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MEGHAN TRAINOR

“A lright, put your damn shirts back on!” I shouted to the team, in between my breaths of laughter. “We don’t want to blind the poor people in the stands with your god-awful farmer tans.” Another day, another choreography practice of utter chaos.

I wouldn’t have it any other way.

I’d been with the Philly Sillys teams since their very humble beginnings. The Philadelphia Phillies finally decided to start their own Entertainment League Baseball, or ELB, team. Which was decidedly overdue.

All of this nonsense started with the quick rise to fame of the Savannah Bananas and Party Animals. Both teams played a new twist on baseball. It was more about entertaining the crowd than scores and stats. From there, numerous other teams across the country quickly joined the league, with more being added every season. The Bananas had been kicking ass and taking names, showing the industry that you could have fun and play baseball. Well, their version of baseball. And damn, was it ever fun.

The Sillys had their small stadium south of the city by the train tracks and industrial docks near the Delaware River. It was a bit out of the way from the big sports complex area, but I didn’t mind. There was less city traffic here and I enjoyed the view of the river from the stadium.

When I heard Philadelphia was adding its own ELB team, I jumped at the chance to find a job in the organization. I’d been a huge fan of Philly sports since the day I was born. All thanks to my dad who was also a product of the City of Brotherly Love. I was born and raised in the northeast Philly suburbs, on the other side of Roosevelt Boulevard from the Northeast Philadelphia Airport. My blood was made of wooder, soft pretzels, and cheesesteaks “wit wiz”. Where the polite greeting to strangers during the appropriate seasons was “Go Birds!” and “Go Phils!”. My roots were deep in the area from generations of Andrews’ living here since the pre-Revolutionary War era.

I was athletic in my own sense. My background was in dance and gymnastics. I just happened to be well-versed with the Bananas’ method of baseball, after watching any game I could that was aired on ESPN. So, when I saw the job listing, I jumped at the opportunity. I submitted a resume and audition video for the position of Team Choreographer.

To prepare for my interview, I rewatched every Bananas game I had access to so I could understand the format of the game-to-entertainment ratio. I made sure to wear every Philly sports jersey throughout the audition video. They were always hanging in my closet, waiting for their season. Between my talents and knowing the ins and outs of the new sport, I got the job .

It also helped that baseball recently moved up the hierarchy of my sporting loves. Eagles football had been my first for the longest time. But when a particular dreamboat was traded to the baseball team, that brought my attention fully to baseball for the past few years.

Football and hockey players wore helmets, so it was difficult to discern the hotness of the players during the games. With basketball players you only got a fleeting look as they ran past. But baseball? Most of the time was spent with the players in stationary positions so you were able to get an eyeful of each one every so often. So, when I locked the icy blue eyes of the new Phillies catcher, Jamie Rheems, it was all over. Goodbye football. Baseball was now my life.

The infatuation initially started when the team unexpectedly ended up with a Wild Card spot in the postseason. Seeing that they had a chance to get to the World Series for the first time in almost two decades, I was glued to my television as the team managed to inch closer and closer to the Commissioner’s Trophy. Being a Philadelphia sports fan, we were used to our continued disappointments and holding our breath for an entire season. When the Eagles nabbed their first Super Bowl win, it started a wave of varied success throughout the city with the sports teams.

I started watching just to see my home team, hopefully, get to the World Series. Instead, I ended up with a brand-new crush and yet another disappointment in my history of watching Philadelphia sports. The team ended up losing in game seven. But damn, what a ride .

Even with the demanding schedule of the Sillys, I watched baseball games live when I could. If not, I caught up with them later on the recorded replay. On the rare occasion I had a day off while the Phillies were in town, I usually tried to scoot down to the stadium and take in a game. Even if it was standing room only. The vibes at the ballpark were absolutely unmatched.

