Page 21 of Curveball

QUINCY – AGE 27 {RIPLEY – AGE 22}

Arizona: Ripley doesn’t know anyone in Houston. Please look out for her.

Me: Ripley doesn’t need a babysitter. She’ll make friends.

I can be such a dick sometimes. Arizona and Ripley graduated from college last month. They were both drafted into the new women’s professional softball league. Arizona was drafted by the team in Anaheim, California. Ripley was drafted by the team out of Houston, Texas. What are the chances that she’d end up in the sametown as me?

Arizona: Just because your hair is styled like a girl doesn’t mean you get to act like a little bitch. Invite her out with your friends. Or stop by her new apartment. Don’t big time me, Abbott, I knew you when you shit your pants at the Barson’s haunted mansion. I had to run all the way home to get you clean clothes. You owe me.

I can’t help but let out a laugh at the pants-shitting incident reminder. She brings it up at least once a year.

She proceeds to give me the address. It’s not far from me, but I’m in no rush to do anything about it. Opening that can of worms might be a mistake.

Ripley St. James has become the woman I measure all others against. The problem? None of them come remotely close to the real thing.

I can’t explain the connection or the feelings evoked in me the evening we spent together, but they’re there. I’ve never felt anything like it with anyone before or since. She was an inexperienced virgin before our one night together, yet I would give anything to feel half of what I felt that night with another woman.

We hada day game today so a bunch of us are at Blast Off, a trendy nightclub with a name that’s a nod to the nearby Kennedy Space Center. We’re all drinking, surrounded by women, having a great time.

My teammate, Drew, smiles at me. “Yo, California, you heading out soon?”

Admittedly, I don’t stick around these evenings verylong. I find a woman of interest and leave with her relatively early. What’s the point in all theget-to-know-youcrap? I’m in and out for a one-night good time only.

I lean back and smile, as I often do. “Soon. Maybe I’ll have one more drink.”

I notice a new group of women walk in through the front door. Despite the crowd, I immediately see Ripley among them. She stands out, having that sexy, red, curly hair, and by usually being a lot taller than most other women.

I was a minute away from leaving with the groupie standing at our table talking to me. I’m not sure I remember her name. Now that I see Ripley, I know there’s no chance of me leaving with Ms. No Name.

I look Ripley up and down. Suddenly, the only thing I want tonight are those red curls bouncing on top of me. I want to bury my face between those thick thighs and take in that unique strawberry scent of hers. I have to adjust myself simply thinking of it.

I ignore the woman I’ve been talking to and watch Ripley for the next thirty minutes. She doesn’t see me, but I can’t stop staring at her. I notice that she’s different than she was four years ago, having a bit more confidence and swagger.

She’s in a skirt. I’ve rarely, if ever, seen her dressed up. It’s definitely more form-fitting than anything she’s worn in front of me in the past. Her curves are on display for every creepy fucker in here. My mouth is watering.

Her curls are down and wild. She’s got on makeup and looks every bit the twenty-two-year-old temptress she now is.

She and her friends are at the bar, having a good time. My teammate Drew eventually notices them. I see himwalking their way. I grind my teeth. He better not go near her.

Fortunately, I see him approach one of her friends. I almost feel bad for the girl. I might not ever be into relationships, but I don’t pretend otherwise. I’m very clear up front with women that there is zero chance of anything beyond sex happening. Drew makes them feel like they’re going to get married when of course they’re not. It’s a sleazeball way to be. He’s my teammate, so I tolerate his antics, but I don’t care for him at all.

While Drew is busy chatting with Ripley’s friend, some guy I don’t recognize walks up to Ripley and starts talking. Within seconds, she’s laughing at something he said to her. Ugh, I hate that. Now he’s laughing at something she said. I think I hate that even more.

Admittedly, even if not with me, I’m happy to see that she’s clearly become more confident. She no longer looks like the insecure teenager I remember. She’s a woman who seems more comfortable in her own skin. I’m proud of her for that.

After a few minutes, she stands. I have a glimmer of hope, thinking that maybe she’s walking away from him. Nope, he’s holding her hand, leading her to the dance floor. I feel my jaw tighten.

I watch his hands on her body while they dance for about half a song before I can’t take it anymore.

I practically jump out of my seat and glide toward the dance floor. Without her noticing me, I sneak up behind her, push my body against her back, and whisper in her ear, “Don’t forget, all your firsts are mine, including your first dance.”

I feel her immediately stiffen before she turns around, wide-eyed. “Quincy?”

Ifix an errant curl of hers while brushing my thumb along her soft face. “Shortcake.”

The other guy tries to place his hand on her shoulder, but I slap it away and growl, “Get lost. She’s mine.”

I have five inches and sixty pounds on the guy. His brief moment of hesitancy quickly gives way to logic as he turns and walks away.

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