Hitching the Pitcher (A Belltown Six Pack Novel)

by Rebecca Connolly

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Belltown Six Pack Series

  Hitching the Pitcher

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Epilogue

  About Rebecca Connolly

  More #BellTown Six Pack Novels

  Copyright © 2019 by Rebecca Connolly

  E-book edition

  All rights reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form whatsoever without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief passages embodied in critical reviews and articles. This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, places, and dialogue are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.

  Interior design by Cora Johnson

  Edited by Kelsey Down and Lisa Shepherd

  Cover design by Rachael Anderson

  Cover image credit: Shutterstock #531798565 by Alex Yakimovski

  Published by Mirror Press, LLC

  BELLTOWN SIX PACK SERIES

  Hitching the Pitcher

  Falling for Centerfield

  Charming the Shortstop

  Snatching the Catcher

  Flirting with First

  Kissing on Third

  HITCHING THE PITCHER

  Sawyer Bennett has a secret. A risky thing, being one of the popular Belltown Six Pack, a group of six guys from the same college baseball team, all of whom got drafted and now play in the Major Leagues. Between the media frenzy over them and his bond with the guys, his secret has to stay carefully hidden if he wants it to stay that way. He needs to focus on his pitching and let everything else fall away.

  Running into his former college girlfriend wasn’t supposed to happen. Falling for her again wasn’t supposed to happen. Confessing his secret to her was definitely not supposed to happen. But the harder he falls for Erica Moore, the more important his secret—and she—becomes.

  CHAPTER 1

  Columbus was cold in February.

  Not surprising, but practicing in Columbus in the cold might be surprising. Most teams had already gone to Florida or Arizona or someplace warm and temperate in the off-season.

  Not the Black Racers. Not this year.

  Toughening up, Sarge had called it. He was a militant sort of manager, hence his nickname, but it had worked for the team the last three years and would undoubtedly do the same this year. They’d head down to Arizona next week for a few days of warmer training before starting up some games, but until then, they’d be here.

  Where it was cold and it was early.

  Perfect for another sort of practice entirely—something entirely private.

  “Ethics. Metaphysics. Epistemology. Logic.”

  The net of the pitcher’s pocket didn’t respond to the recitation of the four aspects of philosophy, but it did catch each of the four balls in varying aspects of the strike zone, which was good enough for Sawyer Bennett.

  Didn’t help him prepare for his History of Philosophy final, but it was good enough.

  He walked down the stretch, gently shaking out his right arm to loosen it up, then scooping up the balls, shoving two in his pockets.

  He craned his neck, wincing at the crack. “Logic. New and necessary reasoning.”

  He exhaled, sputtering his lips as he walked back to the practice mound, shaking out his arm again. “Consistency. Soundness. Completeness.”

  The unmistakable sound of cleats against concrete met his ears, and he clamped his mouth shut, clearing his throat when he reached the mound again, dropping the balls down except for one in his glove.

  He listened for the cleats to go somewhere and heard the storage closet open and the cleats disappear within.

  Must have been Gru, then. He was the only one who ever got here as early as Sawyer and was equally self-sufficient.

  Sawyer looked down the stretch again, exhaling slowly, forcing away all thoughts but for the ball in his hand and the hours of studying in his head. He waited, then wound up.

  “Aristotle,” he grunted as he released the ball.

  Strike.

  He picked up the next ball and repeated his rhythm. “Pythagoras.”

  Strike.

  “Thales.”

  Strike.

  “Socrates.”

  Wild pitch.

  Sawyer growled and cracked his neck again. “Stupid, stupid. Socrates didn’t develop it; he used it.”

  “Who are we calling Socrates, and what did he use?”

  Biting back a curse, Sawyer turned to face his teammate, punching idly into his glove. “Hey, Mace.”

  “Skeeter,” Mace greeted, folding his tattooed arms and leaning against the cage. “Socrates. Who?”

  “No one,” Sawyer sighed. “Well, no, actual Socrates.”

  “What about him?”

  Oh boy. Sawyer punched his glove again, fighting a wince. “He didn’t develop deductive reasoning.”

  “True,” Mace agreed with a nod, shocking Sawyer. “But his name was used so often in the description of it that it’s a common misconception.”

  Sawyer blinked at the thick catcher, who was more likely to be found in a biker gang than behind a textbook. Or so he’d thought.

  Mace grinned, his eyes crinkling as they usually did. “I was a philosophy major at Ohio State, Skeet. I know what I’m talking about.”

  Sawyer shook his head. “I can’t see that.”

  “That’s why I did it,” came the quipped response. He cleared his throat and straightened. “All humans are mortal. Socrates is human. Therefore, Socrates is mortal.”

  Sawyer blinked again. “Uh-huh…”

  Mace’s eyes narrowed, arms still folded. “Which is an example of…?”

  The panic known to every student in existence when called upon unexpectedly hit Sawyer square in the gut. “Uh… syllogism?”

  “Question or answer?”

  “Answer,” Sawyer said quickly, scratching the back of his neck with his glove.

