Pitching for Her Love (2 page)

“No way, Miss Grace. You’re good!” he said, giving me a thumbs up, proud that he was able to give the answer I wanted.  His black hat was pulled down to his oversized ears, curls spilling out from underneath, his smile wide and toothy.

“Thanks!”  I called, pulling the pastry bag and my paper cup off the counter, stuffing a couple singles into the acrylic box marked “Tips.”  “If you see her in the next five minutes, stall her!”

He gave me another big smile and thumbs up and went back to wiping down the espresso machine.

I crossed the echoing lobby, heading toward the elevator bank marked twenty-four through thirty-six, and used my pass to enter the turnstile.  I had just selected thethirtieth floor when I heard a winded, panting voice behind me.

“Wait up!” Megan said, appearing from nowhere.  Her dark red hair was bobbing just above my shoulder.

“You scared me!” I said, laughing.

“I lost my flats over the weekend so I had to walk ten blocks in these,” she said, motioning to the six-inch heels she had strapped to her feet.

The door to the elevator opened and we got in, Megan wincing with each painful step.  Her shoes were impossibly high, with an impossibly pointed toe, and she kept shifting her weight from side to side as we rode up the thirty floors.

“Why do you do this to yourself?” I asked.

“What do you mean?  You wear heels all the time,” she said, her dark eyes narrowing.

“Yes, but I don’t walk halfway across Chicago in them,” I said.

She groaned as the elevator stopped to pick up someone on thetwenty-seventh floor and gave an impatient little cry as the person took their sweet time holding the door for someone else.  I had to hold back a laugh, but she reminded me very much of a small child who really had to use the bathroom.

“Well maybe,” Megan hissed quietly, “if my mother hadn’t insisted I do gymnastics for fifteen years, I would be a normal height and wouldn’t have to subject myself to this torture.”

Finally, the elevator reached our floor and Megan got out as fast as she could.  She walked better in heels than anyone I knew, but today she looked like a baby deer just getting the feel for its legs.

“Don’t start up with that,” I said, following her to the glass door separating our floor from the elevator bank. “If I have to hear about your stunted gymnastics growth again I’m going to scream.”

“Well it’s true,” Megan said and continued on as they walked past rows of modern-looking cubicles.  On the wall was a very large canvas with the
Top Press
logo across it and the tagline:
The women’s guide to fashion, beauty, health and lifestyle since 1927
.  “It’s a proven fact that gymnasts have stunted growth.”  I didn’t bother to argue.  I took a sip of my latte and savored the sweet, creamy deliciousness as I sat down in my chair.

This had been my cubicle for the last three years, and it had the feel of a very lived-in space.  My desk accessories were all acrylic or purple and pictures of friends and family had been hung up sporadically over the years, creating layers of love that reminded me daily how lucky I was.  The mug that held my pens was a gift from my friend Amanda last Christmas, and the hand cream that sat next to my phone always reminded me of the trip the three of us had taken to Turks and Caicos two summers ago.  There was a large stack of magazines on the long arm of my desk that extended out to the side, as well as a print of my first-ever published article with
Top Press
propped up against the half wall behind my monitor.  I sat my paper coffee cup down next to my water bottle, a gift from the
Cosmopolitan
Christmas party, and hung my purse on the hook next to my “just-in-case” black sweater.

Megan was still rambling about the devastation of her height, brought on by what amounted to torture by gymnastics in her mind, when I opened up my email and saw a message from six o’clock this morning from our boss.

“Megan, shut up for a second,” I said, and she was silent immediately, her dark eyes pouting. “Bernie sent out the autumn features this morning.”

This did indeed shut Megan up, as she immediately turned to her screen and began to log in.

“Did you get anything good?” she asked, apparently already forgetting her earlier woes.

I scrolled through the list fervently; their Lifestyle team was covering most of the highly-anticipated and regular features, but because this was the biggest issue of the year, the entire editorial staff was tasked with taking on some bigger and more impressive pieces.  When I got to my name, I could feel my mouth twist in confusion.

