The Lineup

by Quinn, Meghan

  “You’re all right. But I did see that one fight you got into with the Catamounts. That punch was all over the Internet.”

  I chuckle to myself, thinking about that day. “I think that was the one and only time I actually blacked out from rage. I’m a pretty easygoing guy and can take a lot of shit, but that pitcher was asking to get punched. He’d pegged our players left and right all season, and when he tattooed my ribs with seams, I was over it.”

  “You tossed your bat like a boss. I’ve seen the look on your face in slow motion. I’m pretty sure you were ready to eat that pitcher’s head off his shoulders.”

  I casually shrug. “Don’t fuck with my team and don’t be a bitch on the mound.”

  “You don’t seem like a fighter, you know. The footage surprised me.”

  “You don’t think I’m tough?” I ask, flexing both arms for her, but she doesn’t give me the appreciation I was looking for. Instead, she shakes her head at me and keeps walking forward.

  “You’re tough when you want to be, but most of the time, I think you’re just a giant teddy bear. Super sensitive, but also knows how to take a joke.”

  “Sensitive isn’t a bad thing.”

  “Never said it was. I think I need to work on my sensitivity a little.”

  “Nooo, I would never say that about you,” I say sarcastically. “You’re the most sensitive person I know.”

  She pushes me but barely makes me budge. “I can be sensitive. I just don’t cry over everything.”

  “I don’t cry.”

  “Puh-lease. You probably wept yourself to sleep last night over how beautiful the night sky was.”

  No, I wept myself to sleep while jacking off to the image of you in that nightgown.

  “You have me pegged all wrong. I don’t boo-hoo just for the hell of it. Something has to really get my emotions working for me to start up the waterworks.”

  “Like what?” She pushes a branch to the side so it doesn’t whack me in the face. The farther we walk, the farther we dive into the woods, the dirt trail shrinking, making it a tight fit for the both of us to walk side by side, but we still maintain the position, even if our shoulders are now brushing against each other. I’m tempted to reach down and take her hand in mine. What would she do if I did? Rip her hand away? Snuggle closer? Give me a what the hell look?

  I’m thinking maybe the third option, so I refrain, even though I feel the need deep within my bones, this almost uncontrollable urge. We need a few more flirty moments before I pull a stunt like holding her hand.

  “What makes me weep?” I ask, loving that this is what we’re talking about. Any other man would probably puff his chest and clutch his balls, stating he doesn’t weep.

  Well guess what, ladies? I’ve been known to blubber into my shirt, cry on a shoulder, burst out in an ugly Kim Kardashian-like sob over something that cuts deep.

  I’m not ashamed. I know who I am, and I own that.

  “Yes, weep.” She grins up at me but then focuses back on the trail.

  “It has to be something that really tugs on my heartstrings, like animals. They’re so innocent and when I see them get hurt, abused, or taken from their home, you can bet your pretty little ass my head will be buried in a box of tissues. Or . . . oh fuck, you know those videos of dogs being rescued from a sewer drain, given a makeover, and then they’re bouncing around, full of life, in a goddamn Hawaiian shirt at their new home? I’m drenched in tears.”

  “Animals get me too. What about soldiers coming home?”

  “No, I just feel happy for them, but not that gut-wrenching happiness that makes me buckle over. I’ll also weep if someone accomplishes their goals.”

  “Really?” she asks, seemingly stunned.

  “Oh yeah, big time. Any time one of my guys got the call up and started in the big leagues, fuck, I bawled like a baby.”

  “Bawled? I could understand being happy, but bawling?”

  I nod. “Yes, cried like a goddamn baby. But there’s a reason.” I duck under a branch and push back another for her, using the other hand to guide her by the small of her back. She leans into the touch for a second before pulling away. It feels like a glimpse of what could be.

  “Are you going to say the reason?” She chuckles.

  “Yes, give me a second. It’s nice to be dramatic, really make you feel the consuming passion when talking about this.”

  “Oh my God, just get on with it.”

