Long Ball: A Secret Baby Sports Romance Page 3

  Those brilliant red lips form the words, “Make me come.”

  I drop to my knees again, fingers still buried inside of her, and suck on her clit. She rocks against my face and her cries bounce off the tiled walls. I watch her tits bounce as she thrusts against me, cock straining on the edge. I take one hand and handle my cock through my jeans as I devour her, and soon she’s coming on my face and I’m coming quietly in my jeans.

  She sucks the juices off my fingers and slides her breasts back in her dress with a wink. “I think I’ll keep you. Call me later?”

  She grabs my phone from my pocket and enters her number while I’m still reeling from the orgasm I just had. It wasn’t as good as it is while fucking, but it was a hell of a lot better than when I’m set up at home with my laptop.

  “Um, yeah,” I manage as she kisses me one last time. “I’ll call.”

  2

  “Ay papi!” George high-fives me as I dump my duffle in my locker. “Way to get some action at Club Classic, amigo. No more slumming around the clubhouse for you, eh?”

  I laugh it off, ignoring the burning in my chest. “What are you talking about, man?”

  “What am I talking about?” George has a shit-eating grin on his face and leans back to holler louder at the rest of the guys in the locker room. “Our boy over here wants to know what I’m talking about.”

  Everett, Kemp, and Gregerson all start wolf-whistling, and Kemp humps Everett’s leg. If you’ve never been in a baseball locker room before, count yourself lucky. Everyone in here is dogs. Then again, it’s funny as hell...when it’s someone else.

  Shelbie instantly comes to mind and I am flooded with the memory of her scent, the way her lips formed a perfect O as she came on my tongue, how she stared at me all night. I haven’t had someone after me that hard in…well, a long time. Groupies are one thing, fans are one thing, but that? That was something else entirely.

  “Y’all are dogs, man.” I laugh it off, shake my head, and pull out my practice jersey. “If you wanna talk about getting some action a few nights ago, where is Octivio? He and I have some unfinished business with you, Kemp. What was the total?”

  “Oh, I hit all three.” Kemp is all smiles. The day keeps getting better--now he owes me money. “But all anyone wants to talk about is how you ended up in the bathroom getting your freak on with Miss Shelbie Saint.” He sings “freak on” and humps Everett again, who pushes him off and into an empty locker.

  “Have you checked the online rags?” Gregerson shakes his phone at me. “There are pictures of you two all over the place.”

  I frown. This is exactly the kind of thing I try to avoid. This is Kemp’s game, not mine. Not after all the trouble I’ve gotten into, all the heartache I’ve had. I don’t make waves, I don’t pursue the ladies, not anymore. One night off, and the tabloids are running. “Vultures, man. Why weren’t they all over Kemp’s ass with his three women?”

  “I know how to be quiet.” He shoots a wink at me.

  “Bull. I used to be your roommate, remember?”

  Gregerson clears his throat loudly and reads off his phone. “Royals shortstop Jamie Bonilla was seen cozying up to The Dot’s Shelbie Saint after a landslide victory against the Seattle Mariners Saturday night. Witnesses report they were dancing, laughing, and getting their freak on in a sleazy club bathroom by the end of the night. Miss Saint was reported as saying his cock was lackluster, but not to worry, because she has a shallow…”

  “Hey now!” I laugh, rolling my eyes and pulling my jersey on. I hope to the heavens there is nothing actually out there, because my mom would kill me dead if she found me in the papers with some girl in a club. I can already hear her voice in my ear, talking about how she raised me better than this.

  “Come on, man. My cock is mighty.”

  “Yeah, and my pinkie is eight inches long.”

  The clubhouse descends into its usual chaos: insults, innuendo, and Kemp still humping things and players and the air we all breathe. It’s business as usual, really, but the guys won’t leave me alone about it as batting practice rages on. Coach’s daughter, Ally, takes pity on me and brings me an extra scoop of ice cream on her rounds after everyone else hits the showers.

