much.
Camille had me distracted. But right now it was just me, the bat and the ball. I grinned, eager to break something. My bat, most likely.
A faint whistle hissed through the air as Juan threw his fastball. It was a perfect pitch. About ninety miles an hour and hard to get the bat around on. But oooeee, it was right in the sweet spot.
There was a satisfying crack as my bat connected with the ball. I heard the wood splinter as I hit the ball with all I had. All the pent up frustration. All the hunger. All the drive.
Damn straight, I hit that ball straight to next Tuesday.
I ran the bases, knowing I had little Miss Priss to thank for my wrecked bat. It wasn't just cracked. It was destroyed. The top half of it ended up several rows back in the beachers behind me.
I expected they'd start using my nickname here too now. I'd trashed three bats this week already.
I was fired up. And then some.
All because of one ornery little filly. I slapped hands with my teammates as I returned to the dugout. By this time tomorrow, I was going to be much more relaxed.
Tonight, I was finally going to scratch that itch.
Camille, to be exact.
Everyone slapped my hands as I came in. We did it for every homer, no matter who'd made the play. Only one guy didn't hold his hand out.
Fuckin' K-Roll.
Chuck sat next to me, rubbing his hands over his bat.
"He hates you man."
"Yeah, I noticed. I'm real observant like that."
He grinned at me.
"I would say don't sweat it, but I know you don't give a rat's ass."
I laughed, pretending to wipe my brow.
"Hey, a bunch of us are going out later if you want to come."
"I got plans tonight. Thanks though."
"With a lady?"
I nodded slowly, not willing to say more than that. He rubbed his palms together and whistled.
"I got plans with about twenty ladies."
"Strip club?"
"Oh yeah. They treat you right down South. Even better than the hometown honeys, and that's saying something."
I shook my head.
"I don't pay for it."
Chuck wiggled his eyebrows at me.
"Neither do I man. Those ladies loovvvve ball players."
"I'll have to take your word for it. Thanks though."
"Your loss man."
I laughed and slapped his back. The next few hours passed in a slow motion blur. I usually relished every second of playing ball, but today I just wanted practice to be over.
I had big plans for Miss Camille tonight. And I wanted to make sure it went according to plan. I was in the showers soaping up before most of the guys had peeled off their uniforms.
And I was on the road before any of them had even sudsed up their balls.
I went back to the hotel where I already had supplies waiting. Flowers. Champagne. Bourbon. Tequila. Candles. And room service at the ready.
The whole nine yards. The cat's pajamas. The spit shine of a new pair of shoes.
Damn straight, Camille Rivers was not going to know what hit her.
Camille
I leaned back, letting Phillipe run his fingers through my hair. My eyes were halfway closed but I could still see his handsome face in the mirror behind me. He made little circles against my scalp and I nearly moaned out loud.
Nearly.
Now, this was bliss.
"Bonita. Who is this man who would steal you away from me?"
"I told you, it's nothing. He's a player."
I opened my eyes to see Phillipe toss his hair.
"Aren't we all?"
I laughed, shaking my head.
"He's a caveman. But he's on our team so I have to keep him happy."
He used his scissors to snip a few stray hairs and ran some styling creme through the ends. My hair was styled in soft waves that were just a little bit more flattering than what I had been born with. I could almost see golden highlights in the dark curls, but that must be a trick of the eye.
Phillipe was a magician.
He was truly an artist. He didn't belong out here in the middle of nowhere. The town was quiet all year, other than spring training. He certainly didn't charge enough, though I always tipped him 50%.
"I wish I could lure you down to Manhattan. You would make a
Camille had me distracted. But right now it was just me, the bat and the ball. I grinned, eager to break something. My bat, most likely.
A faint whistle hissed through the air as Juan threw his fastball. It was a perfect pitch. About ninety miles an hour and hard to get the bat around on. But oooeee, it was right in the sweet spot.
There was a satisfying crack as my bat connected with the ball. I heard the wood splinter as I hit the ball with all I had. All the pent up frustration. All the hunger. All the drive.
Damn straight, I hit that ball straight to next Tuesday.
I ran the bases, knowing I had little Miss Priss to thank for my wrecked bat. It wasn't just cracked. It was destroyed. The top half of it ended up several rows back in the beachers behind me.
I expected they'd start using my nickname here too now. I'd trashed three bats this week already.
I was fired up. And then some.
All because of one ornery little filly. I slapped hands with my teammates as I returned to the dugout. By this time tomorrow, I was going to be much more relaxed.
Tonight, I was finally going to scratch that itch.
Camille, to be exact.
Everyone slapped my hands as I came in. We did it for every homer, no matter who'd made the play. Only one guy didn't hold his hand out.
Fuckin' K-Roll.
Chuck sat next to me, rubbing his hands over his bat.
"He hates you man."
"Yeah, I noticed. I'm real observant like that."
He grinned at me.
"I would say don't sweat it, but I know you don't give a rat's ass."
I laughed, pretending to wipe my brow.
"Hey, a bunch of us are going out later if you want to come."
"I got plans tonight. Thanks though."
"With a lady?"
I nodded slowly, not willing to say more than that. He rubbed his palms together and whistled.
"I got plans with about twenty ladies."
"Strip club?"
"Oh yeah. They treat you right down South. Even better than the hometown honeys, and that's saying something."
I shook my head.
"I don't pay for it."
Chuck wiggled his eyebrows at me.
"Neither do I man. Those ladies loovvvve ball players."
"I'll have to take your word for it. Thanks though."
"Your loss man."
I laughed and slapped his back. The next few hours passed in a slow motion blur. I usually relished every second of playing ball, but today I just wanted practice to be over.
I had big plans for Miss Camille tonight. And I wanted to make sure it went according to plan. I was in the showers soaping up before most of the guys had peeled off their uniforms.
And I was on the road before any of them had even sudsed up their balls.
I went back to the hotel where I already had supplies waiting. Flowers. Champagne. Bourbon. Tequila. Candles. And room service at the ready.
The whole nine yards. The cat's pajamas. The spit shine of a new pair of shoes.
Damn straight, Camille Rivers was not going to know what hit her.
Camille
I leaned back, letting Phillipe run his fingers through my hair. My eyes were halfway closed but I could still see his handsome face in the mirror behind me. He made little circles against my scalp and I nearly moaned out loud.
Nearly.
Now, this was bliss.
"Bonita. Who is this man who would steal you away from me?"
"I told you, it's nothing. He's a player."
I opened my eyes to see Phillipe toss his hair.
"Aren't we all?"
I laughed, shaking my head.
"He's a caveman. But he's on our team so I have to keep him happy."
He used his scissors to snip a few stray hairs and ran some styling creme through the ends. My hair was styled in soft waves that were just a little bit more flattering than what I had been born with. I could almost see golden highlights in the dark curls, but that must be a trick of the eye.
Phillipe was a magician.
He was truly an artist. He didn't belong out here in the middle of nowhere. The town was quiet all year, other than spring training. He certainly didn't charge enough, though I always tipped him 50%.
"I wish I could lure you down to Manhattan. You would make a
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