Page 6

Chapter Six

Tahlia

June 21st - Game Day

M y phone buzzes on the nightstand.

I groan, cracking one eye open to see Lauren’s name flashing across the screen.

Closer inspection also lets me know it is after one in the afternoon.

“Shit,” I mutter when I realize I forgot about our usual Saturday brunch.

"Hello?" My voice is hoarse, thick with sleep.

"Where are you?" Lauren demands, her voice sharp like she’s already halfway through her second mimosa.

"I’ve been sitting at Early Bird for forty-five minutes. Alone.”

I wince. “I… might’ve forgotten to call you.”

“Might’ve?” Her voice sharpens. “What’s going on? You sick? Trapped under a stack of law books? Maybe even kidnapped?”

“Uh… no.” I hesitate.

I sit up too fast and nearly knock over the half-empty water bottle on my nightstand.

"Then what is it, Tahlia?

You never forget brunch.

"

Maybe she’s on her third glass. I rub my eyes and groan. "None of the above, Lauren.

Besides, if I were kidnapped, I wouldn’t have my phone.

”

“Tahlia,” she says.

“I, uh…got sidetracked with plans I have in about an hour. That’s all.”

“Please tell me it’s not another study group. Sis, I’ve told you, you got this. No need to keep overcramming.”

“No, it’s not another study group.” Taking a deep breath, I slowly exhale, preparing for her barrage of questions, telling her what my plans are.

“I’m going to a baseball game.”

Silence falls between us for a second.

Only the background noise of her leaving the restaurant is heard.

She lets out a small chuckle.

"I’m sorry. I must’ve misheard you. Did you just say baseball?"

I drag a hand over my face.

"Yes. I di—look, it’s not a big deal."

I sigh, already regretting this conversation.

“It’s… a long story. Remember my loud-ass neighbor?”

“The one ruining your sleep?”

“Yes. That one. Turns out, he’s Jake Reynolds.”

Lauren inhales so sharply I pull the phone from my ear.

“Excuse me? THE Jake Reynolds? The two-time Gold Glove winner? Dad’s newest baseball obsession? That Jake Reynolds?”

I pinch the bridge of my nose.

“Yep. The one and the same.”

“No. No way.” She pauses, then gasps again.

“So, you mean to tell me that the loud-ass, sex-auditioning, wall-banging neighbor is also the same man whose jersey is literally framed in Dad’s home office?”

“Unfortunately.”

Lauren exhales.

“Dad is gonna flip. You know he loves that guy. He has his bobblehead on his desk! Why are you going? Did he invite you? Like… personally?"

I roll my eyes. “He gave me a pass. A peace offering of sorts.”

“For what?”

“Being a noisy neighbor, I guess.”

“Hmm. You know what this sounds like, right?”

“No.”

“A date.”

I groan. “It’s not a?—”

“A date.”

“Sis.” I throw off my covers and head toward the bathroom.

“I’m just saying. A baseball player handing out a prime pass to his hot neighbor? That’s date behavior.”

“It’s pest control.”

Lauren cackles. “Sure, sis. Call it whatever you want.”

“Look. I ran into him in the mailroom, he helped me pick up my books,"

"Wait, what? You dropped your books?" she interrupts.

"That’s not the point!" I groan. "He saw me struggling and was, like, unreasonably smug about it. Then he gave me a pass."

Lauren’s laugh is pure evil. "So, basically, your romance novel meet-cute was you embarrassing yourself in front of a pro athlete, and now you're going to his game?"

I roll my eyes. "I’m hanging up now."

"Uh-huh. Sure. Text me when you get there. And send pics. I need receipts. Love you.”

She hangs up before I can argue.

I sigh, setting my phone on the counter. “It’s just a baseball game. I’ll go, show face, leave. That’s it,” I say to my reflection.

Still, as I turn on the shower, curiosity nibbles at me. Grabbing my towel, I step into my waiting shower and lather up, scrubbing away the grogginess, the irritation, the weird anticipation that won’t leave me alone. Feeling refreshed, I shut off the spigot, step out and wrap my towel around my body.

I pull my braids into a high ponytail and smooth down my edges, tying my scarf around my head. I reach for the shea butter and smooth it over my arms and legs. The usual comes next, deodorant, light body mist, then teeth, face and clothes. I slip on a pair of frayed denim shorts, a fitted black Terrors T-shirt and lace up my favorite pair of Chuck Taylors. Comfortable. Neutral. Uninterested. Exactly the image I want to project. Not even a drop of make-up. Except the ChapStick for my lips.