“Hey Cadence, next time go easy on us.” First baseman, Benson Haldeman, huffed at me as he gathered his water bottle and shirt he’d shed during practice. Why he and Truitt chose to have a beard while playing a summer sport was beyond me. The only part of baseball season I didn’t like was the insufferable temperatures of summer we had to contend with.

“My secret is I always go easy on you guys.” There was a chorus of groaning from the team, and I could only laugh. For the most part, they were cooperative with what I threw their way. But it didn’t mean that I didn’t get sass for it. It was a playful love/hate relationship with the guys.

One would think that spending the better part of my spring and summer with a bunch of hunky guys would be a single woman’s dream. For some, sure. As for me, the novelty wore off pretty damn quick.

I just couldn’t . First of all, they were coworkers. Secondly, I saw them all more as dorky, goofy little brothers. Little brothers who had very nice bodies. Not that I ogled them anymore. The stink of sweaty man bodies and locker rooms had a permanent place in my nostrils. Knowing what they smelled like at their worst deterred any sexy factor for the lot of them .

The guys saw me as just another guy on the coaching staff. Which also meant that none of them scattered when I had to walk through the locker room while they were changing. Most managed to somewhat hide their junk to avoid any embarrassment, but I did my best to avoid walking through in the first place.

Philly Sillys’ coach, Bert Topper, made me feel like an equal on his staff. With a few decades of minor and major league ball under his belt, the organization had to drag him out of a cozy retirement. Had being a strong word. Turned out he was rather bored anyway and was willing to give the new sport a chance. Despite his usual monotone demeanor, he was a great fit for the team. All business and no-nonsense. A stark contrast to the rest of the team

He’d call me into his office, which was only accessible through the locker room, from time to time, not caring what sort of minefield I’d have to walk through to do so. Between the team and coach, I was thankful that they saw me as one of their own. Just because I had breasts and a vagina didn’t mean that I should be treated any differently in the workplace.

The guys were more of a walking HR sexual harassment complaint to each other than they were to me. What was it with guys in sports and spanking each other? Kinky. They wouldn’t dare touch me like that. I was just someone who they got goofy or smart-assy with from time to time.

Skinny jeans and team T-shirts were my usual go-to for the ELB season. For practices, it was typical workout or dance gear. Tank tops or sports bras and Soffe booty shorts for the hot days. Ball caps and ponytails were the only suitable hairstyle. I typically cut it into a shortish sort of bob before the start of the season after letting my hair grow over the winter.

“Aww come on guys, you know you liked it.” Catcher Schmidt Sullivan chimed in, which only brought on more groaning. Schmidt was my sidekick, giving the guys a much-needed morale boost during practice and games. Party guy extraordinaire, he usually gave the mascot and my best friend, Tiffiny Roberts, a run for her money in getting the crowds hyped up, right along with the team. I’d never seen the man have a grumpy face in the entire time I’d known him.

“Schmidt you’re such a kiss ass.” The left fielder, Truitt Lancaster, chided as he stroked his beard. I felt like I was roasting if my hair even brushed against the back of my neck. No wonder he kept it wet all the time. It made more sense to cut it all off instead of dousing it with water every chance he got. But, to each their own. Guys are weird.

“You still love me though.” Schmidt grinned as the last of the guys joined us to head back to the locker room. “I’m irresistible.”

There was a more avid chorus of groans. Schmidt was one to milk his audience, whether they liked it or not. The fans were keener on his nonsense. The guys were to a point, even though they didn’t openly admit it.

“Now boys, be nice to each other. Or else practice tomorrow will involve quiet yoga.” That earned a proper grumble and a few swear words from the team.

“Yeah, y’all remember what happened last time.” Right fielder, Arlow Rivera, reminded the guys with a smirk. The man was dark and hunky, with wavy black hair that came over his eyes. Women were constantly trying to woo him, but he was cautious. He was a single dad and wanted to be a good role model for his adorable daughter, Lily. Sometimes Arlow would bring her to practice to hang out with us, but most of the time she was a permanent staple in the front row at games. She was more of a hardcore Sillys fan than I was.

