Bet On It Page 4

  “I’m guessing that it must be the first option, since your wit seems to be lacking.” She finishes, before leaning back in her seat and flashing me a smug grin.

  I sit in silence, mouth wide open, making her smile widen.

  “So? How can I help you Jake?”

  “I came to talk about the food.” I finally force out, making her tilt her head and look at me.

  “Oh? And? What did you think?”

  “Nobody liked the salad.”

  “Spinach is a superfood.”

  “Right, but, it’s also chick food, and we’re men…”

  “Questionable, but ok. Go on.” She motions at me to continue.

  I wonder if my face is bright red with anger, because honestly? I am beginning to hate this woman, and hate is a damn strong word. But she is the most condescending, stubborn, snotty bitch that I have ever met in my whole entire life.

  “Well, we don’t like it. We want it gone.”

  “Was there anything that you did like?” Her head tilts as she waits for my answer.

  “The steak was alright. So was the chicken. The rest of the vegetables were ok. But we want to negotiate for regular lettuce.”

  “As in iceberg?”

  I nod. “Yeah. Regular lettuce.”

  She’s silent for a moment, before nodding her head.

  “You know, ok. I can’t do all iceberg. There’s no nutrient value to it, but I would be willing to do a mix. Like, romaine and iceberg, maybe some other greens in it. How would that work?”

  “We just want regular lettuce!” I shout, making her jump a bit, but only for a second, because she immediately regains her composure.

  It’s not even the lettuce that has me so pissed off right now. It’s everything else. Everything about her.

  “I see.”

  “So, do you think you can do that?”

  Her hands fold, and her eyes narrow at me.

  “No, but thanks for asking. Anything else?”

  I grunt before pushing my chair back and storming to the door. “Nope, I guess not. Buy all the spinach that you want, lady. We won’t be eating it.”

  “You might change your mind.” She singsongs after me, causing me to grow even more irritated with her.

  “Doubt it.”

  “Oh, and Jake?”

  I spin back around once I reach the doorway and stare at her.

  “It’s Laci.”

  She must notice my puzzled look, when she gives me an icy smile. “My name? I noticed you called me Miss, like you couldn’t remember. It’s not bitch, or cunt, or what was the other very original name I heard yesterday?” Her eyes roll up towards the ceiling before she grins and snaps her fingers. “Cockblocker. That was cute. But it’s Laci. L- A- C- I.”

  She spells it out, like I’m an idiot, as I slam the door shut.

  If there were a place where pictures of the most hated people on the planet hung, I’m certain that my photo would be front and center, because these guys despise everything about me.

  It’s not fun at all to have everyone hate you. In fact, it’s probably one of the worst feelings ever, but there is absolutely nothing that I can do about it.

  Unless I want to go back to my little cubicle with my tail between my legs and return to my seat next to my porn loving neighbor, I have to stick it out here.

  So, I’ve let all the mean comments roll off me, trying my best not to let any of them get to me. Except they all do, at least a little bit. But I force myself to remain strong and not to let them see the effect that they have on me.

  I am making progress, though. Not necessarily with the guys liking me, but I have definitely gotten us some good publicity.

  We’ve gained followers on our social media, each photo that I post of the guys at practice getting a few more likes each time. I’ve managed to snap some awesome pics of the guys, because while they may be hoodlum’s half of the time, at least they seem to love having their fans watching them at practice, which again, is something else that I have instated.

  I’ve opened the stadium for two hours a day, during their afternoon practice. So far, we’ve drawn quite a crowd, and our t-shirt sales have been off the charts. Our ticket sales have climbed too, and as of about an hour ago, opening day on Monday is completely sold out.

  I do my best to keep my distance while they practice, using my big camera to zoom in on them from my seat in the press box. My very comfortable seat in the press box, I might add.

  Once the season opens, I won’t be able to sit here anymore, so I may as well enjoy the seats while I can.

  I lean back in the posh chair and scan the field.

  All the guys are in practice pants, and some type of Rays shirt, but none of them match. Brock lost a bet with the rest of the guys, one that I have no desire to even know about, so he is sporting a very tiny belly tank that is about two sizes too small. I make sure to get a few pictures of that.

  I’ve already figured out that he is the jokester, so I can only imagine the reason behind his belly shirt. But, some things are just better left unknown. I am, however, going to have to keep my eye on him, because he is major trouble, in all caps and bold print.

  He isn’t the only one on my radar though. Eric Wayne is high up there too, especially since he is totally full of himself and thinks that he is above any of my rules. But on the bright side with him, when he is on the field at least? He is completely in control. Granted, he is the catcher and it’s basically his job to run the field, but still. It says a lot about him that the rest of the guys actually listen to him. You don’t always find that at this level, when egos are big and get into the way.

  Eddie Cruz is the main one that I can rely on, since he is calm and controlled, and obviously just here to do his job. He’s always on point with his plays, and while his batting isn’t the best on the team, at least he’s consistent.

  Jake Matthews on the other hand? He pretty much dominates the field. While Eric runs it, Jake manages it, and from what I can see of his plays, he has earned his nickname “Brick House.” So far, I haven’t seen a single ball get through him at short stop.

