Hittin' It Out the Park (3 page)

“Oh, my God, did he really say, ‘what to get cleaned'?” Stephen put his hand to his brow and leaned his forehead back in dramatic fashion. “Not only does he look like nineteen-eighties Rick James, he sounds like nineteen-sixties Gomer Pyle.”

Mr. Jheri Curl, who Cheryl figured had to be about six feet three, looked down at the five-seven Stephen, with a puzzled look on his face. “Sir, I said I'm sorry. It really was an accident. I'm not sure what you want me ta do, but really, there's no need for name calling.”

“Well, if you hadn't—”

“Look,” Cheryl interrupted. “Stephen, I appreciate the chivalry, but I'm sure he's not lying, and it really was an accident. Let's get outta here, okay?”

“Fine. Oh, wait. Give me about ten more minutes!” Stephen said hurriedly. “I've got to get Chuck's telephone number.”

“What?” Cheryl sucked her teeth. “Who's Chuck?” But Stephen was already scurrying away. “Oh, great,” she said under her breath. Here it was she hadn't wanted to go the party in the first place, then she ran into evil-ass Sheila, then she got a drink spilled on her $3,000 dress making her look like a chick from a
Girls Gone Wild
video, and now she couldn't even leave when she wanted because her ride had suddenly decided he needed to track down some “Chuck.” Eyes narrowed, she turned to face Mr. Jheri Curl again, prepared to take her entire frustration out on him. “You know—”

“Here you go, ma'am,” he said, placing the lightweight jacket he had been wearing over her shoulders. “Let's cover you up.”

“Look you—”

Mr. Jheri Curl quickly held out his hand to shake Cheryl's. “Randall Alston, ma'am.”

“Okay, then, Randall Alston—”

“Please, call me Randy.” He flashed a huge smile. “All my friends do.”

“WILL YOU PLEASE SHUT THE HELL UP AND LET ME TELL YOU OFF, DAMN IT!”

The spilling of the drink had only garnered the attention of the people in close proximity of the incident; Cheryl's high-decibel rant, however, caught the attention of almost the entire room. Not only could Cheryl see the people in front of her and to her side, staring, she imagined feeling lasers of heat hitting her back, emanating from the eyes of those behind her.

“Cripes,” Cheryl said inwardly.

“Listen, it's really still warm outside even though it's late,” Randy said, breaking into her thoughts. “Maybe if we stand outside on the patio for a little while, the warm breeze will help dry you off.” He gallantly put his arm around her shoulders and started leading her the few feet to the terrace.

Henry, the drink waiter she had talked to earlier, tapped her on the shoulder as they passed. “Are you okay, ma'am? Can I get you anything?”

She glanced at his tray of martinis, and shook her head. “Wait, yeah. Any chance I can get a double scotch?”

“It would be my pleasure,” Henry said, with a nod. “And you, Mr. Alston? Would you like another glass of water?”

Randy gave a sheepish grin. “Uh, no, I don't think I could handle another one.”

“So, it was only water, then?” Cheryl asked when they were finally outside, and sitting across from each other at a table off into a corner of the terrace.

“Yep, only water. I don't drink alcohol during the season.”

“Good, then I don't have to worry about a stain or smell. Even a clear alcohol like rum or vodka would have meant a dry cleaning bill. Looks like you got off easy.” Cheryl smiled up at him.
During the season? Hmm, a ball player, then? Maybe this party wasn't such a waste after all.

She leaned back and gave her potential prospect a good once-over.

Country, without a doubt, and his hair is pathetic, but once you get past that, and the patch of acne on the right side of his face, this Randy guy is actually kind of handsome. And, face it; he
is
charming as all hell.

“Wow, this chair is a little wobbly, ya know?” Randy stood up, and quickly pulled a chair from another table to replace the one he'd been sitting on, giving Cheryl an opportunity for a more thorough inspection. She struggled to hide a smile as she looked at the front of his pants.
And he's packing, too.
Now it wasn't only the wetness of the water making her nipples hard.

“So, you're a baseball player? What team?”

“The Scranton/Wilkes-Barre RailRiders.”

