and hefted the bat. “Get your ass to first base. You’re going to shag grounders until this bucket is empty. And if you don’t do as I say, I’ll get on the phone with the manager and tell him you’re being a little bitch about it and need to be benched for a few days.”
It was an empty threat. If I called the manager and told him what I was doing he would probably tell me to stop worrying about Darryl and focus on the pitching staff. To my relief, Darryl trudged over to first base and turned to face me.
I swung the bat lightly, bouncing a ball toward him. It was a warm evening and the roof was closed, so the soft crack of my bat echoed throughout the open space. Darryl lazily jogged toward the ball, missing it by four feet.
“You do that in a game and the manager will bench you again,” I berated. “Try harder.”
He went after the next two balls with as little effort as possible. He reminded me of a moody teenager who didn’t want to clean his room. It pissed me off.
“Fuck your contract,” I shouted at him. “I get it. Your future is uncertain until you have a contract extension. But you need to man-the-fuck-up.”
The next grounder dribbled underneath his outstretched glove and rolled into right field.
“If you can’t focus on your game while dealing with the pressure of contract negotiations, how do you think you’ll do in the playoffs when the pressure is really high? Are you going to struggle and cry about it then?” I demanded.
He moved quicker at the next grounder, catching it in the webbing of his glove.
“You want to make some money? Show your value on both sides of the game, not just at the plate.”
I had done this sort of thing with plenty of high school players, but I had never tried it with an adult at this level. To my surprise, it worked. Darryl began hustling after every single grounder as if it was the ninth inning of a no-hitter. Soon his neck and arms were covered with sweat that shimmered under the stadium lights.
When the bucket was empty I grabbed a few stray baseballs and went to the left side of the infield. For another twenty minutes I made bad throws to first so he could practice digging them out of the dirt and stretching off the bag. He focused on the task with quiet intensity. He was taking it seriously.
“That’s good,” I said when we were done. “Every time you make an error during a game, I’m going to drag your ass out here to do this again.”
He wiped sweat from his forehead with a sleeve. “Alright.”
I stalked into the clubhouse without another word. Everyone else was gone by now, and I sat behind my desk and savored the silence. Honestly, I was still shocked that it worked and he did what I asked. But for whatever reason, I had gotten through to him.
I heard the shower running in the locker room. I was all sweaty too, but I didn’t want to take a shower while Darryl was in there. Better to wait until he was gone. Based on the number of emails in my inbox, I was going to be here a while.
A few minutes later Darryl walked by my office wearing only a towel. My eyes automatically jumped from my computer screen to his muscular, tattooed body. Something inside me stirred at the sight. I had heard women claim that they could feel their ovaries twitch, but I had never understood the phrase until now. Seeing Darryl’s semi-nude body, glistening with moisture from the shower, made me feel like an ancient cave woman. There were no words—only grunts and very dirty thoughts about him dragging me into a cave.
He stopped and took a few steps back when he saw me. “You’re still here?” A smile touched his lips.
“Some of us have our own work to do tonight,” I snapped. “I can’t let your lazy defense get in the way of the pile of shit on my desk.”
He stared impassively at me with his dark eyes, then shrugged and walked away.
I sighed. I knew why I had snapped at Darryl: because I was embarrassed about getting caught ogling him. He had done a good job during our practice. Using him as a punching bag when I was annoyed, and not just when I was trying to hammer home a point, was what