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

The reason I was out of the loop was solely on my shoulders.

I’d done that to myself, not anybody else.

I frowned and looked down at my son’s crazy mop of curls—just like his daddy’s hair when he allowed it to grow out in the offseason.

“Attention, ladies and gentlemen. The time is nigh!”

I rolled my eyes.

The announcer hadn’t gotten any less annoying since the last time I’d been at a home game. I kept hoping that one day they’d realize how nasally he sounded and get rid of him, but today had obviously not been that day.

“God, is it just me or does he sound like he needs to blow his nose?”

I grinned but didn’t turn toward Grams. “It’s not just you,” I promised.

“Ugh,” she said. “Seriously, I want to clear my throat toward him each time he says an R.”

“If you’ll turn your attention to right field, your home team, the Teeeexxxxxassssss Lummmmberjacccks are ready to rock the house!”

Grams snorted. “Rock the house? They’re not playing a concert. They’re playing baseball. I’d be more impressed if he said they were about to grand slam our asses.”

I pinched my lip between my upper and lower teeth, trying valiantly not to burst out laughing.

Sometimes when you laughed, it only encouraged her more.

This wasn’t one of those times. She kept going until the team finally made their way from the dugout to the field.

My eyes automatically found George and stayed there.

That was always how it had been for me.

He was so sexy…and in that uniform, he was to die for.

Seriously, if there was a single thing in this world that did it for me, it was him in a pair of baseball pants.

Gray, or white, either one was perfect.

He had a sexy ass, yummy thighs, and a sizeable bulge in the front that wasn’t truly obvious until he hiked his pants up to hit. Then I could do nothing but stare.

I’d miss many hits that my hubby got just because I couldn’t tear my eyes away from his package long enough to watch the ball.

“Are you listening to a word I say?” Grams poked me.

I blinked, yanked my gaze away from George, and turned back to Grams.

“No,” I admitted.

“You were staring again,” she accused. “If you’re so enamored with him, tell me, why the hell are you not with him?”

I looked away.

“Life is complicated Grams. We’re on different paths in life,” I lied.

“How is your sister?”

I frowned. “She’s okay. She’s back at work at the bank, but she’s no longer in a manager position. They demoted her to teller of the drive-through because she gets less human contact there. Meaning she won’t blow up at an unsuspecting customer because they forgot to face all their money a certain way.”

“Did the doctor visit in Dallas go well last month?”

I sighed. “Yes and no. They say that everything she’s saying aloud, or doing, is something she would’ve likely thought before her accident, but never put action to. Now that she had that TBI—traumatic brain injury—they say that her impulse control is nil. She literally can’t stop herself from doing the things she does.”

“So, if she walked up to a cop, looked at his gun, and thought ‘I wonder what he’ll do if I take that?’ She’ll actually do it?”

The thought made my heart race. “God, I hope not.”

“I do, too. That would be some serious bad mojo with what’s going on in the world right now.” Grams put voice to my thoughts.

“I know that’s right,” I agreed. “I think it’s time for you to go out there.”

“Each year,” the announcer called through the speakers, his voice booming and nasally. God, would he ever blow his nose?! “The chosen member of the Lumberjacks says a few words about his family. This year, that team member, who was drawn out of a hat, is George Hoffman, better known to you fans as Furious George.”

“What the fuck?”

My thoughts were echoed by Grams.

Surely, he explained that he shouldn’t be talking about his family…right?

Because that was fucking painful for him.

Hell, it was painful for me, and I didn’t have it near as bad as he did.

I would literally hate to talk about my family in front of this crowd!

“Grams, go out there!” I whisper yelled. “Do something.”

Grams got up from her chair, and I gestured at Tyrone. “Ty!”

Tyrone looked over at me, glanced at Grams, then nodded.

He reached over and took Grams by her tiny waist, and then placed her on the other side of the wall.

Grams started walking just as George was handed a microphone by the team manager.

Grams reached his side just as he started talking.

“I sure am glad to be here,” George’s beautiful, melodic deep voice slid through me. “Everybody ready to win a game tonight?”

The fans started to scream and holler.

George didn’t say anything until the yelling died down.