Quit Your Pitchin' (There's No Crying in Baseball 2)

I wanted to be her when I got to her age.

George looked over at me almost immediately, and upon seeing me sitting in the seat next to his grandmother, he’d grinned so broadly that my chest had started to ache.

His eyes had gone curiously to my chair where the dress now lay, but other than that, he’d looked a hundred percent happy to see both of us seemingly getting along so great.

“Do you want to go out to dinner with us?”

Beverly looked over at me with an incredulous look in her eye.

“By the time this game is over, it’ll be well past eleven o’clock. I have to get up tomorrow for work.” She snorted. “No, thank you.”

“You work?” I responded curiously.

She didn’t look old, per se, but she definitely looked old enough that she shouldn’t be working any longer.

“I do,” she confirmed. “With my husband.”

“George’s grandfather?” I wondered.

The woman got a wistful look in her eye that made me wonder if it was happiness that he was dead or happiness due to the things she was remembering. At this point in time, I really couldn’t tell.

Beverly shook her head. “No. I remarried about eight years ago to my new husband, Beau. Beau owns his own strip club on the Vegas Strip.”

My mouth fell open in shock. “You work with your husband at a strip club?”

I couldn’t keep the smile off my face.

“Yep,” she snickered. “We met at his strip club, too. Now I run his books and make sure that the place is stocked for when he opens at night. Take in shipments. Sign for shit like mail and packages. It helps me pass the days.”

That sounded kind of awesome.

“Well, then maybe we can go out tomorrow afternoon?” I suggested.

Beverly shrugged. “Maybe. It depends on how hot it is. If it gets over one hundred ten degrees, I don’t leave my house.”

That I didn’t see one single problem with.

I lived in Texas where it got hot but in Vegas? It got about twelve to fifteen degrees hotter.

I couldn’t see any fault with staying inside, that was for sure.

In fact, right that very moment I was so damn hot that I would’ve killed for a fucking cold glass of wine.

“Do they sell wine at baseball games?” I turned suddenly, looking at Beverly.

Beverly shook her head. “No, but they sell beer. Beer’s really cold, too. Some of the best beer you’ll ever have.”

I believed her. “I guess I’ll have a beer then.”

Beverly patted my hand. “You do that.”

Then she turned her eyes toward my man—and her grandson—who was up to bat again.

I turned my head away from Grandma Beverly and the man in the tight ass pants that I wanted to peel off of him—slowly—and looked around for one of the beer guys.

I spotted one a few rows away and called out to him.

He turned and started down the steps toward me, and was just half a row away, right above me, just as I heard a tink.

I turned just in time to see a ball sail over the goddamn netting—a-fucking-gain—and sail over my head straight toward the guy holding the beers.

It hit the man’s hand, and the beer went flying.

All. Over. Me.

And I found out Grandma Beverly was right.

The beer was goddamn cold.

I slowly turned to pin the man responsible with the most narrow-eyed glare that I could muster.

George was goddamn snickering.

Like a six-year-old girl.

I pointed my finger at him accusingly. “You’re going to die.”

His snickers turned into guffaws.

“Well,” Beverly observed. “You have two options. You can wear your cold beer covered clothes, or you can change into my wedding dress. Which one is it going to be?”

I, of course, chose the dress.

Because who wouldn’t want to wear a wedding dress at a baseball game?

Not me.

Which turned out to be good…and bad.Chapter 5Diamonds are a girl’s best friend. But are we talking about baseball diamonds or diamonds that go on rings?

-George to the Elvis impersonator

George

“I swear to God,” I said the moment Wrigley came into view. “On my heart, cross my eyes, and stick a thousand needles in my thigh…that I did not do that on purpose.”

I didn’t have that good of aim.

Even though I’d seen the beer guy looking straight down her shirt.

I would never purposefully foul a ball that close to her again.

It did seem rather suspicious, though, that I made a comment to the umpire that the beer guy was staring at my woman’s tits, and the next thing I know I’m busting his hand with a baseball.

“He’s lying. That’s his lying face,” my grandmother informed Wrigley.

I rolled my eyes. “Don’t listen to her. She’s probably been drinking the free beer all night.”

“You get free beer?” Wrigley’s head whipped around to stare at my grandmother. “Why did I have to pay for mine and you didn’t?”

I crossed my arms over my chest and waited for my grandmother to explain.