“You mean the last few times,” Roman Stevens, the second baseman, added with a snort laugh.

“Tru here and his melodic ass.” It was Camden York, third basemen, and Truitt’s partner in most of the chaotic crimes around here. His cropped, blonde curls bounced as he chuckled. Truitt answered back with a punch to Camden’s bicep.

“Hey, the ladies love my ass. Its musical talents are just a bonus.”

That got me to laugh. It was never a dull moment with this squad and their seemingly unending antics. They knew not to mess with me, but they did go out of their way to try to humor me. Laughter seemed to be the energy they needed to keep up with their nonsense on the field to entertain the crowds. Laughter and cheers.

With the crowd sizes not being where ownership wanted yet, the boys had a rough go from the established date of the team. Except for me, I was always entertained by them. They thought I was always a worthy audience. Considering my good nature and love for humor, I was probably a prime person for their audience.

Some days the boys got on my nerves. But most of the time they were adorable gigantic knuckleheads. The more absurd they were to me, the more obscene the dance moves and training I made them do. They hadn’t caught on yet. Or perhaps they were just indulging me. I couldn’t tell.

All the guys were charming in their own right. At that moment no one was seriously dating anyone. Designated hitter, Martin Pitt and Schmidt were happily married. Sure, I heard about the occasional conquest from the single guys. Mostly while on the road. Philly girls weren’t as keen on their antics.

The guys were intense . With an equally intense work schedule, it was difficult for any of us to have a lasting relationship. Martin and Schmidt lucked out with getting married before they became serious ball players. Once the season kicked into full swing it was baseball all day, every day. The ELB had more off time than the majors, but the schedule was still hectic. If you didn’t have an understanding partner, it was a tough life to support.

Not that I overly minded it. Dating wasn’t a huge focus in my life. It added unnecessary complications. I loved my job. My job was my life. Not many men could understand that. Especially due to the fact that I was around attractive baseball players for six months out of the year.

Maybe I would have more of a chance to have a lasting relationship if I found someone in the offseason. But even then, it took a few months to mentally and physically recuperate from such a vigorous season. I needed to focus on myself before trying to split my attention with anyone else. It wouldn’t be fair to them, and it wouldn’t be fair to me .

Sometimes the quiet overwhelmed me and I found myself wishing to have someone to hang out with. To have a body to snuggle up to. Someone to chat with about everything and also nothing at all.

I’ve had people tell me, “Why don’t you just date a baseball player?”. Okay sure, it kind of made sense. We’d have similar schedules and training demands so we could be supportive of each other, right? Well, that would only work if we were part of the same organization. And it would only work if said organization was cool with a player dating a member of the admin team. Which was pretty much the equivalent of a CEO dating their secretary. Not a smart idea.

But I did what any sensible person would have done when an attractive baseball player asked them out. I said “Yes”. Just once though. Roman was the only one that I sort of had a crush on at first, even after working with them all for a few months. Neither of us were stupid about it. We made sure we didn’t do or say anything suspicious around the guys. Our dates were always outside of the city, so we had less of a chance of being caught by anyone who even had an inkling of who we were.

While it was a lot of fun we ended it as friends. Or well, I ended it as friends. Things got too real for me. Roman wanted to make it into something more serious and I…I just didn’t feel that way about him. He was a nice guy and I had fun, but that’s all it was. Not something that I could see being forever. It just wasn’t fair to either of us to keep it going when we had to do so much to hide it.

“Cadence?”

“Huh?” I blinked and suddenly center fielder Tomas Lopez’s face came into focus. His Dominican lilt made my name sound like music as it left his lips. I thought he looked like a charming lawn gnome with his always joyful and expectant expression.

