Page 15 of Nailed at Home Plate

The little chat in the locker room I stumbled onto the other day had me still in a tizzy. For a moment, I forgot that the hottest man on the planet was on the team. It was just another day of the guys chatting about their nonsensical nonsense. That was until I saw his stunning blue eyes from across the room. I ignored the fact that the sole reason I’d come into the locker room in the first place was because of him.

Topper wanted to chat with me about Jamie’s status in his choreography training. The manager trusted me enough that he didn’t feel the need to micromanage my practices. But that meant that I had to chance the walk through the minefield of the locker room to get to his office to give him regular updates. Which was sometimes when the guys were there either getting dressed or…undressed.

Despite Jamie’s near-constant grumptastic mood, it still didn’t change the fact that he was still visually the man of my dreams. There was this delicious tingle that raced up my spine anytime I was near him. Which was why I gave the man a wide as fuck berth anytime I had to be near him.

With the other guys on the team, I wasn’t afraid to put my hands on them to adjust their positioning or to help them figure out the choreography moves. With Jamie I needed at least five feet of breathing space or else I was likely to keel over. Mostly I just gestured to which body part needed to move and where it was supposed to go. Maybe it was the man’s ego that ate up the local atmosphere. Whatever it was, it was unsettling.

Unfortunately, the discussion with Topper wasn’t all that great. Which only compounded my already testy mood of late. And it all had to do with the hunky catcher that was under my tutelage.

Ownership told Topper they wanted Jamie out on the field by the end of the month. That meant that I had little more than a week left to turn the grump into the goofy belle of the ball. To say that I was freaking out was the biggest understatement of the year.

This would all be so much easier if it wasn’t for the one major pain in my ass. Jamie continued to be reluctant in my attempts to get him to cooperate. He did at least show up to practice, I’ll give him that. But it was the fact that it was like pulling teeth getting him to do the dance moves in some semblance of a correct manner.

He was a grown-ass baseball professional, so I didn’t feel like it was necessary for me to hold his hand throughout his initial integration into the team. He knew this sport inside and out. Instead of being a good sport, Jamie was a goddamn stick in the mud. He needed to be Philly Sillys star-worthy in four weeks from when ownership sent him to us.

Four, outrageously short, weeks.

And now there were only days left until Jamie needed to be field-ready.

No matter what sort of math you did, the equation didn’t work out. Even though most, okay let's be honest,allof the issues were because of Jamie’s negative attitude, it was still on me to snap him out of it and on with the program. He had no issues with catching and, from what I heard from the batting coach, he was making improvements. Except in my entertainment aspect of the game.

I had to make dancing tolerable for him. Make it into something he enjoyed. A rewards system maybe? I kept hearing Tiffiny’s voice in my head making filthy comments about theother waysI could turn his frown upside down.

If only it was that easy and not frowned upon in the workplace. In the book or movie world that would totally fly. But I was in the shitty real world where women didn’t end up with their gorgeous celebrity professional ball player crushes. I was in a world where all I could do was admire him from afar while simultaneously attempting to pull his head out of his pert ass. Or else I might end up losing my job.

Then the guys had to go and make a reference to Jamie’s ass. Which drew an uninhibited questionable noise that came from the deepest confines of my body. I’d been doing so well with pushing my sultry thoughts of the man aside and saving them for when I was home. If Topper hadn’t been expecting me, I would have gone and drowned myself in the toilets from the utter embarrassment.

Topper insisted I needed to get Jamie on the same page as the teambeforehis debut. What the hell could I do that I hadn’t done already? Did I need tospoon-feed him dance moves? Did I need tophysicallymove his body myself for him to get it? Because don’t tempt me. I would have done that already if it wasn’t for the fact that I’d probably vomit all over his cleats just from being so close.

Teaching someone how to dance wasn’t new to me. In college I taught kids dance at the local studio with whatever free time I could spare between my classes as my part-time job. But those were kids, and they were much easier to teach. Jamie was an adult who should have better listening skills than a child. If I hadn’t seen the job posting for the Sillys I probably would have opened up my own dance studio in downtown Philadelphia for underprivileged youth.

