Bryant
THE PAST WEEK has been hell on my body. My shoulder has been killing me since the hit I took last night. Ramirez did that shit on purpose. When you’re a third baseman, you get run over sometimes when you step in front of a six-foot-three, two-hundred-twenty-pound man running full sprint. It hurts like hell too. Ramirez put his shoulder down and into the one I had surgery on last year. It did not end well for him, or me. He was called out, and I lay on the ground for several minutes trying to catch my breath and to calm the pain radiating through my entire right side.
I’m not happy about it, but I’m sitting out the game tonight. We beat the hell out of them yesterday, so they’re going to put Smith in at third so I can rest my shoulder. Five years ago, I would have been pissed about being benched, but a couple of injuries later, I know my limitations and am fairly certain I’d be worthless out there if they put me in.
After the game, which we won, the trainer works my shoulder a little, followed by icing it to alleviate any swelling. When he’s done, I’m dressed and ready to head home within minutes. However, as I step outside, my mind bounces to the feisty bartender, and I’m suddenly craving an ice-cold Blue Moon on tap.
PULLING INTO THE parking lot, I’m amazed how packed this place is. Last week when I was here, there was barely anybody in there, but then again it had been early afternoon then. I almost consider going home because I really don’t want to be around all these people, but then her smile clouds my head, and I pull the front door open and step inside.
There are a bunch of people around a big screen TV on one side of the bar, but the other side looks pretty thin, so I head that way. Noticing immediately they are watching the replays from the game, I make sure I’m sitting with my back to them, my ball cap once again pulled low. I’m thankful it’s sort of chilly tonight because the hoodie I’m sporting helps conceal even more of me.
And then, like she knows I’m here, the beautiful bartender comes through the swinging doors, carrying the biggest plate of nachos I’ve ever seen, and my stomach growls loudly. She falters for a moment when she sees me, a look of surprise on her face, but then she continues toward the rowdy group over in the corner watching the highlights on ESPN. I watch out of the corner of my eye as she sets the plate down in front of the guys surrounding the table and then immediately turns my way, walking with determination. I hope she’s not still pissed at me from last week.
She steps up to the cooler, pulling a chilled glass out, before turning to me. “Blue Moon?” she asks with a small smile.
“Yes, please,” I reply, my voice sounding dry.
She places a coaster in front of me, followed by another perfectly poured beer. “You wanna start a tab or are you only having one?” she asks, not meeting my eyes.
“I’ll probably have a couple, so if you could start me a tab that’d be great.”
She walks away, punching something into the computer thing on the other side of the bar. The guys behind me are yelling at the screen and giving their opinion on every play being discussed. When the sports announcer brings up the hit I took last night, I turn my head enough to watch the reply and suck in a deep breath as Ramirez plows me over. The guys at the table erupt into a tirade about how Ramirez should’ve been thrown out for the rest of the game because it was a dirty hit. I chuckle to myself that they’re getting so worked up over it. True baseball fans take those kinds of hits personally. They continue to call Ramirez all kinds of colorful names, chatting about the rest of the game. When the nachos are gone and the highlights are over, they all start shuffling around, gathering their glasses and plates and garbage, before heading toward the bar.
It’s the perfect opportunity for me to hit the bathroom. Sliding from the barstool, I chance a quick peek at the bartender who is watching me with a smirk.
I finish up in the restroom and head back out in time to see all the guys piling out the door. She’s over by the tables they were at, wiping everything down and putting the tables and chairs back where they belong. Making my way over to her, I reach for one of the chairs and her eyes snap to mine.
“You don’t have to help me. I can get it,” she asserts.
“Now what kind of gentleman would I be if I let you move all this furniture by yourself?” I respond, with as serious a tone as I can muster.
“Um, the kind of gentleman who comes to a bar to have a beer and lets the bartender do her job?” she counters quickly, causing me to laugh. When her eyes narrow on me for laughing at her, I know it’s time to retreat to the bar.
“Independent. Got it.” I set down the chair and head back to the bar. I seriously am doing everything wrong with this woman.
I take my seat back at the bar and finish the rest of my beer, contemplating whether I should drink another one or go home. My shoulder is throbbing pretty badly, so maybe it’d be smart for me to head out.
“I didn’t mean to sound like an ungrateful asshole back there,” she says with humor in her voice. “I’m used to doing things myself, so I didn’t want you to feel obligated to help.”
“It’s fine that you were an asshole,” I concede back with a wink. She rolls her eyes and chuckles. Reaching down, she picks up my glass and goes to refill it without even asking. When she sets the glass in front of me, she reaches her hand out as if to shake mine.
“Layne Scott.” I look at her hand for a moment before engulfing it in my own.