  “You just sounded like Knox. Just get on with it. You make it hard to set the mood.” I clear my throat. “From middle school on, I knew one thing: I wanted to play baseball professionally. I geared my entire life around accomplishing this goal. I would practice constantly, every day, sometimes twice a day. I worked out, lifted weights, ate healthy even as a teen. I never wanted to see that goal slip from my fingers, so I held on to it tight and worked toward it, always reminding myself when I was sore and tired and exhausted why I was doing it. I had a reason. I’ve held that goal, that feeling close to my heart, waiting for the moment for me to accomplish it and knowing the joy it brought me when I did. When I see someone else accomplish their dream, I know the long hours and dedication that got them there. There is no such thing as an easy ride for elite athletes. They feel the burn in every training session or they’re doing it wrong. So, for me, it’s like I feel their emotions in that moment and it hits me hard.” I clearly remember my own tears when I was called up. Nothing has ever compared to that, and probably nothing will.

  Dottie pauses to look up at me, wonderment in her eyes. “That’s really sweet. You have a good heart, Jason.”

  “That’s a wonderful compliment. Thank you, sweet cheeks.”

  I give her a quick side hug and then continue to move forward with our hike, a smile on my face.

  * * *

  “I really like your version of a hike snack. You could have brought some fruit, or trail mix, or a protein bar, but no, you went straight-up savage with nutrition and packed us puppy chow, Chips Ahoy, and chocolate-covered raisins. What happened to my carrot and guac girl?”

  “Your girl?” she asks, nudging my shoulder.

  “Yeah, you’re sucked into my world now, which means I claim you.”

  “Fair enough.” Say what? Fair enough? Does that mean she thinks she’s my girl too? We chose a spot out on a giant boulder that overlooks the lake. It’s serene, birds chirping in the background, and a few twigs snapping here and there, nothing that would cause alarm. “When I hike, I always end up famished and don’t want anything healthy. I want the bad stuff. When I was young and went on hikes at Lake Skinner with my dad, we stopped at the local 7-Eleven and bought the worst junk food possible, things my mom never allowed at home. We’d park in front of the lake, pretend to fish, and eat our snacks. Then I started bringing Emory and Lindsay with me and it became a smorgasbord.”

  “You guys have been friends for a long time.”

  “Yes, they’re my girls. We had a small falling out with Emory after high school, but we quickly made up for lost time. I can’t see my life without them. They’ve really helped me through some tough times.”

  “Yeah? Like—” A low grumble followed by a twig snapping echoes behind us. Holding still, I ask Dottie, “What was that?” She doesn’t move either.

  “That wasn’t your stomach?”

  “I’m kind of wishing it was at this point.” I swallow hard. “I think you should turn around and look.”

  “Me? You’re the man,” she says from the corner of her mouth.

  “I’m also an equal opportunist.”

  “Just look.”

  “I’m too scared,” I answer as another twig snaps, this one even closer.

  “I thought you said your fists are—”

  Snap, snap, snap.

  “Oh . . . shit.” I grip her hand, but not in the way I want to and slowly turn my head.

  Standing about ten feet away is a black bear, sniffing his way to our snacks, having zero concern that there are two h
umans sitting like dead ducks in front of him.

  “Oh Jesus. Oh God. Oh, I might shit myself,” I cry hysterically.

  At that moment, Dottie turns her head as well. She stifles a screech and then starts digging around her bag, pulling out the box cutter with a shaky hand.

  “Wh-what do we do?” she asks, looking terrified, almost as terrified as me, while holding the box cutter the wrong way.

  “Scream bloody murder?”

  “What about what you said to my dad? If the bear is black, fight back?”

  I sarcastically laugh. “Okay, that was a fun rhyme to spout off to your dad, but never once did I mean it.” I slowly stand and pull Dottie up with me. I clutch her backpack in my hand like a metal shield, hold it out arm distance, and grasp her hand with mine, holding on tight.

