XXX CHAPTER 7 XXX
ɸ69fanatic: #whatiloveaboutbaseball Night games under the bright lights
Yup. I had to hand it to him there. The black sky above and the crisp clarity of the field's greens, bronzes, and whites under the brighter-than-daytime lights . . . the imagery tugged hard on the old heartstrings. Wasn't it only fair to tell him publicly?
ɸbigmac69: ɸ69fanatic Night games definitely in my top ten #whatiloveaboutbaseball
The torrent of WE LOVE YOU MAC! messages came pouring in as soon as the tweet left his fingers. Sweet, but he wanted the spotlight on Edward, not himself. Emmett favorited and retweeted and went to the kitchen to kale up.
He blamed Jasper for his poor night's sleep . . . what was that shrink-speak for Emmett's condition again? Oh yes, a quivering mess. Thursday would tell, he supposed. He'd either have a much larger dilemma on his hands or none at all. If asked, Emmett could not have honestly said which outcome he was rooting for.
Emmett flicked the juicer switch and watched the bright blues, reds, and greens jump and spin and squirt their final flamboyant gasps of color before submitting to the muted, homogeneous sludge. He grabbed his book and headed to the balcony, resisting a powerful physical pull toward the desk. He'd gone the whole day yesterday without any contact, and today he'd already caved before breakfast.
You are being an idiot. What's the big deal about talking to the guy? Worried he'll get to know the real you and not just worship the hero he thinks he knows?
Sip your drink. Turn your face to the sun. Breathe. Relax, Mac.
A half hour later and no further into his book, Emmett grabbed the keys to his Spyder, then thought better of it and opted for his bike instead. The riding path to the stadium followed along Alki beach where it jutted out into the sound. The sun warmed Emmett's back and produced tiny, shimmering diamonds along the surface of the water. He rode at a relaxed pace, just enough to generate a light burn in his quads. Jasper's colleagues, Doctors Sand and Sea, worked their healing magic on Emmett, leaving him stretched and relaxed as he hit the West Seattle Bridge.
This was a good idea, he decided, rounding the turn onto First. He almost couldn't wait to throw a few pitches. Maybe he'd get a massage today after he worked out his arm. Yes, I am full of great ideas today.
"Well, look who's here," Coach Waits said, slapping Emmett on the back. "An hour early for practice. That's the kind of dedication that'll keep you right on top of the junk heap, Mac. Ready to get to work?"
"Yeah, Coach. Let me just change out of these bike shorts."
"Go free Willie, son," he said, the edges of his coach's mustache curling with his smile. "And Emmett, we're all really proud of you."
Coach Waits gave Emmett a tight squeeze around his shoulders and watched like a loving father as Emmett jogged toward the locker room. The locker room—movie set for his dirty fantasies, future site of his meeting with Edward. Emmett changed quickly and avoided looking anywhere near the showers.
Coach Waits met him outside. "Take a quick jog out to the fence and back. Then we'll get you stretched out and wake up the arm. Sound good?"
"Sure, Coach."
Emmett took off toward right field.
As his feet kicked up over the bright green grass, Emmett considered Edward's tweets about what he loved about baseball. Despite his recent curmudgeonry, Emmett really did love this game, and there was nowhere he would rather have been on a gorgeous summer day than right here on Safeco Field. With each footfall, Emmett added to his own list of favorites.
He liked striking guys out and sending in the pitch that controlled the play. He loved being the one to throw out the runner at the plate—just when the guy was starting to count on that run. He liked being out there on the field, surrounded by his teammates. It felt good to work his ass off at practice and walk away with the respect of his team and the owners and the coaching staff. Emmett loved winning.
By the time he met his coach at the mound, Emmett was re-energized and ready to go hard. Hicks took his stance behind the plate, and the two launched into their pitch-and-catch drill. They clicked into a great rhythm, popping the ball back and forth at an ever-increasing speed. At the edge of his field of vision, Emmett could see Waits grinning.
"Whatever has gotten into you, Mac, I sure hope it sticks around for a while," Coach told him at the end of practice.
Emmett stifled a grin. "Thanks, Coach. Speaking of which, I need to ask a favor."
