Stealing Parker (8 page)

I check his relationship status: Single.

I squeal again, and Ryan pounds on the wall again. I fluff my pillows behind me and get comfy. I garner the courage to send him an instant message over Facebook. I have something to talk to him about, so why not?

Hey
, I type.

Brian Hoffman: Hey.

Parker Shelton: Can I be manager again?

Brian Hoffman: So you’re quitting already?

Parker Shelton: You behave or I’m leaving!

Brian Hoffman: Where’d you go? LOL. Come back.

Parker Shelton: You have to behave.

Brian Hoffman: Funny, I was about to say the same thing to you.

The cursor blinks for a few seconds.

Brian Hoffman: Are you going to tell me what happened?

Parker Shelton: Nope.

Brian Hoffman: Why’d you quit the team last year?

As comfortable as I feel with him, I can’t tell him about Mom. Considering his parents go to Forrest Sanctuary, who knows how Brian feels about homosexuality. I’m not ready to take the risk to find out yet. I’m enjoying this too much. Maybe one day, if I trust Brian enough, I’ll tell him everything.

Really, that’s what it all comes down to.

Parker Shelton: I don’t trust the team

Brian Hoffman: Wow.

I pick at my nail polish. Then I type.

Parker Shelton: What’s the point in playing for a team you can’t trust? Isn’t that the whole point of a team? To be part of something? I mean, last night when we went to the batting cages, I felt like I belonged there.

Brian Hoffman: With me?

I want to type
Exactly
, but I don’t.

Parker Shelton: Can I be a manager again? I like being around Drew.

(And you, Brian Hoffman. But I don’t type that.)

Brian Hoffman: I can’t say I’m that disappointed you’re not playing.

Yeah?
I reply, and kick my feet up and down silently.

Brian Hoffman: Yeah, I need a good manager.

Parker Shelton: Oh, is that it?

Brian Hoffman: Good managers are hard to find. Filling coolers with ice is serious business.

Parker Shelton: Jerk.

Brian Hoffman: :) I wish you’d play, because you’ve got talent. But—

Parker Shelton: But?

Brian Hoffman: I’m glad you’ll be around. I like talking to you. You’re hilarious.

One thing’s for sure: I get to spend a whole hell of a lot more time with Brian, and I can’t wait.

•••

The rest of the week is sucky
and
wonderful.

Sucky because, during lunch, I had to listen to Laura and Allie going on and on about how I’m nothing but a quitter.

Sucky because I never talk to Brian one-on-one in person. During gym, he stands with Coach Burns while the boys play basketball or volleyball, and I usually run past him when we girls are doing laps. I wear the shortest shorts I own and try to look as sexy as possible, even when doing sit-ups. He barely looks my way! But then at night, we message on Facebook. That’s the wonderful part.

He has a dog, a black lab named Brandy. They go running together every morning before work. His favorite vacation spot is Destin, Florida—he loves the white sand beaches. After surviving an outbreak in fourth grade, lice scare him to death, and that’s why he’d never consider teaching at an elementary school. His arch nemesis at school is Ms. Bonner, the home ec teacher, because she’s always nagging him about his wrinkled shirts and slacks.

I told Brian she wants to iron his clothes as a prelude to a scandalous affair. He told me I have wicked, disgusting thoughts.

He knows I adore animals but that my biggest fear is granddaddy long-legs because once when I was little girl, a spider crawled into my glass of water in the middle of the night and I almost drank him. Brian knows I don’t eat much—he’s been scoping me out in the cafeteria, and he got on to me. He knows my favorite drink is the ninety-nine-cent fat-free latte from that janky machine down at the Highway 41 Exxon station. He knows I want to meet Brandy the black lab. Brian has black hair, so I asked if he and Brandy look alike, since dogs and owners are supposed to resemble each other. That made him
LOL
. I could see his smile over the Internet.

I keep painting my nails Passion Peach.

On Saturday, the team meets in the parking lot to drive to Tullahoma for the first official game of the season. Drew and Sam are sipping water and gargling “Bad Romance.” When they finish the song, Drew spits his water out on the pavement and says, “Any requests?”

Jackson Powers says, “Do ‘Like a G6.’”

