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He cocks his head. “What the fuck else do you have in there? It’s like you’re fucking Mary Poppins.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Thanks for not dropping the f-bombs during the interview,” I muse. “That would’ve made editing a bitch.” Tossing the shoes to the ground, I slip off my slingbacks, and make the switch. “And for your information, I wear a lot of hats throughout the day, never knowing where my job will take me, so I have to be prepared.”
“You’re like a grown-up Girl Scout.”
That makes me laugh again. “Shut the fuck up.”
“Now who’s dropping the f-bombs.”
A few minutes later, Mack has me out in a batting cage with a helmet on my head and a bat in my hand.
“Now, just stand like this,” he says, demonstrating the proper batting stance.
When I place the bat on my shoulder and step up to the plate, he shakes his head.
“No… like this.” Walking around, he stands behind me, his body entirely too close to mine for this to be a professional setting.
I’m working.
This is my job.
Do not react.
I feel Mack’s thick thigh press between mine and he uses his foot to nudge mine into position. “Feet shoulder’s width apart.” His low voice in my ear makes my body flush with heat. “And then, hold the bat like this.” His hands come up around mine and the calluses are a stark contrast to my soft skin.
When he steps back, I immediately miss the heat from his body and mentally berate myself for feeling that way.
Get it the fuck together, Greer.
“Okay, that’s good.” Stepping back, he appraises me and I feel his gaze like an actual touch. “Keep your eye on the ball at all times. Don’t look away.”
I nod, suddenly feeling nervous.
Most of the other players aren’t watching, but Mack is, and Brian, my cameraman, has the lens trained right at me. Eventually, all of New Orleans will probably see this attempt. I’m not shooting for perfection, but I’d really like not to suck. Or get pummeled in the face with a ball.
When Mack walks back a few steps, I see the ball in his hand.
“Wait, are you pitching to me?”
“There’s no way in hell I’m letting you swing on a pitching machine.”
Oh, okay.
“Close your mind and open your eyes,” he coaches, and I swear it’s like foreplay, but I quickly shut that down. I think it’s just been too long since I had an orgasm so everything he’s saying today sounds like sex talk. That’s it. It’s me. Not him.
“Close your mind, Greer,” he calls out from further away, drawing my attention back to him. “I can see those thoughts running. Don’t overthink it, just swing.”
I’m glad he can’t read my thoughts and he thinks it’s all about baseball.
Because it is.
Baseball is safe.
Baseball is my job.
The second my bat makes contact, I hear him mutter, “Fuck yeah, that’s what I’m talking about.”
Even Brian lets out a congratulatory yell.