“Nice to meet you, Layne Scott. I’m…”
I watch as her eyes light up and dance with mischief. She knows who I am and she’s waiting for me to lie to her.
“Bryant Nash,” I reply, trying to act like I’m just another guy she’s never heard of.
“Nice to meet you, Bryant,” she replies, before turning and walking back over to finish up her cleaning.
Okay. So not how I pictured that going.
I turn toward her, ready to start a conversation but stop short when she asks, “How’s the shoulder holding up? You took a pretty good hit from Ramirez.”
In all the years I’ve been playing baseball, I’ve never met a woman who so casually starts a conversation with me about baseball.
“So, I guess you know who I am then?” I ask, trying not to sound like a self-absorbed asshat.
“Yep,” she replies with a shrug. “I knew who you were last week too, but you seemed to be trying to fly under the radar so I figured I’d leave you be.”
She must see the shock on my face because she starts laughing. “What’s the matter, Slam?” she jokes, making sure to emphasize my nickname. “You don’t think a woman can know who you are without falling at your feet?”
And then I laugh because if she only knew how much I hate that damn nickname now, she wouldn’t throw it in my face.
“Please don’t call me that,” I basically beg. “That nickname was given to me when I was nineteen years old and doing a lot of things I probably shouldn’t have. Rookie mentality landed me a bad persona.”
She looks me over like she’s trying to figure out if I’m being serious, which I am.
I got the nickname Slam when I was taking full advantage of the ladies who were throwing themselves at me.
And I went years living up to the playboy appearance. Once, about ten years ago, I thought I’d try to make a go at a relationship. Ana and I dated casually for a few months, and then she reminded me why I’d always chosen not to do the relationship thing. She’d insisted on going to my away games with me, which my coach was not excited about, and when I told her she couldn’t come, she threw a huge fit because I was putting “a game” before her.
So I kicked her to the curb immediately. Of course I put the game before her; it’s my damn career. A career I’ve worked for my entire life. Plus, I’d seen what happened to marriages and families when ball players were on the road. I’d guess 90 percent of the guys I know who have been married, and/or have kids, are divorced and bordering on broke within five years. The wives can’t handle the away games, and the kids feel abandoned. I love baseball too much to risk losing it all over a jealous woman. And don’t even get me started on the poor kids. Yeah, you won’t catch me going down that road.
I realize I’ve zoned out when she clears her throat and chuckles out loud.
“I thought I lost you there for a second,” she cajoles.
“Sorry,” I mumble, trying to figure out if I missed any part of the conversation.
“So, how’s the shoulder feeling? You never answered my question.”
“Honestly, it hurts like a bitch,” I tell her.
“I bet. It’s the shoulder you had surgery on last year, right?”
Once again, I’m shocked and am not hiding it very well.
“What? A woman can’t like and follow baseball?” she jokes.
“Why don’t you tell me a little about you, Mrs. Layne Scott? You seem to know a hell of a lot about me.”
Her cheeks turn a tad pink, and she turns away from me to grab herself a bottle of water out of the cooler.
“First of all, it’s Miss, not Mrs., and second, I’m a huge baseball fan, always have been. I grew up watching it with my dad, and now I watch it with my daughter, although her new obsession is with football.”
I’m struck speechless by the fact she has a kid.
“Close your mouth, Nash, it’s not a good look for you. The whole guppy out of water thing,” she prods me. “What has you in shock? I’m a grown woman who loves baseball, or I have a daughter who likes football?”
I can’t help the laugh that escapes me.
“I don’t know why the fact that you have a child surprised me, and I apparently didn’t hide it well,” I choke out. “How old is she?”
“She’s eight, going on sixteen,” she replies with a beautiful smile.
“So, tell me about your obsession with baseball? Is it just me you’re a fan of? Are you a Smoke fan, or should I find a new bar to hang out at?” I wink at her, to which she rolls her eyes before answering.
“Oh, I’m a Smoke fan. Have been for as long as I can remember. My dad was probably one of your biggest fans.” I watch as pain crosses her face, and I immediately want to take it away. She said was one of my biggest fans, and I know immediately it must be a recent loss with the way her eyes mist over. I know that feeling.
“Sounds like a good man,” I reply quickly, pulling her back to the now.
“The best,” she retorts, before turning and walking through the swinging doors to the kitchen. I hear her banging around in there, and a few minutes later, she sticks her head out and looks around before asking, “Are you hungry? I’ve got enough stuff left over for one more plate of nachos, and I’m starving, but can’t eat a whole one alone.”
She wants to share nachos with me.
“Sure, I could eat,” I answer as my stomach lets out another huge growl, causing her to lift her eyebrow at me, before ducking back behind the doors.
More banging and a few minutes later, she returns with a huge plate of nachos and two small plates. She sets it all down and returns to the kitchen, coming back with sour cream and guacamole.
