A/N: Tumblr prompt: Ginny dances on the bar and Mike's almost ready to risk it all
This is exactly the kind of thing I can get behind.
Mike's never felt quite this old. Ginny's pulling him through the writhing twenty-something club and he's positive he's the oldest person in the place. She wants another beer, something he's sure she doesn't need, but he's apparently lost the ability to deny the brown-eyed girl anything, starting with her request that he join her for a night out. They're on a losing streak, and they should really all be getting some sleep, but Ginny's tired of being bummed and wants to loosen up. She's surprised at how many of the guys agree, their ubers creating a convoy down the highway to the tiny club.
Ginny surprises them all with her tiny sequined dress, apparently a gift from Amelia that didn't fit the agent but loved the pitcher's frame like it wanted to be her skin. She's even curled her hair and put on lipstick. Mike's eyebrows quirk at the sight of her red-bottomed pumps, but he says nothing, his eyes to focused on her protruding cleavage for him to trust his mouth. Ginny's grateful she put on blush, or Mike would know how flustered his gaze made her.
The club's too loud, but their beers are only a dollar. He and Ginny have been going drink for drink (a terrible idea that he might have declined if he could bear her frown), and she's buying the next round, dragging him to the bar by his hand. It should feel strange, her callouses rubbing his own, but it doesn't. It's almost pleasant, or maybe it's just that she smells sinfully feminine tonight. She gets them to the bar, sliding himself around men that he scares away from her with a glare. The bartender, so muscular that he's lost his neck, leans over the bar to shout something to Ginny. Mike doesn't hear, too distracted by the large ring in the man's lip (Is that something guys do now?). Whatever he says makes Ginny let go of his hand and Mike watches in surprise as the man hauls her long frame over the bar top, making her laugh. She's drunk and he should step in, but there's something so refreshing about seeing her have a good time for once. Mike watches as she takes off her shoes and the bartender picks her up once again to place her on the bar top and it finally clicks what she's doing.
"Check the hottie on the bar!" the DJ shouts over the blasting EDM music and the crowd of almost children roars in reply, turning their attention to Ginny. Mike knows it's time for him to step in and be her captain, to pull her off the bar before she ends up on TMZ, but she's too free for him to step in. And he's too distracted by her swiveling hips to do more than stare. He's glad Blip stayed home (saddled with sick twins) because he's being irresponsible and he knows it. Luckily with Sanders absent, no one's there to tell him why. (Or call him out for ogling his rookie.)
"So baby pull me closer in the backseat of your Rover/ That I know you can't afford/ Bite that tattoo on your shoulder/ Pull the sheets right off the corner/ Of the mattress that you stole/ From your roommate back in Boulder/ We ain't ever getting older!" He can't hear Ginny singing, only watching her lips move along with the song that's apparently one of her favorites. The crowd shouts along with her and she's loving it, bouncing along to the beat. Ginny's sure this isn't a great idea, but she's survived worse. (The world at large has seen her at her most intimate. A little dancing on a bar pales in comparison of scandals.) And she likes this song. Really it's no different than dancing around her apartment. Plus she feels beautiful, like the girls she used to hate in high school while simultaneously hoping they'd invite her to lunch.
He's not sure why it surprises him that she can dance, and look damn good while she's doing it. And he's never imagined her ass could be even more distracting than it is in her workout leggings until she's shaking it inches from his face. She's completely lost in the song, her head bobbing, her eyes closed, and he's almost there too but a flash of her red panties brings him back to where he is, who he is. It's over.
"Let's go, Baker!" She hears him over the music, laughs as she stands up.
"Play it again!" She shouts to the DJ and he gives her a thumbs up, starts the song over. The crowd cheers and she's actually blushing as the beefy bartender helps her down.
"You were amazing!" he shouts over the music.
"Thanks!" He's cute, with short curly blonde hair and green eyes and his t-shirt really should have already collapsed under the stress of his massive body. But he's smiling too hard so Ginny looks away. He's not her type. (Lately she's found herself into men who are a little grouchier, a bit older, and bearded.)
She puts on her shoes, accepts the bucket of beers from the guy (the reward for her cabaret show) before he lets her out through a small side door that Mike doesn't notice until then. It makes him frown, realizing the bartender just wanted to handle her. But why wouldn't he? Hell, who didn't want to handle her?
Mike's barely able to keep his hands to himself in the clubhouse, so it shouldn't surprise him that other men know what he does about Ginny. Except he isn't surprised. No, Mike realizes in the tiny club, that he's jealous. So many men aren't her captain, aren't ballplayers, have legitimate shots with the girl he can't make himself stop thinking about.
She's still laughing, delightfully drunk, as he takes her back to VIP, toting the bucket of beers and glaring at any man who looks like he might want to talk to her. Miller smirks at them as they re-enter the roped-off section. He sidles up to Ginny. "Having a little too much fun aren't you, Baker?"
Ginny turns to look at him, grinning, still dancing to the song that every Padre in attendance—except for Ginny—is too old to know or relate to. "Not too much."
