Page 40 of West Bound

Next, the oblivious dad decided he needed to join his wife in the nap she was taking and shut down his laptop, replugged the little boy's headphones into his iPad–blessedly–then shut his eyes. When the snacks were passed out, the very kind flight attendant tried to gently wake one of the parents to see if she could give the little guy some pretzels. This prompted the mom to berate the flight attendant for daring to wake her. Meanwhile, the kid was sitting there crying because his sippy cup was empty and he was obviously hungry.

This caused the man next to me to stand up and defend the flight attendant who was doing a very good job of not ripping the head off of that nasty woman. The little boy only cried louder and harder and the dad slept through every wail with his noise canceling headphones probably blasting music to drown it all out. Or he was an award winning actor and was pretending he couldn’t hear a thing.

I’d finally had enough and leaned over to the cart that held the snacks and pulled out a bag of pretzels. I crunched up the bag, breaking the large pieces into smaller ones, then opened the bag and leaned over my seat to hand it to the poor kid who had quite the lung capacity.

“Here little man,” is what I told him when I handed him the snack. He took it from me, giant alligator tears in his eyes, and began shoveling fistfuls of food into his mouth. The calming of her son had the woman quieting her barking and turning to me. “Did you just give my kid food?” she asked and narrowed her eyes on me with a visible rage brewing in them. It was then I realized I screwed up. The poor kid could’ve had a gluten allergy or be allergic to salt. Although, based on the fact that it looked like he was drinking a very sugary, very carbonated soda in his sippy cup, my bet was on probably not.

“Sorry. He just looked like he needed something in his tummy.” were the last words I got out before her shrills reached a new level. She batted the pretzels out of the little boy's hands, causing pieces to fly all over like confetti popping out of a cannon. The next moments were a flurry of chaotic hands, arms, shouts and tears.

The mom yelled. The dad was jostled awake when the nice man who sat next to me blocked the crazed lady from hitting me. Then the dad was up and raring to go because he thought the guy was trying to assault his banshee of a wife. I decided it was my turn to come to the rescue and told the guy what a dickwad he was being, and that he needed to control his wench and pay attention to his kid.

Phones were out, recording every last second, and I just thank the man above that I had the foresight to put on my Wranglers baseball cap this morning. Yes, some friends and family would figure it was me based on the cap and my fiery red hair hanging down in a braid over one shoulder. But I had tugged the bill down, shading my eyes and features so that I was unrecognizable as an on-air reporter to anyone who didn’t know me.

So, long story long, the two and a half hour flight ended up taking five hours as we were diverted to another airport while the whackadoo family was hauled off the plane. The look on the little boy's face had me wanting to hurdle over seats and snatch him out of his psycho mama’s arms. But that would have definitely had my face plastered across every screen in America, and not in the usual way.

I descend the escalator, see the driver holding a card with my name on it, flop into the backseat, and zone out until he’s pulling my luggage from the back trunk and I’m walking into the hotel. I have very little time to recharge, reset and be ready to head out to the game, and all I want to do is take a nice hot shower and eat something full of carbs.

So imagine my discontent when I step into a quiet elevator and a hand shoots out to stop the doors from encapsulating me in silence. They slide open to reveal a smug and ridiculously handsome Phoenix West, standing there like I’ve just fallen from heaven to be greeted by the devil himself.

“Ugh. Please, not today. I can’t with you. You shouldn’t even be here. You should be at the field!” My voice raises an octave with each sentence I spit out.

“Chill, Peaches. I just forgot something in my room, then I’m headed back to the stadium,” he replies in a deep and smooth voice.

“What? You forget to leave money on the nightstand for the chick sleeping in your bed?” I snort.

He presses the button for the twentieth floor, just one above mine, and turns to face me, his back to the doors and mine backed up to the elevator wall.

“Nah. There’s only one feisty woman I plan to have in my bed. And now that I know we’ll be sharing a hotel,” he pauses and licks his lips as his eyes trail up and down my body. “I think I’ll ask housekeeping for extra towels since I plan to get her extra dirty.”

My jaw drops open as the bell dings and the doors open. I stand frozen while Phoenix looks awfully proud for having just shocked me.

“You getting off here, or should we go back to my room and I can put something in that mouth of yours? Can’t be teasing me like that, Peaches.”

I snap my mouth shut and straighten my shoulders before pushing past him, running over his foot with my suitcase as I go.

“See you tonight, Vivian. I suggest you stretch. I don’t want you pulling a hammy when I flip those gorgeous legs behind your head.” I spin around and watch him waggle his fingers at me as the doors close.

Outwardly, I curse him for being such an arrogant prick. Inside…my body is flushed and I’m grateful that I always pack too much underwear because the ones I’m wearing are drenched with desire.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

PHOENIX

“Power Trip” - J. Cole (feat Miguel)

“Great pitching, West.”

“Way to shut ‘em out.”

“Fuck yeah, Nix. Awesome.”

My teammates praise me with words, elbow nudges and our own special handshakes after throwing a no hitter for seven innings. The last out was a close one when the batter got a hold of it, rocketing my curveball into right field. But I didn’t even have to worry if Tuck was going to catch it because that kid is clutch. He scales damn walls, robbing batters of home-runs night after night.

I toss my glove aside and grab a water bottle, squirting in a mouthful, then swallowing it down in one gulp. I walk over to the end of the bench and look up to where Vivian sits on her stool, pretending to not know I’m looking right at her.

I move closer, reach into my back pocket, and pull out a piece of bubblegum. The same brand and flavor I’ve been chewing since I was a kid. Never on the mound, but one piece after every inning I pitched.

“Need something to put in that mouth, Peaches?” I ask, and she flings her head with a wicked glare pointed at me.

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