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Chapter Six
Sawyer
What to do in a small town where you don’t really know anyone?
Good question. When you find the answer, let me know.
I’m practically climbing the walls with anxiety, needing to get out of the house a little bit. I made it through my first week of school fine, but am a little disappointed to report I didn’t get a chance to steal a few moments alone with AJ. The only time I saw her in the teachers’ lounge, she was having what appeared to be a private powwow with the school secretary. When I came in, they lowered their heads and seemed to whisper. I’m man enough to admit that I was seriously hoping it was me they were talking about. In fact, I was pretty certain it was about me, but I’m just not sure if it was for the reasons I wished for.
You know, that she found me crazy attractive and was going to ask me to share a cup of coffee sometime.
The attraction isn’t the issue. I know it and she knows it. I felt it that night back in July, and if the way my cock stirs to life in my pants when she’s near, I’d say it’s still alive and thriving. And it sure as shit wasn’t one-sided. You can’t turn off that kinda attraction with the flip of a switch.
Now I just need to decide what to do with it.
AJ appears to be fine with ignoring my existence, pretending that I didn’t have my hands down the back of her pants, the taste of her lips on my own, or the sound of her gasps filling my ears a mere month ago. Well, Miss Summer, I can’t forget, and I sure as shit don’t want to.
This isn’t a game, but I’m filled with this sudden and all-consuming desire to win. And the prize? One brunette with invigorating green eyes and the mouth of a sailor. She’s sin wrapped in proper khaki pants and sensible flats. She probably causes wet dreams for half the male student body with her button-downs that reveal just a hint of cleavage.
Miss AJ Summer, eighth grade math teacher.
Challenge accepted.
When the clock hits nine, I decide it’s time to get out of the house. The air is warm, yet feels refreshing coming off the Bay as I climb into my Mercedes and practically peel out of the driveway. I can feel the tension evaporate with every mile I put between myself and the house, where it’s quiet and, well, quiet. My mind starts to wander and the doubts start to creep in. Can I do this? Can I transition from one career to another without giving myself ulcers in the process? Fuck knows I’ve stressed enough over the interview, move, and first week at school.
But this is what I’ve always wanted.
I knew playing ball wouldn’t last forever, and even though many will transition into broadcasting or a sports reporting position, I knew I wanted to do more. I wanted to work with the kids early in life, guiding those with a love for sports and nurturing their passions the way my old coaches did for me. That’s why I made sure I completed school before turning pro. I needed to have my ducks in a row when the time came.
And that time is now.
As I pull into town, a route that’s becoming very familiar, I look for people. I don’t need a big crowd, but I wouldn’t mind shooting the shit with a few guys right about now over the game and drinking a few beers. Before I even realize it, I’m pulling into the lot next to Lucky’s. Maybe the owner will be here again tonight and want to chat.
There’s a handful a patrons inside, but not nearly as crowded as it was that fateful July night a month ago. I’m not quite sure what constitutes Saturday nightlife, but I don’t really think this is it. Those same older gentlemen sit at one end of the bar; guys I’d probably consider the regulars of the joint. On the other end, I spy a handful of younger guys shootin’ the shit with the bartender, who is not Lucky.
I head in their direction, but leave an empty stool between the guy at the end of their group and myself just in case they’re not game for entertaining a stranger.
The guy behind the bar nods and walks my way. “What can I get ya?”
“Miller Lite bottle,” I reply as I get comfortable on the stool.
My attention is pulled to the television above the bar where the Braves and Phillies are tied at one a piece at the bottom of the ninth. Bases are loaded and the closer is stepping up to bat for the Phillies. My heart starts to race as I recall moments like this. This is why I played the game. The thrill, the excitement, and sometimes even the letdowns. But in the end, it was still just a game, even if it had been my whole life.
Well, not my whole life, but for a while, pretty damn close.
“Sawyer Randall,” I hear from the guy beside me, his face lighting up with recognition. The guy is tall with dark hair and eyes, and a friendly disposition. He’s broad and tan, like maybe he spends time outdoors, and wears laugh lines around his eyes well.
The man reaches over and extends his hand. “Ryan Elson. I’m a big fan. Not of the Rangers, though, sorry. I’m from New York.”
“Ahhh, Mets or Yankees?” I ask.
“Fuck the Yankees,” he replies with a wide grin, which makes me laugh.
“You’re all right, Ryan Elson,” I confirm, patting him on the shoulder.
“This is Dean, Levi, and the one behind the bar is Linkin.”
“Nice to meet you all,” I say, suddenly feeling at ease with these guys.