  She’s a sweet kid, real naïve, and sort of reminds me of a younger me, if I were a chick and American, at least. “I think they’re just jealous Shelbie Saint wasn’t picking them up,” she whispers conspiratorially. “She’s really beautiful.”

  She is. Shelbie was easily the sexiest woman in that entire club, and she was ready for me to take her in a dirty bathroom. It seemed a little out of character for someone so classy, but maybe our connection was stronger than I thought it was. Maybe the alcohol made me think we were connecting like we actually were.

  Maybe I should call her.

  The boys still don’t let up come game time. We’re deep in our series against the Mariners, vying for champ of our division, and that didn’t stop a single one of them from hollering “Aye, papi!” at me all night. Not even by the fourth inning, where we are down 2-5.

  “Come on, lover boy.” Coach Bart winks at me as I head into the dugout for the top of the fifth inning. “Get your head out of Shelbie Saint’s skirt and back in the game. You could have caught that line drive Trujillo belted out.”

  “Sorry, Coach.” I grimace. “I thought I knew where the ball was heading and I was wrong, that’s all.”

  “Not the first time someone has been distracted by a pretty girl.” He rests a heavy hand on my shoulder before putting on his helmet. “But let’s see if you can make up for it with the bat, eh?”

  “Aye, papi!” Carlos croons, taking a few practice swings. “Gonna hit a ball for your pretty lady tonight?”

  “Depends,” I shoot back. “How does your mom like it?”

  That really gets the dugout going. We fall back into our usual banter, but my heart is only half in it. All I can think about is Shelbie’s dangerous curves and the way her mouth felt on mine. And how I haven’t called her yet, but I should.

  Right?

  “Don’t hate on big papi over here.” Kemp breaks up the mess. “He is a changed man!”

  “Bullshit!” Octivio snorts. “Jamsey falls in love every thirty seconds. This Shelbie thing won’t last. He’ll have a new lover by the seventh inning stretch.”

  “I do owe your mom a date.” I high-five Kemp. And I’m grateful to him. Yeah, I used to be a tiny bit more of a man whore, but after my mom caught me in the mix of some nasty stuff and threatened to come up here, I straightened up. She gave me this whole lecture about how I was ruining the way people look at Venezuela. And come on--I can’t have that. I’m a man of honor.

  But I do happen to fall hard and fast for a lot of different girls. Did. In my past.

  “If you ever manage to stick with a girl until the ninth inning, I’ll be shocked.” Harrison shoves a wad of chew in his mouth and winks at me. “But that’s how it oughta be, man. Hello, goodbye.”

  “You’re an animal.” Kemp points at him with the bat. “No wonder why you’re always single.”

  “Look who’s talking.”

  “Point, Harrison.” I chime in, trying to derail the conversation from my love life.

  Could there be a love life with Shelbie? Could she be the one? She’s absolutely gorgeous and she’s on television, which, okay, sounds shallow, but that means she understands the demands of someone who always has their face plastered on a screen.

  Edwards may be in baseball for the fame, but most of us just want to play ball. Everything else is a perk. Or, sometimes, a raging headache.

  My turn up to bat doesn’t alleviate the buzzing in my head and it shows with a terrible strike out. I swung at shit I had no business swinging at because all I could wonder is if Shelbie was watching. If she is, she’s bound to be so disappointed in me right now. Dropping balls, swinging out. This is not the Jamie Bonilla the Royals fans know.

  “Get ‘em next time, Bonilla,” Coach Halstead pats me on th
e back.

  “Remember who’s watching!” George croons. “Gotta play up for your lady!”

  “Which one?” Everett shoots back.

  “Ha ha.” I wave them off and collapse on the bench with a fist full of sunflower seeds and a brain full of fuzz.

  What they don’t know, what they’ll never know, is how being with a woman is like drugs to my system. When I’m in love, it’s like I’m high all the time. Some of the guys on the team, not that I’d ever name names (cough, Knickers, cough) have an issue with drugs. Some may just chill out with off day weed, no big deal, but a few others really let loose in the off season with shit that gets out of control.

