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

He growled at one point, and I turned to survey him.

“Did you say something?” I questioned him.

His eyes went from where my ass had just been, to my face, and he shook his head.

“No,” he said gruffly. “I didn’t.”

He slammed the door closed, and my brows furrowed as I watched him walk around the hood of the truck, and easily heft himself inside.

He didn’t even need the handle like I did.

“I like your truck and all,” I mused as he pulled into traffic and started heading in the opposite direction of town. “But it’s impractical.”

The corner of his mouth twitched as he chuckled softly.

“No,” he smiled. “Not impractical. I’ll show you why when we get to my place.”

“Okay,” I replied. “Why do you have to be at the stadium so early when the other players don’t have to get there until one?”

He let his eyes flick to mine before returning them to the road.

“I don’t, technically, have to be there until then, but I like to get there earlier,” he hesitated. “It’s a superstition.”

“Mmmm,” I murmured. “I know all about those superstitions.”

“You do?” he asked in surprise.

“I do,” I confirmed. “My brother is the king of superstitions. Although I don’t see the point of them myself, I know what the thinking behind them is.”

Hancock smiled as he pulled the wheel slightly to the left, taking the exit that would either lead to nothing, or Caddo Lake.

My guess was the lake, but he could surprise me and live in the middle of nowhere. Like a serial killer.

How much did I know about him?

Well, if I was being honest, I knew quite a bit. I knew his stats. His grade point average in high school. Oh, and I now knew he had a brother. But did that mean I knew him as a person? No.

I did trust him, though.

Even though he still made butterflies take flight in my belly every time he looked at me.

It was bad enough sitting in a confined space with him.

Adding in the fact that he smelled good had my hormones going haywire.

“What are some of your brother’s superstitions?” he asked, startling me out of my reverie of his cologne.

“Uhhh,” I cocked my head to the side and flicked up one finger. “He has to have on one specific pair of underwear, even if it’s unwashed and stinky from the last game.” I flicked up a second finger. “He has to drink a full bottle of red Gatorade, followed by only half a bottle of blue Gatorade.”

He started to chuckle.

“He drinks the second half of the blue Gatorade only after he’s won. If he didn’t win, he throws the Gatorade away.” I flicked up a third finger. “He shaves his head before each and every game.”

“That’s kind of the opposite of me,” he fondled his beard. “After the first game, I don’t shave anymore.”

I noticed.

Everyone noticed.

By the end of the season, he was looking more like a homeless man than a baseball player.

He worked it, though.

“I think I noticed,” I teased, turning in my seat to face him. “You won ‘Baseball’s Best Beard’ last year on ESPN.”

He rolled his eyes, his mouth quirking as he thought about what I’d just said.

“You’ve seen some of mine,” he continued. “Have to sit in the same spot every game.” He smiled but didn’t look over at me. “I pull my pants up after my first at bat.”

Yep, noticed that, too. Everyone did.

“You know that you have your own superstition Facebook page, don’t you?” I inquired.

He chuckled as he made another turn, and my eyes went to the road we’d just taken.

“You live on the lake?” I asked.

“I do,” he confirmed. “And Conner lives one house down from mine.”

“Why do you live out here?” I asked.

“Because it’s peaceful,” he muttered. “And because I like to fish.”

The loud sound of pipes had me looking at the road instead of him, and my eyes widened when I saw all the motorcycles parked outside one of the houses we were passing.

“What’s going on there?” I whispered. “That doesn’t seem very peaceful.”

He grunted.

“It can get loud, but they’re never rude about it. If it gets to be after nine in the evening during the season and I’m home, they’ll walk their bikes in so they don’t wake me,” he winked. “I think they like me.”

“Are they a club?” I probed, waving at the men.

Their eyes took me in, in the front seat of Hancock’s truck, and all they did was nod.

Not one of them waved back.

Guess that wasn’t a really biker thing to do.

“They’re a club.” He turned into his driveway, and my breath left me. “I’m not sure if they’re good or bad, though. They like to have parties. I’ve gone to one or two since I’ve moved in, and nothing too illegal or too out of hand goes on at them.”