The Last Strike by A.R. Henry

Chapter 6

Looking down at the rust-colored dirt, I trace my name using the tip of my shoe. My students and I are at the practice field the UTK baseball team uses. If you told me a week ago I would be here I would have laughed in your face, and yet here I am.

When I told Mr. Pond that Mr. Bell wanted to bring the team to the school he was ecstatic. Somehow, after a few back-and-forth phone calls it was decided that my class would be brought to the field for a learning day with the team. Then we would all ride back to the school together for an assembly.

“What are you doing?”

I look up and see one of the assistant coaches smiling at me. I remember seeing him at the game Ash and I went to. Blonde hair peeks out around the edge of his baseball hat. He looks to be around my age and has that surfer slash hot beach god look going for him.

“I’m writing my name,” I say, giving him a sheepish smile. I know he probably came over to tell me to stop playing in the dirt, but I was bored, sue me. Something about writing in the sand or dirt is aesthetically pleasing for me.

“That’s cute.” He flashes me a megawatt smile and oh boy. I bet that pearly white smile gets all the girls.

Hmm, maybe I should give him Ash’s number.

“So, you’re the teacher, right?”

I laugh a little, “Yep, that’s me. I’m Courtney or Miss Lonsdale, but you can call me Court. That’s what my friends call me.” I stick my hand out and he takes it, giving me a firm shake.

“Oh, so we’re friends now? In that case you can call me Cash.” He gives me another smile. “My full name’s Lucas James, but everybody on the team calls me Cash.” He’s got that smooth, southern timber that’s so deep it sounds almost dirty.

I flash him a flirty smile because even though I’m not interested he’s just that type that every girl can’t help but ease into him.

“Cash as in Johnny Cash or Cash, money cash?”

He laughs, “You got it with the first one. My walk-up songs were always Johnny Cash when I played. That’s how I got the name.”

That’s…odd.

Isn’t his music depressing? I thought the walk-up songs were all about hyping you up and intimidating the pitcher. I don’t really see how a man describing burning in a ring of fire is going to get anyone excited, so I tell Cash exactly that.

He laughs again, but this time it’s more of a sad, pitying laugh. “I got into baseball because of my granddad, and Johnny was his favorite country singer. When he passed away I only used Johnny Cash as my walk-up song. It helped me feel closer to him and reminded me why I loved playing.”

My heart couldn’t take it. This guy is so darn cute and really sweet.

Definitely getting his number for Ash later.

“Aww, that’s so sweet. I’m sorry for your loss. I bet your granddad was really proud of you.”

“Thanks. He passed-”

“James!”

We both jump at the interruption and turn to see who called for him. Somehow, I’m not surprised that It was his boss, Mr. Bell.

Was it just me or did his face look like he was in pain?

I couldn’t really see him that well from where I was standing on the other side of the field, so I missed how his mouth was pinched in a flat line and that his nostrils were flaring.

“I don’t pay you to flirt. Get over here,” Mr. Bell yelled at Cash.

Sheesh.

Someone forgot to take their happy pills this morning.

Actually, scratch that, I don’t think Mr. Bell ever takes happy pills.

Maybe he needs a puppy. Or six.

I open my mouth to—unprofessionally— yell back at Mr. Bell, and tell him that we aren’t flirting, but Cash had already started walking away.

After a few steps he turned around to walk backwards so he could tell me, “He only uses our last names when he’s pissed about something. I’ll catch you later, teach.”

He grinned and winked at me before turning and jogging over to Mr. Constipated-Baseball-Man. I shake my head at his retreating back.

That guy is such a flirt.

When I look away from him my gaze connects with the man who interrupted us, and he does not look too happy.

He lifts his arm to point at me then turns his hand and curls his finger to gesture that I need to come to him.

Me? I think.

He doesn’t mean me, right?

I glance from side to side to see there’s no one in my immediate area. Which means that he definitely means me. Crap on a stick.

I dumbly point at myself and make a questioning face and mouth me?

He nods his head, does another finger curl, and mouths come here. Then he drops his arm and turns back to continue speaking to the group around him.

I take a deep breath and start walking towards Mr. Grumpy.

I can do this. I got this. I can be cool around Mr. Bell while he’s in his element being all bossy. I don’t think it's sexy that he has his baseball hat on backwards again. It’s definitely not attractive that he has on tight baseball pants that show all the muscles in his legs and shape his butt perfectly. Nope. I’m not affected at all.

By the time I reach the catcher’s box, where he’s standing, I’m breathing hard.

And he notices. Damn it.

He takes a minute to look at my face almost like he’s checking me over for injuries.

“You alright, Cherry?”

He says it in such a gentle, quiet voice I’m questing if my brain and ears are conspiring against me.

Instead of swooning, I’m suddenly frustrated. If I wasn’t so irritated about him getting my name wrong, I would need new underwear.

“It’s Courtney, and I’m fine,” I grit out.

I shouldn’t be humiliated that he can’t even remember my name, but that totally embarrasses me.

Now I’m breathing hard, and my face is red. Great.

He takes another look into my eyes before he decides to move on.

What he says next just about knocks me on my ass.

He clears his throat. “Okay, you’re going to help me umpire. We’ll play two innings while the kids watch.”

“What,” I squeak. “You don’t want my help. I don’t know anything about baseball.”