“Oh!” Cheryl didn't bother to hide the disappointment in her voice. Minor League. Old country Randy Alston was barely making $2,000 a month. Though modeling wasn't half as lucrative as most people thought, she could make five or six times that amount in a good Fashion Week. Ten times that amount if you counted the value of the clothes some designers gave in lieu of cash.

“You probably haven't heard of them,” Randy continued. “It's what you call a farm team—”

“I'm familiar with them,” Cheryl cut him off. “One of the New York Yankees farm teams, not far outside of Pittsburgh. What position do you play?”

“Third base.” Randy smiled. “You've really heard of the Rail-Riders? Get outta here.”

Cheryl shrugged. “My father was a sports attorney, in addition to being a HUGE Yankee fan. He knew everything there was to know about the team.”

“Was? Your father's passed away?”

Cheryl nodded, biting her lip. “He died when I was ten.”

“I'm guessing by the tone in your voice, it still hurts. I'm sorry I brought it up.”

“No, it's okay. But, yeah, it still hurts. He and I were . . . we were really close. I still miss him after all these years. I guess I was what you call a Daddy's girl. As far as he was concerned, I was a little princess. And when you're a kid, you never imagine something's gonna happen to your folks. He was only forty. Who has a heart attack at forty, right?” Cheryl quickly blinked back the tears that she hadn't realized were welling up in her eyes. “But, hey,” she said, trying to force a smile. “Such is life. And death. Huh?”

“Hey, hey.” Randy leaned over and put his hand over Cheryl's. “You don't have to play down your pain for my benefit or anyone else's, It's okay ta still be grieving.”

Cheryl blinked harder, but Randy's soothing words, the warmth of his hands, the martinis, and speaking about her father combined to give her heart a bittersweet ache. She finally gave in, and used her hands to wipe the tears leaking from the corners of her eyes.

Randy quietly moved his chair so that he was sitting by her side. “You okay?”

Cheryl nodded. “I don't know what's wrong with me tonight.” She looked up to see Henry approaching them. She felt a small wave of embarrassment, realizing that both he and Randy had seen her minor breakdown. “See, this is your fault,” she told the drink waiter with a pout.

“Mine, ma'am?” Henry asked.

“Yes, you were supposed to stop me before I had too much to drink, remember?” Cheryl answered. “Now, look, here I am . . . a crying drunk.”

“Well, ma'am, if you don't mind my saying,” Henry said stiffly, placing her drink in front of her, “at least you're no longer bored.”

Both Cheryl and Randy started laughing, and though Henry did his best to keep his reserved demeanor, even he eventually let out a few chuckles.

“I brought you another glass of water, in case you changed your mind, Mr. Alston. I hope you don't mind?” Henry asked after he fully gained his composure.

“Not at all, Mr. Reynolds. Thank you,” Randy answered, trying unsuccessfully to mimic Henry's clipped tone.

“How do you two know each other?” Cheryl asked after the man had left.

“Oh, we don't really. I only met him for the first time today.”

Cheryl looked at him quizzically. “And you exchanged names?”

“Yeah, it's kind of funny, actually.” Randy flashed a small grin. “I've never been ta one of these fancy parties before, you know, where they go around serving drinks on a tray, you know? So, I come in with Mr. Archer—”

“Mr. Archer?”

Randy nodded. “He's a sports agent. He's the one what invited me to this party. I couldn'ta afforded no five-hundred-dollar ticket, otherwise.”

“So, okay, you came in with Mr. Archer . . .” Cheryl prodded.

“And so as soon as we come in he's going around talking ta people, and people are talking ta him, and pretty soon I look around and I don't know where he is. So, I'm standing in the corner, by myself, and Mr. Reynolds—”

“You mean Henry?”

“Well, ya know, I'd feel funny calling him by his first name, being he's old enough to be my father,” Randy said sheepishly. “So, anyway, Mr. Reynolds walks by with a tray of champagne, and asks if I want one. I say no, and he walks away. About an hour goes by, and I'm still in the corner, by myself, and he comes and asks if I'd like a martini. I tell him no. Another half-hour goes by, and he comes by again. And then he gets kinda close to me and says all proper-like, ‘Excuse me, are you sure you don't want anything at all, sir? Perhaps I can get you a special drink from the bar.' So, now I'm feeling a little embarrassed, you know? So I tell him a glass of water will be fine, ya know? But then, when he's about to leave to get it, I ask him if there's a charge for the water.”

