Page 48 of Scoring Position

“I don’t knowwho looks into the stands more for their girl. You or Valentine,” Jackson says as I peek from the dugout, scanning the crowd at Fury Field for Lark.

“Definitely Valentine,” Hawk grunts out, adjusting the tape on his wrist. His best friend laughs, sidling up next to me as I drag my eyes across the empty section she always sits in, hoping she arrives before the first pitch is thrown.

“How are things?” Jacks asks. “Obviously pretty well if you’re over here like a giddy schoolboy waiting for his crush to walk by.”

I side-eye him, trying to tamp down the silly smile that tickles at the corners of my mouth. “Things are good. I took my final a few days ago, so I’m officially done with school. There’s not a chance in hell I failed.” My average going into the week was a B, so I’d have had to bomb the exam miserably to end up with a failing grade. I was relieved as I made my way through the questions, finding most of the answers in the notes Lark and I wrote into a fresh notebook while she helped me study.

“When do you find out?” he asks, walking over to sit on the bench, leaning back and gripping the chain that hangs around his neck.

I shake my head. “I’m not sure. Hopefully soon. I already applied for graduation, so pending my grade in this class, I’ll officially have my diploma by the end of the month.”

“Good for you, man,” he replies, and I look over to see a sincere smile on his face. “Your grandma would be proud that you stuck it out. I know we all are.” He circles a finger around the dugout, and I turn to see Hawk and a few other teammates looking at me the same way he is, with so much support filling the small space. My chest tightens with emotion because, for the first time in a while, I’m part of a real family. Between Lark and the guys, I’m not alone anymore, and that’s a hell of a feeling.

“Thanks,” I say, full of gratitude as he looks over my shoulder, a smirk lifting the corner of his mouth. I turn to see my girl walking down the steps toward her seat. She's looking as stunning as ever with her long blonde hair falling in waves over her shoulders, the tight white t-shirt she's wearing under my unbuttoned jersey showing just the right amount of cleavage to make my mouth water. My eyes drag down to where her denim shorts hug her curves, and my mind is flooded with memories of waking her up this morning with my tongue. I ate her like a starving man until those gorgeous thighs clamped around my head, and she sang my name loudly, begging me to stop when she became too sensitive. No matter how many times I have Lark Dawson, I’ll always be hungry for more.

My stomach flips with excitement when she notices me, her bright smile lighting up the entire stadium as I approach. She's hands down the prettiest girl in this place, and I'm the lucky motherfucker who's been waking up next to her every morning. I have no idea how I've been able to convince her to stay over even though we no longer have assignments to do, but you won't heara single complaint about it. Holding her as I drift off peacefully every night has been an experience I'll never forget, and one I hope to have even more of in the future.

“Hey there,” I say as she passes her row and heads toward the landing, stopping when she gets to the railing that separates the stands from the field. A handful of fans who have already taken their seats watch as we smile at each other like we're the only two people in the world. As crazy as it is, neither of us even gives them a second look. It's a far cry from the days when she wanted to hide everything because she was worried about other’s disapproval. There’ve been a few occasions when the media posted photos of the two of us together, but the Fury PR team made it clear that she's my tutor, so I don't think anyone is onto the fact that there’s so much more going on between us. Not that I care—I want the entire world to know she’s mine. As soon as we put a label on this thing, I plan on screaming it from the rooftops. I won't be like her ex-husband. I'm proud of Lark and everything she wants to do with her life, and I'll make sure she feels it in the way I speak about her to others.

“Before you say anything, I was running late and didn't have time to stop at the concession stand for snacks, but I promise I will.” I love that she knows what I'm thinking before I even voice it out loud, and that she places importance on how I’ve followed that particular piece of advice from my grandma. I wish she were here to see the way my relationship with Lark has grown and how happy I already am. I know that's all she ever really wanted for me.

Putting a hand up between us, I stop her. “No need, Sweets. Your fuzzy friend, Friggle, will be swinging by very soon with that cotton candy ice cream you love so much. All you have to do is sit back, relax and enjoy being waited on.”

She scoffs. “That thing is straight out of a horror movie, Ace. I can’t be the only one who thinks so.”

“You’re not,” Riggs deadpans, stopping next to me. She lifts a hand in his direction as if to saySee, I told you, and I can’t help but laugh. Hopefully, there are no kids within earshot, because after he punched Friggle in the face earlier this season, they had to publicly make nice to prove they were friends. It's still one of the highlights of my rookie season, and sometimes, when I'm sad, I rewatch the video of them exchanging friendship bracelets before Riggs was forced into a furry hug as the fans cheered them on from their seats. It perks me right back up every time. “I swear that dude is paid to test my patience.” He turns to me. “Ready for some warm-up pitches?”

“Yeah, be right there,” I reply as he takes off toward the mound, leaving me to say goodbye to my girl. “I’ll see you after the game, baby. Enjoy the show.”