Drew laughs. “I can’t rap! I’m a white hick last time I checked.”

“Which explains why you do Lady Gaga so well?” I tease.

Drew hugs me from behind and musses my hair.

Corndog parks his truck in the lot and heads over, carrying his bat bag. His hair is all disheveled like he just rolled out of bed. It’s kinda yummy looking. But not as yummy looking as Brian’s—his is still wet. Like he got out of the shower and came straight here.

Corndog joins Drew, Sam, and me. “Glad you made it on time, Parker.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” I retort.

“Figured you were out late hooking up with somebody. Isn’t that what you do on Fridays?”

I suck in a deep breath. Asshole.

“Come on, man,” Drew says to him. “It’s not her fault.”

What’s not my fault?

Corndog runs a hand through his hair. He has bags under his eyes. “Sorry…I had a rough night. Didn’t mean to take it out on you.”

“Whatever,” I reply, bowing my head and moving a few steps away. I thought he and I were getting past this whole feud. Guess not. Guess I can’t completely abandon my rep.

Brian appears beside me. “What’s wrong?”

“I’ve been picking at my pinky nail all morning.” I show him how I peeled some of the paint off.

“Aw, poor baby. Get on the bus.” He grins mischievously, patting my back with his clipboard.

Okay, so riding on the boys’ bus is like going to another planet. The moment I get onboard, the stench of dirty feet, sweat, and farting hits me in the face. On top of that, someone shoots a jockstrap like a rubber band and it nearly hits me in the face. I duck just in time.

“Knock it off, you assholes,” Corndog says, flopping down in back with Drew and Sam. That’s where the softball captain sits too.

“The only jockstrap Parker wants belongs to me,” Paul says.

A smattering of laughter breaks out, and I blush, clutching the strap of my bag.

“Shut it, Paul,” Corndog says, giving him a dirty look. “Take a seat,” he tells me.

“I don’t know where to sit,” I reply. “Seniority and all.”

“You’d better stay up front.”

“Fine with me,” I mutter when I realize I’ll be right across the aisle from Brian, who’s already immersed in the lineup, murmuring to himself. It’s like he’s having a love affair with his clipboard. Before we leave, he shuts his eyes for a long moment, then stands to face the team.

“Where’s Coach Burns?” Corndog calls out.

“Corndog’s got a hard-on for Coach!” someone yells. “Hot!”

“Stop being morons,” Brian says, “And shut up and listen to me for a sec, okay?”

The guys actually do shut up. It’s cool he’s got their respect.

“Coach Lynn was sent to the hospital yesterday due to pregnancy complications,” Brian says, and I gasp. I bite my tongue.

“And?” Corndog asks. “Is she okay? Is the baby okay?”

I peek around the edge of my seat to see him standing up at the back of the bus. He looks worried.

“I think she and the baby are fine,” Brian says. “But the doctor says she has to go on bed rest for the remainder of her pregnancy. So Dr. Salter asked me to take over the baseball team while Coach Burns coaches softball this season. He has more experience with softball than I do.” Brian swallows hard.

Oh. My. God. That means no supervision. Coach Burns won’t be around to yell at Brian and me to stop chatting. I can’t help but grin, even though I’m worried for Coach Lynn. She’s a nice lady.

Brian’s eyes shift to mine, then he goes back to talking to the team. “I know y’all love Coach Burns, but I hope I can fill his shoes, at least somewhat.”

“I want to have
your
babies, Coach Hoffman!” Sam calls, cracking up the guys. Sam says that to pretty much everybody these days, so if he was being truthful, he’d have like eleven billion kids by now.

“Sit down, Henry,” Brian says, and looks at the ceiling, as if praying for help. He turns to the bus driver. “Can we go already?”

The ignition cranks to a start, and then we’re hurtling down the highway toward Tullahoma, passing farms and rolling hills. It’s a beautiful, sunny February day. Too bad Corndog ruined the sun by being a jerk. I pull the new
Cosmo
out of my bag and start learning about these sit-ups that guarantee a six-pack in less than a month. I have a romance novel about cowboys in my bag that I’m dying to break out, but I don’t want anyone to see it and make fun of me. It’s called
The
Lonesome
Hero
, and the cover features a naked guy, a semi-naked girl, and a strategically placed horse trough.

