Page 1 of Catching Feels

Prologue

Nour

After Mom made Tommy White spit his gum out in her hand and freaked him the fuck out by telling him that chewing gum turned into the flesh of the dead after dark, I stopped inviting friends over to stay the night. She didn’t do this to be problematic; she actually believed it. My parents would cross the street if they saw a black cat and repeat statements exactly forty times because it was supposed to make whatever they were saying happen. They would pinch their right earlobe and knock on wood twice with their left while saying mashallah—even though they were Christians when they immigrated here from Turkey—to ensure evil wouldn’t be alerted of their good fortune.

Once I started playing high school baseball, I began thinking my parents might not be as crazy as I had thought they were. In college, it was much the same. The oddities, including my own, were amped up when I played in the minors.

My first RBI was hit while I was wearing the only jock strap I could find, one left in place of all the others that my team had stolen as part of their hazing. It was hot pink and bedazzled with a heart that read, “SWEATY BALLS.” I wore it for an entire season.

There’s more, so much more. It’s almost embarrassing, and it gets worse every damn day. But it is what it is, and that’s not what has me all in my fucking head right now.

It’s been weeks since the fire at “Slugger Row,” which is a row of townhomes all rented by fellow Jersey Jags players. Although no one was hurt and really no personal items were damaged by the fire, well, the smoke stench isn’t coming out of anything we own, but that’s really it. It was an electrical fire, so most of the damage was inside the walls, and now the electrical system and walls have to be fully replaced and repaired.

Our second baseman and owner of the property, Roman Hart, is dating the neighbor, CeCe, who owns a Victorian house that’s as big as any bed and breakfast my family stayed at when Mom and Dad dragged us on our annual leaf-peeping trips up the coast. Luckily, she’s letting us crash here. I’m sure it has way too much to do with her feeling responsible due to the fact the man responsible for dicking with the electrical system that started the fire is CeCe’s piece of shit father. He’s now behind bars, where he belongs, and everyone knows she’s not responsible.

We could easily find a new apartment, but our place is so close to Revolutionary Field and the local hangout, O’Donnell’s Pub, that we’re all willing to wait. It also has a hell of a lot to do with the fact we’ve all grown close, something I never expected would happen, but I’m glad it has. I’ve missed being part of a close family.

We’re all alive and have a roof over our heads. CeCe, her family, and girlfriends are amazing and love to cook as much as I do. Add their pup to the mix, and it’s a win.

A win is a good thing in my profession—no, it’s a great thing—and for the Jags, who have never been at the top in the fifty-two years since becoming an MLB team. Not ever. But now we’re winning games and slowly pulling up in the ranks, which is also great. And it’s not just the team doing well; my batting average is the best it has ever been since we moved into CeCe’s.

But there is one major problem: I haven’t had sex since we moved into Slugger Row, and with how packed this place is, even ten minutes in the bathroom is a luxury I don’t often get. What does this mean? I barely have enough alone time to get myself off, and it’s crucial I release before a game.

That’s right; me, the guy who hated superstitions the whole twenty years I lived with my parents, has game day rituals that include a big, early morning breakfast that always consists of a loaded omelet and two pieces of toast, one with butter and the other with strawberry jam. Next, I shower and do some self-care—jerk off—before chilling and watching two episodes of Real Housewives, which is my form of relationship control. I nap, then head to a yoga class at Revolutionary Field when we’re in town. If I can’t find a class when we’re on the road, I find a place by a body of water or in a park and do an hour before heading to the stadium, where even more game day rituals—superstitions—take place.

It’s time to take things, other than my dick, into my own hands, to go where this man has never gone before.

Looking down at my phone, I flex my fingers before hitting the app store. Then I search dating apps and look for one that’s more the opposite.

“Bingo.”

Welcome to Flingshot

Whether looking for a fling or a spontaneous connection, Flingshot is your go-to app for instant sparks and unforgettable moments.

Shoot your shot!

After careful thought, I tap out a ridiculous bio.

Profile name: SportsManSam

I’ve surfed the biggest waves … in my bathtub, scored a touchdown in a hockey game, and hit a home run in chess. My secret talent? Outrunning cheetahs on the track. They’re fast, but I have better sneakers. When I’m not busy winning Olympic gold in musical chairs, I enjoy coaching unicorns in the art of pole dancing. Hit me up for a lesson.

I uploaded a few mirror selfies that hid my face: one in a suit, one in a towel showcasing my abs, and one on a surfboard that one of my friends back home took. Then I hit “submit.”

AJ walks into our shared room. “Bathroom’s yours, man. Come down when you’re done. CeCe’s making popcorn, and we’re going to watch?—”

“I’m not into murder documentaries when I’m rooming with a guy who sounds like he’s running a chainsaw in the?—”

He cuts me off with a laugh. “Rome’s family’s here; she’s not going to watch that shit and freak them out. We’re watching highlights.” He knocks on the wooden doorjamb before walking away. “Let’s go.”

Standing, I look down and briefly contemplate changing out of my favorite comfy sweats but decide against it. I’m living here until the townhouse is finished; I’m not going to a fucking party. Sweats will work, but it’s probably a good idea to wear a shirt, too.

Walking out of my room, I head for the bathroom just as Bennett walks into it.

Of course.

Jillian

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