  When your life lacks privacy, you constantly search for something to make you forget it, for something that can give you that next great high. Baseball isn’t enough. Our love of the game is quickly overshadowed by endorsements and contracts and fan obligations and a bunch of guys in suits who always demand more, more, more. End the year with a .280 batting average? Why can’t you hit .300? Silver bat nominee? Next year: win it.

  It’s stressful. It’s chaotic. You can only love something for so long before it turns into a job. Once, when I was a kid, I met this older couple at the resort. They worked at Disney World, which was the mecca to all us poor country kids in South America. Mickey Mouse! Pluto! I followed them around everywhere, desperate for some little drop of magic.

  Before they left, the old man told me that no matter how magical Disney World was, after a while, it was just another job that caused stress, and that it took leaving and going back for him to remember how much he actually loved it. “Don’t ever let work kill your desire for something,” the man told me. “Everything is ‘just a job,’ but it’s up to you to love it through the hard patches.”

  I’ve loved baseball since I was shorter than a bat. It’s my life. But it’s also my job. Much as I try, the pressures of being a major leaguer are often too much to keep that excitement alive. So we look for other things.

  My other thing just happens to be falling in love, even when I know it’s inevitably going to end in heartbreak. When I’ve got someone waiting for me, I run faster, hit harder, field better. I don’t need steroids because I’ve got a woman. I’ve got love. It’s cheesy, maybe, and something I’d never tell the guys, except maybe Kemp...maybe. I’ve sworn off of it more than once, but I can’t stay away for long. I miss it. I crave it.

  I didn’t have this issue in the minors. No one cares about AAA ball clubs and players. We’re nobodies. We’re chasing a dream never likely to come true. Do you know how many careers start and end in the minors? A lot. A whole lot.

  But the majors, Jesus. You get the money, the cars, the fame. You get the baseball cards and the autograph sessions. You get the interviews. Everyone wants you on their fantasy team. Every girl wants to brag about touching someone famous. It’s a great way to meet girls in bars.

  It never lasts. The façade with these girls burns out hot and fast. They’re just in it for the money and the fame. They use you for expensive dinners and bottle service at clubs. God forbid you hit a batting slump, and suddenly they are looking to jump ship with someone on a hot streak.

  It’s never felt right after those first few dates. I get the high, I play the game, and I crash. Hard. I’m tired of it. I want the real thing that lasts. I want my blood pumping all the time, not just a quick hit like an addict.

  If I’m being real, what I want is what my grandparents have. I grew up on my abuelita’s stories about how my abuelo wooed her. They have the most classic love story in the world, the kind of thing Hollywood should write movies around.

  She said sparks flew from the moment they met, and she knew. She knew she would be Sra Bonilla for the rest of her life. My abuelita worked in a little café near the university. She wanted to go to school, to make something of herself. After the first time my abuelito laid eyes on her, he returned every day, sitting in her section, and just watching her. He didn’t say anything at first; just came, ate, and left. The next day, he’d start asking for her section, but never saying a word. He just watched her serve coffee and golfeados with a smile.

  My abuelita said everyone knew why he was there, even if he didn’t say a word. She started picking up extra shifts, just so she would never miss a day where he might come in and sit in her section.

  Finally, after four days of this, he brought her orchids and asked her to join him for a coffee. Her manager made her sit because she was so nervous. They stayed there for hours, talking about everything under the stars—their families, their dreams, how many kids they wanted. She said it was magic. They stayed until the café closed and they were kicked out.

  The next day, my abuelito was back with more orchids. He arranged with her manager to have the day off, and he took her around the entire city. They ate empanadas and drank coconut milk and played tourist in their home town. My abuelita was balancing on the edge of a fountain to show off, and she tripped, spraining her ankle so badly that she couldn’t walk. My abuelito ripped off his shirt and used it as a bandage to wrap her ankle before carrying her the mile back to her house.

  She didn’t see him for two days after that. She was convinced she ran him off with her brazen behavior and the accident, and she cried the whole time. She thought she’d lost her soulmate.

