March 5, 9 years ago

 

I was still reeling over what a dumbass move that was yesterday.  I wasn’t paying attention to my base coach, who was telling me to hold up at second, until I was rounding the base in question.   I had to put on the breaks and go back.  Then I caught the corner of the bag and my ankle rolled.  To make matters worse, when I rolled off the base, I got tagged out.  The guy batting behind me tied up the game with a homerun, which would have been a walk-off homerun had I not been a bone head.  My mistake cost us the game. We lost in the tenth.  

Coach spent the better part of this morning reaming my ass out for my stupid mistake.  I breezed out for most of the speech, but I got the gist.  One more mistake like that and I’d be benched permanently. 

“You better not ever let me down again, Slaughter. Now, go get that ankle taped,” Coach instructed.  “I know you are supposed to rest it today, but I may need you.  Franklin’s knee is still bothering him.”  I stood up, and he patted me on the shoulder.  “This shit keeps happening to him and you may be our lead catcher.  Go get it taped before the game, just in case.”  I moved toward the door.  “Oh, and Slaughter?”  I looked back at coach.  “Don’t fuck up again.”

I muttered, “Yes, sir,” before walking out the door.

Coach had been rotating me in at the end of games.  Franklin had seniority, which is the only reason why I was his back up.  I knew I was the better player.  I just had to show them I was.  Yesterday, I had my chance to play the whole game and screwed it up in the fifth inning.  I’d hoped to prove myself.  Instead, I looked like an amateur. 

I was busy mentally berating myself when I walked into the training room.  I locked eyes on her, and I froze.  All thoughts vacated. 

She was standing in front of shelves, restocking something, facing away from me.  A slightly wild mass of light-brown hair with hints of gold and auburn, that hung in loose curls swinging around her shoulders.  Her tight shirt showed her small waist that gently curved into the best ass I’d ever seen, round and firm.  She wore running shorts, revealing long, toned legs.  Her hips swayed as she stocked the tape on the shelves, and I was mesmerized.  I couldn’t tell her height, but she wasn’t tall, probably around 5’4” or so, since she had to stretch on her toes every so often to reach the shelf she stocked.  Magnificent.  I got flashes of her profile when she turned to grab more out of the box, cute nose, long eyelashes and full, pouty lips.  I caught sight of her chest, one with two perfect, handful-sized breasts, and I had pretty big hands.  She was pretty, but the way she moved is what drew me to her.  I unconsciously moved toward her, mercilessly pulled in by her tractor beam.  A siren.  That’s what she was. 

“Slaughter!” Jackson, the head student trainer, called, startling me out of my trance.  I was never really sure if Jackson was his first name or his last, and I never asked.  I only knew him as Jackson, post-grad student and head student trainer.  But fortunately he spoke to me, which was a good thing because if he hadn’t stopped me, I may have done something really stupid, like touch her or pin her up against the wall and kiss her.  “Coach called and said you needed your ankle taped.  You ready?”

“Oh, hey, Jackson.  Yeah, I’m ready.  Where do you want me?” 

He pointed to the left.  “Pick a table.”

I walked over and sat on the table that would afford me an unobstructed view of my new obsession while Jackson assessed my injury.  Instead of getting to watch her, Jackson intervened.

“Sullivan.”  She startled and removed the ear buds from her ears. 

“Yeah, Jackson?”  Her voice was deep and husky, like Scarlett Johansson, my celeb crush.  I often wondered what it would be like to call ScarJo for a little phone sex. 

“Tape up Slaughter.  Left ankle, compression on the lateral malleolus.”  I watched her gather the supplies from the shelf she was just stocking when Jackson leaned in to me and said lowly, “You’re welcome.” 

“For what?” I asked, pulling my eyes from her and focusing on Jackson, who grinned at me.

“Since you came in, you can’t take your eyes off her,”  he whispered.  “Watch out.  She’s a feisty one.  Don’t screw it up.”  He laughed, smacked my shoulder, and walked away.

