Third Base

Book 1: The Boys of Summer

by Heidi McLaughlin

Genres: Contemporary Romance; New Adult Romance; Sports Romance

Synopsis

EVERY GAME HAS RULES. HE'S ABOUT TO BREAK THEM . . .

Since becoming a major league baseball player, I've learned a few hard lessons. Like never give out your home address on social media (sorry, Mom). Never shoot your mouth off without thinking . . . and never, ever let your personal life interfere with your game. But then I saw her - sitting alone behind the enemy dugout, watching me - and I just had to meet this girl.

Now I know that Daisy Robinson has her secrets, but there's something about her that drives me crazy. Maybe it's her innocence, her absolutely amazing knowledge of baseball, or just the fact that she is so unbelievably beautiful. I have to take it slow. Prove to her that the rumors about me are just that - rumors.

Daisy might be my ultimate lifetime win. . . if I don't get hit by the curveball that's coming my way.

Release date: June 7, 2016

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 288

Sample

“Why do you read that shit?”

Steve Bainbridge, center fielder for my team, the Boston Renegades, throws a ball at me, causing me to drop my phone so I can catch it. I’d rather replace a cracked screen on my phone than take a ball to the face. Having a busted lip or a black eye isn’t my idea of a good time. He picks it up before I can and scrolls through the blog post I had been reading. The BoRe Blogger hates me and I can’t figure out why.

“Well, at least you’re not being called out for retirement three weeks into the season.” Bainbridge hands me my phone and sighs. This is my second season in the league and he’s been a mentor to me. Toward the end of last season, I had a lot going for me until I messed up one night. Bainbridge was there to help get my ass out of hot water before our general manager, Ryan Stone, could kick me off the team. The incident in question? I bought some drinks for a minor who was celebrating her birthday. She was in the bar. Apparently she had snuck in, but because I’m a Major League baseball player, the district attorney thought he’d try to make an example out of me. Thankfully, the Renegades have a stellar legal team and I was able to get away with a few hours of community service.

Hard lesson learned. In fact, I’ve had to learn a few over the past year—for instance, tweeting out my address isn’t the smartest thing to do. Women of all ages show up wearing next to nothing, and when your mom answers the door… let’s just say there are things even she shouldn’t see.

“Are you done at the end of the season?” We prepare our whole lives for moments like this without even realizing it. Like when your best friend moves away, or the seniors on your team graduate. It’s really no different when someone retires or gets traded. Retirement is harder to deal with because guys usually move back to their hometown or their wife’s hometown and you don’t see them as often. At least with a trade, the next time you play that team, you can hang out.

“My wife… she gave me an ultimatum. I quit or she walks with the kids.”

“Oh.”

“Nothing for you to worry about, kid,” he says, as he walks down the stairs and through the dugout, disappearing down the tunnel. Just a handful of the guys on the team have wives. It’s a low statistic, according the BoRe Blogger, citing the fact that our general manager is rebuilding a team with young talent that can last a few years. I think our GM wants to win and is doing everything he can to make sure it happens. It has nothing to do with age or marital status.

I pick up my glove and one of the loose balls sitting by my feet and toss the ball into the stands. We have two home games before we hit the road for six away and then back home for three before we get a day off. It’s the start of the season and I’m already looking forward to a day off.

Before each home game, a young fan, along with his or her family, is chosen to be our guest for the game. Not only do they gain early access to the ballpark for a tour, but if a few of us are here early, we’ll come out and throw the ball around for a little while so they can watch. The fan becomes our honorary bat boy or girl for the game, going home with a ton of selfies with the players, autographs, and souvenirs.

Tonight’s fan is a girl with pigtails and a thousand-watt smile. Her Renegades hat sits on top of her head, barely hanging on. Her face lights up when she catches the ball easily in her glove and she waves at me before turning to her parents with excitement. Being good to your fans is something my college coach instilled in me after every single game. It didn’t matter what test we had in the morning, what the weather was, how tired we were, or whether we got our asses beat—we’d stay to sign autographs and take pictures until the last fan left. Our boss, Ryan, feels the same way. He says fans make or break you, and he’s right. That’s why the BoRe Blogger gets under my skin so much. I don’t know who he is, but I’d like to meet him to find out what his beef is with me.

