“Get your asses up!” I shout through the apartment. I’ve been up since 6 a.m. I couldn’t sleep anymore. My girls are always ready to party, and give me shit for being lazy. Game day, the situation is reversed. I’m up their asses all morning to get them moving.
Game time isn’t until 3 p.m., with the second game of the doubleheader immediately following a short fifteen-minute break. I’m usually fired up for game day, but today Brooks is coming and I’m off the fucking charts with excitement. He’s never seen us play.
“KK, I am going to fucking kill you,” Watts groans from her room.
I stick my head inside of her room, “It’s almost eleven. We need to eat, and head to the locker room. Warm-up is at 12:30.”
“I know our schedule, asshole,” she groans again. “I can sleep until noon. Go away.”
“Get up, Watts,” Duncan said in an effort to help me. “You know KK is jacked because Brooks is coming today,” she says playfully.
My jaw hit the floor as Duncan calls my ass out. Watts springs out of bed. “Oh shit yeah! I forgot! How is your lover boy?”
“Please, don’t call him that. It grosses me out.”
“Bullshit,” Watts chimes in. “You two are going at it and you’re holding out on the details. Does he have a big dick? I bet he does. He is stacked in all the right places. I ‘ve heard from multiple reliable sources that he is fucking phenomenal in bed, and has the cock of a porn st—”
“STOP! Don’t finish that sentence. You know I don’t know that, and even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you,” I reply. “But I will tell you that he asked me to grab dinner after the game on Thursday.”
“No fucking way. Brooks McCarthy asked you on a date. Like a real date.” Watts is stunned, which is a rare occurrence. “You know he has a no-dating policy right? Like he tells girls that up front before he fucks them. Again, multiple reliable sources.”
I don’t want to think about Brooks fucking other girls. I know he has. I see the girls throw themselves at him at parties. I wouldn’t expect him to turn them all down, but it still feels shitty that they’ve had him in that intimate way.
“What are you, friends with the FBI? Multiple reliable sources,” I mock her. He obviously doesn’t want to have sex with me then. So what’s his end game? Am I some kind of joke, or a game?
“He’s spent more time with you than anyone else in the last few weeks. You’ve been a fucking ghost. Your divot on the couch is starting to fill in from lack of use.” Duncan laughs and motions toward the couch in the living room.
“Ha ha ha. You’re hilarious,” I reply sarcastically.
“But seriously,” Duncan interjects. “Have you kissed him or anything? I mean, all kidding aside, we know your history and know you aren’t going to jump into the sack with him. But you’ve had to have done something by now, right?” she asks, almost pleading with me to answer in the affirmative.
“Um, well,” I pause with embarrassment. “No, we haven’t. He hugged me once, over my arms, so I couldn’t even hug him back though. We just watch game tape and talk.”
Blaire offers with a sympathetic grin. My roomies know I am still a card-carrying member of the V-club, and they’ve never pressured me to lose it. They find it fascinating, I think. They’ve pressured me to start dressing better and start dating. They’re convinced I could get any guy on this campus to take me on a proper date, and they’re pissed it hasn’t happened yet.
“Tanner says he talks about you all the time, KK. I think he really likes you. That’s probably why he hasn’t tried anything yet,” Blaire adds. She can tell I’m a little bothered by Watts’ remarks.
“Well, honestly, I think I’ve been friend-zoned. Especially knowing now he doesn’t date. We only just talk. Sports. Life. School. I like hanging out with him, but I don’t think he sees this going anywhere. He only asked me on a date when I told him that I’d never been on one before.”
I feel six eyes burrowing into my heart, and I may cry. “You told him that? For reals?” Blaire asks.
“Yeah, he deserved to know what he was getting into. He doesn’t seem to care about his reputation, but I don’t want to ruin him. This is probably a pity date. He’s actually a pretty decent guy.”
“We love you, KK,” Watts offers. Her tone has changed quite a bit since the beginning of this conversation. “This isn’t a pity date. He doesn’t need to do pity dates. I really think he likes you. He literally could have any girl on this whole campus, and he chose you. My advice? If he’s going to be the lucky one who finally lands one of the best people I know in the whole world, make sure you let him in. Let him know the real you. All of you.” She winks as if it is less of a suggestion about opening my heart and maybe a little more about opening my pants.