She walked toward me, concentrating on not dropping the two rolls of tape, scissors and something that looked like a thick piece of felt in her hands.  She walked to the left of me, setting the stuff on the table behind me.  She picked up the felt and scissors and began cutting a horseshoe shape. 

I realized I was gawking, but I couldn’t stop.

Then she looked up.  Damn.  Those eyes.  Friggin unbelievable.  Smoky greenish-blue.  Time-stopping, mouth-hanging-open, deer-in-the-headlights, “Dream-Weaver”-playing-in-the-background beautiful.  She looked down.  No.  Don’t do that.  Look at me again.  Forever.  Please.

“You might wanna close that mouth,” she said with a smirk.  She spoke, to me.  Unreal.  That voice was like Viagra.  The movements, the ass, the eyes, the voice.  This girl was sheer perfection. 

“I just… I’ve never seen you in here before.  I’m Nathaniel Slaughter.”

She put down her scissors and held out her hand.  “Etta Sullivan.”

“Etta?  Like Fitzgerald?” I asked stupidly.

She chuckled.  “No, Etta like James.  Ms. Fitzgerald was Ella, not Etta.  But my dad does love the sixties’ divas.” 

“Oh.”  I reached out to shake her hand.  Her handshake was firm, and it sent a jolt through me that lit my insides on fire.  I hoped she didn’t notice my tension.

“You’re an athletic trainer?”  Yes, everyone.  Suave, lady-killer Nathaniel Slaughter is trying to break the record for the most stupid questions ever asked in one sitting. 

She cocked her head and smiled at me, looking like she was debating whether or not to say something.

“What?” I asked.

She sat the scissors down and grabbed the foam tape.  “Well, after watching you play, I’d have guessed you’d be a lot cockier than this.”

“You’ve seen me play?”

“Yep,” she retorted.  “Yesterday in fact.”  She moved to the end of the table and grabbed my foot, placing the U-shape around my ankle bone.  She smirked and nodded toward my ankle.  “Pretty cocky move, wasn’t it?”  I would have answered her, but her careful and deliberate movements, which might have really impressed me if I could have dismissed the fact that was she touching me, disabled my speech.  Touches like fire.

She began wrapping the foam tape around my foot before she spoke again.  “But to answer your question, yes, I’m currently in the athletic training program.  I started it in high school and it sparked my interest.  I thought I wanted to be a doctor, but I am considering other options.”

“Well, based on the way you are wrapping my ankle, I think you’d probably be a great doctor.” 

She looked up at me and smiled slowly.  “Thanks.”  She grabbed the white tape and repeated the process of wrapping.  “But I really don’t like innards.  Or puking.  Or blood,” she shuddered a little.  “Or any bodily fluids, really.”  She stopped wrapping and looked at me.  “Tolerating fluids is kind of a requirement to be a doctor.” 

“I would guess.”  All my charm must be on the other side of that door, because right now, I feel like a spaz.  “So what other options do you have then?”

“Physical therapy, athletic trainer, personal trainer, various other options.  I thought I might want to be a physical therapist, but I love sports.  Personal training is an option, but they make jack crap.”  She cut the tape and patted it into place.  “I thought I’d try this and see if I like it.  Professional athletic training is a really tough industry for girls though.”  She indicated for me to stand to check out the tape job she did.  It felt fantastic, but I was a little let down that she worked so quickly.  I didn’t want this conversation to end.

“It feels a little crooked, like the compression is off a little.” 

She looked at me skeptically for a second.  I hoped my face didn’t give away my lie.  Finally, she grunted.  “Sit down.  I’ll fix it.”  She grabbed the scissors and began cutting the tape from my foot.

“So, what draws you to athletic training?” I asked, finding myself addicted to her voice.

“I’m not sure that I’m actually drawn to athletic training.  But I have always loved sports.” More points in her favor.  “And I am really interested in how the body moves.”

I watched her bend to pick up the tape that had rolled off the table.  I leaned back on my arms, confident that she would like seeing my arms flexing.  Yep, this is why I worked out.  I tried my seductive tone.  “I recently developed an interest in that myself.”