Mike rolls his eyes when Miller nods at him. "Pissed off the old ball and chain."
He's aware of the whispers about him and Ginny in the clubhouse (it's only natural since they're always together and bicker like his parents), but for Miller to say it in front of him is another thing entirely. He looks at Ginny, deciding that if she's offended, he'll slug Miller (TMZ be damned, he's not himself tonight because Ginny's not herself). But she only laughs, turns to him and pouts at his frown. He decides to never get her drunk again. She walks over, throws her lithe, gyrating frame on his. Ginny's normally not so forward but this is drunk Ginny (chatty and annoyingly touchy feely). "Aren't you having fun?"
He shakes his head. "Too many kids."
She gets closer, murmurs in his ear. "Loosen up, old man."
He doesn't have the opportunity to answer because she's already dancing with him, turning around to press her ass far too hard against him. Captain or not, he's still a man—Mike Lawson at that. He rolls with it, wrapping his arm around her waist to pull her somehow closer as she throws her hands up, gives his hips a workout. "You look as good as the day I met you/ I forget just why I left you, I was insane/ Stay and play that Blink-182 song/ That we beat to death in Tucson, okay/ I know it breaks your heart/ Moved to the city in a broke-down car/ And four years, no call/ Now I'm lookin' pretty in a hotel bar/ And I-I-I can't stop/ No, I-I-I can't stop!"
She's laughing against him, her hips never losing time with the song, and only when she throws her hair around does he realize the team is watching with amused eyes. Ginny doesn't care. She's having too much fun. But Mike will break the nose of any one of them who says something about her the next day so he turns her around. She throws her arms around his neck, keeps swaying to the beat.
"It's time to go, Baker."
She stops dancing, looks like she might object, then seems to change her mind in an instant. "Let's get some food!"
He nods and they leave, the team creating a bodyguard barricade around Ginny until they're outside. Miller smirks at Ginny swaying on her heels. "I'd offer to take her, but she's gonna barf and I want no parts of that."
Mike smirks back. "I wouldn't leave her with you anyway, Gremlin."
"Tipsy is my type, Lawson, but I'll pass on Baker. Too much trouble for this simple man." He, Duarte, and a few guys pile into one taxi, and a few more into another, giggling groupies under their arms. He shepherds Ginny into the last one in line and she immediately leans back on the seat, still drunkenly grinning.
"You're never taking us out again, rookie," he says, sure he's louder than he needs to be but his ears are ringing.
She laughs. "Everyone under a hundred had fun, old man."
He doesn't answer, instead telling the cabbie to take them to the nearest burger joint. She's asleep by the time he's finished ordering their food and Mike shakes his head at his lightweight rookie, now sure that Miller was correct in his assumption that she would vomit. He directs the cabbie back to his house, knowing there's always at least one photographer hanging around Ginny's place.
She's only partially awake as he leads her to his room. Mike frowns at the way she collapses on his bed and goes to his closet. He returns with a shirt that he sets next to her. "Wake up a minute, Baker."
She stirs, sitting up groggily, whines, "What?"
"You gotta take that dress off." He picks up the t-shirt and offers it to her. She stands on wobbly legs, pulls down the dress's side zipper. It takes all his will not to watch the dress hit the floor, or stare at what's under it. He actually turns around when she takes off her bra.
She snickers a few minutes later. "I'm decent now, Father Mike."
He can't help laughing. Drunk off her ass and still a snarky little shit. He turns around and finds there's nothing decent about the way she looks in his t-shirt. But reality saves the day and she collapses on the bed, drunkenly giggling at her uncooperative limbs. Mike smirks as he helps her under the covers, wondering when he'd become a drunk shepherd. He eats his own burger, sitting on top of the covers and watching a rerun of The Office while she snores beside him. When he's finished, he puts her food away, then spends a few minutes standing before the bed, wondering how to play this. It couldn't go that badly, especially not with Baker dead to the world on the other side of the bed.
He takes off his jeans and button down shirt and tentatively lays beside her, willing to risk the backache in the morning if she stirs and he has to roll onto the floor. The liquor hits him once he's on his back and he's asleep in minutes. It's morning when he wakes up. He moves to get up but there's a weight on his chest. It's Ginny's head. The rest of her is curled into the side of his body, and she's still snoring softly. He manages to slide from beneath her and go to the bathroom.
She's awake when he comes back, squinting as she pulls her face from the pillow. She's got the smeared makeup and hungover frown of a dead hooker, but there's something beautiful about the way she arches off the bed like a cat. Mike can't help smiling, thinking she makes a surprisingly nice picture in the morning despite her drunken groans. "Morning, sunshine."
She blinks, realizing she's not alone, and turns to look at him. "What are you doing here?"
"My house, rookie."
"Oh." She wakes up completely, looks around and realizes where she is. Her eyes drift back to him and there's worry in them. "Did we…?"
"As lovely as you looked, drunk and unconscious is not my type, Baker," he replies.
