Page 4 of The Sweet Spot

“Are you talking about my bikini spread?”

There’s a beat of silence, and his eyes widen in shock.

“Oh my God, I haven’t been staring at the cover or anything.” He pauses, thinks about it. “I mean, I have, but that sounds—hold on.”

He winces, and behind him, the dugout starts making noises as they watch our interaction.

“You know what? I’d probably stop talking if I were you.”

“Yeah,” he says immediately, looking at the ground. The second he looks up, he keeps going. “It’s just—your dad talks about you all the time.”

That catches me off guard enough that I frown and stop glaring.

“My dad?”

“Larry.” His face brightens instantly at the topic switch. “He fixes the bullpen heater when it acts possessed.”

I blink again, glancing over at the dugout where my father is now talking to Tate and Grayson Hawk, one of the teams starting pitchers. Grayson is making pitching motions with his arm, so they’re definitely critiquing my pitch.

“Possessed?”

“It makes sounds.” He shrugs as I turn to look back at him. Then he waves it off. “I don’t know. I’m not an electrician.”

“What does this have to do with my father?”

“Nothing. Sorry.” He nods again. A lot. “I got distracted, but I do think you’re an awesome player. Watched your Women’s Open highlights last month, and that eagle on sixteen was unreal.”

“Who are you?” I ask, completely confused by the hulking man giving me a sugary-sweet smile. “I thought I was pitching to Tate,” I say more as a statement, but realize it sounds a little like disappointment.

The smile on his face fades slightly. “Ah, yeah. Everyone always wants Tate.” He clears his throat. “I’m Jonathan Brian Callahan, JB for short.”

“Uh, okay.”

“I guess your father hasn’t mentioned me?”

I shake my head, feeling bad since I can hear the eagerness in his voice.

“Tate’s shoulder has been bugging him, and they wanted to make sure he's okay for the All-Star Game this weekend, so you got me instead.”

“Lucky me.”

“You got that right,” he says, completely unaware of my sarcasm.

“Whit, JB, can we get a picture of the two of you?” The photographer waves us together.

Right.

I step into position and force a smile. He moves in, standing so close behind me that I can feel his arm brushing against mine.

I shiver.

Click.

Fantastic. I bet the camera just got a shot of me mid-quiver. As if today couldn’t get any better.

“That was amazing. Thank you so much for letting me catch your ball.”

I take him in and then ask, “Are you always like this?”