“So tell me what brought you into my little bar, Bryant Nash?” she asks as soon as she’s seated in front of me.
“Your bar?” I question, and she’s shocked me again.
“Damn. You’re like the easiest person on the planet to surprise,” she blurts out. “Grew up here when my dad owned it and it became mine last year when he passed.” It’s then she shoves a huge chip, covered in all the nacho goodness, into her tiny mouth. I can’t help but laugh.
“That was a really big bite.”
She groans like it’s the best thing she’s ever eaten, and the sound immediately makes me sit up and take notice. Must be some good damn nachos. I dive in, and within minutes, we’re both speechless and shoving nachos into our mouths.
This woman intrigues me. She’s naturally beautiful, with very little, if any, makeup on. She’s been in jeans, a tank top, and flip-flops both times I’ve seen her. I see no jewelry and a small heart tattooed on her wrist with the name “Gracie” in delicate script through it. She loves sports, can make a killer plate of nachos, and can pour a perfect tap beer. How is this woman single?
And then I remember she has a daughter and it makes me wonder where the dad is. I know it’s too personal of a question to ask since this is the first time we’ve had an actual conversation.
I don’t even notice how fast the time flies by as we sit talking. The bar is almost empty by the time I finish my second beer and ask her for a glass of water.
Once we’re done eating, she cashes out my tab and follows me to the door to lock up as I leave.
Layne is about to close the door behind me when my mouth speaks before my brain can stop it. “Would you go to dinner with me tomorrow night?” I blurt.
I watch a myriad of emotion crosses her face before she takes a deep breath, avoiding my eyes.
“That’s a nice offer, but we both know you’re not a relationship type guy, and I’m not some cleat chasers. I’m a grown-up with grown-up responsibilities. I appreciate the offer though.” She starts to close the door, and I can’t help but continue this torture.
“I’m not asking you out to dinner because I’m trying to get in your pants, Layne. I enjoy talking to you.”
She seems to be considering my invitation when I hear a car door shut and the shuffle of feet. Turning my attention to where the sound is coming from, a woman who appears to be the absolute opposite of Layne is walking our way with a huge grin on her face.
“Well, well, well,” she clucks. “What do we have here?”
“Oh sweet Jesus. Here we go,” Layne mumbles behind me before stepping around me and heading her way. I could almost swear I hear her whisper, “I’m sorry,” as she rushes past me.
“Mandy, what the hell are you doing here? I told you I’m not going out tonight. I’m exhausted, and Gracie has a swim meet tomorrow morning.”
“If you’d told me you were hanging out at the bar with this tall drink of water, I’d totally have left you alone,” she retorts, speaking to Layne but damn near molesting me with her eyes. I watch as she starts at my feet, slowly raising her gaze, taking a little more time than she needs to at my crotch, and it almost makes me want to cover it. This woman has no shame. When she gets to my face, she licks her lips like she’s about to devour me.
“Mandy,” Layne growls. “This is a customer who was just leaving. Stop being a whore.”
I almost choke trying not to laugh. Are these two women about to throw down? Did she really call her a whore?
Mandy throws her head back and laughs, and Layne pushes her arm before turning back to me.
“I apologize for my best friend. She can’t help herself,” she tells me, a teasing tone to her voice.
“Bryant, this is Mandy; Mandy, Bryant,” she says, pointing between the two of us.
Mandy holds her hand out limply and bats her eyelashes. I take her hand and lift it to my lips, kissing the back of it. My eyes almost bug out of my head when I hear a noise that sounds ridiculously close to a growl coming from Layne.
When I swing my head toward the sound, Layne is looking down at the rock she’s kicking on the ground, mumbling to herself.
Mandy cackles before reaching over and pulling Layne into her arms, rubbing her hand back and forth over the top of her hair, causing it to fall out of the bun she had it in.
“Goddammit, Mandy. Like my hair isn’t bad enough…” She trails off, swatting Mandy’s hands away as she tries to fix it. It looks like a rat’s nest now, and I can’t help but laugh.
They both swing their eyes back to me like they forgot I was here, Layne narrowing her eyes at me in response.
“Well, I think that’s my cue to leave so you beautiful ladies can go out and enjoy your night,” I begin. “Mandy, it was lovely to meet you.” I step toward Layne, and she takes a step back in reaction, causing me to stop. I hold out my hand for her to shake, but she looks down at it then back up to my face before she grabs it. I pull her to me slowly, never breaking eye contact with her. She doesn’t resist, and her eyes widen in shock as I press a light kiss to her cheek.
“Good night, Ms. Scott. Please reconsider my dinner invitation.”
“Wait a minute. You asked Layne to dinner and she turned you down?” Mandy shrieks.
