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

I gave her a look that clearly said what I thought about her absurdity. “You’re more than welcome to use both of them.”

“Or,” Diamond countered as she grabbed her keys and followed me to the door. “We could go together. I’m pretty sure that tall, sexy drink of whiskey won’t like seeing only me there.”

I sighed and locked the door as we exited, then flipped my brother off as we passed.

“Ever think of calling to tell us you won’t be coming home, asshole?” Diamond shoulder-checked Dodger.

Dodger flipped her off in response.

I sighed. “Children.”

“He started it,” Diamond grumbled. “It was his turn to do the dishes and take out the trash. Guess who had to do that while you spent two hours in the bathroom covering up those bruises.”

I stopped next to the car door and threw my arms around her. “I love you, little sister.”

My little sister and best friend sighed. “Knock ‘em dead.”

***

Forty minutes later, I was balls deep in my speech when I looked up and found my eyes zeroed in on a tall, bearded baseball player.

I frowned, only stuttering with my speech slightly, and continued.

But did my eyes ever leave that man that had somehow ended up at a conference for abuse survivors? Hell no. They stayed exactly where they were and didn’t stray off of him until my boss—also my grandmother—cleared her throat delicately.

Right, work the room.

Got it, Grans.

“Are there any questions?” I carefully avoided the eyes of the man.

Which failed miserably in the next moment when the only solitary person holding their hand up in the entire room was the one man I was trying to avoid eye contact with.

I sighed. “Sir?”

“Yes,” he said. “Can you tell me where the funds go when we donate? Do you have a specific abuse shelter that is special to your heart?”

My belly clenched. “Yes, sir, I do.” I bounced forward two slides on the large screen above my head and turned. “This is Weaver House. This shelter is near and dear to my heart. Weaver was my mother’s maiden name. My mother passed from domestic violence in two thousand and twelve, and since then, I’ve made it my priority mission to help every woman I can out of the very situation that claimed my mother’s life.”

During my explanation, my gaze never wavered from the man who was making my heart pound. “Any other questions?”

I looked around the room.

“No?”

Negative disagreements filled the room, and I smiled. “All right, let’s take a forty-five-minute lunch break. We’ll resume the seminar at thirteen-hundred. Lunch has been provided for you in the room down the hall from this one. Just follow the smell of those Olive Garden breadsticks.”

I received a few chuckles from the women as they got up and left the room, but my eyes stayed on the man that was now up out of his own seat. Only, he wasn’t following his nose like all the other women. He was following his eyes—which were aimed at me.

“What are you doing here?” I questioned, looking down at him from the higher vantage point of the stage.

George grinned. “There was only one domestic abuse seminar in the entire city. Plus, this cause is near and dear to my heart. I felt like it was a sign from above, really.”

“You’ve been around domestic abuse?” I asked carefully, moving closer to the stage where he was leaning against the edge.

The man laughed. “You could say that.”

“I can?”

He nodded.

“You’re not going to expound on your answer?”

George winked. “No. But if you go to the game, I’ll think about it.”

Then he was gone, walking out of the exhibit hall that we’d rented for the day.

And my heart was pounding a million miles an hour.

***

Four hours later, I was at a ball game in the middle of the day.

It was eighty-five degrees out in the middle of September, and I was already dreading the next eight innings.

“Swear to Christ,” I muttered darkly. “What’s the appeal here? Seriously, Diamond. Enlighten me.”

Diamond looked over at me, her gaze angry. “If you can’t keep that complaint trap shut, I’ll leave.”

“No, you won’t,” I countered. “You’ll stay right here and listen to the complete rant until the game is over.”

Which was very true.

Even if we were at home, she’d still not get up to pee during commercials because she was scared she’d miss something big.

Which never happened.

“He’s coming.”

I tugged the shirt away from my chest and looked over to where he’d been last time I’d looked and leaned over to ask my sister a question. “What’s that circle he’s heading to?”

“That’s the on-deck area. When players are up to bat next, they’ll stand there and warm up their swings.”

I looked over to where Furious George was standing and felt my mouth water.

He was wearing white pants again today, only his shirt was a bright white. His cleats had changed, too.