XXX
ɸ69fanatic: #whatiloveaboutbaseball Every player can be measured objectively by a uniform set of statistics.
Direct Message ɸ69fanatic: Even if they get it wrong sometimes.
And there Emmett went again, not even drinking his breakfast before messaging his fan.
Yes, there is that. I'm still pissed!
Emmett couldn't help but smile at his fierce warrior waging his statistical battle against the league. No time to look back. I'm all about tomorrow's game.
I like your chances.
Emmett did too, but nothing was certain in baseball. One lucky batter could change everything. Feeling diplomatic, Emmett typed, Should be a good game.
Yes, for the home team.
Well, we do have the best fans in the league.
No argument from me.
So about tomorrow…you still want that tour?
Yes, please.
Good god! Manners? What kind of old-fashioned guy had Emmett unearthed? He'd find out tomorrow night, he guessed. You'll be on the security list. They just need your last name.
There was none of the earlier hesitation he'd shown when Emmett had asked for his first name.
Cullen.
Edward Cullen. That had a nice ring to it. Emmett held his breath as he typed the last bit he'd been instructed to pass along.
Hope you understand-we can't allow females into the locker room, so your wife or girlfriend will have to wait outside for you.
That won't be an issue. Mind if my dad joins me?
Another tally in the "probably gay" column made Emmett smile hard. I'd love to meet you and Mr. Cullen, Sr.
Technically, that's Doctor Cullen.
Ah, I see you come from smart stock.
Yep. Mom's no slouch either- family law.
Mom doesn't get to come to the games?
She loves the game, but she's always let baseball be Dad's thing to do with me. Honestly, he's the reason I became such a huge fan.
An uplifting image of father and young son popped into Emmett's mind. He'd spent so much more of his life on the field than in the stands, he barely remembered that warm fuzzy of sharing a bag of peanuts or doing the wave or stretching for a foul tip together.
That's sweet. Have any brothers or sisters?
Nope. Just me.
Somehow I don't think your folks are disappointed. Maybe the comment was a little personal, but Edward was making him bolder.
If they are, they've been good enough to hide it!
Yeah, mine too, he typed with a smile. Cuts down on the therapy bills. Also helped to have a brother-in-law to listen to him off the clock.
Edward's reply surprised him. Do you think we're the exceptions? Two guys whose parents didn't mess us up?
Before answering, Emmett took a second to marvel at the intimacy of their conversation. Would it be awkward when they met in person tomorrow?
Based on my informal sampling of the knuckleheads all around me, I'd say yes. Definitely.
You have to admit, it is somewhat unusual for a pro athlete as successful as you to be well adjusted.
You don't know me that well!
There was a noticeable pause, the kind that makes a person sit back and reread the last few lines to see what the hell he might have said wrong. Shit! Edward was sensitive to overstepping, and maybe Emmett had just played on that fear. He was just preparing his apology when Edward's message appeared on his screen.
Maybe we can fix that.
XXX
ɸ69fanatic: #whatiloveaboutbaseball "Take Me Out to the Ball Game" at the seventh inning stretch.
Emmett was going to have the damn song stuck in his head all day now. "I'm gonna kick your ass, Edward Cullen," he said to his computer as he walked by. The pull to sit down and chat with Edward was almost a physical tug at this point—but a tug he needed to resist.
Most of the players Emmett knew were prisoners to some level of superstition, held hostage by routines involving everything from when to wash their jocks to whether or not to cut their hair. Emmett had always prided himself on not getting locked into any kind of nutty rigidity, but he'd stuck by one rule he had set for himself long ago—avoiding distractions on game day. That meant not reading his news feed, not picking up the newspaper, and not talking to his agent. And he'd learned the hard way over the years that it absolutely meant not placing your secret lover in the front row of the stands over the bullpen—though, damn, what a temptation!
As Emmett hopped into his Spyder, he thanked his lucky stars that he didn't know where Edward and the good doctor-father were sitting. At this point, Edward Cullen was a melon with potential—firm to the touch with a sweet scent and a stem that yielded just right when Emmett teased it with his thumbs. But until you slice open a cantaloupe, you never know what's inside. For now, Emmett needed to avoid all thoughts of Edward Cullen's potentially tasty flesh.
