Page 4 of Sideline Play

There wasn’t a place you could go in Major League Baseball and not hear about her, see her, know her. She became as much of an icon of the sport as her father. The darling of baseball, the belle of the South, America’s very own princess.

By the time I stepped behind the plate and made my own debut within The Nest, Colt Jones had retired and transitioned to coaching, a multi-layered dream of mine come true. As for Scarlet, she was in her early teens and, for the first time, no longer a fixture of every game the Nighthawks played. RomanMcAllister, or Jones as he legally became on his eighteenth birthday, had come into their lives, and off she went to experience a regular high school environment. If you could call Brentwood, the uber rich suburb of Nashville, regular. Both were around but no longer a staple, except for at home games and a few weeks each summer when they would join their dad on our road stretches. She became someone who, if truth be told, I often forgot about until she was physically standing in front of me. I was oblivious to everything that involved little Scarlet Jones, including the crush she had on me that Roman let out of the bag while training with us ahead of his senior season.

I can’t pinpoint when the shift between us occurred. Just that one day she was the sweet, teenage daughter of my skipper, the girl who baked the team nearly inedible protein cookies that we all forced down with a smile on our faces. Then the next, she was twenty-one and home for the summer from U.T. Chattanooga, and I was seeing her as if for the first time.

Her shapely, tan legs on display in her tiny Nighthawks green athletic shorts. A matching sports bra worn under an open pink jersey with her dad’s retired number on the back. Wisps of golden blonde hair getting blown free from the mirrored aviators she wore on her head. And her laugh. It was infectious as it bounced across the field, drawing everyone’s attention and causing an acutely uncomfortable situation to occur inside my cup.

It was like a switch had flipped. I was no longer in the middle of Nashville, running drills with Knox, who we had signed as my backup this season. Instead I was on the balcony of my home in Gatlinburg,myname and number pushed up her back with my fingers digging into her hip as I fucked her sweet pussy from behind. The skies painted in her trademark shade of pink as the sun crested the mountains. Her pleasure-filled moans and criesbegging me for more and mingling with the song of morning birds.

I was fucked.

Intelligent and spirited. Kind and compassionate. Beautiful beyond words. Scar was breathtaking and incandescent. Captivating me and stealing my attention with no remorse. Regret for losing my head every time she was near absent. An addiction I crave every Thursday through Sunday when she comes back to Nashville for her internship, drawing me into a battle I refuse to fight. Instead finding ways to touch her, talk to her, simply exist in the same span of breath as her. Sucking in each hit to fuel my imagination’s intimate acquaintance with her body so my dick can find its daily relief in my hand.

So incredibly fucked.

Even now as Jennings and Jones debate when best to pull me from tonight’s game so as to not exacerbate the minute tears in my hip, all I can think about is Scar. A thin, hot thread of possession rolling through me as she puts her hands on either side of Knox’s ass to push him further into his stretch. Which is a serious fucking problem considering she’s just doing the job she’s training for, and now more than ever I need to extract my head from my dick and get it in the game.

Since I’ve been playing, we’ve won the World Series twice, bringing Jones’s career wins to five. However, as of yet, we’ve not won with him as our skipper, and the entire team is desperate to give him that achievement. And with only one more series after tonight before the playoffs, we’re hungrier than ever. Not just for the win but for redemption after losing in the eleventh inning of Game 6 last year.

We took that loss hard but have bounced back. Though I have to be in sync with every pitcher in our bullpen, Roman Jones and I have reached near telepathic levels of communication. We no longer need signals or the PitchCom. We can simply lookat the lineup and each other and know exactly what the other is thinking. It’s a starting combo that has made our defense as deadly for the teams we face as our stacked offensive lineup.

This game and next week’s final series of the regular season is ours. I can feel it in the marrow that makes up my bones. And when Scar looks up from Knox, our eyes catching and holding as her smile softens into the delicate, dreamy look she saves only for me, I’m washed in serenity. My amped up state for her and the game calming and funneling in on the immediate steps I need to take to help catapult us back into the playoffs.

Recentered to what’s most important, I ask, “May I?” reaching for the clipboard Jennings and Jones hold.

Flipping back and forth between Atlanta’s lineup and ours, I begin counting out the potential base hits and likelihood of those runners making it home. Stacking it against our own chances and the ever present and growing twinge in my failing hip, I suggest, “Put him in at the top of the fifth. With how many innings Ro’s been averaging a game, he won’t be fatigued yet and can help ease Knox’s jitters when he first steps behind the plate. Then once their lineup starts over, put in Masters or Martinez. With them we shouldn’t need Simon to close. And if it were me, I’d put Kelley in to run for Knox because unless he hits a homer, he won’t make it to second. Provided he even gets to first, that is.” Handing the clipboard back over I add, “But lineup and pairing isn’t in my job description. That’s all you, Skip.”

“What do you think?” Jones asks.

“Scarlet, will you come here?” Jennings calls, pulling her away from Knox and back to me, that ridiculous thread of possession soothed as she bounces up between us without so much as a glance back at the far more age appropriate rookie.

With the bill of her cap lifted, she looks up at us, her small hands fluffing the bow on the back of her ponytail as she smiles. “Yes?”

And the look is enough to make me want to get on my knees and show her how long I can stay kneeling, worshiping her with my tongue.

“Micro hip labrum tears, how would you treat them?”

Narrowing her sapphire eyes up at me, a single sculpted brow raising, she clarifies, “I’m assuming you mean without pulling our starting player since Remington’s already fully kitted.”

“It’s minor, Scar. Nothing worth keeping me off the field for,” I quietly assure, calling it a win as that expressive muscle relaxes.

Biting the corner of her painted nail as her cheeks tint, her gaze shifts to the ground, scrutinizing an indiscernible blade of grass for a moment before she answers, “Full stretch routine the moment he’s out from behind the plate. Massage the afflicted area and surrounding muscles, then submerge him in ice. Afterward, we’ll compress and elevate before a new round of MRIs and re-evaluate. Based on findings, we’ll pivot treatment needs and begin the cycle all over again. Then intensive therapy and check him out every three to five days to be sure it’s not progressing further. Possibly have him sit out every two games for the playoffs or at the very least split backstop time with Knox around the seventh inning.”

Nodding his head, Jennings compliments, “Excellent,” making her plush lips pull up in a brilliant smile as she stands just a little bit taller.

“When we pull Tate, you’ll take point on his post-game recovery.”

“Yes, sir,” she eagerly replies, excusing herself with a small bounce in her step that makes her golden ponytail swish back and forth.

“You’re in for a hell of a time, Remington,” Jones laughs, as we follow her path back.

Clapping his dad on the shoulder and hanging off of him, Roman asks, “Hell of a time with what?”

“With Scarlet’s recovery massage,” Jennings answers with an almost pitying look.

“Oh fuck, I don’t envy you, Cap. Those boney elbows of hers are deadly. You’ll feel as loose and new as a baby goose when she’s done with you but man, she’ll attack your muscles like they owe her money.”

Popping her head around her brother and sliding in under his right arm, Scar ridicules, “Roman, you’re such a wimp. Seriously, your threshold for pain is almost non-existent.”

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