Page 46 of Imperfect Player

Just like the man himself.

It’s something that he doesn’t see in himself, and I’m not quite sure why. I had assumed it had something to do with a troubled past, doesn’t it always? Losing your parents is a horrific thing, though I’m not sure how it equates to the lack of self-love he seems to have for himself.

Except when it comes to baseball.

There’s a wide variety of shirts with his name, number, or both on them, including the jersey I’m currently eyeing. His last name is emblazoned on the back. I run my fingers over the letters before I pick it up.

“It looks too small,” I tell Chelle as I hold it up against my body.

“Or not small enough,” she says, nodding to a woman who’s barely wearing anything except his name.

“Even if I were interested in him, how am I supposed to compete with that?” I ask her.

Sure, it’s a telltale sign that I am in fact interested, at least a little. I’d have to be crazy not to be. Any woman would. Still, I don’t fit the Ethan Ambrose groupie bill. Hell, I don’t want to.

“You can’t,” she says, matter of fact.

“Thanks?”

“There’s no competition. You’re gorgeous and smart. You’ve got a great head on your shoulders and an eye for the game that he loves. You live in his world and understand more than you realize about it. You can’t compete with that because she doesn’t even remotely compare to you.”

“But her tits,” I groan, glancing down at my very normal, on-the-small-side boobs.

“Tits are a dime a dozen. And if you really wanted them, you could buy them. She did.”

The woman must overhear our conversation because she turns toward us.

There’s a satisfied smirk on her face when she speaks. “These are real.”

“Real what? Silicone?” Chelle antagonizes.

“Ask Ethan, he knows.”

“I’m sure he does. Along with hers, and hers, oh, and probably hers too.” Chelle points at random women as she speaks.

“You’re not his type.”

“I don’t want to be his type,” I tell her.

I want to be the one he wants. I want to be his more.

“But I do want to get to my seat. The one that Ethan gave me tickets for.”

I toss the last part in just for fun before stalking over to the counter and buying the jersey.

The section we’re seated in is reserved, so we have to show our tickets before they let us in.

“Ms. Mann, how wonderful to see you. Right this way,” the guard says, extending his hand. He guides us to our seats, right to the side of home plate. Perfect view of the pitcher’s mound. Close enough to reach out and touch the players if I wanted to.

The Railcats are already on the field warming up. Off to the side, I can see Ethan in the pitcher’s area. He’s rotating his right arm, swinging it around before holding it in front of him.

“Jesus, he’s amazing,” Chelle says. “Look at that ass.”

It’s a nice ass, no doubt about that. The baseball pants that hug the muscle only make it more prominent.

We sit in our seats watching for a few uninterrupted moments.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Mann,” a man says.

---