“Oh.” When Shane and Jerry tell me they hate the hat, I just wash off the insult and keep moving along, but now that Carson is saying it, I feel embarrassed.
“No need to blush or anything.” He sets his donut down and reaches into his backpack. “If you’re going to be my coach, you have to look the part.” He pulls out a T-shirt and a black Brentwood baseball hat. “It’s a female cut so it won’t be huge on your head.” He hands it over and I stare at both items in awe.
“You got me a hat and a shirt?”
“Hell yeah.” He smiles. “You need to coach me in style.” Boldly, he takes my hat off and quickly replaces it with my new one, which oddly fits perfectly. No adjustments needed. He pulls on the brim of the hat and says, “There, perfect. Now we’re in business.”
Feeling shy and grateful, I say, “Thank you so much. This is really awesome.”
He chuckles, a hearty sound I’m starting to really like. “I think you’re the only girl I know who would get excited over seeing batting cages and receiving a baseball cap.”
“I told you I was different.”
“And I told you I like different.” He winks and then shoves the rest of his donut in his mouth as he stands. “I’m going to do a few laps and warm up. You have time to work on your nutritious breakfast.”
He takes off, jogging to one end of the cages and then to the other, all the while, my heart is racing a mile a minute, my stomach is churning with butterflies, and for the first time since I’ve run into Carson Stone, I’m willing to admit it: I might be crushing on him just a little.
Crack.
The baseball flies off the tee and straight to the back of the batting cages, a ripped line drive that would take off any pitcher’s head.
It’s been a while since I’ve worked with Cory. He doesn’t get home much and when he is home, the last thing he wants to do is swing a bat after a long and draining season, so I’m not used to seeing such power hit through the strike zone and zip the ball as hard as Carson does. I love my eight-year-olds, but they have nothing on the pure power coming from Carson’s swing.
“That was great,” I say while placing another ball on the tee.
He doesn’t even acknowledge me or my compliment, because he’s laser focused on what he’s doing. Studying the ball, thinking about his hands, counting off the steps he needs to make before his swing. It’s impressive to watch.
The strength in his thighs, the endurance he has for hitting over one hundred balls in one training session, the fine sinew that flexes in his forearms with every move of the bat, the narrowness of his waist compared to the broadness of his shoulders . . . everything about him screams professional baseball.
He might have drawn a bad hand when it came to his injury, but with his work ethic and drive, he’ll make it to the big leagues, no doubt in my mind. He only needs to wipe the mental slate clean.
Concentrating on the ball, he steps his front foot and then blasts his bat through the ball once again, sailing it to the other end.
With a resounding sigh, he drops his bat and sits on the ground where he twists his hat backward and props himself up with his elbows as he stretches out his long legs. His neoprene shirt stretches across his chest, clinging to every curve and contour of his thick pecs. I blush from the confidence he exudes just lounging there.
“I think I need to call it. If I keep going, I’m going to wear out my hands before the game tonight.”
“Yeah, of course. You don’t want to overdo it.” I stand from the bucket I’ve been sitting on and say, “I’ll start collecting the balls.”
“Nah, I can do that.”
I glance down at him. “Take a break. I’ve got it.”
I pick up the bucket and make my way down toward the end of the cage where I set it down and start retrieving balls. Before I can make my first deposit, Carson is right by my side with a handful of balls.
“Hey, I said I could pick them up.”
“And there’s no way in hell I’d let you do that alone,” he replies with conviction.
Seems like when he sets his mind on something, there’s no changing it, so we work together in tandem. The balls bounce in the bucket, the sound echoes in the large space, the thunk, thunk almost relaxing.
“Do you feel a little better?” I ask, hoping I’ve been a touch helpful.
“Yeah. I’m glad we know the issue.” He tosses four balls in the bucket. “I would be lying if I said I was completely confident though. Actually, not feeling confident at all.”
“That’s okay. That’s what happens when you make a change in your swing. The confidence will come with more practice. Be kind to yourself. We only started figuring things out last night.”
“Could have been sooner if I’d listened to your friend Jerry.”
“Barely anyone listens to Jerry, so don’t beat yourself up about it.” I pick up a ball and from about six feet away, I shoot it into the bucket.
“Oh, I see, trying to show off your picking-up-balls ability.”
Smiling shyly, I say, “It’s a game I used to play with my brothers. A little game of Horse, baseball edition. Made picking up balls a little more fun but instead of spelling horse, we would spell ball.”
Picking up a ball, he walks over to where I’m standing—right behind me—his chest almost touching my back, his hand grips my shoulder and before I can ask him what he’s doing, he tosses a ball straight into the bucket.
“Sunk it.”
Pulse racing, I slink away and try not to smile psychotically—you know, lips flat, eyes wide, like a clown who’s lost his marbles. “Uh, very good. Nice job. Well done.” There you go, keep complimenting, I’m not sure he’s gotten the point yet. “Congrats.” I bite on my bottom lip, cringe, and turn around.
“Thanks.” He chuckles and when I go to pick up another ball to put it in the bucket, he says, “Wait, hold on, isn’t it my turn to pick a spot to shoot from?”
“Oh . . . are we, uh . . . playing?”
“Hell yeah. I need to see what you’re made of. Come on, Coach, show me your best stuff.”
“Coach?” I question.
“Yeah, Coach.” He nudges my shoulder playfully, a very guy friend thing to do. For some reason, it creates a pit of disappointment in my stomach. Not that I EVER think Carson will look at me in any other way than as someone helping him out. But as a girl who is crushing—very minimal crushing, more like an ah, he’s nice and cute kind of way—it does sting a bit when once again I’m treated like one of the guys.
Licking my wounds, I say, “All right, you shoot.”
“That a girl.” He rubs his hands together and then picks up a ball. “You’re going down.”
“Okay,” I say sarcastically, knowing full well I have an undefeated record with my brothers. Cory was close to winning one time, but a rim shot killed him.
He stands to the right, cocks his hand back and shoots, sinking the ball. He gives himself a fist pump and then gestures for me to join him in his spot. He takes me by the shoulders and positions me exactly where he thinks I need to be.
“You know, I can find the spot by myself.”