He smiles. “You know the drill.”
I helped him out with the football team back in August since I stayed on campus to work this summer. If I could handle those guys, I can definitely handle the baseball team.
A loud chaos of laughter rumbles on the other side of the doors, and soon, six of the baseball players walk in.
“We’re doing them in shifts,” he whispers. Then, he stands up to greet the guys.
Each one takes a seat in the chairs in front of us. The pent up breath lodged in my throat escapes, assured Crosby isn’t one of them.
“Hi, I’m Dr. Trickle, and we’re going to conduct the physicals and drug tests this morning.” He sits on the edge of the table, placing his hands on either side of his hips. “This is Ella Keaton, and she’ll be assisting me.”
“She can assist me,” one of them says.
The players in the room laugh.
“I wouldn’t let Crosby hear you,” another one says.
Dr. Trickle glances back to me.
“Screw him,” the other guy sneers.
Who is this guy? There’s no way Crosby has crossed someone in such a short time.
“All right, guys. Ella is to be treated with nothing but respect.”
The room quiets.
Dr. Trickle continues, “She’ll be handling your urine samples and paperwork.” He turns to me. “You want to hand out the papers?”
I stand and start passing out the paperwork, noticing that these guys aren’t the starters. They are second-string players and more than likely freshman and sophomores waiting for spots to open. That means, one of them got bypassed for Crosby. Once the smug asshole talking out of his ass sees Crosby defend third base at all costs, he’ll know why he was passed over.
“Man, Crosby sure has the luck. First, he gets third base, and now, he gets her.” The red-haired kid blatantly stares at my chest when I hand him the paper.
“You’re playing with fire. Lynch will scorch your ass,” the kid next to him says.
“Nice legs, nice ass, nick rack.” He winks his slimy green eye at me.
I slam a pencil on the table.
“Say one more thing about me, and I’ll shove the pencil up your rectum,” I murmur close enough so that only he can hear me.
“A feisty one,” he comments. Then, he shuts his lips, facing forward.
Dr. Trickle calls in the first kid, and the other five complete their paperwork. The line goes fast, an even stream of one guy in, one guy out.
The redhead is the last to go, and when he hands me his urine sample, he leans down close to my ear. “Your boyfriend’s luck will eventually wear out.”
I stand, my chair pushing against the brick wall, and I jab him with my finger. “Listen, asshole, I’m not sure who you are and that’s probably why you don’t own third base, but let me tell you one thing.”
He walks backward, and I continue poking his chest with my finger until we’re on the opposite side of the hallway, his eyes transforming from amused to frightened.
“Crosby is the best damn ballplayer on your team. He plays the hot corner better than anyone, and that’s why he has the position that I assume you desperately want. Enjoy the bench, asshole, because it’s not luck Crosby has; it’s pure talent.” I stop my feet, and my finger retracts.
Laughter rings behind me, and I whip around, finding Crosby, Oliver, Saucey, and Brax with another guy standing there. My face quickly heats up. A playful smile is on Crosby’s face. He’s clearly soaring from my compliments, and Brax is hitting him on the shoulder.
“She might hate you, but she just schooled Seaman.”
Crosby doesn’t move as his friends fiddle with the paperwork and pencils. Obviously, they’re familiar with the drill from years of playing.
“Sorry,” Seaman mumbles. He walks by me and passes the group of guys.
Crosby’s eyes latch with mine, and the smile couldn’t be smacked off his face even if I told him I’d never be his again.
“Seaman,” Crosby says, his eyes glued to mine. When he hears the cleats have stopped moving on the linoleum floor behind him, he continues, “If you ever want to put our talents to the test, I have no objections. But don’t you ever screw with my girl again.” His eyes glimmer with the declaration.
“Sorry, Lynch,” he says before fleeing out the doors to the field.
As the others concentrate on their paperwork, Crosby’s cleats click on the floor, making his way to me.
“I’m not your girl,” I correct him.
Still, those lips don’t turn down