  “Are you gearing up to do something?” she asks, sounding panicked. “I feel like you’re building up for an attack. Is that what you’re doing? Jason, I need you to talk to me. Please don’t do anything rash—”

  “Ahhhhhhhhhhhh, ya ya ya ya, eeeeeeeeeee,” I cry, my nerves so shocked by my high-pitched squeal, that I actually feel my penis crawl inside my balls, praying we don’t get attacked by this enormously large, teeth-baring, sharply clawed beast of a bear. I charge forward, swinging the backpack back and forth like a death-wielding machete. Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy shit.

  My vision tunnels in on itself as I make a beeline for safety. My legs move fast, hopping over logs, pushing past low-hanging branches with the backpack, all the while towing Dottie behind me. At some point, I’m moving so fast—my deathly cry still ringing in my ears—that I’m sure Dottie’s flapping in the wind like a flag behind me, holding on for dear life.

  It isn’t until I can see the cabin—and I don’t feel like the bear has followed us—that I slow down to a steady walk. Dottie lets go of my hand and pauses to bend at the waist, her hands falling to her thighs.

  “Jesus Christ, Jason. What the hell was that?”

  “That was called saving your life. Did you see the look in that beast’s eyes? We were sitting ducks, his lunch. He was ready to bat around our bodies looking for the good meat. And trust me, my penis is good meat.”

  “The bear barely reached my hips. It wasn’t big once we stood up. And it went scampering the other way the minute it heard your ear-piercing scream. You would have heard me telling you to stop if you’d turned down your vocal cords for one second.”

  I shake my head. “No way was he hip height. I saw him point at me and make a chomping sound with his jowls. We were his dinner.”

  “Bears don’t point.”

  I thumb toward the woods. “That sadistic bastard back there did. Fucking singled me out. I had no choice but to save both of us with the sprint of our lives. Mind you, I’m incredibly slow, but I’ve never felt such wind below my feet before.” I jump a few times, adrenaline pumping through me. “Did you see my moves back there?” I wield the backpack like nunchaku and do some fancy footwork and end it on a spin. “That bear had no idea what to do with itself.”

  “That bear ran off to get a hearing aid from your lady shriek.” Dottie pulls on her ear. “Dogs for miles heard your screaming.”

  “More like war cry.” I cross my arms over my chest.

  “More like your balls crawled up inside of you to hit such a high octave.”

  More like balls shriveled up from pure terror.

  “Are you saying you weren’t impressed with my display of heroism? I was a goddamn white knight back there.”

  She looks back at me as she heads toward the cabin. “You were a petrified clown, but it was . . . cute.”

  She turns away, continuing to the cabin.

  Cute?

  I’ll take cute. It’s a start. At least, it will be once my heart rate returns to normal. Fuck.

  Chapter Seventeen

  DOTTIE

  Hours later, I still have Jason’s high-pitched squeal stuck in my head. It’s as if it’s on replay, constantly playing over and over again, and every time I hear it, I chuckle.

  His attack on the bear and attempt to get us out of there unscathed was one of the most comical things I’ve ever seen.

  The flail of his arms.

  The use of the backpack as a sword.

  The ear-piercing sound of an adolescent screeching for their life.

  It was almost too much to handle.

  When we got back to the house, I went to my room and laughed for a good five minutes, then I took a nap, but even at that, I dreamt of Jason running and screaming through the woods, his hand firmly gripping mine.

  I can still feel the imprint of his hand, the way it clutched tightly, the way his fingers easily looped around mine.

  I can’t remember the last time I held a man’s hand. Even though he was doing it to be my hero against a three-foot bear cub—yes, three feet, maybe—it still made me feel wild with excitement.

  Now, we’re about to make dinner and instead of feeling that excitement, I’m feeling nervous, really nervous. Being close to him, cutting things—yes, I’m really good at cheffing—and mixing things, I’m not sure I’ll be able to hold it together. I’ve thought of at least twenty beary punny one-liners that I’m struggling to stop smiling about using. And I want . . . I want him to see me as more than a friend, but I’m not sure of the right time. Is there such a thing?