Instead, I drown myself in an article about what kinds of bras are best for my body type until Corndog flops down next to me. He slouches and gazes over at me with tired eyes.

He blocks my view of Brian.

“What?” I mumble, shifting in my seat.

“I’m sorry about before. I’m stressed.”

“Even if you’re stressed, you can’t be mean.”

“Yeah, well, people don’t expect a lot from you like they do me,” he mutters, shutting his eyes.

“You don’t know anything about me,” I whisper. Stupid, stupid me, to let him take me home the other night. Stupid, stupid me to think I might be making a new friend. “Go away. Please.”

“I came to apologize. I’m trying here.”

“Maybe you should practice more.”

He holds my gaze for a few seconds, his blue eyes piercing into me, and then he stands and disappears to the back of the bus.

I slide down in my seat, trying to control my breathing. I rip a page out of
Cosmo
and write:

Why is it, the minute everything begins to feel okay, you decide to test my faith again? Don’t you get it? You won, God. You are the almighty and I’m just me, trying my best to live, to love.

Written February 20; thrown out the bus window.

•••

“Parker.”

I glance up from picking at a hole in my jeans. Brian wants me. “Yeah?”

“C’mere for a sec.” He pats the bus bench. “I need to go over a few stats with you.”

My hands tremble. I stand and see what the players are up to.

“Tell us how far you’ve gotten with her, man!” Paul asks Sam. They’re talking about Jordan.

“Hell, no. I can’t tell you. She’d rip my balls off,” Sam replies, pounding a fist into his glove.

“She would totally rip his balls off,” Corndog says, cringing.

None of them seem to notice me moving to slip into the seat with the coach. Our elbows touch but he doesn’t pull away.

“What do you want to talk about?” I ask.

He turns the pages until he reaches a blank section for notes, then draws a Tic-Tac-Toe board. He pulls a pencil from behind his ear and hands it to me. I fill the center box with an
X
.

“This game is so stupid,” I mumble.

He draws an
O
. “I know.”

“Then why are we playing it?”

“You looked like you need to talk.”

I jot down an
X
. “I don’t feel like it.”

“Then just sit here with me, okay?”

I shift a little, so our hips are touching too. Brian glances around, at the bus driver and over his shoulder.

“Want to play MASH instead?”

“What’s that?” he replies.

“I used to play it in elementary school.” I take the book and pencil and start writing down numbers from one to four. “It’s this game where we figure out what kind of house and car you’ll have, who you’ll marry and stuff like that.”

He groans. “Sounds girly.”

I ignore him. “MASH stands for mansion, apartment, shack and house, but I like to play this my own way. Name four kinds of places to live. You know, a trailer or a Victorian-style house or whatever.”

He ticks choices off on his fingers. “Log cabin, beach house, country farmhouse, and igloo.”

I write down his choices. “Name four cars.”

“Can they be other methods of transportation? Do I have to say lame things like Toyota Corolla and Ford Escort?”

I laugh. “You can say whatever method of transportation you want.”

“Horse, Harley, submarine, and bicycle.”

“I love riding my bike,” I reply.

“I know. I see you riding all over the place.”

“You stalking me?”

“Only on Wednesdays.”

I give him an evil eye. “Name four women.”

“Mila Kunis, Megan Fox, Lindsay Lohan, and Kim Kardashian.”

I make a gagging noise.

Laughing, he looks over my shoulder at MASH as I jot down his answers. “Give me four places you want to go on your honeymoon.”

“What honeymoon? I’m not getting married.”

Yay!
“A hypothetical honeymoon. Honestly, have you never played MASH before?”

“Nope.”

“Amateur hour.”

He grins and rubs the scruff on his jaw. “You’re funny, you know that?”

“Stop sucking up and give me four places for your hypothetical honeymoon.”

“Fine.” He pauses to think. “Tokyo, Canberra, Venice, and Alaska.”

I tell Brian about how I love picking up worn travel books at yard sales and paging through them in bed at night. My favorite guide is for Italy. Dad wants to visit there so bad.

“I’ve always wanted to travel,” Brian says. “I’ve never left the States.”

“Me neither. But I want to.” I love that we have that in common. “Why haven’t you?”