“You can’t help yourself, can you?”
“Nope!” She smirks at me and punches my arm.
“Let’s go eat. We’ve got games to fucking win today,” I huff as I walk to my room to grab my bag. This is why I don’t date or even talk to guys. The pressure and the expectations are unreal. They’re also raised exponentially when the guy happens to be Brooks McCarthy.
We meet the rest of our teammates for the team meal in Jester’s. It has wood-accented décor and the tables are meant to look like King Arthur’s Court. They feed us well on game days. There’s a buffet set up for us in a private room. One side is baked chicken, green beans with bacon bits, and mashed potatoes, while the other offers spaghetti with marinara sauce, steamed broccoli, and breadsticks, with a salad bar at the end. After lunch, we head to the Golden Knights Complex, which is home to Cambria Softball Stadium.
It’s time to get game ready. Training room first, then to get our uniforms on. Our training room is massive, and we have over a dozen athletic trainers or athletic-trainers-in-training on-site for all the team’s needs. There’s room for fifty athletes to be treated inside the room at one time. Football alone gets one head trainer, two assistants, and five graduate assistants. Julie, the head trainer for softball, massages my calves and performs some heat therapy on my shoulder to loosen it up. I’ll ice my shoulder after the game to prevent swelling. Being an athlete takes a toll on your body, but I wouldn’t trade the sore muscles and achy joints for anything. I love it all.
I have a locker between Blaire and Watts. The locker room smells like sweat and sweet perfume mixed together. We at least try to hide our stink, unlike the male athletes. Their locker rooms smell like something died. Today we’re going all black. Black socks, black pants with a gold pinstripe down the outside of leg, black dri-fit jerseys with three buttons at the neckline. In big gold letters across the chest it reads “GOLDEN KNIGHTS'' and on the back it reads “KELLY” with my number 22 underneath it. Blaire’s jersey reads “LYON'' with the number 2. Tori’s jersey reads “WATLEY” with her 12 while Mary’s jersey reads “DUNCAN” and number 23 on it. We looking fucking badass in the blackout gear. So we don’t ruin our jerseys before game time, we wear our “sherjeys.” Combination word for t-shirt and jersey. They’re simple dri-fit t-shirts with our names and numbers on the back. We’ll warm up in our gold ones with black lettering. We also have white and black for different days. UNC always shows up in all white, accented by their traditional Carolina blue.
Blaire braids my hair on game days. A messy bun on top of my head doesn’t fit under my helmet. She puts two French braids on each side of my part and braids them together into one long, thick braid down my back. She ties a golden ribbon at the end, then I roll on my gold glitter headband. I hate glitter, but the whole team wears them, so I have to too. I wipe eye black in a thick stripe under each eye. I’m ready.
After we warm up, we line up on the third baseline for the national anthem. I try to casually glace at the stands to see if Brooks showed up with Bateman, but then I remember that they have practice and won’t be here until the second game. A tinge of disappointment hits me. I wish he was here already.
Then it’s three o’clock and we take the field to “All
I Do Is Win” by DJ Khaled. When he yells for everyone’s hands to go up all of the people crowd raise their arms and begin jumping up and down. The announcer’s voice echoes throughout the complex announcing our starting lineup. “Leading off and playing shortstop, number 22, Kierrrrrnan KELLY!” and he emphasizes my last name. The crowd goes crazy and the basketball team starts chanting, “MVP! MVP!” This is where I’m most comfortable and most confident. The announcer continues through the rest of our lineup. Watts hits second after me, Duncan hits clean-up in the fourth spot, and Blaire is our fifth batter.
Cambria Stadium holds about 3,000 fans – we packed it last season for our Super Regional game against UCLA. The field is completely fenced in, and the left field and right field fences are 200 feet from home plate, while it’s 220 feet to dead center. The infield is clay, and the outfield is turf, with a giant GK printed in gold in center field. I love this field.
I can hear the basketball players continue their chants. They must have gotten up extra early and pounded a few extra beers, because they are in prime form today. Braxton, Gardner, Tucker, Mackey and Lock have my last name written across their chest in black letters.