She laughed again.  “And there he is.  There’s my cocky boy.”  I felt myself get red in the face, unsure if it was because she called me out or because she called me hers.  I was blushing.  Guys don’t blush.  Fuck.  “That was a seriously cheesy line, Casanova.”  She repositioned the felt and started to wrap again. 

“Cheesy?  Really?  I’ll have you know that cheesy lines work for me all the time.”

“Doubtful.  A girl would see through your line of crap anywhere.”

“Really?”  A challenge.  Awesome.  “What would you prefer?  Really cheesy, like  ‘I heard milk does a body good, so baby, how many gallons do you drink a day.’”

“Ha!  Not at all. I like,” she deepened her voice more, “‘Hey babe, I wanna tie your shoes, because I can’t have you fall for someone else.’”

“That was used on you?”  She nodded.  “Nice one.”  She grabbed the white tape and started wrapping.  I decided to try to up my game.  “Okay, so what about, ‘For a moment I thought I had died and gone to heaven. Now I see that I am very much alive, and heaven has been brought to me.’”

She looked up from her work to smile at me.  “That one is better.  But my favorite all time pick up line is, ‘Hey, can I use your phone, because my mom told me to call her when I met the girl of my dreams, and I think I just have.’ That one actually earned my number.”

If that one earned her number, I thought it was time to go for my kill shot.  I reached down and grabbed her left hand in my left.  She caught her breath, and her eyes lifted to meet mine.  I lifted her hand up to my mouth, palm up, and kissed her lightly on the pulse point of her wrist, tracing where my lips had been with the middle finger of my right hand.  My eyes never left hers, and I watched her watch my movements.  Smiling my slow smile (the one the last girl I dated called my wet-maker),  I lowered my voice, hoping it sounded sexy.  “You’re so beautiful,” I touched my lips to her wrist again,  “I forgot my pick-up line.”

She sucked in a breath and made a noise that sounded like a very quietly whispered, “Holy shit.”  She didn’t move for a few seconds; she just stared at me.  Stunned silence was my best guess.

“So bad you’re speechless, huh?” I quipped. 

She pulled her hand out of mine and dropped her eyes.  “Yeah, that was terrible.”

She re-focused her attention back on my ankle, obviously flustered.  She fumbled around a while, finally ripping off the white tape altogether.  She walked over to the shelf to grab another roll.

I had to fight not to laugh.  She was so fucking adorable, all annoyed and bothered, bothered by me.  That thought thrilled me.  “That roll was obviously a bad one.”

“Shut up.”

I couldn’t hold back.  I laughed out loud.  Hard.  She threw the roll of tape at my head, which I easily ducked, but it did make me laugh harder. 

I could tell her anger was melting because she was trying hard not to smile.  “Cocky son of a bitch,” she gruffed under her breath. 

Ozzie Franklin walked in and took the table next to me.  Who names their kid Ozzie, anyway?  I asked him once, and he said his parents were big Black Sabbath fans.  Ugh.  It was an insult to the real Ozzy, who was the only person who can pull it off.  Otherwise, it’s a stupid name.  It’s why I only called him by his last name.

“Sullivan, maybe you should stop working on the scrub,” he punched me playfully in the shoulder, “and work on someone who is actually playing today.”

“Maybe if you had shown up thirty minutes ago like you were supposed to, you’d already be done, Franklin.”  I took minor joy in the fact that she seemed to spit out his name.  Jackson was right, she was feisty.  She looked up at me.  “I’ll be right back.”

Etta disappeared into the office around the corner, and I watched her all the way.

“I see you looking,” Franklin roared.  “And I agree.  That is one nice piece of ass.”  

I’d never really had a reason not to like Franklin.  We’d never really been able to talk just the two of us about anything other than baseball.  He’d been a little crass at times, but we were ball players.  Crass is sometimes part of the camaraderie.  I didn’t like him much, I’d just never had a reason to not like him — until he said that.  I suddenly had the overwhelming urge to punch him in the throat.