“Who is Grayson Hunter?” I asked, spinning my chair toward Megan.  Other people were starting to filter into the office.  It was just past nine now and the traffic was starting to pick up.  Luckily Megan and I had desks near the back window, behind several rows of other cubicles, because her reaction was loud and immediate.

“WHAT?!” she cried, and ran the few steps over to my desk. “You’re joking!  Not fair!”

“Who is he?  I have to interview him,” I said, but she was leaning over me, as if I must have gotten the name wrong.

“Only the hottest man in baseball,” she said without looking at me. Then seeing that I had indeed been correct, she stomped her foot childishly and walked back to her seat, sitting down, defeated.

“Oh baseball,” I said, rolling my eyes. “That’s why I’ve never heard of him.”

“What’s the piece called?” she asked.

“Umm”—I paused, looking at my screen again—“‘The Sexiest Man in Sports.’”

Megan let out a sincere, whiny, and laughable groan that drew the gaze of many coworkers.

I moved on to the rest of my emails, a bit annoyed at Bernie for assigning me what was probably the worst match for me on this interview.  Was it because I was a day late on my “Fall Foundation Round-up” last week?  I was thinking about this, and responding to a few other inquiries and requests, when I heard Megan say, “
This
is Grayson Hunter,” and turn her monitor toward me.

I looked over and saw an objectively attractive man.  He had dark curly hair that was just a bit shaggy. “His hair isn’t that long anymore,” said Megan quickly.  She quickly moved to a different picture, in action this time, his strong arms swinging a bat.  The muscles and tendons in his arm stood out, and he looked powerful and intimidating.

“Yeah, he’s cute,” I said, turning back for my latte.

“Cute?” Megan spat, as if I had insulted her personally.

“Oh I’m sorry, did I say cute?  I meant very cute,” I said, and Megan let out a cheerful, good-natured, and very loud laugh.  Again, several people turned and scowled.  It was far too early on a Monday for that sort of nonsense.

Megan was gorgeous, with long dark red hair, a color many women paid hundreds of dollars for.  Her eyes were dark and doll-like, with lashes that you would swear were fake, and while she hated her stature, she rocked it with a confidence many women twice her size did not have.

“So I guess I should call this guy, huh?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Don’t tease me like that,” Megan said. “They didn’t actually give you his number, did they?”

“It’s probably his agent’s,” I said, picking up the phone and dialing the number listed under “Contact Information.”

“Can I listen?” she asked, rolling her chair over.

I rolled my eyes and turned on the speakerphone, setting the handset in the cradle.  As the phone began to ring, I wondered how professional it was to have my best friend listening in on a call with what could potentially be her biggest crush of all time.  However, I didn’t have long to ponder this as the other end picked up almost immediately.

“Five Star Representatives,” a light, breathy voice answered.  At this, realizing that Grayson Hunter would not be answering his own phone, Megan scoffed and rolled away, finally seeing to her own work.  I picked up the handset and squeezed it between my left shoulder and ear, opening my calendar on the screen of my computer.

“Hi there. My name is Grace Taylor.  I’m calling from
Top Press
.  I need to speak with someone regarding an interview with Grayson Hunter,” I said.

“Excellent,” the voice said.  I pictured her young, blonde, and petite with a fishtail braid over her shoulder.  “His agent just got in, so let me transfer you over.”

“That would be great, thank you,” I said.

T
he next day, I was standing outside the Chicago Riot ballpark, which until yesterday I had no idea existed.  I wondered what it said about me that a giant stadium, which was integral to the cityscape, had been invisible to me twenty-four hours ago.  The man on the phone, who had introduced himself as Stan Hendricks, told me to meet him on the third baseline.  I thought it would be easy enough to figure out what that meant. I mean, I knew enough about baseball to know what the bases were. But even now I was having trouble figuring out how to get into the building.

Luckily, I didn’t have to, because it turned out Stan Hendricks runs chronically late.

“Grace?  Grace Taylor?” I heard from behind me.  I turned around to see a very short man, in a very loud suit, crossing the parking lot toward me.

“How could you tell?” I asked as he got closer, extending a freshly-manicured hand toward him, which he grasped firmly in both hands.