The warmup routine proved to be a comforting, rigorous march, occupying mind and body to the exclusion of outside thoughts. And once suited up for the game, Emmett was one hundred percent focused on his pitching. The first two innings held all the promise of another perfect game, but in the third, Seth Smith's single stole away the no-hitter as well. Emmett sulked for as long as it took him to slap the ball into his mitt a few times, forced himself to stop "hearing" the "not this time" laments he was sure must be filling the airwaves, and struck out the next two batters.
He jogged in from the field with his teammates, getting butt slapped right and left all the way to the dugout. Seaver crowded in next to Emmett on the bench.
"Nice recovery there, Mac."
"Fucking Smith grabbed that curveball. I knew I was screwed when it left his bat."
Seaver nudged him with his shoulder. "We'll get you the win tonight. Don't worry."
"Thanks, man."
The other players didn't need to speak to show their support. As they walked by Emmett, they rubbed his head or gave him a nod that said it all.
Maybe Emmett was getting tired by the seventh-inning stretch, or maybe it was getting too close to the promised locker room visit. Maybe it was the damn song Edward had planted in Emmett's brain like a time bomb waiting to explode. All he knew was at "One, two, three strikes you're out," Emmett was scanning the sea of jerseys in the stands for some person he'd never met while figuring out how to regain his focus.
"How's the arm?" Coach asked as the noise of the crowd died down.
Emmett rolled his shoulders. "Doing fine, Coach."
"Go get 'em, Mac!"
The Mariners took the field with a one-nothing lead. Venable pushed Emmett to a full count and tipped three foul balls before Emmett finally drew the third strike. Two more outs, Emmett told himself, winding up a fastball to Rivera. Crack! Line drive to left field. Emmett held his breath as the ball sailed over Sanders and bounced off the fence. The left fielder chased it down and threw the ball to Millen, but Rivera was already approaching second. Fuck! Game over.
Emmett went through the motions of getting ready for the next batter, but Waits was already jogging out to take him off the mound.
"Good game, Mac," he said. "Let's give that arm a break."
They jogged in together as the reliever took the mound. Emmett continued straight into the locker room, tossed his jersey into the laundry pile, and surrendered his aching muscles to the trainer.
"How's your shoulder feeling?" Trey asked him.
"I'll live," Emmett answered, sinking into one of the chairs lined up in front of a giant TV screen.
Trey chuffed. "That good, eh?" While Emmett watched the end of the game, Trey secured a towel over his shoulder and set the ice pack in place. Emmett jumped out of his chair, dumping the ice to the floor as Rivera reached third on a single, but Rodney struck out the next batter, and Emmett was able to take his seat again and relax. Fuller took the mound at the top of the ninth to close out the game with a resounding two-nothing victory for the Mariners.
The locker room swarmed with a sloppy stream of high-fives, happy shouts, and scary-ugly victory dances. Emmett squirmed in his chair, itching to celebrate with his teammates.
Trey chuckled and shook his head at Emmett's impatience. "Go! Enjoy your victory."
"Thanks, boss." Hopping out of his seat, Emmett tossed the ice pack to his trainer. He sought out Fuller first, clasping hands and swapping compliments. As the two men chatted, their teammates formed a makeshift receiving line on their way to the showers. Careful not to jostle the valuable throwing arms, the Mariners filed past their pitchers, playfully slapping their bellies or backs. The line of naked athletes might have had an entirely different effect on Emmett if these knuckleheads weren't like brothers he knew all too well.
"Yo, Mac! You have a couple of visitors."
Author's Note: Dun dun DUNNNNN! Quick, Emmett, put your shirt on! Hee-hee! Thank you all for your delicious impatience to get to next week's scene, especially you, Jessa. *wink* Love you guys! If you're not in my FB group, Born's Pumpkin Patch, you might be missing out on some heartwarming baseball stories and inspiring photos.
XXX ~BOH
PS- did you people happen to notice how LONG this one was? Aren't I good to you?