Page 39 of Things I Wish I Said
Maybe I like baseball, after all.
A sly grin splits my lips. I love soccer in all things, but a man in a baseball uniform is far hotter than a man in a soccer uniform any day of the week. Then again, I’ve never been attracted to soccer players. Maybe it’s my ego, or maybe it’s the fact that I intimidated most of the ones from my school. I was always better than them. Faster. Smarter. Quicker on my feet and to the goal. None of them ever challenged me.
Something tells me Grayson could give me a run for my money, though.
“One more, Cameron. You got this. Come on!” a middle-aged man beside me yells.
I turn to the man, squinting up at him and into the sun. “Excuse me, you know the guys on this team?” I ask. “The Aces?”
The man nods. “Sure do. The pitcher is my nephew.”
“So you know Grayson De Leon?”
He chuckles. “Yeah, I know De Leon. Damn good player. He’s been going through a rough patch with everything that’s happened this past year, but today’s a good day.”
I frown and squirrel this information away. “He plays third base?”
The man stares at me for a moment like he’s not sure if I’m being serious before he softens and points out at the bases. “See now, that’s the third baseman right there.” He points to another player, the one on Grayson’s left.
I frown as my gaze takes in the boy on third.
Noting my confusion, he motions toward Grayson. “See how he’s standing between the third baseman and the guy on second?”
“Yeah,” I say, following the trajectory of his finger.
“That’s called shortstop. It’s probably one of the hardest positions, but Grayson makes it look easy.”
Interesting. “Got it. Thanks.”
“People call me Buddy,” he says, stretching out his hand.
I shake it with a grin. “Ryleigh.”
“Ask me all the questions you want, Ryleigh.”
“I’ll be sure to do that,” I say, then proceed to focus back on the game.
True to his word, he answers all of my questions as the game continues play. After a while, he starts explaining things without me having to ask, and thirty minutes later, it’s the bottom of the fourth, with two outs. The Aces are down one run, but Grayson is up to bat, and bases are loaded.
I hold my breath as he takes his spot beside the plate. Stretching his shoulders out, I watch unapologetically as his muscles flex under the thin fabric. My gaze dips south, and I confirmwhat I expected. His ass is miraculous. It’s almost unfair how completely perfect he is.
I wonder if the me before cancer would’ve even stood a chance.
Probably not, I decide. Besides, it doesn’t matter. I was too busy then, and no one will want me now when I have nothing to offer.
Pushing the thought away, I watch as he steps closer to the plate and raises the baseball bat. The muscles in his forearms flex and move as he waggles the steel instrument back and forth, his back leg planted as the pitcher winds up.
The first pitch flies and Grayson shifts his weight, but holds his swing, and it lands in the catcher’s glove with a snap.
“Ball!” the umpire cries.
Grayson steps out of the batter’s box, taking a couple practice swings before positioning himself once again.
This time when the ball leaves the pitcher’s hand, he swings and tips one off the end of his bat causing the ball fly to backward and hit the fence.
Inhaling, he mutters a curse and stretches his arms out, readying himself for the next pitch. I wonder if he’s nervous, if he gets butterflies in his stomach like I used to before a game, a big play for the ball, or moments before I readied myself to kick a goal.
I wonder if he knows I’m here, watching.
