Page 3 of Totally Opposed

TEDDY: Man up, dude!

RYAN: Dude? Really? Are we twelve?

TEDDY: You look twelve.

RYAN: Fuck off.

TEDDY: ***Heart emoji***

I walked right into that one. I’ve been told my whole life I have a baby face and as soon as Teddy started getting mistaken as the older out of the two of us, it became a running joke between him and me. I have big eyes, thick lips, and given that I would burn easily with my pale skin, I slathered myself in sunscreen every day since before I can remember, and I guess that has helped my skin maintain a more youthful appearance. I’ll probably be chuffed about looking younger when I’m in my fifties, or sixties, but for now, it can make dating hard. I don’t really want to date younger guys who are into parties and getting blind drunk on weekends, but the guys I do like, think I’m too young for them, and having to show your ID to prove your age isn’t the kind of meet cute story I want.

I thought I found a great guy a few years ago. Before I did this, I was a marketing manager for a new age health supplement company and we met at a launch event for a new line. My ex was great. Until he wanted help to apply for Banana Ball, and the tape we sent in had the GM, Bart Erricson, calling to invite me to fly out instead of him. I apparently stole his dream and all my dreams of a future with him disappeared pretty quickly after that conversation. I don’t regret it. Nothing has made me happier than touring with these guys, but family has been everything to me my whole life, and I really thought by now, I’d have found a guy I could share my life with.

Before I can wallow in my loneliness at the ripe old age of twenty-nine, Mr. Quacksalot’s big stupid grin draws my eye, and I can’t help but laugh.

“You’re right, duck. There is still plenty of time for my love story, and until then, I have you. This is going to be great,” I say,looking around my new room and then back to Mr Quacksalot. “You better not hog the covers.”

Chapter two

Alan

Don’t get me wrong.I love what I do. I love that Banana Ball has brought a new kind of energy to the game I grew up watching with my gramps. But if I am being totally honest with myself, which seldom happens, I do let what other people think get to me. My gramps in particular. My sister, Kelly, tells me to ignore him. And I should. I really fucking should. But that little Alan inside of me is still holding out hope that he’ll come around, despite the fact he’s made it very clear he doesn’t think what I play is baseball at all. There are a lot of differences, true, but the game is essentially the same; we just took out all the boring stuff and got the crowd way more involved. Not only in the celebrations but in the game itself. Having a spectator launch themselves up out of their seat to catch the foul ball that wins the point for their team gets the crowd and the players’ hearts racing in a way that nothing else does.

I still don’t try to hit a foul ball, but it happens, and I’d be lying if I wasn’t rooting for the person in the stands as much as everyone else to catch it. Gramps might get his wish if therumors are true and only one of our teams will get to continue next year.

“You’ve got the mic,” Dennis calls, handing it over as the rest of the team heads across to the other side of the field.

“You sure?” I ask, more out of politeness. I don’t want him to give it to anyone else. I love singing in front of thousands of people almost as much as I love smacking it out of the park.

He raises one brow at me and purses his lips a little in reply.

“Okay, I was just checking,” I say, then flip the mic over in the air, catching it perfectly by the handle again. “Opening choreography?”

“Let’s just see what you feel in the moment, then we can add from there.”

It’s not like Dennis to not have a million and one instructions, but I’m game to see what I’ve got without him. “What are we singing then?”

“I think you’ll know it,” he smiles and taps his phone. It’s connected to a speaker by the dugout. On game day, the music will play all over the stadium, but for rehearsals, we shouldn’t have the whole of Savannah hearing what music we’re planning.

As soon as the music starts, I shake my head. I know this song. Ever since Elton and Britney released it, it’s been on my playlist. It’s also become one of my top three on karaoke night, and seeing as Dennis never misses karaoke either, it’s no surprise he’s picked this song for me.

“I’ve been waiting for an opportunity to go full Elton,” I call, jogging up the stairs. I spin on the first line dramatically, stepping slowly down each step and singing along, then throwing my head back, I spread my legs out at the sides, and belt out the chorus.

The pop version brings a great beat to work in a few moves I usually reserve for Abba night at karaoke, and Dennis watchesthe whole time, arms folded over his chest, but smiling and nodding along to the music.

I get to the field and throw one arm out at the side, spinning in place.

“This would be a great spot for a few guys to lift me and spin me,” I say, then pretend I’m lowered down, do a dramatic bow, then wriggle my ass as I sing and dance until the music finally fades to a close.

“So how was it?” I ask.

“It’s missing something,” he replies, frowning.

“Yeah, it’s missing my big orange feathery coat and giant star sunglasses.”

“No, I think we should make it a duet,” he replies, turning towards where the team is now jogging up and down the stairs of the back stands. “Phillip, get over here,” he yells, and after a few snide remarks from the guys still hitting the stairs, he makes his way over.

“What’s up?”

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