Keeping Score

by Alyssa Kale

  Braxton, the subject of today’s photo shoot, is the only one on the field. I watch as he paces back and forth, shouting into his phone. There’s no doubt he’s pissed. Corey pauses and turns to look at me over his shoulder, a look of sympathy—or maybe it’s pity—on his face.

  I return the look with a small smile and take a step toward the angry—and really good-looking—subject.

  With a clenched jaw, Braxton lifts his hand to run his fingers through his hair but stops before he can do any damage to what has obviously been styled. I take a moment to appreciate his profile. Chiseled jaw with just enough scruff that it makes women everywhere want to cup his cheek. His broad shoulders stretch the jersey to its limits. Flicking my gaze to his waist, I suck in a deep breath when he turns his back to us.

  God, that butt. Thank you to whoever designed baseball pants. They really do make everything better.

  For a brief moment, I forget about my sad love life. About my cheating boyfriend and homewrecking intern. I allow myself a moment to appreciate where I’m at.

  Stopping a polite distance from where he stands, I wait for Braxton to finish his phone call. I don’t want to rush him now that I’ve left him waiting roughly an hour. Unfortunately for both of us, we missed the morning sun and it’s now right on top of us. When shooting outdoors, location of the sun is crucial. As it stands, I’ll be fighting shadows. It isn’t anything I haven’t dealt with before, but it does mean we don’t have minutes to spare.

  “This is such a waste of my day, Karen. No, she isn’t here. That’s why I’m calling. I’m having to miss batting practice today because of this. No, I will not reschedule...”

  I clear my throat to get his attention. He turns to face me, a menacing scowl on his beautiful face. He really is handsome.

  I start my apology, “Mr. Lee…”

  Tapping his screen, he seems to disconnect the call without another word to the person on the line. “Save the excuses,” Braxton growls as he lifts his hand up in my face to stop me from talking. “Let’s get this over with so I can move on with my day.”

  While he has a right to be angry, I am also a person and don’t deserve to be spoken to like that. Karen didn’t deserve the way he yelled at her on the phone either. Instead of speaking, I nod and place my bag on the grass. While I riffle through my bag, I hear him hissing out responses to Corey. The men talk just a few feet away from me, but their voices are quiet, not allowing me an opportunity to hear what they’re saying.

  As I set up the tripod, I do my best to hide my nervousness, but I’m not sure of my success. I look over at the men and see Braxton tapping his foot impatiently. It makes me even more nervous, and I drop my reflector when it pops open. Since the stadium is slightly open to air, it picks up the lightweight reflector and lands right at Braxton’s tapping feet.

  “I’m so sorry,” I stammer.

  Before I can grab it, he bends over and picks it up. “Are you ready yet?” His bark feels like a bite, and I recoil slightly. He must notice my response, but it does nothing to lighten his stance.

  I nod and straighten my back, feigning confidence, and clear my throat to give him directions. “Yes, we’re doing a feature piece about your first year on the Clarence Aces.”

  “I know that,” he snarls. “Cora and Karen set all of that up. Just tell me how you want me.”

  “Oh… yes… um,” I stammer. “Of course.” Clearing my throat again and shifting my feet nervously, I begin. “Cora wants some action and still shots of you. I assume you have a bat and a ball we can use?”

  He nods then lifts his hand up out of his folded arms in a just continue gesture.

  “Okay then…” I trail off, clicking my tongue, looking around at the bright green grass and orange color of the infield, trying to figure out where I want him. “Let’s start over at home plate and get shots of you swinging the bat.”

  I take a few test shots to get my settings right in my camera as he grabs the bat out of the dugout. There’s going to be some major shadows if I don’t figure out how to hold the reflector and take pictures at the same time.

  This is what I needed Maddie for. The fucking whore.

  When Braxton returns to home plate, he sees I’m trying to position the reflector and take pictures at the same time, and yells, “Corey, can you come help us real fast?”

  Corey jogs over, a kind smile on his face. The change in Braxton’s demeanor now that he’s positioned at the plate doesn’t go unnoticed. He looks strong and confident. The slight smile on his face shows just a trace of cockiness. I suppose, with his stats, he has a right to be.