  Mace nodded once. “Correct.” Then his head tilted. “Why are you thinking philosophy while warming up? Without a bullpen catcher, I might add.”

  Sawyer chuckled uneasily, stepping off of the mound. “Just loosening up. Miguel wasn’t here yet, so I pulled out the net. Used to throw to the net all the time as a kid. Kinda nostalgic, you know? No biggie. I only threw a couple.”

  “And the philosophy?”

  He wasn’t about to confess to his catcher the real reason, so he shrugged and lied. “Dabbling. You know what a head case I am.”

  Mace rolled his eyes, but he smiled. “Sure do. Come on, let’s get a lap or two in before Gru makes us field his hits.”

  Grateful for a change in topic, Sawyer nodded and set down his glove, jogging out of the bullpen cages, exhaling a silent breath of relief. He’d have to figure out another way to quiz himself now, which would do just as well. He wasn’t on this week; he could afford a little distraction at practice. Normally he was completely focused at all times, and he was teased for it, but off weeks were another matter.

  He was way more human on off weeks. Spring training or not, he was glad for the off week, such as it was. There wasn’t much by way of rest in the major leagues, not if one wanted to really make it, so
taking advantage of what rest was available was a win. And perfect timing for a final exam, which was why he had scheduled it that way.

  That, and a trip home.

  Exam, then flight.

  Back to Belltown and Belltown University, where, consequently, he could return the textbooks he’d ordered and pick up the next set.

  Convenience was sweet indeed.

  Provided he could get away from his family and the rest of the Six Pack, that is.

  It could prove pretty challenging.

  Every single one of them would have a field day if they knew Sawyer was taking online classes. Rabbit might be chill about it, but none of the others would be. But they all had their degrees.

  Only he had entered the draft without a diploma in hand.

  That was public knowledge, and nobody cared.

  But Sawyer did.

  He’d made a promise, and he had to keep it.

  Eventually.

  He began to mentally recite answers in time with his jogging.

  Must. Eat. Everything. Pre. Performance. Says. Abba.

  Milesian. Eleatic. Ephesian. Pluralism. Pythagoreanism. Sophism. Atomism.

  “Want help studying?” Mace asked casually as they started their second lap, nodding as other guys started following suit.

  Sawyer side-eyed his catcher and teammate. “Studying what?”

  Mace snorted once and wiped an arm over his mouth and neatly trimmed goatee. “Nobody dabbles in deductive reasoning, Skeet. Not even you. Not gonna ask questions, just offering to help. Got an exam?”

  “Final,” Sawyer admitted, dropping his voice although no one else was close enough to catch their conversation.

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow, I think.”

  “Not sure?”

  Sawyer exhaled and saluted Sarge as they passed the dugout, the other guys doing the same. “Independent study. Just has to be this week.”

  Mace grunted. “And you’re off to the motherland soon. Six Pack reunion?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Kay. Tonight after film, we’ll grab a bite, then come back to the clubhouse. I’ll tell Jess not to expect me.”

  A twinge of guilt burst within him like a nasty bout of heartburn, and he screwed up his face in response. “Don’t do that. I don’t want you to upset Jess to give me philosophy pointers.”

  His catcher chortled a rumbling laugh. “You kidding? I’m antisocial, remember? Jess always wants me to get out with the guys and do something. She’ll be elated. Done deal, Skeet. Be there, or be Pythagoras.” He laughed harder at his own joke.

  Sawyer, however, responded instinctively. “Developer of the Pythagorean theorem, fundamental rationale in Euclidean geometry. Had his own movement, and most commonly attributed teaching is metempsychosis.”

  Mace came to a stop as they finished their lap, not even remotely out of breath, and gave Sawyer a look. “Wow, Skeet. You’re a mess.”

  It was true, and Sawyer was well aware. “I crammed last night,” he admitted as he began to stretch. “Working on about three hours of sleep.”

  “Definitely don’t miss college,” Mace muttered, bending at the waist to stretch to the grass. “Well, tell Grizz I said hi. Dude still owes me two hundred bucks, so I’d appreciate it if you’d collect for me.”

  Sawyer barked a laugh. “Right, cuz Grizz is going to listen to me.”

  “Aw, Six Pack is Back Attack?” Remy crowed as he practically bounced towards them. “Need a groupie, Skeeter?”

  Mace cuffed the eager shortstop, making their teammates laugh, including Remy. “No TV coverage for you, Remy. Make a few plays, and we’ll see.”

  The ribbing went over well with the rest, and Sawyer felt himself relaxing as they continued to warm up as a team. Baseball had always had a way of relaxing him, which was twisted as it was also his prime source of stress and anxiety. But it was his one true love, and baseball loved him in return.

  Complicated relationships took work, but they could work well.

  Or so he’d been told.

  He’d endure the teasing and the questions and the envy of his teammates over a Six Pack reunion. He usually got that whenever they were brought up, mostly because the media tended to frenzy a little over their brotherhood. They hadn’t been the best players drafted in their year, but they had all been drafted, and fairly early at that.

  The name they’d earned at Belltown had carried over into the pros, and when they’d all moved up from minors, some sooner than others, things hit peak madness. Some of the guys loved the attention; some of them didn’t.

