Fastball (Wilde Players Dirty Romance) (8 page)

Tuesday morning, I wake up in a grumpy ass mood. I want to talk to my girl. Wait. What’s this
my girl
shit? Slow down, junior. She won’t even answer her fucking phone and I’m calling her mine. That isn’t right.

When I get into the kitchen, I slam things around in my effort to get some breakfast in me. We have another game tonight and getting my head on straight is top priority. Another glance at my phone yields zip. So being the pussy ass that I am, I text her.

Hey, just checking in. I called last night, but must’ve missed you. Call when you can. Hope you got my—just because. ☺ R

There. That sounds generic enough. I hit send before I chicken out. And then I overthink things, as usual. That smiley face was over the top. And I shouldn’t have mentioned the flowers. What the fuck was I thinking?

The coffee is close, so I grab the pot and pour. But, of course, it comes streaming out onto my hand and burns the shit out of me.

“Goddamn motherfuckingsonofabitch.” I turn on the cold water and put my hand under it.

“Will you stop making all this racket? I didn’t get in until six and have only slept a couple of hours.” My sister emerges from her room upstairs and stomps into the kitchen full of fire.

“Hmph.”

“Is that your explanation? Hmph? What crawled up your ass and died?” I’d like to say
Gina’s finger
, but I keep my mouth shut. “Well?”

Taking my chances, I look up at her and almost laugh. Her eyes are smeared with mascara, her hair looks like a live critter has taken up residence there, and she’s wearing a robe with Snoopy and Charlie Brown all over it.

“Jesus, you look like shit.”

“Fuck you, Ryder. I’ve been playing in a tournament all week, which by the way, I came in third. Fuck you very much. And thanks for the supportive phone calls and texts.”

Oh, God, I’m the biggest douche of a brother.

“Oh, Ri, that’s fabulous. I really mean it. And I’m sorry. I was bu—”

“Busy, I know. You’re always busy, Ryder.” Then she pokes her index finger into my chest. And there’s one thing about golfers. They have strong hands. “Let me tell you something, buster. You’re not the only one in the universe with a busy life.”

“Right. Gotcha. Pro golfers are busy, too.”

“Damn straight we are. I spend all day on the course, playing a minimum of thirty-six holes, and that doesn’t count the driving range or the putting green. I also work out in the gym every day, so stick that in your pipe and smoke it.”

“I don’t smoke. Remember?” As soon as I say the words, I regret them. She’s not in the mood for banter. Riley has this thing about me not respecting her sport, but she’s dead wrong. I am in awe of my sister. Out of the two of us, she is hands down the better athlete, and had she been born a male, I hate to say it, but she would’ve kicked my ass in every sport I played, including baseball. Her hand-eye coordination is brilliant, and her accuracy is dead-on. She can nail a ball, and I’m not just talking with a golf club. Put a bat, tennis racket, Ping-Pong paddle, just about anything in her hands, and she kills her opponent. And competitive—her picture should be next to the word in Merriam-Webster’s.

“It was a weak joke, Riley. You know I think you’re the best, but I don’t tell you enough. I’m sorry. And congratulations.” I pull her in my arms and give her a hug. “Nice robe, by the way.”

“Shut up, Ryder.” Her crooked grin tells me her anger has dissipated.

“Sorry my foul temper woke you up. I didn’t know you took the red-eye. And I didn’t think I was that loud.”

“Last minute thing. And, yeah, I could’ve heard you the next block over. Why are you such a grouch this morning?”

I shrug, not wanting to get into the Gina discussion.

“Come on. Tell your big sissy.”

I have to laugh at her when she says that. Older by two minutes, she’s my big sister all right. “It’s nothing.”

“Clearly, it is. You won last night in an amazing finale, and here you are, the morning after, acting like you gave the game away.”

There has to be a way to get her off this topic, so I examine my hand, pretending it hurts, even though it’s fine.

She doesn’t buy it. Grabbing my hand, she says, “Hey, I’m here. Talk to me.”

“Okay. Fine. It’s Gina.”

“Gina? What happened? Did you do something?”

“Yeah, I sent her flowers, and now I haven’t heard from her.”

“When did you send them?”

“Yesterday.”

She busts out laughing. “Oh my God. It’s been a day, dude. Calm your testicles down.”

“And this is why I didn’t want to tell you.”