I take my water bottle to the kitchen, adding the little water that remains to my plant before placing it in the recyclable container and grabbing me a fresh one out the pantry. As I pass my laptop on the dining table, something nags at me.

I’m not a sports fan, by any means. Do I know about them? Yes, but my interest stops at knowing team names. So, the fact that I’m going to a game and not armed with a few facts at least about Jake Reynolds is not a good look. I open up the clamshell and position my fingers over the keyboard. If I’m going to waste my time watching him run around a field, I might as well understand what is going on. I type: Jake Reynolds Career Stats and a flood of numbers fill the screen. Batting average, home runs, steals, and RBIs. I should be reviewing case law, not spiraling down a baseball-related internet rabbit hole.

I click the link for his Gold Glove highlights and watch the first video. A montage of slow-motion dives, impossible catches, and throws from deep centerfield all the way to home plate. A video thumbnail catches my eye. Jake’s airborne, body stretched, glove snatching a ball inches from the stands. The next video is of his hitting prowess, showcasing a barrage of walk-off home runs and grand slams. The slow jog around the bases, the cocky ass grin. He’s annoyingly good at his job. I close my laptop and move to the living room to get my ID, key, and the pass, contemplating my final decision. Other than my best friend pushing me and now my sister wanting a full report, I would really prefer to not go. You know. Just leave him a nice message on his door. Thanks, but no thanks .

I would’ve even settled for an ‘I’ll keep the noise down’ instead of a peace offering that kinda makes me feel obligated.

A deep rush of air escapes my lungs as I come to terms with my fate. One last look in the mirror by the doorway then I leave, heading to Music City Ballpark.

I arrive at the stadium amongst all the excited fans, young and old here to see their beloved team in action. Everyone is dressed in team apparel as they make their way to the entrance for the line assistant to scan the tickets. I fall effortlessly in line but not with the same enthusiasm. My mind drifts to various commercial property laws since that is what I was last studying.

“Clear bags only. Have your mobile devices ready to scan to help move the line along,” the attendants bark out for everyone as we get closer.

Since I didn’t bring my purse, there’s no need for a bag check. However, I have a physical pass.

Is this a fake pass? My thoughts make me second guess why I’m here and furthermore why Jake would pull such a prank should this turn out to be invalid. I step up next in line.

“Ticket please.” The attendee requests.

“Oh. Well, I have this one. It’s not digital.” I present her with the one Jake gave me.

“Oh, dear. You’re in the wrong line. You should’ve entered around the corner at the VIP entrance. I can let you in here. Once in, ask one of the ushers to direct you to your seat.”

VIP?

Maybe the laminated square shape attached to a lanyard should’ve clued me in, but what do I know. “Oh. Okay. Thank you.” I keep in step with the flow of traffic and enter into the stadium.

The roar of thousands of fans, the smell of food and beer, the blaring music and announcers hyping up the crowd sets the scene for an exciting evening in hopes the home team brings home a win.

I weave through the mass of Terrors jerseys and ball caps, dodging excited kids clutching foam fingers in search of someone to point me to my location. Spotting an older usher standing by one of the tunnels I approach. “Excuse me, how do I get to my seat?”

“Hmm, you have a VIP pass. Section 109, Row E seat1. That’s Reynolds seats. You a friend of his?”

“Not exactly. He invited me after…well, it doesn’t really matter. How do I get here?”

“Sure, thing, dear. Go around this corner follow the tunnel down, make a left and then take the stairs down. Look for your section and follow it for your row and seat. You’re right behind the dugout.”

“Oh. That’s pretty close to the field.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty exciting. Have a good evening.”

The usher shuffles off to assist others and I follow the step-by-step directions reaching my desired destination. Not really, since I desire to be at home. My seat is ridiculously close, separated from the field by only a low barrier. I look at my surroundings and take it all in. The field is massive, the sunshine bouncing off the bright green grass. I watch the various players warm up in different sections, stretching, tossing balls, jogging.

And then I spot him.

Number 17, standing in center field, glove in hand.

He’s not smirking. Not performing. Just focused. Every move is efficient, fluid. He moves like an athlete at his peak, nothing casual about the way he prepares.