Reporters line the wall outside our clubhouse, waiting for an interview. The media is allowed in the clubhouse until batting practice begins. Cal Diamond, our manager, has a list of guys who will talk each day, even though the media tries to get audio clips from everyone. I’ve yet to be chosen. I try not to let it bother me, but it does. I know I’m young and say stupid shit sometimes, but I don’t do it to be harmful to the team. My mouth just works faster than my brain. It’s something my agent says I need to work on. Stone says he’s looking for someone to come in and give us all some media training. In the meantime, I usually visit the trainer or go into our lounge before batting practice, which is off-limits to the media.

They call my name. I wave and smile like I’ve been instructed to do and enter the clubhouse. It’s chaos in here, but it’s expected on game day. The Renegades are high energy, unlike some of the other teams out there. I’ve heard rumors that some clubhouses are quiet zones, the “Zen” zone. We tried that once last year, and most of us fell asleep before the game started. The idea was quickly nixed, and since then the clubhouse has been a mecca for craziness.

On any given day, this room is filled with towel snapping, raunchy jokes, and guys running around bare-assed with only their jockstraps on. The one rule we have in here: no women, no wives, no girlfriends, etc.… Not because we walk around naked, but because we’re disgusting and our antics will give a bad impression. We want the women to remember us for what we do on the field, not the shit in here. Besides, the wives have a pretty stellar lounge that they can hang in until the game starts.

I change quickly, slipping on my long-sleeved jacket before heading back onto the field for warm-ups. It’s still downright cold in Boston. There are a few cheers as we start coming out of the dugout as season ticket holders arrive early. Kids line every available space in hope of getting a high five or snagging a fly ball from batting practice. After a while, you start to recognize the same faces. I look for one in particular that I’ve been looking at since the midway point of last season. She usually sits parallel to third base, behind the enemy. When I look over in between plays, I swear she’s staring at me. I can’t always tell, though, because she wears her Renegades hat low and I can’t see her eyes.

She’s always in a black-and-white BoRe baseball shirt with her long hair pulled back. I’ve noticed that she changes the color from blond to brown depending on the season, but it’s always long. She’s always in the same seat for every home game, which leads me to believe she’s a season ticket holder, even though, by all accounts, she seems too young to be able to afford tickets this close to the field. It also hasn’t escaped my notice that the seat next to her is always empty. It should also be noted that I look for her each time I walk out of the dugout and walk to home plate, or when I finish warming up between innings. There’s just something about her that keeps me interested, even though I don’t know her name or anything about her.

What I do know and like is how she’s at every home game, wearing her Renegades gear. I really like that she’s a baseball fan, but more important, that she never brings a guy with her, leading me to believe she’s single. I also like that she’s a mystery—I know finding out who she is wouldn’t be hard. I could send an usher to get her or ask the office who the seats belong to. One of these days I’ll hit up the usher, because asking the front office seems like a bad idea. I don’t want the ladies teasing me, and even though they’re nice and motherly, they’ll tease the crap out of me for showing interest in someone.

As soon as I step out onto the track, I’m looking in her direction. Her seat is still empty, but it’s early. We have two hours before the first pitch. I won’t start to worry yet. I’ve grown accustomed to having her there, even though I know in the back of my mind I’m making up most of the subtle looks I get from her.

“Looking for your girlfriend?” Travis Kidd, our left fielder, slaps me on my ass as he walks by. He turns and makes a lewd gesture with his hand and mouth. I throw a ball at his head, but he dodges it easily and starts laughing as he walks toward center field for warm-ups.

Each game, we meet out in center field to stretch for fifteen minutes as a team before breaking off for individual warm-ups. By team, I mean mostly starters and a few of the pitchers who will be working tonight. The rest of the guys linger in the clubhouse until it’s time to work on individual stuff.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say as I catch up with him. He puts his arm around me and makes stupid eyes at me.

“I see you looking at her, grabbing your meat diddler in between batters.”

“There are thousands of people in the stands. I could be looking at anyone. Besides, every time I look back, you’re touching your schlong dangler, so don’t even think about giving me any shit.”

He shrugs. “I see her looking at you, too.”

“Really?” I ask, pausing midstride.

“Nope, but you just affirmed my suspicions that you’re into her.”

I shake my head and push him away. He stumbles a few steps before righting himself. “Ask her out,” he says, in his infinite wisdom.

“Nah, it’ll just be more fuel for the BoRe Blogger, and Stone is already annoyed with me. He doesn’t need a reason to trade me.”