  “Where do you want me?” Corey asks.

  “Over here.” Moving to the spot I need the reflectors, I adjust them to accentuate the lights and shadows perfectly.

  Having Corey out here seems to have alleviated some of Braxton’s attitude, and we’re able to continue the shoot with just a little bit of small talk and me directing them both. Now that Braxton has donned his baseball cap, he looks even more the role of superstar athlete.

  “Are we done here?” he huffs.

  “Just a few more minutes, and then you can go about your day.”

  “Thank God.”

  I turn around and roll my eyes where he can’t see me. I get the last of the shots before announcing it’s a wrap.

  “Cora will be in contact with Karen if there is anything else.” My professional grin is firmly in place but falls quickly when I hear him mumble something that sounds like “Thank fucking Christ” as he walks off the field. I want so badly to yell something smartassy at him, but I refrain and maintain my professionalism—barely.

  Once he leaves, I put away my equipment and feel the adrenaline of the shoot slowly evaporating. I do my best not to fall apart in the middle of the field; Corey would absolutely think I’ve lost my mind. In the two hours I’ve been here, thoughts of Maddie and Jared only crossed my mind once. Of course, now that I’m thinking of them again, I have a fervent desire to curl up in my bed and cry.

  My bed. And that’s when I realize—I have no home. I’ve lived with Jared for over a year now. He owns the condo. “Fucking great,” I murmur to myself. There’s only one place for me to go.

  “Are you okay?” Corey asks, pulling me out of my thoughts.

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” I reply, still barely holding it together.

  “Here, let me help you.” Corey offers to carry the tripod and reflectors while I carry the camera bag as he guides me out of the stadium and to the parking lot where my car is.

  “Thank you for the help today.”

  “No problem.” He begins to turn around but hesitates. “Braxton isn’t usually that much of a jerk. He’s just had a rough few months. I’m sorry he treated you that way today.”

  “It’s okay.” Not really. “I was late, and he had every right to be aggravated.”

  Corey shifts on his feet. “For what it’s worth, you’re an excellent photographer.”

  “Thank you.” I return his kind smile. “I’d best be going.” I really need this small talk to be over with.

  “Okay, you have a good rest of your day.”

  “You too,” I reply as he turns around and walks back into the stadium.

  Once I’m seated in my car, I call my best friend, Kendall. She picks up on the first ring. “Hey, bitch, how’d the shoot go?”

  I’m crying before I can even answer her.

  “Sophie? What’s wrong?”

  “I walked in on Jared screwing my intern,” I choke out.

  There’s silence on the other end of the line for a hot second before Kendall reacts. “What. The. Fuck.”

  I take a deep breath before replying, “Yeah.”

  One word that says it all.

  “Dammit, I always knew that asshole was going to fucking hurt you.”

  “What?” This is news to me. Sniffling, I start the car and rest my head back on the seat as I wait for the Bluetooth to connect.

  “Jared,” she states. “
I always knew he’d hurt you in some way. Such a fucking douche nozzle.”

  “Why didn’t you say anything?” That little tidbit of knowledge could have saved me from this feeling. This feeling of—God, I don’t even know what I’m feeling.

  “And would you have listened if I tried.” It’s not a question. She’s right; I wouldn’t have listened. I’m stubborn and need to make my own mistakes. This one just freaking sucks.

  I shake my head before I realize she can’t see me. “No, I probably wouldn’t have.”

  She chuckles a little. “No, you wouldn’t have, Soph.”

  “Yeah,” I reply.

  “So what are you going to do?” she probes.

  “Well, I currently have no place to live or sleep, so I guess I’m going to see if I can take a few days to work away from the office and stay with my dad while I try to figure out a new living situation.”

  “No! Don’t do all of that. Come here. I’ve actually got the things to make your favorite dinner and a bottle of wine I bought for our girls’ night this weekend. I’m throwing it in the freezer now.”

  “Ken—”

  “Don’t,” she interrupts me. “I’m not asking. You’ll come here, and that’s that.”