“Damn, you’re serious, yeah?”

Since I am, I don’t answer.

“So tell me everything.”

Like hell. There is no way that shit will pass through my lips. “Not much to say. I saw her last weekend. We had fun. I sent flowers.”

“And you’re this trippy over her. Huh-uh. There’s more to it, Ryder Wilde.”

“And if there is, it’s none of your business, Riley. You may be my sister, but that doesn’t entitle you to everything in my personal life.”

“Well, I’ll be. You like her. More than you usually like a woman.”

“Again, my business.”

“Just remember, bro, she’s my friend, too, so don’t put me in the middle of anything.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“My advice, send her a spa gift certificate. There’s not a woman alive who wouldn’t love one of those.”

A spa gift certificate. If I were a betting man, I’d wager Gina has never received one of those from any of her previous boyfriends … no, that’s not exactly right. She claims not to have those. Or whatever she would refer to them as.

“Nice idea, sis. I think I’ll do that.”

“Asheville. The Grove Park Inn Spa. Very chic. Fletcher’s mom always goes on and on about it.”

“Thanks.” I hug her and go do the order up. There are all sorts of things, but I go all out and get her the day package. She will be pampered like she’s never been—or that’s my hope anyway.

The rest of the day is consumed with me obsessively checking my phone like a girl to see if I got a text from Gina and then heading to the stadium to prepare for the game.

The team is jacked up with adrenaline when I walk in. Cheers nearly crack my eardrum, but it’s an awesome feeling. One thing I’ll never do is take credit for a win, so I shout out, “You guys did an unbelievable job last night!”

Guys bang the inside of lockers with fists and kick their feet against them, too. The noise level is stupid crazy.

“Are we gonna do a repeat tonight?” I yell.

That question brings down the house. Coach Martin walks in with Ms. Whitestone, the owner of the team, and they both congratulate the team on our bang up job last night. Then Ms. Whitestone goes on to give us her little talk. She comes in once a week or so, and a lot of the guys ogle her. They all talk about what a MILF she is. She is an attractive older woman, maybe mid-forties, with black hair, but I’m into women my own age.

After she leaves, the rest of the players dress for the game. I head to the trainers’ office to get therapy on my arm because it’s dead after last night. Gina enters my thoughts, but I shove her out because I need to be laser-focused right now.

Down the hall, I run into my pitching coach.

“Are you going to be ready in a few days, Wilde? They’re gonna be wanting revenge after those final pitches you threw last night.”

“Got it covered, Coach.”

He pats me on the back, saying, “I know you do. Just making sure. Old lady Whitestone is anxious.”

“Aren’t we all being this close to the playoffs? I don’t need reminding.”

After therapy, I watch the start of the game from the monitor in the dugout. The first four innings are in the bag for us. Four no-hitters and we’re up three zip. But then there’s a turn around. As the pitcher throws the ball, his grip eases too soon, and the ball doesn’t do exactly as he’d planned. The batter takes a swing and ends up with a double. The tough thing is, it happens again, and this time they score with a slide into home plate on an error in the outfield. Fuck. He strikes the next batter out, and they head to the dugout.

“What the hell was that?” our pitching coach asks him when they get in the dugout.

“Ball got loose.”

“Twice? In a row?”

Our manager gives Coach a scathing look. Coach just shakes his head, and he catches my eye. I know he wishes my arm were rested. And so do I. I’d love nothing more than to get in the game. But now my hand stings, so I shake it out.

“What’s going on there?” he asks, grabbing my hand. “What happened?”

“Burnt it on some coffee, is all.”

“Jesus Christ, Wilde, why the hell didn’t you say something earlier?”

“It really doesn’t hurt. I’m fine.”

“Like hell. We can’t afford you having any injuries.”

He calls for one of the trainers. They examine it and recommend a wrap.

“How the hell can I pitch with it wrapped? I won’t be able to feel my grip on the ball.”

Coach gives me one of his
are you shitting me
looks. “You’re on rest days now anyway, so what difference does it make?”

When he puts it like that, he leaves without an argument.

“Keep it wrapped,” he tells the trainer. “And put something in there to make sure it heals fast.”

The trainer walks me over to the bench and puts some kind of goop on my hand. The problem is, it’s located between my thumb and index finger, making it difficult to open and close my hand. I should’ve taken better care of it after it happened and not let myself get so distracted by buying shit for Gina. The spa thing and then I went to that Lelo website and bought some couple’s vibrator I thought might send her a message.

