I wink at him. “It’s a damn shame.”
He gets out of the car, a sly grin in place, and I can’t get the door open fast enough. It’s colder out here than it was at the Library. The field is a forgotten ghost this time of year. What the hell does Knox have in mind? One moment I think we’re sneaking off to get friendlier and now he’s brought to me to practice with the Little League.
I walk around to the trunk of the car, my arms wrapped around myself.
“Here,” Knox says handing me a zip-up hoodie. I raise an eyebrow at the huge Yankees logo on the back but accept it without comment. “We are making progress, ladies and gentlemen,” he proclaims to the night.
I stick my tongue out at him. His sweatshirt is big on me, falling almost to the hem of my dress. It’s warm, though, and, even better, it smells like him: sharp and spicy.
He jogs to a nearby park shed. I cross my arms as I glance at the ramshackle structure, hoping that isn’t what he has in mind for privacy. When he emerges with a handful of baseballs and a bat tucked under his arm, understanding dawns on me. I can’t help but laugh incredulously. He’s seriously going to try and teach me how to play baseball? And here I was thinking I was going to learn a new meaning of the word orgasm tonight.
“For you,” he says, handing the bat over.
“And just what am I supposed to do with this?” I ask, holding up the bat.
“You’re starting off the New Year by learning something new. You’re gonna learn to hit a ball.” He heads off toward the baseball diamond. I stumble after him in my heels. This date has gone bat shit crazy. Bantering about sports and actually playing them are two totally different things. Did I completely misread the signs? I was sure we were headed for the bedroom, not the ball field.
Cooper Knox, you’d better be worth it.
“And you’re gonna be the one to teach me?” I ask with a heavy dose of skepticism.
“You know, some people would pay good money to have a private lesson with a New York Yankee.”
“Some people also pay for coffee beans that come out of an animal’s ass—that doesn’t make it valuable.” I reach out to squeeze his hand, trying to get this date back on the rails. “Besides, I thought you were just some bar owner.”
“Then I guess you can have my lesson for free.”
“Am I gonna like it?” I plant the bat playfully in the middle of his chest. He grabs the tip of the bat and pulls me in until our faces are inches apart. I’m ready for another kiss, but he just smiles and I see his dimples pop.
“I know you’re gonna love it.”
I get a whiff of his expensive cologne—dark with hints of sandalwood and amber. He shrugs out of his sports coat, his muscles straining against his shirt. If he wants to teach this lesson shirtless, that would be perfectly fine with me.
We find a few exterior lights that still work in the winter months. I kick off my heels next to the dugout and strut out onto the diamond. Even in the off-season, the dirt is smooth beneath my feet. I push up the sleeves on Knox’s sweatshirt and stretch out my arms with the bat behind me. It’s the perfect move to show off my breasts. Judging by the hungry look that flashes across Knox’s face, it’s working.
“You ready?” he asks.
“Prepare to be amazed.”
He chuckles and jogs out to the pitcher’s mound.
“Take it easy on me, no tricks,” I call out. Squaring my stance, I grip the bat, trying to remember every baseball scene from TV and film I’ve seen. Except the batters in those scenes aren’t barefoot in a skimpy party dress in the wee hours of the morning.
Bring it on, Knox.
He lobs the first ball at me. I take a swing. And miss. My momentum pulls at my balance and pushes me forward a few steps.
His laughter carries over the early morning air.
“Something funny?” I regain my balance and stare him down.
“So easy, is it?”
I toss my ponytail over my shoulder and walk back to home plate. “Try that again.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t want a tip?”
“Pitch the ball, Cooper.” I tighten my grip on the bat and tap the plate in front of me.
Silently he shakes his head and tosses the ball. I wind up, sure that this time it’ll be a hit. Swing—and a miss. The ball meets the grass behind me with a thump. At least this time, I don’t spin.
“Strike two,” Knox calls. “You want some help or are you hoping to strike out?”
I surrender. “I was hoping to hit a homerun, but teach me your skills.”
Knox jogs in from the pitcher’s mound. “Okay, take your stance again,” he says. I line myself up over the plate, holding the bat ready. He looks me over with a critical eye that lingers perhaps a moment longer on my chest and I can feel my cheeks flushing.
“You’re holding the bat wrong.”