“The show?” she asks, and I wink, saying nothing else as I flip my hat backwards and make my way to home plate. Riggs fires a few throws into my waiting mitt as we loosen up, getting in as many as we can before we’re called to the baseline for the National Anthem. I take it all in, knowing I’m at home with my brothers by my side and the woman of my dreams cheering for me from the stands, her perfect body showing off who she belongs to, with my name and number stretching across her back. The past seven weeks have flown by, but I feel like I’ve turned into an entirely different man since she walked into that room and knocked me on my ass. I’ll never be able to thank her enough for being everything I need.

We take the field first, and as excited as I am to play today, I'm more excited about the things I have planned for my walk-up dance. I'm notorious for picking songs from musicals, but lately, I've been venturing out into different genres. The fans really seem to like the change, and I have to say I'm having a lot of fun with it, too. I still can't believe the Fury lets me do this, since we’re supposed to be laser-focused. But as long as it makespeople happy and my game doesn’t slip, it’s a win-win situation for everyone.

The top of the inning ends, and we manage to hold them to only one base hit, which thankfully doesn’t result in a run. They got a couple of good ones off Riggs, but our outfielders came to play today, so nothing hit the ground.

Clyde made a few changes to today's batting order, and I'm on cleanup, which means I'll be going fourth. I've been putting a lot of extra time into working with the coaches on my swing, and it's paid off in spades. My technique is finally on its way to where I want it, and I won’t stop until my batting average is the highest in the league for a catcher.

Dante is our lead-off man today since he’s our most disciplined hitter. He almost never swings at the first pitch, so I'm shocked as hell when he does, getting a solid piece of it and ending up on first base. He must’ve seen something he liked, because I've watched him let so many go by, gauging the pitchers’ mannerisms and techniques as he did.

Jackson is up second, and he drops a beauty of a hit just short of the wall. The hot Florida sun works in our favor, essentially blinding the center fielder just enough so he loses the ball as it narrowly misses his glove. Jacks ends up on second base, advancing Dante to third just in time for Hawk to step up to the plate.

The first pitch is a ball, high and outside, followed by another that’s almost identical. He's usually our best hitter, so it's pretty obvious they're trying to intentionally walk him. With no outs, it’s a giant slap in the face from the Badgers—not only to me, but also to the two batters who are next in the lineup. They'd rather load the bases and hope for us to strike or fly out than give Hawk an opportunity to hit one out of here.

“Fuck you,” I mutter, chuckling because,like hell, I’m going to let that happen. I’ll make them regret underestimating me.But first, I have a pretty girl to impress. The last two pitches are way outside, sending Hawk to take first base. He jogs slowly since my thirty-second timer for my walk-up doesn’t start until his foot hits the bag, which is a league-regulated rule. I quickly hand my bat and helmet to the batboy before taking the spiked wig from his outstretched hand and pulling it over my head. The intro to “Hot for Teacher” by Van Halen blares through the stadium, and the crowd cheers as I walk over to the baseline, where I have a clear view of Lark as she gives a stern look that tells me I’m in trouble later.

Worth it.

High-pitched screams from the girls surrounding her break through the air while I make my approach, but I can’t see any of them. I only have eyes for my blonde bombshell as she cups her red cheeks in her palms. She tries to hide her smile as I point her way, breaking into the most epic air drum solo anyone has ever seen.

My teammates egg me on from the dugout, yelling the lyrics loudly while I bang my head until she finally breaks and starts laughing. Her arms fly into the air, and she shakes her ass to the beat as if she doesn’t have a care in the world. The music begins to fade, causing her to stop and sit back down, dropping her head into her hands like she’s embarrassed. She’s fucking cute as hell, and I love the way she plays with me now, even though she knows people can see it. She’s come a long way since that first night in my hotel room when I had to bribe her to have fun. I blow her a kiss as she peeks through her fingers, ditching the wig and replacing it with my helmet before I hurry to the plate with less than a second to spare.

“About fucking time,” the catcher mumbles, making me bark a devious laugh. He’s got the calls to strike me out all planned, so the only thing I’m focusing on is not taking the bait. They know what kind of pitches I normally swing at and what part of mybat hits the ball with each one. What they don’t know is that I’ve been working to correct that. They’re about to find out.

The first pitch is thrown, and I know before it even leaves the pitcher’s hand that it’s going to be low and far outside because I usually can’t resist. Even now, it’s difficult to hold still, letting it sail into the catcher’s mitt with athwack.

“Ball!” the umpire calls out, and the crowd claps at my restraint. I don’t plan on letting them walk me, but not biting on that one should confuse them a little.

The pitcher winds up again, sending another low slider past me. It’s inside, which I’m sure wasn’t the intent, but I arch my body outward to avoid getting hit as it flies by.

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