First pitch of the game, and our pitcher Coco Holden serves one up. The leadoff hitter for UNC cranks it over the left field fence. Blaire had no shot to pull that one back. It may not have landed yet. Fuck. I immediately call time to the umpire and walk over to the pitcher’s mound.
“Hey, well that’s one way to get the freshmen jitters out,” I joke and smile at Coco. She looks like she’s about to vomit.
“I’m gonna puke,” she tells me. Called it. Her face is now completely white. “I didn’t think I’d be this nervous. I’ve played softball my whole life, but there are so many people here, and this is so different than travel ball. One pitch and I just fucked up my whole career.”
“Relax, kid. We’ve got a shit load of more games between now and May,” I say. I decide to steal the speech from Gene Hackman in Hoosiers, but add a softball spin. “How far is the mound from Duncan?” I ask her.
“Forty-three feet,” she responds and gives me an odd look. She’s clearly never seen Hoosiers.
“How far are the bases?”
“Sixty feet, I hope.” She laughs a little.
“How far are the fences?”
“Not far enough!” she cracks up as she answers. I know I’ve got her back in the game.
“Okay, so now that we have established that this field is no different than every other field in the country, why don’t you go ahead and win us a game. It’s fall ball, for pete’s sake. Save the puking for the NCAA tourney. I’ll join you then.” I smile and jog away just as the umpire walks out to break up our meeting.
Coco settles in and the next three batters go down in order. Groundout to me, strikeout, and fly out to right field. We sprint off the field to our dugout. Time to hit.
Now, it’s my turn. I lead off for the Golden Knights and have since I was a freshman. I’ve never missed a game. I grab my helmet, which is matte black, with a shining image of a knight's helmet embossed in gold. On the back, in the same shiny gold color is the number 22. I know other teams prepare for me and that lights my competitive drive on fire. They try to figure out how to stop me, but more often than not they will fail. Softball and baseball are games of failure. Good hitters will get a hit three out of every ten attempts. Great hitters, four out of every ten. Me? I get on base almost six out of every ten attempts.
I walk behind the catcher to the left-handed batter’s box. I have the same routine. I start at the front of the box and smooth out the dirt all the way to the back, then I kick a good amount of dirt back to the front. I dig in my left foot first and then my right. I tap my bat on my left shoulder and lift it up to my ear. Nothing flashy, just consistent. As I step in the box, I analyze where the defense is going to play me. If the third baseman and first baseman are deep, I’ll bunt. If they pull the second baseman up and keep the first baseman back, I’ll drag down the line or pop a short fly ball over second baseman’s head because she can’t retreat that fast. If they play it true, I’ll slap it to the shortstop, because she isn’t fast enough to throw me out. Once in a while, I’ll swing away if the shortstop starts cheating in front of the baseline. I’m a defense’s nightmare. Since I know the left side of the infield for UNC is weak, I’ll drag down the third baseline this at-bat. First pitch is a drop ball. Thank you. I put the bunt down, the ball rolls toward third base and I am gone. Two-point-six seconds and I’ve safely sprinted past first base.
But what comes next is the razzle dazzle I live for. I have the green light from Coach Richardson to steal when I get a good read on an off-speed pitch, or if the pitcher misses in the dirt. I also can steal if the catcher is slow to throw.
It takes me two-point-six-five seconds to run 60 feet. That means the pitcher has to throw the ball, catcher has to catch it, transfer it to her throwing hand, and throw it on a line to the covering shortstop, who then has to tag me out. All of that in under three seconds. The catcher for UNC is slow. She was the starting catcher last season, and I had a field day against her. I stole five bases in two games.
First pitch to Watts, who hits second in our lineup after me, and I’m off. Not even close on the throw. I could have stolen this base standing up. God, I live for this shit. The basketball boys are going nuts and chanting, “KELL-LEE! KELL-LEE!” Watts is still at the plate, and I peek in at the catcher’s signs. She shifts outside. Bingo. Off-speed pitch is coming now, because the catcher doesn’t think I’ll steal again so soon. Wrong, bitch. I’m off on the pitch again, and the change-up floats into the dirt, but for some reason even though the catcher knows she has no chance to get me, she throws the ball down to third. She surprises her third baseman who didn’t expect a throw when I was already safely sliding in, and the ball skips into left field. I pop up and sprint home. The left fielder who was backing up the play makes a valiant attempt, but with my speed I’m crossing home plate before the catcher even gets the ball back. And just like that, the game is tied up.