“Oh, no.” Cheryl clapped a hand over her mouth. “You thought—”

“Heck, I ain't never been ta no party where they was giving out free drinks before. And it's an off-payday weekend, so I'm not carrying a lot of cash, ya know?” Randy chuckled. “So, then he looks at me, and his lips get real tight like he's trying not to smile, and he tells me all the drinks are free.”

“Oh, poor Randy,” Cheryl cooed, between chuckles.

“When he gets back he's smiling and all, and I'm feeling like I know him by now, so I introduce myself, ya know? And then he tells me his name, and bam, I done met my first person at this high-falutin' party.”

Cheryl took a sip from her drink. “Well, you know Mr. Archer.”

Randy snorted. “I probably know Mr. Reynolds better than I know Mr. Archer.”

“I thought he was your agent?”

“Mine? Nah. I wish he was, though.” Randy let out a sigh. “He's got some pretty big names on his roster.”

Cheryl's brows furrowed. “I don't get it, then. Why did he give you a ticket to this party?”

“To tell you the truth, I don't know.” Randy shrugged. “He showed up in the dugout last week, and was talking to our manager. After he finished he came over and tapped me on the shoulder and asked me if I'd ever been to New York City. I told him no, and he said that Nike was giving a party that I might want to check out, ya know? Told me the date, gave me his card, and said for me to call his office to have them send me a ticket. They mailed me the ticket, I caught the bus up from Scranton this morning, and here I am.”

“And here you are.”

“And here I am.” Randy gave a slight chuckle, his eyes lowering to the table, before shaking his head. “Yep. Here I am.”

“Hey, what's wrong?” Cheryl gave him a slight nudge. “You okay?”

“Yep, I'm okay,” Randy said, hurriedly looking up again. “I was kinda hoping, well, ya know, that this invite mighta meant something.”

“Something like what?” Cheryl asked, although she was sure she knew what he meant. It was the dream of every Minor League player to make it to the majors. Randy would be no exception.

“I don't know. Well, I thought he was, ya know, scouting me or something.” Randy started chewing his lip. “I been with the Rail-Riders for almost three years now. Went there right outta high school. This is the final year on my contract. It woulda been nice if a big-time agent was interested in finding me a spot in the majors. But when we bumped into each other when we were coming in, it was obvious he didn't even recognize me, ya know?”

“Oh, wow.”

“Don't get me wrong, I had a great time, and all,” Randy added. “And I always knew making it to the majors would be a long shot. But always, in the back of my mind, I kinda hoped the only way I'd be returning to Eufaula was to visit family.”

“You what?”

Randy grinned. “Eufaula. You-FAH-luh. It's in Alabama. About two hours south of Atlanta.”

“Small town?” Cheryl wasn't sure why she was interested, but she found she was genuinely so. After gleaning that he was only about twenty-one, made less than $30,000 a year, didn't have a car, and really no prospects, she had definitely excluded him as potential boyfriend material—even if he did have a nice package. Still, there was something touching about the young man sitting next to her. She was charmed by him.

“Eufaula's not too small. About thirteen-thousand people.” Randy laughed when he saw the expression on Cheryl's face. “Okay, maybe to you that's very small, but I'll have you know Eufaula is the biggest town in Balfour County.”

“Is that so?” Cheryl giggled.

“Oh, here you are!” a catty voice called out behind them.

Cheryl closed her eyes for a few moments and shook her head a couple of times, hoping that by the time she looked up the owner of the voice would have disappeared. No such luck. “What's up, Sheila?”

“N
othing.” Sheila leaned her weight on her left leg, slowly jutting her right hip out provocatively. “I noticed you out here, and thought I'd walk over so you could introduce me to your boyfriend.” She glanced at Randy, then gave Cheryl a smirk. “I simply love his hair. How long have you been seeing each other?”

Cheryl didn't miss a beat. “About three weeks.” She leaned her head on Randy's shoulder, and smiled as he put his arm around hers. “Sheila Arlington, I'd like you to meet Randall Alston. Randy, dear, this is Sheila.”

“How do you do?” Randy nodded.

“Randall Alston?” Sheila frowned. “Should I know that name?”