Page 18 of West Bound

With a sigh, I tell him, “I’m over one night stands of non-memorable women who just want to brag about screwing a ball player. That year of rehab showed me how truly alone I was, and what I would’ve given to have someone by my side, supporting me and helping me through it all. No chick I ever hooked up with would be the type of girl to put aside their social media influencer duties, or give up being the center of every man’s attention to support me.”

He slowly nods his head as he stares at the road in front of him. “I get you. And you’re right. Of all of the chicks I hooked up with during my time in the pros, there isn’t one that wasn’t looking out for her and her alone.”

“And that’s on me. I have never in my life thought I’d be the settling down type. Then my injury happened and I was stuck watching fucking movie after movie, and it had me wondering what it would be like to have someone there with me. Someone to lay next to, to laugh with and have meaningful conversations. Someone who cared about me and not my status or paycheck.”

“Damn, Nix. Were you watching chick flicks the entire time? Maybe those weren’t pain pills they gave you.”

“Fuck you,” I reply and he snort with laughter. “Here’s the thing…there is someone I’m interested in.”

“Now we’re talking,” Bishop smiles and rubs his hands together. “Where’d you meet her? Did y’all already shake them sheets?”

We pull into the parking lot at Wrangler Stadium and I spot some of my new teammates walking into the building. Guess practice is starting.

“Nah. We haven’t done anything yet. In fact, she kinda doesn’t know that I’m interested. I mean, she did at one time but now…well, let’s just say I fucked up and I need to make amends before she’ll give me a shot.”

Bishop pulls up the curb and scratches his short beard. “Please don’t tell me it’s who I think it is?”

“That depends,” I smirk and pull open the door. “Who do you think it is?”

His head tilts and he eyes me suspiciously. “Please don’t tell me it's my favorite redhead.”

‘Okay. I won’t tell you it’s Viv.” I step out of the truck and peek my head back in just before shutting the door and say, “but it’s Viv. Thanks for lunch. See ya.”

The door slams shut and he yells something at me, but I’m already running through the doors before he can chide me.

CHAPTER SIX

VIVIAN

“Definition” - Mabel

I look down at the field from my perch high above Wrangler Stadium and watch as the players run through their warmups.

Guys I’ve known for years stretch and talk and laugh as if pre-game jitters don’t exist. A few guys are fielding balls from other players, another handful are swinging their bats at soft lobs that come their way, and the rest of the players are in various states of either getting help from one of the trainers, bullshitting while trying to look busy, or flat out standing around.

Phoenix West falls into the latter category.

His new teammates talk with him, though I’m sure most of them are already on friendly terms with one another. I watch as he flips his arm and runs his fingers along the inside of his elbow where I assume his scar from Tommy John surgery lays. He makes a few movements with the same arm and the guys exchange more words. They high five and give each back pats, then walk off in different directions.

Phoenix ambles over to where the other pitchers are congregating and they do the same as his other teammates by shaking, high fiving, laughing and smiling at him while they talk. Before too long, the pitching coach calls over to the group singling out Phoenix who gives a nod to the others then makes his way into the bullpen.

The coaches work with him on a few long tosses, warming him up and preparing him to throw his famous one hundred and one mile per hour fastballs. The ones that have even the best sluggers looking like they’re swatting at flies.

If I were down on the field right now I’d be able to hear the sound of the baseball as it connects with the catcher's glove. Thwap. I know the sound by heart, having spent so much time in and around ballparks. The smell of the dirt after it’s been sprayed down and painted. The whiffs of leather mitts and popcorn as vendors prepare for the gates to be opened swirl in the air.

“What are you still doing up here, Red?” The voice breaks me from my trance and I spin to see Hank walk into the booth.

“Hanky Poo,” I sing. “How’re you, big guy?”

He pulls me into his arms and wraps me up tight. Hank gives the best bear hugs and I always get at least two before my night at Wranglers Stadium is over.

“I’m great, dear. How are you?” Hank is the Wranglers senior Baseball Data Analyst. He’s the guy–along with a few other members of the analytics team–that studies each player at each game and works all of his magic to produce reports to help player development.

He’s been my constant source of everything and anything baseball. From the history of the game to the latest rule and play changes, Hank is my number one, go-to guy when I need help.

“Doin’ pretty good. Just checking out the action from high above before I head down to my perch next to the dugout.”

Being the new on field reporter means I get my own little piece of dugout heaven. I mean, it’s not exactly in the dugout but rather dugout adjacent. Really, I’m separated from the boys by a couple of bars and a foot or two above them at field level. It’s nice to look down on men who most consider larger than life.

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