Kidd bellows out a laugh, bending over and holding his stomach. I’m not sure why it’s so funny—the thought of me being traded—but you don’t see me laughing.

“Dude, even if you started dating the fan, Stone isn’t going to trade you.” He puts his arm around me and turns me toward the stands. “More than half the people in the stands are wearing your jersey. You’re his young rising star, and aside from screwing up last year, which really wasn’t your fault, you’re the golden ticket.”

Growing up, I knew I wanted to play baseball. I didn’t care who drafted me, but I knew that once I had a team, that’s where I wanted to stay. I worked my ass off in high school, earning a Division One scholarship to Oregon State. My junior year, we won the national championship, and from then on, I knew nothing was out of my reach.

“I want to be the next Derek Jeter.” I imagine legions of fans standing and cheering for me as I tip my hat to them in thanks.

“No, you don’t. You want to be Ethan Davenport. Be you, no one else.”

He slaps me on the shoulder with his glove, leaving me to look out over the stadium. People file in as the smell of hot dogs and popcorn moves through the air. Their laughter mixes with the music, creating a happy ambience. Without even thinking, my eyes travel over to where I’ll spend half the night. I’m out too far to see, but everything tells me that the first seat in row C, section sixty-five is occupied.

It’s game night at Lowery Field and the Boston Renegades are about to take on the Baltimore Orioles.

After the national anthem, we take the field. Kids are standing up and dancing, trying to get on the Jumbotron. I remember trying to do the same thing when I was a kid and my dad would take me to the Seattle Mariners games. I always tried to get on, or get a high five from the Mariner Moose. Small moments like that can make a kid’s night at the ballpark. Catching a home run or a foul ball is the icing on the cake.

As I’m jogging to third, I let my eyes wander to the fans. She’s there with her ball cap on; the seat next to her is still empty. The slight movement of her head has me thinking that she’s watching me. I purposely walk over to the Orioles’ dugout and talk to one of my buddies from college, Justin Shaw. He’s a relief pitcher, and I’ll likely be facing him tonight.

“Shaw,” I say as I quickly glance over the top of the dugout and our eyes meet. I smile, and she turns away, but not before I see a slight grin. Justin comes out of the dugout and we bro hug—something I probably should’ve done before the game, but she wasn’t sitting there then.

“Don’t strike me out later, okay?”

“No promises, Davenport.”

Shaw walks with me to third before he trots off to catch up with the other pitchers heading to the bullpen. Before I take my first grounder, I look back just once to catch her staring. Maybe I should ask an usher to bring her to the lounge after the game or ask the front office who owns those seats. However, asking the front office either means waiting another day or waiting until I get the nerve up to go in there. I make a mental note to grab an usher during the seventh-inning stretch. There’s a good chance she’ll blow me off, but I won’t know until I try.

The first to bat for the Orioles is a lefty. I’m poised and ready for anything that comes my way. He swings, undercutting the ball, which flies up high in foul territory. I take three steps forward and four to the side, waving my hands to let everyone know I’ve got this. The ball lands in the pocket and my right hand comes over automatically, closing my glove. I take the ball out of my glove and, instead of throwing it to Jasper Jacobson, our catcher, who is waiting for it, I toss it into the stands at the girl who has caught my attention. She yelps in surprise, but snatches it like a pro. I wink and motion to Kidd that we have one out, even though I know he’s aware of that fact.

I’m trying not to pay attention to what’s going on around me, but as soon as I catch a glimpse of a replay of me throwing the ball to the girl on the Jumbotron, I stop and watch. When the camera focuses on her face, I find myself trying to memorize her features so that when I see her later tonight, hopefully, I won’t get caught staring. From what I can see, even with her hat pulled down, she’s beautiful, and seeing her getting shy on screen just tells me that I need to know her.

When the inning is over, Kidd runs by me, slapping me on the ass. “You better hope she’s a penis lover,” he says, laughing all the way into the dugout. I don’t have time to mess around with him or listen to the other guys giving me shit about what I did. Besides, it’s not like they’ve never thrown a ball into the stands. So what if I purposely aimed it at a female who also happens to be cute? In my defense, I didn’t know she was pretty until after I gave her the ball. I did it because she was staring at me and I wanted a reaction. Now I’ve got it.