“How’s that? I tried to keep it so your thumb and fingers are free, leaving you your dexterity.”

I flex my fingers and hand, and it doesn’t feel bad. “Hey, Coach, toss me a ball,” I yell. One comes flying and the trainer has to duck.

“Asshole,” he says.

“Yeah, he can’t throw worth a shit,” I say. I grab the ball, toss it in the air a bit, and add, “I think this might be okay.”

The coach says, “You have a couple of days off to rest that arm and hand.”

“But I wanna get in the pen and test drive this thing.” I hold up my hand and wiggle it around, knowing it will set him off. I love yanking his chain. His face gets as red as a tomato.

“Sit your ass back down. You’re out for the next five days. Maybe more if necessary.”

“Maybe I should just take an island vacation somewhere. You know, go and drink some fruity umbrella drinks and hang out on the beach.”

“I’ll give you fruity umbrella drinks. Right up your ass. Listen up, Wilde. I’d rather have you playing the rest of the month than for you to tear that hand up or your arm. So off your feet and on your ass. Now.”

In a characteristic coach’s move imitating him, I take my hat off and throw it on the dugout floor. He finally figures out that I’ve been playing him.

“You’re an asshole, Wilde.”

Unfortunately, we end up losing the game, which is no fault of mine, so the next two are crucial. When I get home, Riley is all about my hand.

“It’s that fucking coffee burn. I’m off for five days. I should be fine.”

“Shit, Ryder. I didn’t think it was a big deal.”

“Apparently, it is. Look, I’m beat. We have a double-header tomorrow, so I need to crash. Even though I’ll be benching it, it’ll be a long day.”

“Not even one beer?”

“Okay. One.”

We shoot the breeze, and I hit the sack after our beer. In the morning, I’m afraid to look at my hand. The trainer wrapped it again after I showered and said to leave it until the morning. Now’s the big reveal. I take off the bandage, and it does look a lot better. It hurts a lot less, too.

After my shower, I head to the kitchen for a huge breakfast. I need all the calories I can get. Six eggs, four pieces of toast, a protein shake, two bananas, some coffee, and two giant glasses of milk later and I’m rubbing my stomach.

“Christ, Ryder. Won’t you puke with all that in you?” Riley asks.

“Huh-uh. This will hold me until the seventh inning stretch of game one, maybe. Then I have these to fill in. It’s a long day.” I hold up some gigantic protein bars Fletcher turned me onto because they’re high in calories and do the trick.

“But damn, it’s not like you’re expending a lot just sitting there. Baseball is like watching paint dry.”

“Maybe, but I’ll have a lot of nervous energy.”

“Yeah, okay. Keep eating like that and you’ll have to be getting a solid workout from nine to five every day to keep from going up ten sizes.”

“Whatever. I’ll worry about my body, and you worry about yours, big sis.”

I get ready, grab my bag, and go. Maybe Riley’s right. The last thing I want is to get fat for Gina. Pushing those thoughts aside, I focus on the game and hope we pull this one out. Luckily, whatever the trainer did and sitting out yesterday had really helped. My arm feels like I could pitch, and my hand feels good. It’s still wrapped, but it doesn’t bother me because my fingers and thumb are free. We go on to win both games, and I end my day on a high.

That night, I call Gina again, but no answer. She had to receive at least the spa gift, and it’s a little hurtful that she didn’t call or text me to express her thanks. I didn’t take her for that kind of girl. Since I have the next couple of nights free, I decide to chance it and go visit her.

I put a call into Fletcher to see if it’s okay if I stay at his place.

“Cassie won’t be there, so it’s fine. My only rule is to leave it like you found it.”

“No worries on that, man. Is there a key somewhere?”

“Yeah.” He tells me where they have one hidden by the back porch. “And I know you’re probably going to see Gina, so good luck with her. She’s slippery like an eel, Ryder.”

“Tell me something I don’t know. Take care.”

When I get to Waynesville, it’s getting dark and close to seven. I head to Fletcher and Cassie’s, locate the key, and check the place out. It’s nice what they’ve done so far in the renovations. My next stop is the Dirty Hammer, hoping Gina will be working.

As soon as I walk in, I see Sam at the bar. This isn’t good.