  But the Six Pack was special, and seeing the rest of the guys this weekend would be great. Being back in Belltown, and back on campus, would be amazing.

  He’d have to rub the Lumberjack’s boot, just in case.

  He still had a few classes to go before he reached graduation, and with the season upon him, his focus would be limited at best in all things education.

  But a promise was a promise, and Sawyer Bennett was a man of his word.

  Sarge’s telltale whistle pierced the air, and all of the players straightened from their stretches. “Batting,” he told them all, his best drill-sergeant voice on full display. “Gru’ll start us off.”

  “Not nice,” Remy muttered as they moved in that direction. “Now we’ll all look like crap by comparison.”

  “You always look like crap batting,” Papa Jim pointed out with the crooked grin he was known for.

  Sawyer laughed with the rest and pushed his educational thoughts out of his mind.

  For the time being, at least.

  * * *

  Smaller airports were glorious things.

  Albany wasn’t that small, but it wasn’t exactly a hub.

  Either way, Sawyer wasn’t recognized as he made his way to baggage claim, and there was something to be said for that. He didn’t necessarily mind being spotted and spending time with fans, but it was also nice to get away from it. Especially when he was going home.

  He wouldn’t get away from attention at home.

  But Belltown was different. They had seen him grow up, knew the scabby boy he’d been, and would remember every awkward school dance he had ever attended. He wasn’t much of a celebrity there, though he did sign the occasional autograph and pause for a selfie every now and then.

  Mostly from kids.

  No one his age really wanted to talk to him, and most of the older generation didn’t care.

  It was the best.

  He hefted his backpack more securely over his shoulder as he passed the line at McDonald’s, pulling his faded Belltown hat a bit farther down, just in case. If he was right, and he usually was, his mom would be waiting for him with a small sign bearing his name as though she were only his driver. Her expression would be completely blank, but she would be fighting a smile the entire time.

  He could only hope and pray that she wouldn’t be in costume this time.

  He’d never quite forgiven her for the Grinch ensemble three years ago.

  Holding his breath, he rounded the corner and moved past TSA into the main terminal, his eyes scanning the few waiting people.

  His mom was easy to spot: Belltown hoodie with a Lumberjack on it, hair pulled back in a neat bun, faded jeans, and her favorite, paint-splattered Keds. And there in her hands was the sign he’d expected.

  This time it only read “Skeeter.”

  Sawyer exhaled with relief and grinned as he approached her, the blank expression staying fixed on her face. “Are you my ride?” he asked when he reached her.

  “Are you Skeeter?” she retorted flatly.

  “Could be,” he replied. “What’s for dinner in Belltown?”

  His mom shrugged. “Not sure, really. Probably chicken and dumplings.”

  “That’s my favorite. But my sister hates it.”

  “Then it’s fortunate she’s not coming until tomorrow.” His mom’s lips quirked, and her blank expression faltered as she fought a smile.
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  Sawyer laughed and stepped forward to hug her, the familiar embrace more of a welcome home than anything he would experience the entire trip. “Hi, Mom.”

  Her arms tightened around him. “Hi, sweetie. Welcome home.”

  He pulled back and looked her over. “Thanks for dressing up for me. Really. You shouldn’t have.”

  She whacked him on the arm before slipping her arm around his waist. “I got up at dark thirty to get here since you insisted on an early flight instead of coming in at a regular human hour. You know full well how much I hate fast-food breakfast, and coffee before I have a decent breakfast to soak it up. You’re paying for Sinclair’s on the way home. You owe me.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Sawyer meekly replied as they made their way to baggage claim. “Three cake donuts with maple glaze, two bunches of classic donut holes, and an apple-raspberry bear claw. I’ll even throw in a double-chocolate-and-cinnamon hot cocoa.”

  His mom nodded as though she’d expected nothing less. “With chocolate-chip marshmallows.”

  “Of course. After which, I’ll drive you to the hospital for emergency treatment of your blood sugar and arteries and possibly a scan of your stomach.”

  “Never underestimate a woman’s ability to consume chocolate and carbs.”

  “Put that on a bumper sticker.”

  A father and young son stopped on their way to security, their eyes on Sawyer, and the boy pointed. “Dad! Dad! It’s Sawyer Bennett!”

  “Shh!” the father hushed, putting a hand on his son’s shoulder. “Scotty, it’s not polite to point.”

  Sawyer looked at his mom, who was already smiling and nudged her head towards them. He returned the smile and moved to them, shaking hands with the dad firmly before crouching before the boy. “Hi there,” he said, shifting into his greeting-fans voice.

  “I knew it was you!” Scotty breathed, his eyes wide. “I have your poster on my wall!”

  Sawyer chuckled. “Which poster, Scotty? Black Racers, Tomahawks, or Titans?”

  “Six Pack,” the boy answered.

  That took Sawyer by surprise, though he wasn’t sure why. He was, after all, only a short distance from home and the university. He was so used to fans from the majors, even those die-hards who’d followed him since minors, that he tended to forget about the hometown crowd and fellow Lumberjacks.