  Until her next shift at the café, where she hobbled around on her sore ankle. My abuelito came in with more orchids, dropped to his knees, and begged her to marry him. He said he couldn’t stop thinking about her from the moment he bought her home, and knew in his heart he couldn’t spend another day without her.

  My abuelita said she knew it was crazy to marry someone she’d just met, someone she’d barely known for a week, but she also knew he was The One. She thought her life was over during those two days he’d stayed away.

  My abuelito had been a big playboy around town. He was infamous for chasing anything in a skirt. Half the town tried to convince her it was a terrible idea, but she didn’t listen. She was in love. And so was he. As soon as he said those vows, it was done. She was his one and only true flame.

  They used to gross me out as a kid, all that kissing and giggling, but the older I grow, the more I know that’s exactly what I want. I won’t settle for less than that.

  My mind pulls out of the sepia stained memories behind my eyes and rests back on the perfect blond who couldn’t get enough of me at the club. Was it love at first sight? Would this be our story to one day bore our grandkids with while they peel a million potatoes?

  Another inning, another at-bat. I picture Shelbie in my mind, dancing on the edge of a fountain, laughing. It’s perfect, I think. My bat slices through the air, makes contact with the ball.

  Yes, I think. Yes.

  And then the crowd groans. It’s a pop fly, ending the inning. I haven’t been able to get on base all night. Despite the more logical part of my brain trying to take over, I can’t help but feel this is an omen.

  3

  I flip the phone over in my hand, trying to build resolve. This shouldn’t be so difficult, I know this, but I also don’t want to feel like I didn’t try. Quitting isn’t exactly part of my vocabulary. At least, quitting for no reason.

  Love, like baseball, is more complicated than people think. It’s not just swinging a bat and throwing a ball. It’s not just connecting with someone you just met without even knowing them. Even my grandparents spent hours connecting before he proposed.

  That’s just the thing—we need more time together. Determined, I finally hit the Send button and bounce on my heels, waiting for her to pick up.

  “Please tell me this is my favorite Royal shortstop.” Her voice is light and flirty. “Otherwise, I’m going to be impossibly sad.”

  “Depends, do you mind if your favorite Royal shortstop has an off day?” That game will haunt me forever. It’s not often that I don’t make it on base all game and rack up two throwing errors. Coach was pissed.

  “Depends, does he plan on getting
better next time?”

  “Always. He always strives to play better.”

  “Then absolutely.”

  There’s a moment of awkward silence on the phone. I chug half a glass of water to get the cotton out of my mouth. “I was hoping I’d be able to see you again. Soon.”

  “How perfect is your timing? I’m volunteering today with the Read to the Bus program downtown. I’m sure the kids would love to have a baseball player join them.”

  A few of the guys have done Read to the Bus before and always loved it. They load up on a bus full of kids, read some books, and hang out. Doug says it’s his favorite part of playing for the Royals.

  This would also be a great way to show off how great I am with kids. Shelbie’s volunteering for a great cause, which means she’s a wonderful person, right? I can show her how great I am, too, and we can use this as a springboard to our talk-for-hours-fall-in-love plan. Not that I’m planning. I’m just saying.

  “I’d love to help out!” I say. “The guys talk about it all the time.”

  “Great. We leave in an hour. Can you make it here?”

  “For you? Absolutely.”

  This will be perfect. What better way to connect with one another than over kids? I’ve always wanted a big family. Being in America while the rest of my family is in Venezuela is sort of problematic, but with Camila attending NYU and me in Kansas City, it’s easier to try to convince them to come up here. My dad isn’t a fan of the immigration laws, but he is a fan of being with family. And who wouldn’t love America?

  An hour later, my nerves are jumping through hoops as I walk up to the bus stop to meet Shelbie. She’s gorgeous again in a sleek dress and floppy hat with oversized sunglasses. A little formal for my taste, making me wonder if we’re going to be filmed. It makes my palms sweat. I don’t need more fodder for the guys in the dugout, though with Kemp’s latest romp in lock-up, they may have something else to talk about for a while.