Page 111 of Commander in Briefs

The crunching Ans and I are doing is damn near deafening. Six bags of chips are littered across the coffee table, just waiting to clog several arteries. On TV, the All-Star announcers are introducing this year’s players, commenting on their stats and predictions of the Wild Card race for both the American and National Leagues. Ans has the surround sound turned up so loud that it literally feels like we are at the game. We should be, but Lawson getting jumped yesterday put a damper on those plans. Ans didn’t want to leave any of us alone. We didn’t have the heart to tell her we could protect ourselves better than she could. No, we only smiled and said, “yes, ma’am.”

Pick your battles, gentlemen. No sense in arguing when you will inevitably lose.

“Pass me the Doritos,” she says between sucks on her fingers, pulling every leftover crumb into her mouth that she possibly can.

I just stare as she licks and sucks the flavor off each individual finger, giving each one personal attention. She is oblivious that this completely ill-mannered behavior is so sexy.

When I don’t pass the chips, she cuts her eyes to me. “You going to pass the chips or do I need to get them myself?”

I make a soft noise and hand over the bag. “I was just thinking you might want to pace yourself. Doritos taste horrible coming back up.”

She glares at me before shoveling a fistful of chips past her lips. With her mouth full, she responds, “I don’t plan on running tonight. I’m going to sit here and watch my boy kill it on the mound and then I am going to pack in as many calories as I can from that ice cream container,” she nods to the table where the Rocky Road ice cream is thawing, “and then I am going to bed. Responsibilities be damned.”

A deep laugh bubbles up and out of my chest as I take in her disheveled appearance. Her hair is tied up in a messy bun, baggy sweats hang off her hips, and her snug tank top shows a little food belly as she devours chip after chip. She has never looked more beautiful than she does right now.

Women try so hard to fit the bill of what they think men consider beautiful. This is it. Right here. A real woman who isn’t shy to eat in front of a man. A woman who doesn’t give a shit if her hair looks like a mess or if she has a little food belly going on. This is real. Men like women who are real. What women fail to understand is that men feel self-conscious, too. So, if you’re relaxed, we’ll be relaxed, and that’s when the conversation flows freely and honestly.

“That sounds like a plan,” I confirm, stealing the Doritos away. “But you’re going to have to share those calories.”

Her answering smile notches the armor my heart hides behind. Damn you, Anniston.

She snuggles into my side, wrapping those tiny arms around me. “I hope he kicks some ass.”

“He always does,” I admit, even though I would almost rather eat Vic’s cooking for a month than give Von Bremen a compliment. But, honestly, he is good. No sense in not giving the asshole credit. He’s obviously talented.

I chuckle at Anniston’s excitement at seeing Theo pitch for the third year in a row in the All-Star Games. You would think this would be just another game to her, having seen hundreds of his starts, but no, she gets this excited every single time.

The first pitch is thrown, starting off the game. Whoops and cheers come from behind me as the guys filter in and take up every solid surface in the family room. It’s a tight fit but it’s home. Anniston yells at Theo from the sofa, coaching his pitches, and giving him advice through the screen. Her body bounces with every strikeout as she squeals out praise. It’s silly. It’s fun. It’s mine.

The second inning rolls around and Theo is still in the game, having only thrown ten pitches so far. I suspect this will be his last inning. His face is strained, pinched, and his throws have been a little off balance. Yes, I have picked up quite a bit in my time with Ans.

Anniston is standing, biting on her fingernail as she paces in front of the TV. We can’t see but we don’t ask her to move. She may bite our heads off as tight as she’s wound right now.

“What was that, Von Bremen!” she shouts, startling me a bit.

Theo is pouring sweat and shaking on the mound. The catcher trots out to speak with him.

“Why is he shaking?” I question the room.

Intently focused on the TV, no one responds, the room eerily silent. The catcher gives a slap to Theo’s shoulder and returns to his position behind the plate. Theo takes the catcher’s signal and curls into his wind up, and releases a wild pitch just as he doubles over and hits the ground.

Anniston screams and falls to her knees in front of the TV. I move from my spot on the sofa to stand behind her. I don’t know what’s going on but from the look of things, it’s not good.

“Get up, Teddy!” she cries, placing her hand on the screen where the team is huddled in a circle over his writhing body. The trainer is pulling at his uniform, barking orders at the staff. With practiced speed and efficiency, a gurney is hustled onto the field. They load him carefully and cart him off the field before Anniston completely loses it.

She sinks to the floor in tears. “I need a phone.”

Hayes makes it to her first, his phone in hand. She tries to take it from him but her hand is shaking and she drops it. The fear when she looks at the phone is absolutely heartbreaking.

Her watery eyes lock onto Hayes as she says, “Call Thad for me.”

He nods silently, picking up the phone and dialing. He speaks quietly into the receiver. “Okay, yeah. Yeah. Let us know.” He hangs up, his eyes wide with worry. “They’re taking him to Emory University Hospital. Thad is behind the ambulance. They don’t know what’s going on.” His defeated sigh mirrors everyone’s feelings. It’s bad and we don’t know how to help Ans. She’s always the strong one.

Anniston springs to her feet. “I have to go. I need my keys.”

Hayes darts off to retrieve them for her.

“I’ll go with you,” I say, moving forward to envelop her in a hug.

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