The Curve Ball - Samantha Lind Page 0,69
doing that, no matter if they have a wife and or kids back home. I won’t lie to you and say that there hasn’t been a married guy who has done just that, because they absolutely have, but it's not the everyday norm. Most of these guys are some of the sweetest, most down to earth, family men that you’ll meet. They just happen to hit a ball for a living and get paid damn well to do so.”
“I’m so glad that I have you to help me navigate all of this.”
“And I’m here whenever you need me,” she assures me.
“Thanks,” I tell her, leaning over to give her a side hug.
“Ready to round up the kids and head out for some lunch? I’m starving.”
“Sure. What does little mister want today?” I ask, nodding toward her stomach.
She rubs her stomach and laughs. “Tacos sounds really good right now.”
“They do. Qdoba?” I suggest.
“That’ll do,” she agrees.
“Okay, you stay here with this little chunk, and I’ll go round up the girls,” I tell her as I pop up from the ground. It only takes me a minute or so to spot the girls and get them over to the blanket. “Did you guys walk here or drive?” I ask Jillian as I fold up the blanket and stuff it in the bottom basket of the stroller.
“We drove. I didn’t want to tire out with the heat.”
“Sounds good. Do you want to follow me home so I can grab the car seat and then we can head out?”
“We can do that,” Jillian agrees. “You can get a head start, and I’ll get the girls loaded up, and then we’ll be over in just a few.”
“Perfect. I’ll see you three in just a few, then,” I tell her as Evie and I head off toward home.
Seventeen
Justin
“Hell of a game,” Matt O’Riley, our first baseman, says, smacking my ass with his glove.
“Hell yes, it was,” I tell him, repeating the ass slap.
“You get everything straightened out from this morning?” he questions.
“Yep. Carmen was on it, so was my PR rep. I got a text this afternoon that they got the website to take it down and issue an apology. Those fuckers know the damage is already done.”
“Do you know who posted it?” he asks.
“Yeah, that chick reporter from that sports blog. She was at the family day game, asking lots of questions, trying to weasel her way into the friends and family area, as well. She rubbed me wrong with some of the questions she was asking down on the field and then her little article the next morning.”
“Sounds like she’s got her sights locked on to you and just wants to bring you down. You didn’t fuck her in the past only to kick her out of your bed, did you? Maybe she’s out for personal revenge?” he suggests.
“Fuck, no.” I balk at that idea, but the truth is, that exact situation could have happened; although I usually remember the women I’ve fucked in the past. The number isn’t quite as high as some of my teammates assume it is.
“Maybe one of her friends?” he asks.
“Hell if I know. She might just be a crazy chick that has a vendetta, for whatever reason. Mad that she can’t bag a professional athlete.”
“Maybe. Well, hopefully, she backs off your ass.”
“Maybe someone else on the team could fuck up and give her a new focus,” I joke.
“Not it,” he says, touching the tip of his nose like kids do when they don’t want to be the one to have to do something sacrificial.
“Your time will come,” I tell him.
“Nope. I’m an altar boy,” he says, and I bust up laughing at his lie.
“I wouldn’t believe that for a minute,” I retort.
“Hey, we can’t all be reformed manwhores like you,” he tosses right back at me as we both start to strip out of our uniforms.
I quickly drop everything, wrapping a towel around my waist, then grab my shower kit from my locker before heading in to do my business. Visitor locker rooms are never all that fancy, just the basic necessities. Sometimes we’re lucky to have enough hot water and good water pressure for everyone to get through showers after the game.
Once I’m back at my locker, I quickly pull on a pair of boxer briefs before running my towel over my head to dry off my hair. I pull out my cell to see if I have any missed messages or calls and see a few