“Yo, earth to Cadence.” Truitt had to add in his two cents with a dramatic wave of his hand in front of my face.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m here.” I batted Truitt’s hand away and sidestepped the crowd of guys who looked on in some mix of concern and humor. “I was…just going over my grocery list. To pick up. On the way home.” The cadence of my voice was choppy. I could tell from the looks on the guys’ faces that only half of them believed it.

“Shit, I don’t even remember what’s in my fridge,” Kellan Bristol added, looking rather worried as he massaged the leather of his glove while deep in thought. The guys cracked up in laughter. Thank god for the lanky, blonde-haired shortstop. He broke the tension and turned the attention of the guys off of me.

Hurrying down the hall, I made a beeline to my office to leave the guys to shower and head out for the day. It wasn’t exactly a secret that I had “zone out” moments here and there. Mostly I was just deep in thought. For some reason today my brain wanted to hyper-focus on my dismal dating life instead of dreaming about the next dance routine.

Call me old fashioned, but I only wanted to date guys that I had a spark with. A connection. Someone who I could see myself with forever. Dating just for the “fun” aspect of it wasn’t me. It was such a sappy and outdated notion, but why waste my or anyone else’s time when the next one could be forever love ?

It was probably my dad’s fault for getting me hooked on Molly Ringwald movies from the 80s. Sixteen Candles was his cult classic favorite. He only ever admitted it to me, but his favorite part was when the heartthrob crush, Jake, showed up at the church in his fancy little red sports car. Sometimes I caught my dad in the middle of a dreamy sigh as he watched the scene unfold.

So yeah. I was looking for my Jake. A man who was a literal dream on two feet. Someone who smiled whenever he thought or spoke about me to anyone. The kind of man that would be happy to see me when I got home, even when we were in our eighties.

Someone like Jamie Rheems.

Well, at least that’s what I imagined.

Jamie Rheems. The star catcher for Philadelphia. The man I rushed home to see just a glimpse of his face behind the wire cage of the catcher’s mask on television. The man with corded biceps and forearms that flexed with every catch and throw. The man with an ass I could bounce a quarter off of.

The man that didn’t even know I existed.

The man that I’d never had a face-to-face interaction with. The man that I’d never spoken to. A man that I didn’t have to work into my hectic schedule. My imagination worked him in for me. In all the delicious ways possible.

It wasn’t always a full-blown fantasy per se with a house and a future. It was just little glimpses of a shared space with the man. A smile that was just for me. A darting look into the crowd to see me in the sea of people. A lingering touch of those strong hands as we …

A knock on my office door made me jump almost three feet in the air. Unless I was showering or changing, I always kept the door open. So, it was safe to say that the new rookie pitcher for the Sillys, Ender Roche, saw my startle.

“Hey, Cadence?”

“Oh uh, hey Ender.” I managed to get out, still breathless from his sudden appearance.

“You forgot your hat.” With a bashful little smile, he stepped into my office and handed it over. His Venezuelanaccent always made me swoon. With a baby face, he still looked like he was fresh out of high school, even though he was in his early 20s.

“Fuck, right.” The guys were rather rambunctious today as practice concluded. I must have left my hat on the field when I was trying to show one of them how to do a proper cartwheel. “Thanks, Ender.” Even with his promising potential, he was the sweetest guy on the team. Well, maybe he and Roman were tied for first.

“Don’t let the guys get under your skin.” He probably told me the same thing once a week so far this season. At this rate, all I could do was laugh and nod.

“I know, they’re just a bunch of overgrown goofballs. Some more than others. I’m good though. I’m used to it.” I dismissed him with a laugh and a wave. With a quick grin and a nod as he left, I found myself in silence once again. Well, as much silence as the closed double doors to the locker room could offer. Silence was not in the team’s vocabulary or know-how.

Glancing at my watch, I swore under my breath. It was that time again. Grabbing my purse, I made a beeline for the parking lot. I had to get home to watch my imaginary perfect guy squat behind home plate.