  It’s obvious that the guys all depend on him, and that his mood sets the course for the entire team. There’s always one guy on every team that has that roll. For the Rays, it’s most definitely Jake Matthews.

  I’ve also noticed, that he seems to draw quite the crowd, and not just the families or the old men looking for something to do on a weekday afternoon.

  No, he draws more of a female crowd. And it isn’t exactly a high-class female crowd. There is a group of them, that have come every day this week, letting me know that it’s probably because they work at nighttime only. I’ve pretty much got them all pegged for strippers. Not trying to be judgy or anything, but sometimes, you just know.

  I’ve already nicknamed them Jake’s Jezebels, because that’s exactly what they look like.

  They all flock together, being frenemies with each other, wearing far too small of clothing, too much make up, and most of them sporting a pair of way too big fake boobs.

  It’s the single and desperate crowd, and I find it quite pathetic.

  Not that I have a lot of room to talk. I’m completely single myself, but hell. That’s by choice. If I ever became so desperate that I had to show up at a baseball field on a sweltering hot Friday afternoon dressed like a hooker?

  Please, just shoot me.

  But, it’s nothing if not entertainment, and I can’t even help myself. I like watching their show just as much as I like watching the practice.

  Every so often, one of them waves and tries to get Jakes attention. Sometimes they succeed, and when they do?

  Lord. It’s a boob grabbing, hip gyrating, blow job insinuating side show.

  And while I probably should stop it, I’m having far too much fun watching it. At least for now.

  I turn my attention back to the field, as Jake jogs in from short stop, towards the dugout, where he is met with a teenage bat boy.

>   He’s handed his stuff, and begins to warm up.

  I snap a few pictures, zooming in on him as he takes a few practice swings. The women call out to him and he glances up, giving them what is surely his signature panty dropping smile.

  I snap the photo, leaving the boob crew out of it.

  It’s a good one to post. Maybe I’ll just crop a baby into it or something.

  Satisfied, I sink back into my chair, kick my feet up, and watch the show.

  Except, there is no show to watch, not unless I want to sit back and watch our best batter swing and miss every damn pitch thrown to him.

  Sonofabitch.

  I had heard through the grapevine that Jake’s batting was shit this year, but I can’t even believe just how bad it is.

  He’s swinging with all his strength, but the ball just continues to fly into the catcher’s glove, with zero ounce of contact of the bat made.

  Jesus. It’s almost brutal to watch.

  I stand from my chair and move towards the center of the field, standing directly behind home plate, letting my eyes roam over Jake.

  My cleats dig into the dirt, and I shift my hips, preparing for the pitch. Ramirez fires it at me, his signature curve ball that usually I can send sailing into the stands.

  Except today? I completely miss it.

  I cringe and shake my head, cursing under my breath at the sound of the ball smacking the catcher’s glove.

  Again.

  “Son of a bitch.” I mutter, taking a step back from the plate and stretching out my arms.

  It’s not a big deal to miss a pitch. Hell, it happens all the time.

  Just not usually to me, and not usually so damn often.

  I’ve maybe hit three out of the fifteen pitches thrown at me and the ones that I did hit were easily caught in center field.

  “Matthews, take a break.” Willy, our batting coach calls out to me from behind the dugout, where he leans against the side, his mouth full of chew like it is seemingly all the time.

  “I need to keep trying…”

  “You need to take a break.” His eyes level with mine and I can do nothing but sigh. He’s right. I’m definitely off today and hell- I was off yesterday too.

  I don’t even know what happened to me, but suddenly, I can’t seem to hit the damn ball.

  “Fuck.” I mutter under my breath, before chucking my bat onto the ground. Dust flies up as I pull at my batting gloves, ripping them off my hands and throwing them in the same direction that my bat just landed.

  Our bat boy trots out onto the field and grabs my things, not even meeting my eyes. He probably thinks I’m a dick, and I know that I’m acting like one right now.

  But I’m just so damn frustrated.

  “Sorry man.” I mutter to him as I plop myself down onto the bench. He tosses my gloves next to me and tosses my bat into the trash before giving me a chin lift and heading back out onto the field.

  “It’s not the bat.”

  I stop mid sip of my water, turning my head in the direction of the female voice coming from behind me.

  Laci stands there, with a navy Rays hat pulled down on her head, sporting a white Rays tank top and a pair of cut off jean shorts.

  It’s so out of the ordinary for her to be dressed so casually, that I can’t help but stare at her.

  Fuck me, this woman is so hot. She’s braced against the doorway of the tunnel that leads from the dugout to the locker room, her arms crossed across her chest and one leg crossed over the other. She isn’t really looking at me, her eyes are focused back up at the plate, where Eddie is nailing the shit out of the ball.

  “Oh yeah? What are you now, our new batting coach too?”

  She just shrugs, still not making any eye contact with me. “Nah. I don’t have that kind of time. I could tell you what you’re doing wrong, but I doubt that you would even listen, so I’ll just save my breath.”

  “You think you know what I’m doing wrong.” I can’t even hold in my laughter. “Yeah, right.”