My whole neck up to my ears are flushed now. I just admitted—to a man whose whole life is dedicated to this sport—that I know nothing about it. But he shocks me even further by squeezing my hand and leaning in dangerously close to my face.

“That’s alright, sweetheart, I’ll teach you.”

He squeezes my hand again before letting go and turning back to the team to get the game started.

I can’t move.

During the first inning I barely pay attention to what’s happening in front of me because I can still feel the warmth of his hand wrapped around mine.

I replay him calling me sweetheart over and over again in my head.

He probably calls all the ladies that. I’m no one to him.

I need to repeat that over and over instead of thinking about how his breath felt against my face.

He was so close to me.

Unfortunately, I’m forced to stop my daydreaming when someone hits a foul ball.

It’s fortunate that I’ve finally stopped the madness in my brain, but unfortunate because the foul ball connected with my face.

I dropped to the ground like a sack of potatoes.

I vaguely remember hearing someone say, “shit,” before closing my eyes.

I just lay there on the ground for a full minute before swallowing my pride and groaning. When I open my eyes again, I’m met with those beautiful brown ones staring back at me.

Mr. Bell is on top of me with concern etched all over his handsome face.

“Are you okay?”

Was it me or did he sound worried?

“Shit. I told you to duck Cherry, but you didn’t hear me in time.”

I groan again. Not in pain, but at the name he called me.

I mumble, “Courtney.”

“Yeah, sweetheart, that’s good, you can talk. How are you feeling?”

He’s still leaning over me, and when I try to sit up, he places a hand on my shoulder to ease me back to the ground.

“Take it easy, Yogi Berra. Talk to me before you try to get up.”

I swore I felt a finger graze over my chin, and he had the strangest look on his face. If I didn’t know this man any better, I would say he was deeply concerned for me, but I snorted at that thought. This was the same man who didn’t think twice about apologizing for spilling a drink all over me just a few weeks ago. No way was he this upset over me taking a baseball to the face.

“I’m fine. You can let me up now.”

I probably could have said that a little nicer but thinking about the bar experience just pissed me off. My body’s betraying me by being attracted to this jerk. This time when I push up into a sitting position, he doesn’t stop me.

I hiss, finally feeling the pain. I gently rub my fingers over the now swollen spot on my chin.

That’s going to look really pretty two days from now.

“How bad is it?”

Mr. Bell, who is still crouched down next to me, snickers and says, “You took a good hit. It’s gonna hurt like hell tomorrow,” he pauses before continuing, “Come on, let's get you an ice pack.”

I try to protest with no luck and end up with him in the locker room.

He walked me in here, pointed at one of the players’ benches, and said, “sit.”

I had to bite back a comment about not being a dog. Since he was being nice and taking care of me when he didn’t have to, I didn’t want to be rude.

When he comes back, he kneels in front of me, and ever so gently pressed the cold gel pack to my chin. His fingers are brushing my skin so tenderly that I have to stop myself from leaning further into his touch.

My whole body is on fire.

I feel like this one touch from him is lighting me up from the inside out.

I’m focusing so hard on my breathing that I don’t hear him the first time he asks, “What made you want to be a teacher?”

The second time he asks I clear my throat before I answer him. Hoping that I don’t sound as breathless as I feel.

“Oh, um, it was my third-grade teacher actually. Mrs. Dixon. I lost my grandmother that year, and it was really hard for me, even at such a young age. I remember one day, I was just having a really hard time, and she took me to the teachers’ lounge and let me sit next her and cry while she held my hand. She was basically a stranger to me, only paid the bare minimum for her job, but she cared. She really cared. And ever since then I knew I wanted to be like her when I grew up. To help kids when they need it, and to teach them that it’s okay to ask for help when you need it.”

I shrug at him because that was probably more than he wanted to know, but he asked.

And what did he respond with?

“So, not for the money then?”

I snorted and started laughing.

Only him.

“No, not for the money. My dad reminds me every time I talk to him about how much money I could be making if I went into accounting or engineering like he wanted me to.”

“For what it’s worth, Cami talks about you all the time. She thinks you’re a great teacher.”

My eyes start watering. I’m not sure why that makes me feel like crying. Maybe I’m just emotional about being hit in the face.

“Really? She talks about me?”

I swipe at my nose because it’s starting to tingle. Mr. Big-Tough-Baseball-Man has a look of horror on his face.

“Shit. Please don’t cry.”

“I’m not crying.”

I’m definitely crying. There are tears leaking down my cheeks.

“Cherry, I didn’t tell you that so you would cry. Now stop it.”

I’m so touched that I don’t even correct him about my name.

We sit there until the ice pack is no longer frozen. By now everyone else has headed over to the school, and when he offers to drive me over, I accept since I don’t really have any other option.

When we part inside the school—he’s heading to the gym and I’m going back to my classroom—he grabs my hand and stops me.

“You need to ice your chin tonight before bed, and at least twice more tomorrow.”

He doesn’t wait for me to respond. He just drops my hand and walks off, but I whisper, “Thank you,” to him anyway before heading off in the direction of my classroom.

When I get to my empty room, I don’t get any work done. I spend the rest of the afternoon thinking about what happened between us at the field today. I’m starting to think that Mr. Bell might not actually hate me. Maybe he might even want to be my friend.

Why isn’t that thought so awful anymore?