  Before leaving my room, I take one last look at myself in the mirror. I chose a simple pair of leggings and a shirt that hangs off my right shoulder, showing off the strap of my bralette. I left my hair in a high ponytail to keep it away from the food. And even though it seemed like Jason liked my glasses, I leave my contacts in because I don’t want to be fumbling around with glasses if we so happen to progress things further. That’s positive thinking though, who knows what will happen tonight?

  On a deep breath, I exit my room and walk into the main living space. That’s where I spot Jason hunched over the counter, looking at his phone. When he hears me approach, he turns and his face lights up when he takes me in.

  God, that’s a look that will never get old.

  “Hey, you look comfy.”

  “I am. Thanks.”

  He claps his hands together. “Are you ready for this?”

  “As much as I can be.” He takes me by the shoulders and directs me into the kitchen. Wearing nothing but a pair of jeans and a plain, dark green shirt, he looks amazing, especially with the no shoes and socks.

  Barefoot and in the kitchen; doesn’t get better than that. What on earth am I thinking? If he took off his shirt, it would get better. Not sure how I can make that happen . . .

  “All right. I chose something easy for us to make, something that wouldn’t be too hard for you to replicate.”

  I look at the ingredients, trying to decipher what it is. “Uhh, what are we making?”

  “Gnocchi. I thought about making my homemade spaghetti sauce but figured that would be too much for you in one go, but we will be making our own garlic bread.”

  “You want to make pasta? Are you insane?”

  He chuckles. “It’s not as hard as you think. I already have the potatoes cooked and softened. We need to start shaving them down and then we can make the dough.”

  He brings a plate of potatoes over to the main island along with a cheese grater. “Do you expect me to do this?”

  “It’s not hard. Have you ever grated cheese?”

  “No.”

  He sighs but laughs at the same time. “Okay, so we’re at a real basic level then.”

  “If I can’t microwave it, I can’t do it.”

  “Good to know.” Stepping up behind me, he wraps his arms around me and brings his hands to mine. His chest is flush against my back while his head hangs forward over my shoulder. God, he smells so good, and he feels so good. This is exactly what I wanted. This kind of close proximity. I just didn’t think it was going to happen this fast.

  Talking softly, he says, “Okay, hold the grater with this hand, and
then move the potato up and down over those ridges, like this.” He demonstrates and I nod, the whole time wishing we would stay in this position the whole night or at least a version of it. “Yeah, just like that. Good job, Dottie. You continue to shave down the potatoes while I measure out the rest of the ingredients.”

  He pulls away and I instantly feel like messing up so he can return to his previous position, arms wrapped around me, his scent filling the air around us. But I also don’t want to look completely incompetent, so I continue to shred.

  “Who taught you how to cook this meal?”

  “My grandpa. He was the chef in the house. Owned his own restaurant for quite some time. He would always tell me the best way to a woman’s heart was knowing your way around the kitchen. We would spend hours cooking together. When I wasn’t training.”

  “That’s sweet. So is this one of his famous recipes?”

  “Yeah, he was known for his pasta, which was funny since he’s not Italian. He’s Irish. Ireland gets a bad reputation for not having the best food. One of my grandpa’s favorite things to say was he was an Irishman who knew how to cook better pasta than his Italian friends.”

  “I’m sure that chapped their asses.”

  He pauses, mid scoop with his flour. “Chapped their asses?” A low rumble of a laugh rolls through his chest, the sound positively delicious. “I’ve never heard that phrase before.”

  “Seriously? My dad says it all the time. He always asked me if I intended on chapping his ass whenever I did something wrong.”

  “Did you ever offer him up ChapStick? I could totally see you doing that, the smart-ass in you.”

  “Not ChapStick,” I answer. “But petroleum jelly. I gave it to him the Christmas of my senior year in high school with a card that said, for all the times I chapped your ass.”

  “Oh, that’s fucking perfect.” Jason laughs some more. “Please tell me he loved it.”

  “I think it was the hardest I ever saw him laugh. Then he cried, of course, because I was going off to college. I assured him I’d still be able to chap his ass long distance . . . and I did.”