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Cheryl is also not an option. Her pink pumps and tailored suits would not mesh well with sweaty baseball players and fanatical spectators.
“I’m sure you’re deducing my options and realizing the only logical move I have is you. I know you did some sports reporting in college, so you’re familiar with the atmosphere and the sport. You reported on baseball, right?”
“Yeah,” I say, giving him a slight nod as I try to see myself inside the fieldhouse of the Revelers. Now that I know a few of them, this might get a little awkward, but I’m typically good with uncomfortable situations.
I’m Greer Bradley—capable and in charge of my own destiny—I can handle a few baseball players in tight pants… or no pants.
Flashbacks of that time I walked in on my college baseball team having a naked celebration after a championship win runs through my mind.
“Sure,” I tell him, clearing my throat. It’s not a criminal investigation, but it is better than covering the construction on Bourbon Street. “I can do it.”
George’s hands slap the desk as he stands. “Great. Rodney will get your press pass and parking permit. He’ll also give you a contact for the stadium. Your pass will give you access to the team before and after the game. I’d like you to be at every home game, do a short pre-game piece and then focus on post-game interviews. For now, we’ll keep you local, but if the team makes the playoffs, which they very well could, we might send you on the road for a few games. The city eats this shit up.” He chuckles as he passes me, shaking his head in amusement. “Ten years ago, I never would’ve imagined we’d have a professional baseball team, but here we are and, just think, they have the potential to go all the way. Now, that’s news.”
I follow him down the hall as he continues to talk.
“Show me what you got, Bradley, and don’t let me down.”
I nod my head even though his back is to me.
“I’ll send over an email with everything you’ll need to know. We can even send you interview questions if you need them.”
“That won’t be necessary,” I say, staking my claim. “If I’m going to be the correspondent, then I want the liberty to ask the questions I want to ask and interview the players I want to interview.”
George stops and turns, leveling me with his steely blue eyes. “Don’t fuck this up. If you want to get off the public interest stories, you need to impress me.”
Being the correspondent for the Revelers wasn’t on my career wish list, but it’s not the worst gig and, damn, I want what he’s dangling in front of me.
“Next home game is tomorrow night,” George orders. “I’ve already cleared your schedule.”
He doesn’t have to tell me the Revelers’ schedule. I already know it by heart. Since my best friend, Sophie, is engaged to Owen Thatcher, one of their pitchers, I follow the team closely. As a matter of fact, I already had tickets for tomorrow night’s game, but I had planned on sitting with Sophie and Owen’s kids.
Looks like my plans have changed.
CHAPTER TWO
MACK
“Yo,Brick, did you even break a sweat at batting practice today?” Luis, our back-up shortstop and all-around shit-stirrer asks as he strolls into the locker room.
“I don’t have to sweat to prove my skills, but I can wipe my balls with your towel so you can check to see if I’m wrong.”
“No thanks, you sick fuck,” he laughs, walking toward the showers.
Trash-talking in the locker room is a skill I pride myself on almost as much as my ability to catch anything that comes across the plate. For as long as I’ve been in the game—which, if I’m being honest, is a long damn time—I’ve been a master at slinging childish insults at my teammates and sometimes, opposing players. It’s all in good fun though.
Like I always say, if you can’t take it, don’t dish it.
“Don’t listen to Luis. I thought you looked good out there. No signs of a hangover or anything. What exactly did you do during the break, learn to crochet?” Ross Davies isn’t just the best pitcher on our team, he’s also the guy who holds this shitshow together and the man who knows me better than anyone, which means he knows the answer to his question already.
“Well, it wasn’t exactly crocheting, but I did learn some new moves while living it up in Vegas. You should’ve been there.”
Ross laughs. “Maybe next time.”
We both know he’s full of shit. Ross is too nice to say what he’s really thinking; that his Vegas days are over now that he’s married with a kid. I don’t hold it against him. His wife, Casey, is perfect for him and it does me good to see him so happy.
I used to think that life wasn’t for me, but the older I get, the more I feel my goals shifting.
Needing to take a quick shower before dressing out, I pull my shirt over my head and toss it in a nearby hamper. When I stop by my locker to grab my toiletry bag and a towel, Jason Freeman, our resident douchebag, strolls in looking rode hard and put up wet.
