Page 16 of Stepping Up to the Plate

Why is no one talking about this?

Maybe you should.The thought pops into my head. I want to dismiss it. That’s what I’d normally do. But I stop myself. Why shouldn’t I do it? No one is talking about the reality of post-divorce life in your 20s. No one is showing the journey. I’m a writer, it could be me.

I login in to social media and quickly create a new profile before buying the domain I’ll need for my blog. A few hours later, theEx-Wife Filesis born.

* * *

I spend the next week building my website, planning content, and creating the general premise of my blog. It’s not only going to be a place that discusses the realities of being divorced as a 20-something, but also where I chronicle my journey of self-discovery. I’ve decided to try one new thing every week and share it with readers. Whether it is a cuisine or hobby or even a new outlook.

I did research and pulled some ideas from the internet, but I am sure I’ll add more as I go. I published my first post yesterday and the limited response has been positive. It will take a while to grow my audience, but I’m not worried about it. This is as much for me as it is for any subscribers.

As I put the finishing touch on tomorrow's social media post, Carina and Tiffany pull my attention up from my phone. We decided to stay home tonight and watch the Songbirds play before meeting the guys out at the bar where they have their post-game celebrations. I didn’t want to go at first, but the new me goes out with her friends.

“What’s up?” I ask.

“It’s the top of the seventh. Time to get ready. It will take the guys about an hour after the game to get to Holler’s. We need to claim seats in the VIP area before the chasers try to weasel their way in,” Carina says.

Since Holler's is a casual place, we don’t get too dressed up. I’ve chosen an off the shoulder peach cotton dress that comes in at the waist then flows down my thighs. It has an overlay of delicate flowers on it that you almost can’t see. It’s flirty and feminine and something I would have never worn six months ago. I love it. I pair it with strappy sandals and link arms with the girls as we make our way to the bar. Since it is only a couple of blocks away, we walk, enjoying the spring weather.

By the time we get there, the place isn’t too packed but it is getting there. The game ended a few minutes ago – with the Songbirds victorious – and people are filing down Broadway from the stadium. The bouncer who insists we call him Big Ron waves us to the guys’ normal table. I notice it’s more crowded in the VIP than usual right as someone knocks into my shoulder.

“Sorry, didn’t see you down there,” the human bulldozer flirts, taking me in. A short joke, original. “You have to let me buy you a drink for my clumsiness.”

I’m about to refuse him when I remember I’m supposed to be putting myself out there for new experiences. Someone other than my soon-to-be ex-husband buying me a drink qualifies. There’s no harm in letting this guy pay for my pineapple seltzer.

“Cheers. I’m Mike, by the way,” he says when we both have our drinks.

“Lola.”

“That’s a beautiful name. Does it mean anything?”

“Not that I know of,” I laugh out awkwardly.

“Hmm, that’s a shame. I’d have thought it meant gorgeous or stunning based on the woman who bears it.”

Oh, he’s smooth. Right as I’m about to respond, the crowd cheers loudly and we glimpse up to see several built bodies ambling in.

“Is that the Songbirds? I didn’t know they came in here after games. How cool is this?” he shouts over to his friends before directing his next question to me. “Do you follow baseball?”

“A little.”

“These guys are the best. Robby Becker is one of the greatest pitchers to ever play the game and Dela Cruz is a beast at bat.”

We have a fan on our hands. Boring. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy baseball. I’ve been surrounded by baseball fanatics my entire life between my Dad, Georgie, and Phil. Plus, I’m related to a professional player. It isn’t a topic I want to talk about to a guy at a bar, though. Before I can change the subject, I sense someone watching me. I peer up to see Miller walking my way with his eyes locked on mine.

“Holy shit, you’re Brady Miller,” Mike says as he approaches. “Hell of a game, man. I can’t believe I saw it in person. I was just telling Layla here how incredible you guys are.”

“Thanks,” Miller responds before ordering a whiskey soda. “You all settled into the new place,Lola?” he asks, emphasizing my name and dismissing Mike, who is too enamored to notice.

“We are. Thanks for asking. How about you?” I reply nervously. “I mean, I know you didn’t recently move in because you’ve been there for years but, um, settling into the season.” Oh God, I’m rambling.

Every time I’ve run into Miller since meeting him in the elevator, I have made a babbling mess of myself. I don’t know what is wrong with me. I’m usually articulate, but something about him throws me off. There is something familiar about him but also something that makes him seem untouchable – like I’m lucky to be in the same universe as him.

Maybe I am. He is insanely attractive. He’s probably the most attractive man I have ever seen in real life. He’s big and built, but he also has these piercing blue eyes that I swear can see into my soul and read all my inappropriate thoughts about him.

“I think so,” he says. Shit. What did I ask? I stopped listening.

“What?”

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