Chapter 26 Chapter 26 The Baseball Player
I rushed through traffic to make it back to my home school for tennis practice—last practice before the tournament this weekend. Turning into the parking lot like a racecar driver, my tires screech as I pull into a spot. Grabbing my bag, I get out of my jeans and slide my skirt up my body, tights underneath. My shirt comes off, uniform tank top on, jacket in my hand, and I hear whistling. Looking out the windshield, I see the baseball team—well, a few players—leaned on the fence watching me. Only my shoulders are visible from behind the steering wheel, but they’re bare, so they know what I’m doing. I hop out of my G-Wagon and lock it, bag in hand, running past the baseball field and toward the tennis courts. I make sure to flip the boys off on my way to practice.
“Nice of you to join us, Elle!” says Coach Williams as I drop my bag and get in line. “Stretch, run, and then one-on-one. Go!”
“So, are you going to come out with us after practice?” asks Erika as we pull against each other, sitting on the ground with our feet touching.
“Where are we going?”
“Kyle is having a small get-together at his house. He lives a minute from the school. The baseball team will be there, and one of his friends has been asking about you!”
“Fine!”
“Oh God, Elle! How many times have you looked at that damn picture?” asks Tish as we move to do another stretch alone.
“I haven’t!” That’s a lie. I keep going back to it, but here’s the thing—he’s been posting more pictures with her. Every picture feels like another knife to the heart.
We finish stretching and go for a short lap around the track. I look over at the baseball team—they’re practicing. They are really nice to look at in those tight pants; they all have nice asses.
“He’s Greek and just got out of a bad relationship!” says Tish. “The guys call him ‘Tripod’!!!” Erika laughs, passing us up.
I start laughing and then stop. God, it’s been months since the last time I actually laughed. Tish and Erika smile at me.
Back on the courts, Coach Williams pairs us up. I get Neda, a Serbian girl. She’s good—I haven’t played against her yet. I spin the racket in my hand nervously before I serve. Leaving my emotions on the court, I hit the ball with everything I have. She’s fast, returning it immediately. Neither one of us has scored yet—we go back and forth, back and forth.
“One of you needs to close the deal! Let’s go, ladies!” yells Coach.
We push each other harder, and I like playing with her—this is fun. I grip the racket with both hands and focus on the line. Neda misses. She serves, and I go to return it but end up scraping my outer thigh on the court. It hurts like hell. My leg starts to burn. I push past it and play Tish next.
As practice wraps up, Coach reminds us where the tournament is and what time she wants us there. We all nod. Erika waves to her boyfriend as Coach Williams leaves us on the court. Tish hooks her arm through mine, and we follow Erika to the baseball field. The boys are done practicing too. Kyle is leaning on the fence; he leans over and kisses her. His hat is backward, his eyes a deep sky blue, his skin tan, blond hair peeking through the opening.
“I’m Kyle!” he says, reaching his hand over the fence. I take it. He turns and whistles. “George, come here!” Then, under his breath, “Fucking Tripod doesn’t know when to stop!”
“I heard that!” says George from the outfield, where he’s tossing a ball with another guy.
I watch him run toward us, and the closer he gets, the more I realize he’s short. Fuck. He stops on the other side of the fence—maybe an inch taller than me.
“I’m George!” he says, reaching his hand over the fence like Kyle did.
His hand is big and warm. I look him over, trying not to be obvious. Brown wavy hair, light blue eyes, glasses, plump lips—I bet they’re soft. I bite my bottom lip.
“Elle,” I say, smiling at him.
“Shit, your leg looks bad. I have some stuff—we should clean it now.”
I look down. There’s court gravel in it, and I must have bled because it’s dried now. It’s a small patch, no big deal. I shrug, but he insists. Before he turns away, I do it—I glance down at his bulge. I had to. Why do the guys call him “Tripod”? God damn it, I’m going to find out.
He walks off and comes back quickly with a small first aid kit. George hops over the fence and drops to his knees, inspecting my leg.
“Let me know if this hurts!”
He’s really gentle, cleaning up the scrape. Kyle looks down at him and laughs. Erika shoves Kyle and sends him to grab his stuff; she and Tish follow him, leaving George and me alone.
“I saw that!” he says, smiling up at me.
“What?” I ask, playing dumb, even though I know he’s talking about me checking him out. Now I’m wondering—how big do you have to be for other guys to give you that nickname?
“You know what,” he says, smiling again as he places a clear bandage on my thigh. “You can swim in this. Leave it on for a few days.”
“Thanks!”
Then I feel the warmth of his hands on my leg. I’ve been too busy watching him to notice before. His hand rests on my calf, then glides up to the back of my thigh as he stands, taking my breath away. It’s been some time since a guy has touched me.
George smells amazing for someone who’s been out in the heat for three hours. His white uniform is covered in red dirt—he likes to slide. He takes his hat off and runs a hand through his hair. Damn, he’s really cute. His eyes meet mine, and he smiles, dimples showing.
Yeah… I am so fucking him.