Our first and third base coaches head out to the field just as the Orioles pitcher finishes his warm-up. Up first is Kayden Cross, six-year starter and first baseman. He’s recently come through a broken engagement that has hit him fairly hard. He’s a good example of someone who can’t separate his personal life from work. They had met in the front office and after they got serious, she quit. I guess she didn’t like being taken care of, because she took a job in California before breaking it off with him. This happened during spring training while we were in Florida. When he came home, she was gone.

Cross goes down swinging, putting me on deck. Up next is Preston Meyers, right fielder and seasoned veteran. His picture flashes on the Jumbotron, much to the delight of the fans. He’s been a fan favorite for as long as I can remember. He’s been in the league just over ten years and shows no signs of slowing down. I step out onto the track and into the on-deck circle. I adjust and readjust my batting gloves and my helmet before taking my practice swings. Each one is timed with the pitcher.

Meyers hits a blooper over the shortstop’s head, putting him on first. Those hits are bitches and hard to catch. Infielders can’t backpedal fast enough and the outfielders can’t get there in time. I hate them. My name is called as my walkup song plays, “Down and Out” by Tantric. My picture, along with my stats, is plastered all over the Jumbotron, and cheers ring out across the stadium. After one year, I feel like this is home… like Boston is home. The fans of Boston treat you as if you’re part of their family. I love walking the streets downtown and running into fans, especially the little ones.

I’m trying not to look, but my eyes seek her out anyway. She’s looking in my direction, leaning her arms on the dugout in front of her. With one last glance, I step into the batter’s box with one foot, keeping my left out until I’m ready to take the pitch. I adjust my batting gloves, step in fully, and then adjust the sleeve on my shirt before settling the bat at my shoulder, ready to swing. The first pitch is a ball. I step out, clear the dirt in front of me, and readjust my batting gloves. I’m consciously trying not to adjust my cup right now even though it’s sitting slightly awkwardly. As it is, I’ll be all over the BoRe Blogger’s page tomorrow since I gave the third base cutie the ball. I don’t want to read how many times I touched myself, too.

I know I’m swinging as soon as I see the ball. My lower half starts to swing as I keep my eye on the center of the ball. The fastball is spinning its way to the plate, and as soon as I feel my bat connect with the white leather, I’m pushing my swing out. I drop the bat and watch the ball fly deep over left field. Meyers is holding at first, waiting for our first base coach, Shawn Smith, to give him the okay. I’m halfway to first when I hear Smith yell, “Home run!” and the fireworks go off. It doesn’t matter how many times I hear them, I still jump when the first boom happens.

Smith gives me a high five as I touch first. My pace is a slow jog as I round each base, getting another high five when I get to third. I want to look over, but I don’t. Not this time.



I look at the scoreboard from the on-deck circle. It’s the bottom of the ninth with two outs. Unless we go on some miraculous run, the game is over and we’ve lost, giving us our second loss in a row.

The Orioles’ coach calls for a time-out and approaches the mound. This gives Meyers, our right fielder, the opportunity to talk to me. Actually, it gives me the ability to stare at the girl who has held my attention all night. After my home run, I thought I could focus on the game, but each time I came up to bat or went out to the field, I was looking to see if she was staring… and she was, which really stroked my ego.

I meet Meyers halfway between the on-deck circle and home plate. Usually, we’d stand back or talk to the third base coach, but there’s no coming back from this defeat. When I reach him I can tell he’s frustrated; we all are. We’re a far better team than what our record shows. Even though it’s still very early, our expectations are much higher, and with the road trip coming up, we have got to get out of this funk, fast… before it’s too late.

“This ump is calling shit.” Meyers kicks the dirt around his feet.

“Has been all night.” On any given night it’s either in your favor or not. Some umpires come into a game with a chip on their shoulder. They remember everything, and they don’t let you forget it. People say once the game is over, it’s over. Umpires don’t feel that way.

“Play ball!” the umpire yells.

Meyers goes back to home plate and settles in for what could be his last pitch. If he gets on base, I’m up. If he strikes out, my night is over. I rest my bat on my shoulder and watch—not Meyers, but the girl in the hat. She’s leaning forward, resting her elbows on the dugout. I had every intention of finding an usher during the seventh inning, but lost my nerve. I don’t know how that would be received if Diamond were to find out, and short of going into the stands the second the game is over, I’m running out of options.

It’s a swing and a foul ball for Meyers. . .