Pitch Please (There's No Crying in Baseball 1)

Wrong.

Oh, how wrong I was.

“Hey,” the player that I was having a very hard time ignoring interrupted my inner musings.

I turned, this time surprised that I couldn’t see his eyes anymore.

He had on wraparound sunglasses that were tinted an intense shade of blue, and I liked them. A lot.

“Y-yes?” I stuttered.

“Can you go to the concession stand and get Manny a couple of Double Bubbles?” he asked.

I blinked, surprised that he would ask me.

“No,” I immediately disagreed. “I’m the trainer. I can’t just leave. What if someone gets hurt?”

His eyes stared at me steadily. “Because if he doesn’t have all of his gum, he might be hurt. You don’t want to be the cause of that, do you?”

I stared at him as if he’d grown seven heads that were all leaking snot.

“You’re serious.”

“Deadly.”

I gave him a disbelieving look.

“I’m not leaving, but I’ll ask my friend to get it for me. She’s in the seats above the dugout,” I explained when he gave me a dubious look. “You might be in luck.”

He looked at me approvingly.

“I like your ingenuity,” he grinned. “Is Bobby not coming back as head AT?”

I shook my head. “Bob had a heart attack about a month ago,” I frowned. “He’s okay, but he’s had to slow down quite a bit. He might be back in an advisory capacity once he’s fully healed; but, until then, I’m your man.”

He chuckled, and I felt that dark, deep rumble in my soul.

“I like you, Half-Pint,” he grinned. “I…”

I stiffened at the use of Half-Pint.

I was not a half pint.

I was a full pint. Maybe even a quart.

And I liked it.

Well, I didn’t like it as much as I owned it.

I was curvy, and I knew it. I worked my ass off, ate the right shit, and I was still heavy.

It wasn’t ever going to be different, and I accepted that, but the man didn’t have to point it out to me or make fun of me by using demeaning nicknames.

But before I could snap at him, a coach yelled from the front of the dugout.

“Parts! You’re up!”

Parts got up, leaving me with nothing else to do but text Rainie and ask her for two pieces of Double fucking Bubble.

Sway (7:30): Will you go buy me two pieces of Double Bubble? One of the players needs it.

“Did anyone find my gum yet?” Manny, number 11, called out. “Seriously, guys. One of you motherfuckers better not have eaten it.”

Nobody answered, and I chose to ignore him as well.

My eyes staying on Hancock “Parts” Peters. Number 49.

He did his whole ritual.

Once he was there, he dropped the bat onto the plate, put his gloves on, and started his routine as he pulled his pants up above his calves, continuing on to adjust his hat and tap the plate with his bat.

Did he pull them down each time he was done hitting?

The thought made me smile as I watched the pitches start flying.

The first two were balls. The second two Hancock fouled.

The next one went straight at Hancock’s head, and he dropped to the ground to avoid being hit.

Hancock got up, dusted himself off, and glared at the little fucker who’d nearly hit him.

And I do mean glare.

If there was a definition of glare in the dictionary, the look Hancock just sent the pitcher would be directly under it for emphasis.

He bent down and picked up his glasses that were laying in the dirt next to home plate, blew them off, then resituated them on his face.

Then he did his whole routine again with his bat, gloves, and pants. Followed by the hat adjustment, bat tapping and swinging it up to his shoulder.

Once when he was ready, he took his bat and aimed it high over the fence, indicating he was about to hit it over the fence.

My mouth dropped open at his audacity.

“Damn showoff,” the coach muttered.

I hid my smile as I continued to watch.

The pitcher, Ramirez, sneered, and I knew what he was about to do.

He was going to hit him.

Knew it without a shadow of a doubt.

Ramirez reared back, lifted his leg and let the ball fly.

Hancock turned into the pitch, letting the ball smack into his right shoulder, and I groaned along with the entire stadium.

Ramirez had the fastest arm in the league right now, and being hit with a ball at ninety-eight miles an hour was enough to hurt anyone, even a big man like Hancock.

I stood up and was on the top steps of the dugout before Hancock even turned, and what I saw on his face was enough to send me back to my seat.

He wasn’t hurt.

Or, at least, he wasn’t going to show it.

He was, however, pissed.

Ramirez made it two more pitches, hitting one more player, before he was removed and replaced in only the first inning, and I found myself smiling.