“Don’t talk about her like that, Man.”

“What, you like her?”  He chuckled.  “Well, save it.  She’s made it clear she doesn’t date athletes.”  He took off his shorts, revealing that he was only wearing his jock strap.  Asshole.  Knowing she would be in here, he wore it, and made no motion to cover himself.  “I was willing to break my no-freshmen rule for her.”  He moved himself back on the table.  “I bet she’s a virgin, too.  Hmmmm, I’d love to pop that sweet cherry.”

I’ve heard of red hot anger.  At that moment, I felt it.  This blinding need to protect her, added to the jackassity that was flowing out of his shit hole of a mouth, made me want to kill him.  I was just about to jump off the table to punch his jugular, at least for starters, when both Jackson and Etta returned. 

Absolutely fucking perfect timing. 

This pile of shit wasn’t worth getting kicked off the team and losing my scholarship.  I took deep breaths to try to assuage my anger.  I didn’t trust myself to speak, so I just closed my eyes and let Etta finish taping me, vaguely aware of my fists clenched so tightly that my hands cramped. 

I finally honed in to the voices around me.  I heard Jackson, so I focused on his words, hoping they would distract me enough to not go postal.

“Where are you going tomorrow night for your birthday?”

“I don’t know,” Etta sighed.  “Emily, she’s my twin sister, and I are going to celebrate together.  I want to go out to dinner and keep it simple.  But she insists we go to some bar.”

“Bar?  You aren’t old enough.” Jackson laughed.  Even though he just turned twenty three, he always acted way older, treating the other trainers like little siblings. 

“Emily heard about Ethan and contacted him a while ago,” Etta replied.  “It was her early birthday gift to me.”

Ethan was our campus graphic artist, fancy name for forger.  His fake IDs were legendary.  My Ethan original suddenly felt heavy in my pocket. 

“Emily is coming in town tomorrow and she arranged this party with a few of our friends at some place named Doyle’s.  We have this thing we do every year on our birthday, and she says we can’t do it if we are in a restaurant.  I’m still trying to talk her into my plan.”  She tapped me on the knee.  I knew my anger had almost completely dissipated when I felt the heat from her fingertips travel up my thigh.  “Stand up and see if that’s better, Nathaniel.”  My name from her mouth?  Fucking sweet.

“What thing do you do?” Jackson asked. 

“Well, when we were twelve, we made this list.  Each birthday, we have a silly task to perform, a different task every year.  It’s kind of like a bucket list, but nothing on it is too crazy, like climb Mount Everest or jump out of a plane.  Just simple tasks.  It’s kind of like a bet.  If either of us can’t do it, the other gets to have a sit down with Mom and tell her all the things we’ve gotten away with over the years.”

“Wow.  Gotten away with a lot?  It’s that bad?” I asked. 

She turned her attention to me and blushed.  Beautiful.  “Yeah.  But the list of things I have on Emily is way worse than her list of my stuff.  I’ve been looking for an excuse to tell Mom.”  She paused.  “How’s the ankle feel?”

“Good,”  I lied.  It actually did feel a little crooked this time.  I swallowed.  “So, what’s on the list for this year?”

She laughed.  “We have to get blindfolded.  At the time of each of our births, 11:57 p.m. for me, 12:09 a.m. for her, the blindfold gets removed and we have to kiss the first random guy we see.”

My chest tightened.  The thought of her full lips on another guy actually made me a little sick.  Shit.  What the hell was wrong with me?

“That really isn’t safe, Etta.” Jackson!  Thank God for Jackson.  “Want me to be there?  Your sister’s never seen me.  I could be your random guy.”  Jackson!  Fuck off, Jackson.

“Thanks.  I might take you up on that.”

Now the need to punch Jackson just overshadowed the need to punch the fuck nugget next to me.  

But Jackson gave me a better plan.  Thank God we didn’t have a game the day after tomorrow, because tomorrow night, I planned to take my too-good-to-be-fake ID and become “the first random guy” Etta Sullivan sees at Doyle’s bar.