I lean over to the usher who stands by the field and whisper, “There’s a girl in section sixty-five, row c, seat one. I’d like to talk to her after the game.”
He nods and says something into his really cool CIA walkie-talkie-type thing. When I first arrived, I asked if I could play with it. I was told no. It was a total buzz kill. I asked my agent to get me one, and he told me to grow up… not one of my finer moments.
Meyers goes down swinging and just like that, the game’s over. We lost three to eight. I wait for him to walk by before returning to the dugout, but not without one last look at the girl in row c. Another usher is walking down the aisle toward her. I climb down the stairs and pause where she can’t see me. The usher approaches her and talks wildly with his hands. She looks around, reaches for her bag and follows him up the steps. I can only hope she’ll be in the lounge when I get there.
Right now I’m thankful I’m not allowed to give interviews yet because it means I can shower and get upstairs quicker. The reporters call my name, asking about my home-run. They know I’m not allowed to speak with them, but they try anyway. I keep my head down, my classic move after we’ve lost, and rush into the clubhouse. There will be no after-game meeting; Diamond will save that for tomorrow.
I shower quickly and slip into jeans and a t-shirt. My hair is still wet and dripping down onto my shirt, but I don’t want my third base girl waiting too long. I take the back stairs two at a time and enter the lounge. This is where the wives and girlfriends hang out, and now that I think about it, it’s probably not the best place to have sent her. It’s like vulture prey in here for new girlfriends… not that she’s my girlfriend. I just want to know her name.
As soon as I enter the hallway, I find her sitting outside the door. She stands up when she hears me coming and keeps her hands behind her back, watching me closely. I come to a halt in front of her and all I can see is the top of her hat. She’s about a foot shorter than me and I like that.
“I wanted to apologize for giving you the ball.” I keep my hands clasped to avoid the nervous twitch I have. The last thing I want to do is scare her away.
“Oh… do you want it back?” her voice is soft, sweet and completely Boston. Hearing her speak makes me feel like I have something to look forward to, like I’m home.
“What? No, I thought I embarrassed you… it’s just…”
My knees go weak when she looks at me. Her light green eyes are the color of sea glass and she has a dimple that compliments her smile. I find myself wanting to rub my thumb over it so I can feel it.
“You didn’t embarrass me. It was nice.”
“What’s your name?” I ask, needing to know because calling her ‘third base girl’ or ‘girl in row c’ isn’t going to cut it.
“Daisy.”
Daisy, I repeat in my head so I don’t forget. Daisy… like the flowers that my mother loves.
“I’m Ethan,” I stupidly tell her, but feel like I should introduce myself. “Wanna get out of here and grab some dinner?”
She eyes me, and then the ground, making me wait what feels like an eternity for her answer.
Being a professional athlete affords you some liberties. By liberties I mean I’m invited to A-list parties, I can get into packed nightclubs, reservations that are hard to get suddenly become available when I need them and women… I’ve had no issues getting dates or even the occasional hook-up when I want it. I even have a friend back home that I see during road trips. However, standing here and waiting for an answer on whether she’d like to join me for dinner is killing me slowly. It’s just dinner, which I need to eat, and preferably soon.