Chapter 2

JOEY

"I'll have another Hop Squatch," Paulie orders, and I hold back my groan. I was ready to go half an hour ago, but I'm Paulie's ride, so I can't exactly ditch him here at the bar to get drunk and make shitty choices without me.

"You got it," Jodi, the server, responds with a wink before tucking her order pad in her apron and sauntering away. I'm confident the extra swing to her back porch is only there for Paulie‘s sake. The bastard is ugly as hell, but somehow his status as a star second baseman makes women blind. Go figure.

"Another one bites the dust," he boasts, his eyes following Jodi's ass as she disappears into the crowd surrounding the bar.

Echoing my thoughts, my buddy Gunner says, "You do know if you were a garbage man, the only tail you'd get would be roadkill, right?"

Paulie scowls good-naturedly as he lowers his empty pint glass to the table with a clack. "Bullshit. The ladies can't resist all this."

"Has he always been this delusional?" I ask. I've only been on the Arrows' team for one season, so I don't know the guys as well as our left fielder.

"Yes," four voices respond at once, and Paulie flips each one of his teammates off in sequence.

It's an unusual mid-season day off, so a few of us decided to kick back at one of our favorite watering holes, Blue Bigfoot Beer, here in the River Arts District of Asheville. The brothers who own the place are pretty cool, and who wouldn't want to throw back a few while a giant collection of Sasquatch memorabilia stares you down from all angles?

"Come on, Paulie," Gunner continues. "It's a universal truth, and you know it. Pro athletes get tail because women love the idea of dating a famous person—athletes are the holy grail for some reason. It's a status thing."

"Or a money thing," Riley, our third baseman, adds.

I spin my water glass on its white bar napkin and wade in. "Nah—I still got tons of women when I was dirt poor and sharing an apartment with two other guys in the minors." I'm not in a hurry to get back to that living arrangement anytime soon, but it's one of those dues a ballplayer has to pay if he wants a shot at the show. Lucky for me, it all paid off. Now I just have to work my ass off and hope it sticks. Nobody tells you being in the majors comes with the constant fear of getting knocked back down to the bush leagues.

A part of me almost misses the old days—not the black mold in the shower or the midnight dinners of cold pizza or fighting for couch space, but some of the normalcy for sure. When I got moved up to the Baltimore Black Dogs a couple years ago, I admit I enjoyed not only the paycheck but the attention too. Having people recognize you in public and ask for selfies or autographs is a definite ego boost, especially after working so hard to get there. But some of it is not all it's cracked up to be—like the women.

Cleat chasers in the minors are nothing compared to those in the majors. A farm-team cleat chaser is a local girl who likes baseball, hard bodies, and a good time. A big league cleat chaser is a woman who can play a better game than any ballplayer I've ever met. And she's always got a plan with a capital P. I'm not sure if the P stands for pussy, power, poser, or all three, but I don't need another lesson. I'm a quick learner, and getting traded to a new team taught me that women who go after ballplayers don't stick around when the chips don't fall exactly as they've planned.

"Truth," José, our center fielder, chimes in before turning to Gunner. "Women just love athletes. Though you'd better watch all your ‘tail' talk around that girlfriend of yours."

Gunner grins as only a lovesick asshole can. "Elizabeth is the exception to every rule."

Everyone groans until Paulie decides he's not done being the center of attention yet.

"Look, I can't help it if my body draws all the ladies." He throws his arms out to give us an unobstructed view of his chest covered in a T-shirt that reads, "Be Good to Your Wood." He's the definition of a flexer, but I can't help but like the guy.

Despite being one of the quieter members of the team, I've had no trouble fitting in, thanks to the true sense of camaraderie among all the Arrows members, Paulie included. Maybe it's because we're a new franchise in the league, or perhaps it's just this particular group of guys, but I feel at home on this team in a way I never did during my first stint in the majors with the Black Dogs. It's hard not to feel a sense of rejection when you're traded—to start questioning your skills and catching a bit of impostor syndrome—but these guys make the environment feel a lot like a family.

Jodi returns with the table's drink order and another wink for Paulie. "You guys all good?"

"I'd be better if you took me home tonight." Paulie goes all in, drawing another round of groans.

But Jodi only laughs with a flip of her bob. "Sorry, Paulie, but I've already got a date. Maybe next time." The woman is a genius. I'll bet a hundred bucks she's got a boyfriend and spotted an easy mark in Paulie for a killer tip.

The table erupts into laughter, and I clap a hand on my teammate's shoulder. "It takes a strong man to admit defeat."

"No way! She already had a date! That's not my fault!" He tries to save face while insults start flying, and we draw attention from nearby patrons with our antics.

A blonde from one table over slides off her chair and leans in over Paulie's shoulder, laying a manicured hand on his bicep. "I'd ditch my date for you, number nine. Just sayin'."