Dance was not only my career, but I also used it as a way to express myself. It gave me a healthy outlet to do so. Sometimes when I was frustrated or angry I’d push the furniture against the walls in my apartment and let loose. Usually, it was slow and mournful music, and other times there were a hell of a lot of F-bombs and harsh beats. It just depended on my mood.

Working for the Sillys gave me more space instead of dancing around my apartment neighbors’ schedules. Sometimes I’d get to the stadium first thing in the morning to enjoy the privacy and quiet when the dew on the grass was still fresh. I’d go out onto the field and just dance. Nothing beat the cooler air in the early morning or at twilight as I danced with my bare feet on the spongy grass.

I was good friends with the head groundskeeper, Joe. He was a kindly older gentleman with a heart of gold and was the biggest Philadelphia sports fan I knew, my dad excluded. While he was ratherprotective of his grassy outfield, he didn’t mind if I came early to dance or warm up. He told me I was considerate of his hard work with the maintenance of the field, not to mention much lighter on my feet. He was always the charmer.

Joe was one of the first ones here in the morning to check the water levels and growth of the field before the heat of the summer day. The grass needed to be a certain height for optimum play. The mowing team was always ready to go during the baseball season. Before I came here, I had no idea that so much effort and science went into field maintenance. Whatever he did, it made the park look beautiful.

Since he was here so early, I knew Joe would be more than happy to let me in as long as I stayed out of his way. The mowing team never showed up until mid-morning when the guys took their lunch break. I liked to think that Joe held them off just long enough for me to get my dance work in.

After the meeting with Topper, I needed a good dance therapy session. I could always work on new choreography for the team or have a little fun freestyling my frustrations out. Today was certainly afrustrationkind of morning. Namely one, big, Jamie-shaped, pain in my ass frustration.

I walked onto the field and spotted Joe headed towards his field office. Giving him a warm wave, I made my way over to the outfield behind first base. With the orientation of the stadium, the right field avoided most of the bright morning sun. Which was always helpful during the hotter days of the summer.

Today started with a soft breeze, which helped keep my testy mood to a low boil instead of blowing my top off the pot. The team was slated to arrive inanother hour for their morning choreography practice before the landscaping squad arrived. Plenty of time for me to get a sweat worked up and to push some of the more aggravating feelings out of my system. Then maybe by the time Jamie arrived I could at least be more civil.

Tossing my bag onto the grass, I began my usual stretching routine to warm up my muscles. The chilly dew against my skin made it prickle. I knew that later I’d be wishing the weather was still like this when the summer sun was directly overhead. There was a heaviness to the air, it was, unfortunately, going to be humid today. At least it would provide a more physical distraction from my thoughts.

Popping in my earbuds, I swiped through my favorite music mix. I settled on a song that was more mellow than I typically picked for a mood such as the one I was in. But I needed a bit of chill empowerment before I got into the hard shit. An ideal choice for me to get through the more boring but necessary stretches.

Once I was thoroughly limbered up, I went for it. Cranking up the volume, I selected the carefully curated playlist that had thumping beats. Songs where I could feel the bass straight down to my toes. It was almost as if my heart pumped in time with the beat.

When I needed to mentally work out shit, I danced with my eyes closed. It was almost as if it was a sensory deprivation chamber within my own body. With my earbuds in and my eyes closed, I could focus solely on the music and how it flowed through my extremities. To let my mind and body go into a thought process where there was no routine to follow.To feel free and move to what the music made my body do. It was passionate. Powerful. I danced with raw emotion as a way to process whatever I was feeling.

I felt comfortable dancing in the expanse of the Sillys’ field. Although I always did set an alarm for about fifteen minutes before the start of practice so the guys didn’t interrupt something that was clearly “me time”. If they asked me what I was doing, I just told them that I was working out some ideas for future routines.

Dancing like this was my therapy. My safe space. The kind of place where I truly felt like myself. It was my freedom of feelings and expression. I felt…free.

---