  “Okay.”

  Disconnecting the call, I pull out of the parking lot and turn my car in the direction of Kendall’s apartment. Wine and a girls’ night may be exactly what I need.

  Thank goodness for best friends with top-of-the-line bath products. I lather the shampoo in my hair and let the steam billow around me. Kendall and I have been friends since our freshman year at college. We somehow managed to be roommates, even though we were in two different majors—her an engineering major and me in mass communications. The school’s error was the best thing to happen to teenage me. She is strong-willed and outspoken and the best friend I’ve ever had. We’re opposites but fit perfectly with one another.

  As the remnants of the day swirl down the shower drain along with the shampoo, I opt to use Kendall’s leave-in conditioner and turn the taps off. Toweling off, I don’t bother to look at my reflection and instead go about combing my hair and spritzing the coconut conditioner into my dark-brown locks.

  Slipping into the loaned pair of brand-new underwear, T-shirt, and sweatpants, I hang the towel and exit the bathroom. When I pad my way back to the kitchen, the aroma of my favorite dinner fills the space.

  “Feel better?” Kendall asks from her perch in front of the stove.

  “Not really, but it’s a start.” I accept the overpoured glass of wine she slides across the breakfast bar. Overpoured in that most people wouldn’t empty half a bottle into one glass, but Kendall isn’t most people. “I haven’t really had a chance to let it sink in. Between Jared screwing that cheap whore and the clusterfuck of a photo shoot, I’m just kinda done.”

  “Dude, your day has been shit. I’m sorry, lady. Speaking of—” She clicks her tongue. “—tell me about the photo shoot with the sexy baseball player.”

  Rolling my eyes, I move around the breakfast bar, pull forks from the drawer, and snag a few paper towels before following Kendall to the living room.

  “Oh God.” I hide my face. “I think overall it went okay, but he was an asshole of epic proportions.”

  “What?” Settling into the couch, she sets her wine glass on the table and tucks her feet under her. “Why?”

  “I was maybe like an hour late.” Avoiding her stare, I take a huge bite of my carbonara and moan. So damn good.

  “Damn, that’s so not like you. You consider fifteen minutes early ‘on time.’”

  Ignoring her, I continue, “Anyway, when I finally arrived, he was on the phone ranting, and his attitude didn’t change the entire time. I’ll give him credit; when the camera was on him, you’d never know he was pissed.”

  We continue to eat in comfortable silence, the occasional moan of gratitude for the carbs our only sounds. Kendall throws in the towel with her meal and picks up her glass, setting her bowl on the table.

  “Jared is such an ass. And don’t get me started on that Maddie. What a little bitch.”

  She isn’t wrong. By the time we finish our wine and clean up from dinner, exhaustion hits me hard. My entire body feels like it has been put through a meat grinder. Kendall guides me down the hall, and we climb into her huge king-sized bed. It isn’t often we have a sleepover, but when we do, it’s snuggled into her million thread count sheets and fluffy down comforter.

  On a day that could have been the worst of my adult life, I’m grateful for my best friend.

  Should have been the worst day.

  Five years with Jared gone in one minute.

  Why don’t I feel devastated? I’m more upset about being late for the shoot than the fact that I caught my boyfriend in the act. If I’m being completely honest with myself, our relationship has been shit for the past few months. I’m actually relieved it’s over—just pissed off at how it’s over.

  I’m officially homeless though.

  “Thanks for letting me crash.”

  Kendall smiles. “Always. Night, Soph.”

  “Night.”

  Closing my eyes, I let exhaustion overtake me, and I purposely ignore the tears as they fall.

  3

  * * *

  BRAXTON

  Anger courses through me. It’s unfounded, and there is no reason for me to be holding on to it hours later. Yet, here I am. I’ve been late enough times in my life to know that shit happens, and by the look of her puffy eyes and blotchy skin, the photographer had a pretty shitty day. Still, I’m irritated and tense.