Lines appear on his forehead. “Haven’t gotten around to it yet, I guess.”

I begin drawing a pinwheel. “Tell me when to stop drawing.”

“Stop,” Brian replies. “What the hell is this game anyway?”

“Watch.” The pinwheel has eight lines, so I begin going through his answers and cutting them out until I’m down to one of each.

“Okay, so you’re going to marry Kim Kardashian and you’ll go to Tokyo for your honeymoon. Then you’ll live in a house at the beach and drive a submarine around.”

He grins and chews his gum. He nudges me gently and glances over his shoulder for a third time. “You’d better go back to your seat now that you’ve predicted my future.”

“Yes, sir,” I mock, and slip across the aisle, grinning.

When God created the Earth, he had such a sick wicked sense of humor. He made everything that’s wrong feel really, really good.

•••

Before the game against Tullahoma starts, both teams stand on the sidelines as a girl sings the National Anthem.

The last ball game I went to was sophomore year. Mom watched me play, then we went out for smoothies and she kissed my cheek and told me how great I am at ball. Leaning against the dugout fence, smelling the clay and clipped grass and feeling the sunshine on my face reminds me of her. Her, her, her.

I breathe in and out, getting myself into the groove. I can do this. I want to be here. I say “Ommmm. Ommmm,” under my breath, because
Cosmo
says that helps center your core.

“Parker,” Brian calls out. “C’mere.”

I jog to the other side of the dugout.

“What were you doing over there?” he asks.

“I was Ommm-ing. You know, centering my core?”

“Okay, Obi-Wan, take this lineup to the press box.” He waves a scorecard.

“Can I have some gum, please?” I hold out a hand and he digs a package out of the back pocket of his gray baseball pants. He hands me a piece, shaking his head. I also take the list from his fingers and make my way across the field to the box. Guys on the other team start catcalling at me.

“You can play with my balls anytime you want, babe!” the other team’s catcher yells, getting lots of laughs.

“Don’t grip my bat too hard!” another one says.

Drew and Sam appear on either side of me, to walk me to the press box. The Wildcat players blow kisses my way. Drew jumps up and down and pretends to bat the kisses away before they reach me, making me smile.

Sam throws an arm around me. “Of all the sexist humor out there, they immediately jump to bats and balls? Lame.”

I laugh softly. Now this is a team I can trust. Well, besides Corndog. He’s a total flip-flopper.

We’re up to bat first, so Sam puts his batting gloves on, grabs his bat and helmet, and heads toward home to lead off. I sit Indian style on the bench with the stats book on my lap and the pencil in my mouth, ready to go.

By the fourth inning, we’re tied at two runs apiece. Paul hit a double that drove in Travis Lake and Drew hit a single to bring John Thames home.

Brian’s standing on the dugout steps, leaning on one knee, fully immersed in the game.

“Coach,” I whisper.

“You can’t have any gum.” He laughs to himself.

“I need to use the bathroom.”

“Oh, Lord. Go. Hurry.” He waves me away. “Wait. Give the stats book to Luke over there.” He nods at a wiry freshman.

I dart out of the dugout and up the hill toward the concession stand and zip into the bathroom. The smell of popcorn and nachos wafting through the vents just about kills me.

I’m coming back from the bathroom when a little boy rushes past me, chasing a baseball. He slips and falls to the asphalt. I rush up and squat as he cries out and clutches his knee. Big tears fill his blue eyes. They’re really pretty. Familiar.

“Hi,” I say calmly. “Are you okay?”

He shakes his head. The tears drip down his cheeks, and he squeals.

“What’s your name?” I ask softly, checking out the scrapes on his knees and palms.

He wipes his eyes. “Bo.”

“That’s a cool name. You like baseball, Bo?”

He nods.

“How old are you?”

He hiccups and lets out a sob, then holds up four fingers.

“Wow, you’re big, huh?”

He nods again and clutches at his knee, where the skin is raw.

“Are your parents here with you at the game?” I ask.

He nods. All he does is nod.

“Can I pick you up and help you find your mom?”

Bo gasps and begins to shake all over. It’s freaking me out. Is he having a seizure? I jerk my head around, searching for his parents.