Page 52 of The Third Baseman

I took a deep breath, and then remembered… “The guy, who was the guy I heard? I heard a man’s voice.”

“The bell hop brought my bags up.” She pointed to the offending bags like they were evidence in a court case.

Double shit.

As I took another step back, more came into clarity; her hair, slicked back and wet from the shower; the tiny towel she had barely wrapped around herself which was grazing her thigh in a way that could definitely be described as indecent. In fact, half an inch higher and I’d be getting a very direct look at the home I used to bury my face in every chance I got.

It took less than a second for the images I was conjuring to reach my dick.

The rest of the second reminded me I was only in a flimsy pair of cotton pajamas pants that were becoming tighter.

“Turn around!” Marnie’s terse command pulled me back to the present. “I need to stand up.”

I did so without argument. Though she’d forgotten there was a mirror behind me, I tried to do the gentlemanly thing and look away, but only after I caught the tiniest swell of her boob as she tucked her towel back into place.

I waited, silently. When I finally built up the courage to peek again, I could see her staring at my back, eyes wide.

No, not staring. Studying.

My tattoos.

I turned slowly, her gaze following me. My chest hit her eye line, and her eyes had widened so much I could see the full, round shape of her iris, the brilliant green I knew so well; exactly like the pair on either of my triceps.

But that wasn’t what had her hand shooting up to cover her mouth, or the sharp gasp she let out. Her hand dropped, but her mouth was still wide open.

I’m not sure she’d blinked.

“You’ve always been with me, Marn,” I whispered.

She reached out to brush across my chest, then clenched her fist and brought it back down to her side like she thought better of it.

“I got it the day after I was drafted.” Her eyes shot up, now shining with tears which made the green even brighter, because the alternate way to say that was the day after I broke both our hearts. The day after I left my heart with her.

And that’s exactly what it was. On my left pectoral, above the heart beating for her right now…

Thud. Thud. Thud.

An intricate drawing of a brilliant star sliced in two, one half lying on the ground, and inside the other half was a beating heart. Hers. Mine. Our tiny initials intertwined in the middle.

The exact replica of initials we’d carved into the palm tree I used to climb up to her room.

My eyes followed the path she was taking; absorbing the artwork in front of her until her head dropped down to my waist, to the start of the longest tattoo I had – both figuratively and literally. It had taken nearly three years to complete.

To the casual observer; namely every girl I’d slept with, most of my teammates, and anyone else who’d cared to ask, it was a shadow, a cloud, a swirling smudge of light and dark tinged in blue. To Marnie, however…

“The Milky Way,” she rasped. “Jupiter…”

Her fingertips were cool against my skin as she traced the constellations stretching the length of my torso. I stood as still as possible, trying hard to enjoy the moment but also not scare her away with my rapidly thickening cock. But she continued as though she hadn’t noticed, and I wasn’t sure whether or not to take offense.

The main concentration of tiny stars worked their way along the deep V-line girls loved to comment on, disappearing below my waistband, but reaching up toward my chest and bursting across my abs. It was here her fingers stopped and she took hold of my arms.

I straightened them out for her.

“I wondered what this said,” she began, her voice barely audible, and my heart thumped hard with a little internal jump for joy that she’d been wondering about me. “On my first day I saw a poster of you… I didn’t know… I didn’t realize you had tattoos.”

That news hurt more than a misthrow to the side of the face.

I was almost associated with my tattoos as much as I was with baseball. If she hadn’t known about them then she really had been hiding from me, or avoiding me. She hadn’t once Googled me, or seen a picture, or been curious about me.

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