The rest of the game we continue to dominate, and win 11-1. I was four-for-four with four stolen bases and four runs scored. Coco settled down after that lead-off home run and was absolutely lights-fucking-out. Thank you, Gene Hackman. She’s going to be our missing link this season. I can feel it.
As game two is about to start, I see Brooks walk in with Bateman, Blake and Rhodes. They draw stares from the crowd as they walk by. You can feel the air in the stadium change. How the hell did he get all those guys to come to a softball game? They go to volleyball games sometimes because, well, spandex and jumping. But we don’t have much to offer in either department.
Holy shit, he looks super-hot. His sandy blond hair is tucked under a black Golden Knights baseball cap, and I can see the longer tufts on the sides sticking out above his ears. He’s sporting a gold CU Golden Knights Football dri-fit t-shirt that clings to masculine body just perfectly. I can see his biceps and pecs rippling under the material when he moves. He’s wearing dark jeans that are just tight enough to hug his package and make you think dirty thoughts about what’s inside that zipper. I’ve never thought about a man’s dick before, especially not during a game. Fucking focus.
We take the field for game two, and we are putting on a show. Then it happens. I looked up in the stands to find Brooks’ handsome face after I made a diving backhanded play and throw out a UNC runner from my knees at first in the fifth inning. Instead, I connect with the soulless black eyes of John Kelly, and my heart stops. Why would he be at this game?
My body freezes and I can feel my shoulders tense. My dad rarely comes to my games because, and I quote, “Softball isn’t a real sport.” He’ll come to the big games with the large crowds. He must need his ego stroked.
My dad and I always got along when I was younger because I was athletic, but he was disappointed because I couldn’t play football. I wasn’t a boy. He despised my mother, Monica, for not birthing him a son. I was
supposed to be John Kelly, Jr. and continue his legacy. Instead, he named me Kiernan, which happens to mean “son of a Lord.” Even my name is a nod to his greatness.
We spent a lot of time together watching and analyzing game films. I learned the intricacies of football, even though he knew I would never play. I loved the time I spent with Dad talking football, playing catch, working out. I think he was hoping if he pumped me full of so many masculine hobbies that I would miraculously sprout a dick. He was very disappointed when I stopped growing at five-foot-five and the dick never grew. Our relationship completely fell apart when I realized he was the one who made my mom batshit crazy.
John was a charismatic and handsome California boy. He had swag. He played college ball at the University of Southern California and was drafted in the first round by the New England Patriots, number two overall. He was their career quarterback, winning three Super Bowl titles, including back-to-back titles in his prime. Monica Rinaldi was the daughter of a very successful investment banker and a New York socialite. She was beautiful, glitzy and glamorous. Everything that my dad wanted in a trophy wife. She met my dad at a fundraiser in New York that was hosted by my grandparents. My dad was one of the celebrity guests. He was in town to play the Giants. They married after six months of dating and my mom was pregnant with me before their first anniversary.
My dad lives for the spotlight, and to be the center of attention: the all-star quarterback with the trophy wife. He wants women to want him and men to want to be him. I was the one thing that wasn’t perfect about his life, so he was harsh out of the public eye. He wasn’t physically abusive, but he sure messed with my mom’s head. She convinced herself that he was cheating, and he didn’t try to change her mind. In fact, I think he purposefully fed into her jealousy. I know he never actually cheated on her for fear of a public scandal though – he couldn’t risk his name being dragged through the mud. Eventually, her paranoia won over her sanity and she hired a private investigator to follow my dad around. That apparently crossed a line for my dad, because it tarnished his public image. They fought constantly, and I watched as my mom slowly unraveled over the thoughts of my dad with other women. She began drinking to numb the pain, and she’s stayed numb ever since. She’s never been to one of my games at Cambria. Their issues are why I have avoided dating – I don’t want to go psycho over a man like she did.
Exception (Cambria University Series Book 1) Page 10