She shrugs. "It's just as well. If I bone Mike Lawson, I'd like to remember it."
Mike laughs. "At least I know what to get you for your birthday, Baker."
She laughs as she rolls out of bed, stretching just enough to pull his shirt up and reveal her panties to him for a second time. They're a sinful shade of red, all lace except a seam running up the back between her perfect ass cheeks. Somewhere there was a god who had taken his time creating Ginny Baker. Mike sits on the bed, watches her schlep to the bathroom. He isn't surprised to hear her hacking up her guts a few minutes later. But he feels a little guilty because he should have made her eat something so he gets up and goes in to hold her hair back. She doesn't vomit much, apparently having gone out of an empty stomach, but she sags against his shower, grimacing.
"Why didn't you eat something, Baker?" He frowns at her beer-scented vomit and quickly flushes the toilet lest he vomit himself.
"Because I was depressed because we suck. I suck." She lets out the smallest whimper and he sighs, remembers that he stopped bringing home twenty-something girls under 25 because liquor was rarely kind to them. He walks over and picks her gangly limbs up off the floor, nearly throws out his back lifting the dead weight of her light frame onto the counter beside the sink.
Fuck me is the only thing he can think as he brushes her teeth like she's two years old while she glowers at her knees, angrily wiping stray tears. He sighs again. "You don't suck, Baker. We don't suck either. We're having a shitty streak, happens to the best. I've seen them come and go like heat waves."
She spits in the sink, and he wipes her mouth with a towel. "But everyone's saying—"
"You gotta stop listening to people who don't play ball, rookie. All those commentators on ESPN are just ballplayers who never got to be more than mediocre. Not one ring in the whole bunch. It's why they hung up their cleats and became critics of people who are still trying." He finishes brushing her teeth, gives her mouthwash to swish around. "I'm gonna tell you what a wise man told me my rookie year: Fuck 'em. Fuck 'em all."
She nods, for once taking his wisdom without her usual sass, and he lifts her off the counter again. He's about to put her down (his back is screaming bloody murder), but she wraps around him and he's stuck so he carries her back to his bed. "Now usually I wouldn't do this because you didn't put out, but since you're bummed, I'm gonna make you a breakfast ala Mike."
"So I'm getting the deluxe groupie treatment? I'm touched." She sneers as she reclines on his pillows, yawns.
"Breakfast ala Mike" consists of bacon and eggs, a fortuitous occurrence since he's discovered her devotion to breakfast food. He returns to the bedroom with plates and a bottle of Rose, something some girl whose name he couldn't recall, left behind.
"In bed too?" She grins. "Well aren't I lucky?"
"Luckiest girl in San Diego, Baker." He watches her eat, taking her quiet devouring of her food as a compliment. She's halfway done when she comes up for air and he offers her the bottle. She gives him a puzzled look. "Come on, rookie. It's a girly drink but you need it. Hair of the dog."
"What?"
He realizes she's not mocking him. She's genuinely confused. "Hair of the dog? It's an old wives' tale about remedies. Only cure for the curse is hair of the dog that bit you. Cure for a hangover is a little more booze to smooth out the crash."
She nods, takes the bottle and pops the cork. He watches her take a drink, smiling at her licking her lips. "This is good."
"Some girl brought it over. Brittany, Brenda, Brandy… Carol?" He frowns, shakes his head as he takes the bottle back. "Not important. She left quietly and I haven't heard from her since is the highlight of the story."
Ginny snorts and it's the cutest thing he's ever heard. "Classy."
"I try." He turns to look at her, remembering something. "Why'd you think we slept together?"
She shrugs after too long. "I was in your bed in your shirt. I have no idea where my bra is. And you're you. I just figured…"
"You think I'm such a shitpot that I'd wait until you were bombed to make a move on you?" He realizes how it sounds, quickly adds. "You think I'd make a move on you at all?"
She looks down at her plate, starts eating again. "Right. What would you want with me?"
He realizes what he's done, reaches for her shoulder. "Baker I didn't mean… We're teammates."
Her frown is too bitter for this to be about a passing comment. "No I get it. I'm just one of the boys. The breasts are superfluous."
He wants to tell her that her breasts are a million things (probably perfect, probably topped with the most delicious nipples he'd ever get to taste), superfluous being the least of which. "I'd never let Miller or Shrek or Blip wear my shirt, or sleep in my bed. Hell, if Duarte was on fire and I was the only one with a phone, I'd order Chinese."
She snorts.
Mike smiles in spite of himself. "Baker, I meant that I respect you. I wouldn't take advantage of you like that. Besides, you need to be a certain amount of sober to appreciate the opportunity you're being given."
Ginny snorts again. "Please stop talking."
Mike laughs, turns on the tv. They finish the bottle of wine, collapse while they watch Chopped. He gives her a pair of his old too-small sweats to wear home. She never gives them back, or the shirt. He never asks what happens to them, amusing himself with the idea that she sleeps in them. Ginny never admits it, but she does.
A/N: Don't forget to review or leave a prompt! XOXOXO