There's usually a decent degree of anonymity at Blue Bigfoot since it's not a sports bar. Still, there are always fans—and cleat chasers—who follow the players around and try to determine a pattern of behavior. I'm guessing this girl is one of them.

But Paulie's not a complete asshole, so when the blonde's date returns from the bathroom, he holds off her advances and chats with the guy for a couple minutes before the boyfriend wisely escorts his woman out the door.

My teammate's expression is way too smug when he drops back into his chair and reaches for his fresh beer. "God, it's good to be irresistible."

"Cash is a good-looking guy," José comments out of absolutely nowhere.

We all fall silent and turn to look first at José and then at the long bar on the other side of the room where one of the proprietors frowns down at the beer he's pouring.

"Something you want to share with the class, Riviera?" Riley asks, stifling a grin.

"You're a bunch of children," José responds with a scrunch of his dark brows. "I'm evolved enough to be capable of objectively evaluating another man's attractiveness without my balls shrinking inside my body."

Chastened, we all turn back to give Cash Brooks, Blue Bigfoot owner and bartender, another perusal. He's tall with dark hair and broad shoulders.

"Okay, I can see what you're saying," Gunner is the first to admit.

A couple more mumbles of agreement follow before Paulie demands, "Why are we checking out the bartender again?"

José's lips quirk. "'Cause I'd bet money if a woman met you and Cash on the same night without knowing anything about what either of you do for a living, you wouldn't be the irresistible one."

"That's just cruel." Paulie pouts.

"That, my friend, is the truth." José runs a hand over his shaved head and takes a healthy swallow of his amber-colored beer.

But Paulie's not giving up. "I think you're underestimating my charm."

Gunner coughs out a laugh. "Says the guy who took his last date through the Wendy's drive-thru because, and I quote, ‘Their nuggets are on point.'"

I almost choke on my water while another round of laughter hits our group.

Paulie narrows his eyes at the bartender and then swings his gaze back to José. "Care to make a wager?"

"Dude, Cash has a girlfriend," José informs him. "Haven't you seen the hot blonde he eye fucks every time she's within a hundred yards?"

"God, I love a woman in glasses," Riley waxes.

I can"t dispute that Cash's girlfriend, Hollis, is undoubtedly hot, but I'm more of a brunette fan. My mind flashes back to the gorgeous brunette from yesterday at the stadium with her long, wavy hair and huge caramel eyes. She handled that situation with the cardiac arrest like she was a seasoned EMT instead of a concession worker. It was kind of awe-inspiring.

"I'm not talking about Cash. I'm talking about one of you fucknuts. I'll bet a thousand bucks I can best all of you and get a date with any woman here—without mentioning my job."

"If I weren't married, I'd be tempted to take that bet just to get you to shut up," José says.

"Oh, I'm absolutely in." Riley rubs his hands together and starts scanning the room for a candidate.

"Same woman. You each have one try." José lays out the rules. "The rest of us get to choose who it is. I'm not letting you give yourself an advantage by picking some obvious cleat chaser who'll recognize you."

"Sold," Paulie agrees, while Riley nods.

"Her." Gunner's tone is decisive as he throws a subtle chin to the glass doors of the patio, where a leggy, dark-haired woman is silhouetted by the sun as she enters the bar.

"I'll even let you go first, Paulie," Riley says with a degree of self-assurance that's probably not unwarranted. He looks like a movie star, and he's funny as hell.

Paulie's chair scrapes back. "Watch and learn, gentlemen."

I shake my head and lift my glass for another sip when the doors close behind the poor woman of the hour and I'm finally able to make out her features. But my arm freezes when I recognize her.

It's the brunette from the stadium.

My pulse jumps in my neck as a feeling close to panic wraps around my entire body. What is happening to me?

I'm not a believer in signs—much to my mom's dismay—but running into the same girl twice in one week can't be a coincidence. Can it? It's got to mean… something.

But that's stupid. The panicked feeling is Paulie's fault. Sure, I like the guy, but it would be cruel to subject this poor woman to his shady advances, right? She's way too good for him. That must be it. But there's not much I can do now that Paulie is halfway to her, so I clench my jaw and instruct my heart to slow its wild galloping. If I learned anything from our first encounter, this girl is perfectly capable of handling a pushy ballplayer. Hell, she could probably handle a charging bull without breaking a sweat. The thought, however, does little to calm my heart rate.

Luckily, it takes less than ten seconds for Paulie to strike out in stupendous fashion while all the guys at our table do their best not to stare or guffaw. All except me, because I'm suddenly not finding anything amusing about this situation.

Before Paulie even returns, Riley is out of his seat and running his fingers through his movie-star locks to tame them. "Looks like I'm up to bat."

Before my brain can even send a signal to my legs, I'm on my feet, one arm extended to block Riley while I lurch forward and blurt, "I got this," and take off in the brunette's direction.

Here goes nothing.