“High praise,” I quip, fighting down the urge to say it with my lips brushing her ear before trailing the kiss down to the underside of her jaw to see if I can make that soft blush deepen.
I snap myself out of it just in time to focus my gaze back onto the field when she turns toward me.
“Don’t get used to it,” she mutters, but that smile is definitely still there.
The Desert Dogs end up losing the game, but it doesn’t matter, not really. It’s an exhibition league, at its best, but looking at the three young men we’re here to see, you’d have no idea that the game didn’t even count.
“Sorry we couldn’t win one for you,” Davis says, freshly showered, his mop of brown hair still wet and falling into his eyes when he, Greene and Esposito meet us outside the clubhouse post-game.
I don’t blow it off, though. I like that he cares. “You kept fighting,” I say, offering him a hand to shake. “That rally was almost enough in the 9th.”
“Almost,” he says, shaking his head in real disappointment. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr Avery.”
“Skip’ll do,” I correct him, and nod to the other boys. “Good game, gentlemen. Very good.” They beam at me, a little less likely to take the loss as hard as their teammate. That’s good, it’ll keep him grounded. “You all know Francesca Sullivan, I imagine?”
“It’s good to see you all again,” she says, at my side. “Can we buy you boys dinner?”
Despite what I’m sure was a decent spread in the clubhouse after the game, their nods are emphatic and immediate.
“Fantastic,” I say, “I know just the place.”
It’s one of my favorite spots in Glendale, La Bonita Cantina, which sounds kind of cheesy and looks worse, being stuck in the middle of a nondescript shopping center, but the food is always fresh and tastes incredible and they’re not stingy with the drinks.
The sheer amount of food three twenty-one-year-old boys can pack away at a good Mexican restaurant is honestly impressive. I was cooked after nursing one beer for a couple of hours and my third enchilada, but they’re still going strong.
Archie Esposito, dark haired and dark eyed, almost shy compared to the other two, can’t quite take his eyes off Frankie while she praises their efforts on the field today. I know a crush when I see one and, honestly, I can only hope that I don’t look like that when I stare at her.
Is that what I have? A crush? Maybe. It’s been so long since I’ve feltanythingfor a woman beyond a physical pull that I don’t really recognize that a feeling beyond that exists.
“We’ll work on an analysis for you on how often that knuckler should be brought out, though your catcher does a pretty good job at mixing it in,” Frankie says to Archie, and then lets her eyes twinkle across the table at his teammate.
“Yeah, Cole and I have been working on that,” Archie says, his heart eyes not going anywhere.
“It’s important for him to throw it,” Cole says, “or he’ll lose the feel, but not so much that it gets predictable and they expect it. Not that they can handle it when he does throw it, but we want it to always be in the back of their head. It gets us some cheap strikes on fastballs when they think there’s a chance for the junk.”
“That was some impressive hitting today,” I say to Cole.
“Xander got on and then got over to second. He was worried about him moving over to third and left one where I could get it.”
I tip my beer bottle toward Xander and nod. “Can’t drive in runners that aren’t on base causing havoc.”
The centerfielder actually blushes, a red flush climbing up into his light blond hair, neatly swooped to the side, a clear effort made versus the other two, who seem happy enough with the just-out-of-the-shower look.
“Exactly,” Cole agrees, and whacks his teammate roughly on the shoulder, almost hard enough to knock the drink out of his hand. “Just doing my job.”
These are good answers. Answers that will play well with the New York media. Factually correct, deflective of praise and, yeah, mostly boring, but that’s the point. He’s not just good on the field, he’ll be good off it.
You need to have that thing in that city, that thing that Jeter and Judge and Brunson and Manning all have in common. I’m ahead of myself, so far ahead that I honestly can’t even believe it, but I can see it clear as day, this kid, captain of the Brooklyn Eagles, his best friends on the field with him, a decade of success and a ring or two or maybe three, four if I’m being greedy.
These are my guys.
I glance over at Frankie, a satisfied smile playing across hermouth while she lifts her drink for a slow sip. She’s right there with me. Hell, she was there before me. Of course she was.
“What are your off-season plans?” she asks them, finishing off her second margarita.
“Back home for a little bit, but then we’re all gonna grab a place in Clearwater together, get down there early.”
“I think that’s a very good idea,” I say.