  “See?” she just shrugs. “Not going to waste my breath.”

  “No, no. I want to hear it. Please, tell me, what do you think I’m doing wrong? I’d love to hear it.”

  She swings her eyes my way, cutting them at me in a way that she seems to do so well.

  “Do you know your ABC’s?”

  I snort. “You’ve got to be kidding me here. We went from you telling me that you can fix my batting to asking me if I know the alphabet. Yeah, Laci, I do, ok? I may be a dumb jock, but I did pass kindergarten. You got any other enlightening questions for me, or can I just go back to sulking?”

  “Sulk all you want, hot shot. It’s not going to bother me a bit if you show up on Monday and strike out the whole damn game. Which you will, unless you fix the problem. You’re way ahead of the ball. You’re swinging before the ball is even released from the pitcher’s hand. Ramirez is fast, but he’s not that fast. You need to slow down.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  “Fine. You’re swinging so hard, that you’re dropping your left shoulder. I’ve watched your tapes. That’s a new thing for you. I don’t know why you’re doing it, but I’m guessing it’s because you’re swinging too fast and trying to nail every pitch. Slow your speed down a bit. Keep your shoulder level. And follow your ABC’s.”

  She has my full attention now, and not because I think she just sprinkled some knowledge on me. It’s more because I seriously cannot believe that this tiny little woman who has probably never even held a bat is trying to tell me what I’m doing wrong.

  “Are you serious right now?”

  “Serious as a heart attack.” She shrugs again before focusing back on the field. “I know you’re blowing me off, and like I said, that’s fine. You going up to the plate next week and sucking isn’t going to hurt me one bit.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “No problem.” She turns on her heel and walks over to the garbage can, grabbing my bat out and tossing it to me.

  “Watch your left shoulder. Keep it level with the pitcher. Say your ABC’s. You guys are playing Seattle next week. They will most likely be pitching Conrad first, sticking Austin in the middle and closing with Babcock. Conrad’s the fastest of the three. Start your ABC’s the second he winds up. With the other two, start when they are halfway through their motion. A, B, C it into the stands. If you get to D, it will spell defeat. The ball will already be in the glove.”

  Willy turns around and raises an eyebrow at me, and the bat boy just chuckles. I’m left to sit there speechless, as she turns back on her heel and sashays back down the tunnel where she came from.

  Un freaking believable.

  “Ramirez, you got any steam left?” I pull him aside after we wrap up practice, and he nods.

  “Yeah man. You sure you want to give it another go?”

  “Yeah. Definitely.” If I leave here in a funk, it will mess up the rest of my day, and I do not want to sit and dwell on the fact that I have potentially lost my mojo.

  “Alright.” He shrugs, before motioning to Eric. “You got time?”

  “Hell yes.” He grabs his glove back and thrusts it back onto his hand, before taking long strides back to the plate.

  I take a few practice swings, before stepping back up to the plate. I’m determined to smack the shit out of this ball. All I need is one good hit to get myself out of my funk.

  Just one.

  Ramirez winds up. I keep my eye focused on him, and as he releases the ball, I swing myself around, ready to make contact.

  Except yet again, I don’t.

  “Dammit!” I roar, digging my feet back into the dirt. “Throw me another one.”

  Three more pitches. Three fucking more pitches and I don’t make any kind of contact. I grit my teeth, before shaking my head.

  “Another one.”

  “Matthews…maybe we should just…”

  “Throw me another one!”

  “Alright, man. Chill.”


  No way can Laci have any idea what she’s talking about. I mean, for real. She’s a girl.

  Well, actually, she’s a fine as hell woman, but still. There is no way that she has any idea what she’s talking about. She is just being her usual bossy, know it all self.

  And I’m going to prove it. I mean, hell. ABC’s? I’ve never fricking heard of that, and I have been playing this sport since I was a kid. She’s just blowing smoke up my ass, and I don’t even know why I’m going to try what she said. Because, for real.

  There’s no way…

  I watch Ramirez wind up, and start repeating in my head the alphabet. This is so…

  C. I get to C, and that sweet sound rings out across the ball park.

  “What the…” I take a step back, watching the ball fly into the outfield.

  “No fucking way.” I mutter, before motioning to Ramirez.

  “Another one.”

  “Dude, you just smoked that one. Can’t we be done now?”

  “I need to see if it works again.”

  I repeat the same thing, except this time, instead of landing in the outfield, my ball sails into the center field stands.

  “Holy fuck.”

  It barely makes it over the fence, but still. It does.

  I motion for another pitch, this time, keeping track not only of the alphabet, but also of my shoulder.

  And wouldn’t you know it. The ball again sails into the stands, but this time, almost reaches the scoreboard.

  Holy shit.

  She might have known what she was talking about.

  But that leaves one important question floating through my mind.

  How?

  “Perfect, I was just coming to find…”

  I shove through the locked double doors that lead out to the field, almost running Jake Matthews over in my haste.

  “Not now, Matthews. I’m right in the middle of something.”

  That something being intervening between Brock Matthews and the twenty pizzas’ that I just found out that he ordered.

  This shit is getting out of freaking hand.