chapter 4
Quit Your Pitchin’. The game’s on.
-Things Wrigley never thought she’d say
Wrigley
Lumberjacks v. Vikings
Blame it on Las Vegas for me doing what I did.
I shouldn’t have gone. I really shouldn’t have.
But, like the imbecile that I was, I had. I’d gone to Vegas because George had asked me to.
And, like the loser that I was, I’d jumped on it.
We hadn’t spent a whole lot of time together. He was always busy, and so was I.
But, the time we did spend together was awesome.
I was slowly falling in love with the man, and we hadn’t even really gone on very many dates.
Four.
Four dates that lasted for about two hours a piece.
However, it wasn’t the dates that had c
aused me to fall for him.
It was the hours and hours of time that we spent in his car talking about anything and everything.
His job. My job. My sister, his brother. My brother, his dislike for my brother.
And yes, George didn’t lie to me.
He didn’t like my brother, and I respected that. I liked that he didn’t beat around the bush, and I liked that he didn’t try to act like he did when he didn’t.
Dodger was Dodger.
He was either loved or hated.
There was no in between.
And apparently, my new friend George was on the hater’s side.
See, Dodger was a dick.
He always had been, and always would be.
Why was Dodger a dick? Because he could be.
There was no rhyme or reason to his madness. None.
My brother had always been, and always would be, my least favorite person.
But, he was family so I couldn’t kick him out.
Family stuck together, no matter what.
“George Hoffman, number seven!”
My belly started to flutter when George made his way onto the field, turning and waving at all his adoring fans.
And he really did have adoring fans. Everyone thought he was the best thing ever, and it really made me wonder whether I was good enough for him.
He was beautiful, kind, thoughtful, and overall a really great guy.
Plus, he had a beard.
A red, beautiful beard that I practically ached to rub my face against.
I was sitting in a seat that was almost identical to my seats that I’d been sitting in at home, and there was an older lady sitting at my side, surreptitiously staring at me each time I looked away.
“Can I help you?” I asked, smiling.
“You’re his girl, aren’t you?”
I blinked. “Uhhh?”
“Furious George,” she said accusingly like I was intentionally playing dumb.
I blinked. “Am I his what?”
“His girl.”
I shook my head, then licked my lips. “No, I don’t think I am…but I want to be.”
The old lady’s lips tipped up.
“I’m his grandmother.”
My mouth fell open.
“You’re his grandmother.”
She nodded.
My eyes widened, and then I started to hyperventilate.
“He didn’t tell you?”
I shook my head.
“That’s probably because I didn’t tell him I was coming. I have season tickets here because I love Vegas so much. I was actually supposed to be in Michigan today to meet with George’s sister, who’s getting married.”
I blinked. “George’s sister is getting married?”
And George wasn’t at the wedding?
Then again, his sister had to know that George had a game. It wasn’t like that shit wasn’t made up at the beginning of the season.
Unless she’d scheduled it last year…
“George and his sister don’t get along,” the grandmother explained. “Diandra purposely scheduled the wedding on a day that George wouldn’t be able to come. So I decided that since she didn’t want George there, that she couldn’t wear my wedding dress. My wedding dress that she wanted to cut to pieces and sew into one of those tiny little mini-dress numbers. I told her if she was going to do that, then she might as well just go buy a mini-dress number. Which pissed her off, and she told me that she didn’t want me at her wedding either. So…here I am. Wedding dress and all.”
I looked down at the garment bag that was resting on the seat beside her, and my brows rose.
“You have your wedding dress in there?”
She nodded.
“Can I see it?”
Call me silly, but I loved wedding dresses. Like, I had a serious love affair with Wedding magazine. I subscribed to the damn thing only because I liked looking at the dresses.
The bigger the dress, the better, in my opinion.
George’s grandmother shrugged, then leaned forward and reached for the garment bag.
“George told me he had a new friend that was coming to his games,” his grandmother chattered. “But he didn’t tell me you would be coming to the away games, too.”
I found myself smiling. “Actually, we both happened to be coming here the same weekend. Mine was for a conference for my foundation that my mother co-founded with my grandmother. He found out and invited me to the game. It wasn’t intentional on either one of our parts, but here I am. I’ve found that the more I watch him play, the more I like the game.”
“That’s the baseball butts, honey,” she chuckled. “Hold this up and I’ll show you.”
I stood up and held onto the hanger while she gently pulled the zipper down, exposing the most exquisite dress that I’d ever seen.
It was beautiful.