“Don’t start, Mandy!”
I can see this conversation is going to get heated by the look on Layne’s face, so I start to walk away, but the next words I hear stop me in my tracks.
“I swear to all things holy, Layne, if you don’t get laid soon, your vagina is gonna shrivel up and fall out! The man is gorgeous and you turned down dinner and dick,” Mandy gripes, not even remotely trying to keep her voice down.
I’m frozen in place, and I’m not sure if I should turn around and be the witness to the murder I’m assuming is about to happen, or run.
“Mandy!” Layne screams.
“What? You know I’m speaking the truth. We had this conversation last week when the hot, judgey guy came to the bar and got you all hot and bothered. Now you’re turning down a perfectly good opportunity,” Mandy continues with no shame.
“That’s it!” Layne shouts so loudly I almost feel bad for the wrath Layne is about to unleash on her. I turn in time to see Layne grab Mandy, putting her in a headlock and rubbing her other hand all over Mandy’s hair, while Mandy screams hysterically like someone is killing her.
Before I know it, these two grown-ass women are rolling around in the dirt parking lot, messing each other’s hair and clothes up. Mandy is a good three to four inches taller and probably twenty pounds heavier than Layne, but Layne has her pinned to the ground and is rubbing handfuls of dirt from the parking lot onto her chest.
“You’re paying the dry cleaning for this shirt, you bitch!” Mandy yells hoarsely while choking down laughter.
“And you’re going to bartend for me to pay me back for ruining a potential date, you whore!” Layne screams back.
I lean back against the car I’m standing next to, crossing my arms over my chest while I watch these two crazy women go at each other. By the time I clear my throat to get their attention, they are both laughing so hard they can barely breathe.
Both of them freeze when they hear me.
“Jesus, we’re a fucking hot mess.” Mandy laughs.
“Well, as odd as this may sound. That may have been the hottest thing I’ve ever seen in my life,” I say with a chuckle. “You two are best friends?”
Layne bursts out laughing. They almost look embarrassed as they get up off the ground and start dusting themselves out. If I’m not mistaken, Layne said Mandy ruined a potential date, which makes me think she is reconsidering letting me take her to dinner.
What am I doing? Do I want this kind of crazy in my life? I mean, I have a lot riding on this season. I need this World Series win. I don’t want it. I need it. I’ve spent my entire life working for this opportunity, and with this being my last year, I have to have that ring. What I don’t need is this kind of distraction.
“All right, ladies. It’s late and time for me to hit the sheets,” I tell them quickly. “Layne, lovely to see you as always. Mandy, it was interesting to meet you.”
I start toward my car but only get a few feet when Layne says my name. When I turn, she’s pushing Mandy in the direction of the bar, and I hear her tell her to go inside. She strides to me with purpose and stops in front of me, eyes meeting mine. I like that.
“All right, Slam, I’ll have dinner with you.”
I shake my head at her use of my nickname, and she chuckles when I glare at her. Then I can’t help the stupid smile taking over my face. I don’t know what it is about this woman, but she gets under my skin, and I’m not sure I like what I’m feeling. Yeah, she’s beautiful, but it’s something else. She’s comfortable in her own skin. There doesn’t seem to be a fake bone in her body.
“Great. What’s your address? I’ll pick you up at seven.”
“How about you give me your number and I’ll text it to you? Then you’ll have my number and my address.” Her voice is shaking, just enough for me to notice. She’s nervous. I wonder how much of what Mandy said is true.
I give her my phone number and watch as she types it into her phone.
“Okay. Good night, Nash. I’ll see you tomorrow.” She leans forward, kissing my cheek and making me have to restrain myself from pulling her to me and crushing my mouth to hers. Her lips are so soft.
“I’d like it if you’d call me Bryant, by the way,” I tell her honestly. She smiles but doesn’t respond.
She’s almost to the door of the bar when I realize she didn’t text me to give me her number. She could get cold feet and not text me.
“Layne,” I shout, causing her to spin around. “Send me your address before I go,” I demand, but with a smile so she knows I’m on to her. She smirks before pulling out her phone and typing into it.
“Night, Bryant!” she shouts before going inside.
When my phone chirps, I look at the text and shake my head.
Unknown: 1295 East Roosevelt Lane. And regardless of what Mandy said, I’m not sleeping with you. FYI.
I save her number into my phone and consider my response.
Me: Who said I wanted to sleep with you? I don’t even find you remotely attractive.
I hit send without thinking. She might not get my humor, and I’m instantly worried. I feel like a dumbass and can’t look away from my phone when the little bubbles pop up while she’s responding.
Layne: Oh good. Then we’re on the same page. You’re pretty hideous yourself. See you tomorrow.
I take a deep breath and chuckle. Feisty little thing.