“We don’t get a lot of women around here,” he said, “especially women in Burberry.”

We shared a somewhat awkward laugh while walking toward a door in the wall of the stadium.

“So, the sexiest man in sports, huh?” Stan asked with a chuckle. “People really care about this?”

“Sports?  Or sexy men?” I asked, and Stan threw his head back in an exaggerated laugh.  I instantly wished I had passed this assignment on to Megan.  If she had been given anything good, I might have considered swapping, but it turned out she was given the only assignment less interesting than Grayson Hunter, some hockey player who lived some place really cold and skated around on ice or something.

That was when we entered another small door on the interior wall of the stadium.  The ballpark stretched out before me like a giant emerald courtyard.  Having watched very little baseball on television and absolutely none in real life, I was stunned by just how massive this field was.  We were standing directly behind home plate, up several rows of bleacher seats, all brightly colored in the Riot’s colors of orange and yellow.  There was a net that rose up in front of us, obscuring most of the view of the infield and outfield, but not so much as to keep me from seeing the dozens of men running in lines and fielding balls in the distance.

As we walked down toward the diamond, Stan began to give me the rundown on the team’s standings, statistics, trades, and other information I’m sure would have been relevant if I was writing for
Sports Illustrated
.  Even if I had been interested in the technical side of baseball’s sexiest man, I was far too distracted by the sheer size and impressiveness of the stadium.  There were screens larger than my apartment in the outfield, and the grass itself was mowed into a starburst which I would later recognize as the team’s logo.  The earth on the infield was the cleanest dirt I had ever seen, a meticulous red-brown that reminded me suddenly of carrot cake, the creamy white bases and pitcher’s mound like peaks of icing.

When we reached the field, I immediately felt the error of my shoe decision.  My heels sank into the soft earth of the infield, thoroughly coating the spikes in dirt and pieces of grass.

“Oh dear,” Stan said, interrupting his constant verbal flow of baseball factoids and putting a hand up. “You wait right here. We don’t need you breaking an ankle,” he said, and he trotted off toward the outfield.

I stood, visibly out of place somewhere near third base, looking around.  The dugouts were neat and clean, bats and equipment hung in tidy rows and a large orange cooler in the corner next to a tower of paper cups.  I was impressed by just how orderly everything was, both in the dugout and in the stadium in general.  Having never been to a baseball game, all the technicalities and visuals were foreign to me, but I was expecting something much more in line with a cluttered sporting goods store or uneven sandlot.

I had just started to consider whether it would be appropriate to investigate the opposing team’s dugout when I heard Stan’s constant rhetoric coming across the field like an impending mosquito.  He wasn’t quite
annoying
, but he certainly wasn’t doing himself any favors.  When I looked up, however, Stan immediately left my mind, for the man with him was far more interesting.

It was certainly the same man that Megan had shown me pictures of, though Grayson Hunter was far more attractive in person.  His hair was indeed shorter, as Megan had said, but he appeared much taller.  His arms bulged beneath the long sleeve spandex he was wearing, and though he was looking down as he walked, I could see the angular structure of his jaw.  I caught myself thinking that maybe Megan had been right after all.

When they got closer, Grayson looked up and gave me a wide smile, framed with two sets of deep dimples and eyes a clear, silver-blue.  He said something quietly to Stan, which caused him to laugh, though I had gotten the distinct impression that Stan Hendricks laughed at almost everything.  As they approached, Stan trotted out a few steps ahead so he was between us and extended an arm toward me.

“Grayson, this is Grace Taylor from
Top Press
.  She’s here to do your interview,” he said.

“Great to meet you,” Grayson said, taking my hand in his.

“Likewise,” I said, giving him a warm, professional smile.

“First time at a ball field?” he asked.

“Is it that obvious?” I asked, and he laughed as Stan roared.

“Well, we don’t get many beautiful women down here at all,” he said.

The confidence in his voice was startling, but not patronizing or creepy.  He seemed to be genuinely complimenting me, something that was unfortunately rare.

“Buttering me up isn’t going to help a thing!” I said, and now it was Grayson’s turn to roar with laughter.