Made of lace upon lace, and some of the most beautiful stitching and beadwork I’d ever seen, I wasn’t sure why anybody in their right frame of mind would ever want to chop that particular work of art into pieces.
“It’s sacrilege that she wanted to cut this up at all,” I murmured, running one finger down the length of the bodice. “I love it. I actually wanted to wear something similar to this at my own wedding.”
“You’ve gotten that far with a man?” she pushed. “Then why are you here watching my boy?”
I wasn’t sure what to make of this woman.
I chuckled. “Actually, I haven’t gotten that far with a man. I just love wedding dresses. I watch every single wedding show I can. My favorite things to watch are The Wedding Story reruns that used to run on that old TLC network.”
“Ahh.” She dipped her head, then picked it back up. “I see.”
I felt a nudge against my back, causing me to gasp in surprise.
I turned and looked over my shoulder at the culprit. A large man who was twice my size and slouching so far in his seat that there was no wonder he was bumping me.
“Sorry,” he apologized.
He didn’t look sorry.
Fucker.
“It’s okay,” I lied, twisting around and gesturing at the seat between her and me. “Do you mind if I take this chair?”
George’s grandmother winked. “Not at all.”
So I did, and that was how I spent George’s game in Vegas, talking to his grandmother, Beverly.
Beverly was everything that I’d ever wanted in a grandmother, and she was nothing like my own.
She was sweet, caring, loving, and kick ass.
I wanted to be her when I got to her age.
George looked over at me almost immediately, and upon seeing me sitting in the seat next to his grandmother, he’d grinned so broadly that my chest had started to ache.
His eyes had gone curiously to my chair where the dress now lay, but other than that, he’d looked a hundred percent happy to see both of us seemingly getting along so great.
“Do you want to go out to dinner with us?”
Beverly looked over at me with an incredulous look in her eye.
“By the time this game is over, it’ll be well past eleven o’clock. I have to get up tomorrow for work.” She snorted. “No, thank you.”
“You work?” I responded curiously.
She didn’t look old, per se, but she definitely looked old enough that she shouldn’t be working any longer.
“I do,” she confirmed. “With my husband.”
“George’s grandfather?” I wondered.
The woman got a wistful look in her eye that made me wonder if it was happiness that he was dead or happiness due to the things she was remembering. At this point in time, I really couldn’t tell.
Beverly shook her head. “No. I remarried about eight years ago to my new husband, Beau. Beau owns his own strip club on the Vegas Strip.”
My mouth fell open in shock. “You work with your husband at a strip club?�
�
I couldn’t keep the smile off my face.
“Yep,” she snickered. “We met at his strip club, too. Now I run his books and make sure that the place is stocked for when he opens at night. Take in shipments. Sign for shit like mail and packages. It helps me pass the days.”
That sounded kind of awesome.
“Well, then maybe we can go out tomorrow afternoon?” I suggested.
Beverly shrugged. “Maybe. It depends on how hot it is. If it gets over one hundred ten degrees, I don’t leave my house.”
That I didn’t see one single problem with.
I lived in Texas where it got hot but in Vegas? It got about twelve to fifteen degrees hotter.
I couldn’t see any fault with staying inside, that was for sure.
In fact, right that very moment I was so damn hot that I would’ve killed for a fucking cold glass of wine.
“Do they sell wine at baseball games?” I turned suddenly, looking at Beverly.
Beverly shook her head. “No, but they sell beer. Beer’s really cold, too. Some of the best beer you’ll ever have.”
I believed her. “I guess I’ll have a beer then.”
Beverly patted my hand. “You do that.”
Then she turned her eyes toward my man—and her grandson—who was up to bat again.
I turned my head away from Grandma Beverly and the man in the tight ass pants that I wanted to peel off of him—slowly—and looked around for one of the beer guys.
I spotted one a few rows away and called out to him.
He turned and started down the steps toward me, and was just half a row away, right above me, just as I heard a tink.
I turned just in time to see a ball sail over the goddamn netting—a-fucking-gain—and sail over my head straight toward the guy holding the beers.
It hit the man’s hand, and the beer went flying.
All. Over. Me.
And I found out Grandma Beverly was right.
The beer was goddamn cold.
I slowly turned to pin the man responsible with the most narrow-eyed glare that I could muster.
George was goddamn snickering.
Like a six-year-old girl.
I pointed my finger at him accusingly. “You’re going to die.”
His snickers turned into guffaws.
“Well,” Beverly observed. “You have two options. You can wear your cold beer covered clothes, or you can change into my wedding dress. Which one is it going to be?”
Quit Your Pitchin' Page 3