  A year ago, I would have left after waiting ten minutes without her showing. Only it’s not a year ago, and my agent and the team publicist would’ve had my ass if I didn’t see the shoot through. The last eleven months have been the best time in my career, but my image is less than stellar. A glitzy piece in a local magazine is supposed to help fix what’s left of my reputation.

  Yeah, okay.

  After changing out of my uniform, I make my way to the weight room. It’s no surprise the place is empty. Tomorrow is a doubleheader, and Coach told us to make it an early night. The rest of the team may have got in some batting practice and weights earlier, but I missed out waiting for that damn photographer. Sophie. Karen, the team’s publicist, used her name more than once when we were on the phone. She assured me Sophie was the best around and the spread would be fantastic. She failed to mention punctuality wasn’t part of the deal.

  I connect my phone to the room’s speakers and blast my workout playlist. While the gym in my complex is state of the art, loud rock music is frowned upon. I could put in a pair of earbuds, but I prefer to feel the thumping of the bass in my bones as it bounces off the walls.

  Starting my routine with a quick warmup on the treadmill, my mind is stuck on a certain photographer the entire time. Even in my pissed off state, I noticed her beauty. While she came across flustered and out of sorts when she arrived, when she lifted her camera, she came alive. It reminded me of how I feel when I step up to the plate.

  Her blue eyes sparkled when the sun hit her face just right. The smile she offered Corey as she spoke to him was genuine and sweet. But none of that held my attention like her curves. Unlike the thin-as-a-rail jersey chasers who flock to the players, Sophie is curvaceous. My feet pound the rubber belt of the treadmill at the thought of the baseball groupies. While I’m sure there’s a nice woman among them, I didn’t have the luxury of meeting her. No, the minute I was called up to the majors, it was the over-made, over-confident, and always down for a blowjob in hopes of getting a ring on her finger woman instead. It’s that shit that got me in trouble and the reason I need all this fucking PR shit now.

  Her lateness was the last straw on an already bad mood. The same bad mood I’ve been in for months. Sure, I’m always fifteen minutes early, but I was raised to believe showing up at the scheduled time is actually being late. I admit to being an ass to her. I almost feel bad about it.<
br />
  I’m exhausted. This PR tour is draining. I just want to play ball, not deal with interviews and photographers and all this other bullshit. Karen is making me do some sort of PR stop in nearly every city we visit. Plus this local magazine here at home.

  Slowing my pace, I regulate my breathing as the treadmill comes to a stop. I look around the gym as I contemplate which of the trainer-approved workouts I should do. Spying one of the trap bars, I decide on some deadlifts. With any luck, the concentration it takes to keep proper form will keep thoughts of Sophie from my mind.

  I step in and get into position, squatting down and gripping the bar.

  One. Her sad smile flashes into my head.

  Two. Her delicious hips.

  Three. Ample breasts.

  Four. Her long brown hair rapped around my hands.

  Thank fuck no one else is in the gym tonight.

  Five.

  Fuck it. This isn’t working.

  I decide to put the weights down and stick to cardio tonight. I switch over to a new playlist with continuous upbeat music and set the timer on the treadmill for forty-five minutes. I manage to run through my grocery list, my favorite players’ stats, and remind myself that women are off the table until this shitstorm that is my life has some sort of normalcy.

  Thirty-eight minutes left.

  You have got to be kidding me. All I can picture the entire time I’m on the treadmill is Sophie. Nothing is working.

  I push through the remaining time, wrapping up this workout session before the night security guard catches me. He’ll rat me out to the trainers, and I’ll have hell to pay for being here as late as I am the night before an early game. As I make my way to the locker room, my stomach growls, reminding me that I haven’t had dinner yet. Instead of a shower here, I decide to call in some takeout from my favorite restaurant and head home. If I’m going to be consumed with thoughts of Sophie, I should be in my own shower.

  The gated community I live in screams privilege the moment you pull up to the large gates. It was an indulgence I didn’t plan on, but my parents encouraged me to reconsider. The fact that my townhouse is at the back of the subdivision and the privacy it offers is what sealed the deal for me. It’s far removed from any prying eyes, and there’s no chance of the paparazzi getting in here, thank God.