"First time at a game?" An older woman beside me asks, smiling.

"First time in years," I admit. “Is it that obvious?”

She grins. "Well, you’re sitting here staring out at the field like it’s a math problem you can’t solve. But rest assured, you’re in for a show, sweetheart. This team is like a well-oiled machine firing on all cylinders.”

“Can’t wait to see them in action.”

A trio of young women take the seats behind us, their voices already high-pitched with excitement.

"Oh my god, he looks so good today," one of the ladies’ drools.

"Ugh, I swear, Jake is, like, the perfect man."

I stifle a groan. His fan club is definitely in full force.

“Hopefully he’ll see me and we can hook up again.”

“You two are so perfect for each other. I’m a little jeal.”

“We, are, right?” She giggles and it catches my attention.

"I swear, I thought his neighbor was gonna call security on us that night," she giggles. "She totally killed the vibe."

It can’t be. Is she talking about me?

I turn slightly, just enough to catch her face. Yep. It’s her.

She doesn’t notice me, too busy giggling with her friends about how “hot” Jake looks. Especially naked.

“Damn groupies,” the lady next to me murmurs.

I snicker at her comment and suddenly, I’m glad to be at this game.

By the ninth inning, my pretend-not-to-care plan is failing. The Terrors are down by a run and have two outs with runners on second and third base. With every at-bat, and every pitch, the energy shifts with the reactions around me. I don’t know the rules, but I can tell when something is important by the way people react. The crowd makes it impossible for me not to be interested. From the boos when a strike is called instead of a ball, to the stadium chair referees questioning the sight of the ones actually on the field doing their job.

“Next up, Jake Reynolds,” the announcement comes over the loudspeaker.

His walk is slow, methodical. A hip-hop track heavy with bass booms through the speakers. The fans go wild. Some attempt to dance to his music, while others just try to get his attention. I’ve had my eyes on him at every at bat and notice when Jake steps to the plate he has to tap it twice. He crowds the box and the pitch comes fast. Too fast if you ask me, barely missing his leg.

I gasp when I think a connection was made and I hate that I reacted.

Jake shakes it off and steps up again. The grip around the base of his bat is tight. Then the pitch comes.

CRACK

The ball soars high and far. The outfielder leaps to catch it but misses it as it falls behind him. Jake rounds first then second and pushes for third when the ball is thrown from the centerfielder to the third baseman. Jake slides and the dirt flies around the plate.

“Safe!” The call comes in and the stadium erupts.

I stand screaming “Way to go, Jake.” High-fiving everyone around me.

Jake stands, sweat-drenched, dirt streaked across his arm. He looks up and our gaze locks.

His smirk isn’t cocky this time. It’s something else.

I should sit and not acknowledge his gaze. I should look away and not give into my own, but I don’t.

“And that’s your final score. Tennessee Terrors four Madison Badgers three.” The announcement blares out over the sound system as we leave the stadium.

“Did you enjoy the game?” The lady beside me asks.

“More than I’d like to admit.” I laugh.

She laughs along with me. “Glad you did, dear. Maybe I’ll see you at the next game.”

I shrug, not knowing if I’ll be back. After all, this was a peace offering.

We all file out into the parking lot and head to our prospective destinations. I take a moment to snap a few pictures of the stadium to add to the ones I took inside and send them to my sister for her requested receipts.

"So, counselor." Jake calls out to me amongst the thinning crowd. "What’d you think?"

I cross my arms not wanting to give any hint of enjoyment. "It was fine."

He smirks. "That’s it? Just fine?"

For a brief second, I feel something when I look at him. Not repulsion, not annoyance, something else. Has he always had a dimple? "You hit a ball. You ran fast. Congratulations." I recover.

“Wow. Tough crowd,” Jake chuckles.

“I’m going home to study now. Thank you for the game.” I walk toward the street since we live across from the ballpark. I glance back. "Try to keep the groupies’ voices down tonight. One of them sat behind me today.”

Jake laughs, slow and deep. “Oh yeah? Recognize the voice?”

“No, the giggle. And she can’t wait to get another night with you without your neighbor disturbing your night,” I mimic.

His grin widens. "No worries, counselor. I gave ‘em the night off."

I roll my eyes. "Goodnight, Reynolds."

Behind me, he calls out “See you soon, neighbor.”

And the worst part? I don’t hate the way that sounds.