With a resounding sigh, he drops his bat and sits on the ground where he twists his hat backward and props himself up with his elbows as he stretches out his long legs. His neoprene shirt stretches across his chest, clinging to every curve and contour of his thick pecs. I blush from the confidence he exudes just lounging there.
“I think I need to call it. If I keep going, I’m going to wear out my hands before the game tonight.”
“Yeah, of course. You don’t want to overdo it.” I stand from the bucket I’ve been sitting on and say, “I’ll start collecting the balls.”
“Nah, I can do that.”
I glance down at him. “Take a break. I’ve got it.”
I pick up the bucket and make my way down toward the end of the cage where I set it down and start retrieving balls. Before I can make my first deposit, Carson is right by my side with a handful of balls.
“Hey, I said I could pick them up.”
“And there’s no way in hell I’d let you do that alone,” he replies with conviction.
Seems like when he sets his mind on something, there’s no changing it, so we work together in tandem. The balls bounce in the bucket, the sound echoes in the large space, the thunk, thunk almost relaxing.
“Do you feel a little better?” I ask, hoping I’ve been a touch helpful.
“Yeah. I’m glad we know the issue.” He tosses four balls in the bucket. “I would be lying if I said I was completely confident though. Actually, not feeling confident at all.”
“That’s okay. That’s what happens when you make a change in your swing. The confidence will come with more practice. Be kind to yourself. We only started figuring things out last night.”
“Could have been sooner if I’d listened to your friend Jerry.”
“Barely anyone listens to Jerry, so don’t beat yourself up about it.” I pick up a ball and from about six feet away, I shoot it into the bucket.
“Oh, I see, trying to show off your picking-up-balls ability.”
Smiling shyly, I say, “It’s a game I used to play with my brothers. A little game of Horse, baseball edition. Made picking up balls a little more fun but instead of spelling horse, we would spell ball.”
Picking up a ball, he walks over to where I’m standing—right behind me—his chest almost touching my back, his hand grips my shoulder and before I can ask him what he’s doing, he tosses a ball straight into the bucket.
“Sunk it.”
Pulse racing, I slink away and try not to smile psychotically—you know, lips flat, eyes wide, like a clown who’s lost his marbles. “Uh, very good. Nice job. Well done.” There you go, keep complimenting, I’m not sure he’s gotten the point yet. “Congrats.” I bite on my bottom lip, cringe, and turn around.
“Thanks.” He chuckles and when I go to pick up another ball to put it in the bucket, he says, “Wait, hold on, isn’t it my turn to pick a spot to shoot from?”
“Oh . . . are we, uh . . . playing?”
“Hell yeah. I need to see what you’re made of. Come on, Coach, show me your best stuff.”
“Coach?” I question.
“Yeah, Coach.” He nudges my shoulder playfully, a very guy friend thing to do. For some reason, it creates a pit of disappointment in my stomach. Not that I EVER think Carson will look at me in any other way than as someone helping him out. But as a girl who is crushing—very minimal crushing, more like an ah, he’s nice and cute kind of way—it does sting a bit when once again I’m treated like one of the guys.
Licking my wounds, I say, “All right, you shoot.”
“That a girl.” He rubs his hands together and then picks up a ball. “You’re going down.”
“Okay,” I say sarcastically, knowing full well I have an undefeated record with my brothers. Cory was close to winning one time, but a rim shot killed him.
He stands to the right, cocks his hand back and shoots, sinking the ball. He gives himself a fist pump and then gestures for me to join him in his spot. He takes me by the shoulders and positions me exactly where he thinks I need to be.
“You know, I can find the spot by myself.”
“Nah, I don’t need you cheating. I prefer to position you myself, thank you very much.”
Rolling my eyes, I say, “Is this where you want me?”