Sunlight batters my corneas the moment I exit the dugout. “Fuck,” I mutter and pull the brim of my cap lower. Evening games are my favorite except for the setting sun part; it never fails to hit at the exact angle to blind a person.
“Hey, boss man! What are you doing down here?” Levins, the Eagles’s catcher, calls from the end of the bench where he straps on his pads.
“Thought I’d take in a few innings from the best view in the house.”
“Don’t you have an entire suite filled with a buffet of food up there?” He points to the owner’s box over by the left field foul post. “That looks like a pretty good view to me.”
I chuckle and climb up the wooden bench to sit on the concrete shelf behind it. Resting against the cool wall, I say, “True. But sometimes I like to mix things up. Good luck out there, by the way. The Bucks love to steal; they’ll keep you busy all night.”
Levins stretches his left arm across his chest as he stands up and grins. “I’m counting on it. I love throwing suckers out.”
Levins joined the players on the field as they warmed up until the team’s called in for introductions and the National Anthem. Pre-game ceremonies complete, the first inning begins with a raucous cheer from the home team fans.
God, I love this.
Growing up, baseball had never been on my radar. An overweight kid with a penchant for gaming, I spent the majority of my youth indoors behind a screen while my mom worked long hours as a nurse to make up for the deadbeat dad and husband who’d left us when I was eight. Sports didn’t matter to me. And if I became envious seeing kids playing together in teams, I comforted myself with the knowledge that I could ask my best friend, Mark, to come over for a game of Super Mario.
Near the end of the second inning, it’s still a tied game, and I leave to sit in the stands behind the dugout—not kidding when I said I liked to mix it up. The different points of view of the stadium helps me understand the experience of every fan and fix anything that needs improving like when a few seats were broken up in the nosebleeds a few weeks back. Plus, the energy from the crowd can’t penetrate the walls of my ivory tower or rather, my owner’s suite.
Winding halls spit me out on the main concourse, and I merge into the rush of people milling about. General chatter floats on the air before converging into feminine voices as I follow two women down Gate 9’s tunnel leading to the field. My eyes can’t help falling to the one on the right’s ass—a round peach perfect for eating or spanking, whichever she preferred.
Seriously, man? Stop being a fucking perv.
Shaking my head, I refocus my attention. It’s never a good idea to get distracted by a fan—someone I consider a guest of the stadium which makes me the host. And hosts don’t ogle their guests even if the swing of a certain woman’s hips does fill his mind with dirty images of fucking her from behind.
Christ!
I swipe a hand over the sweat on my forehead and readjust my cap. Clearly, I’ve been without a woman too long. Try all your life. Running a multi-million-dollar sports organization can do that to you. Along with being the bullied fat kid for too long before buffing up. Swallowing hard, I arrive at my aisle, one up and over from the mystery woman, giving me the perfect angle to keep an eye on her—if I want to. Which I don’t.
But you could.
The comforting sound of a baseball hitting the catcher’s mitt breaks me out of my spiral. Taking a deep breath of the grass-scented air, I settle in for the game, propping my scorebook on a knee and taking notes. After the fourth inning, the curvy brunette leaves with her friend, and I take the opportunity to stand and stretch.
A group of guys in front of me has the same idea as they move to spread out in the center aisle of stairs. Their drunken laughter spikes my annoyance, but when I turn to see what could possibly be so funny, white-hot anger scorches my blood. Covered in a mess of soda and nachos, the mystery woman stood paralyzed; it was obvious one of the men had stumbled into her.
A stillness settles over the scene until a high-pitched “Oink” comes from the dick wearing a Perez jersey, and I see red. Clenching my fist, I contemplate how much trouble I’d get into for knocking out a fan in my stadium. Probably a fine. Possibly a lawsuit.
Worth it.
“Fuck, Kyle, you can’t do shit like that after I take a drink.” His buddy brandishes a half-empty mug of beer, sloshing pale liquid over the top.
“I couldn’t help it; she looks like a fucking pig covered in slop.” Turning towards the brunette, Kyle asks. “You know the jumbo size is meant for sharing, right? Though with those rolls, you should probably skip it altogether.”
The words slur together but remain clear enough for his friends to bust up in laughter again while the surrounding observers look uncomfortable. Unlocking my phone, I text my head of security a picture and location with instructions to escort the three men off the premises.
As owner of the Eagles, I hold the power to say who can stay in my stadium, and these assholes definitely have to go. Logic wins the day, since I’d rather be taking care of the woman than dealing with cops after punching the guy’s face in.
Message sent, I start maneuvering down the aisle to get to her. She glances around the crowd of onlookers—no one was paying attention to the game happening on the field—before bolting up the concrete steps back to the concessions area.
The crack of a bat connecting with the ball draws everyone’s attention as cheers rise around me, but I keep my eye on the brunette.
“Hey, wait up!” The words echo in the hall as I hurry forward, placing a staying hand on her shoulder.
She jerks around in surprise, and I hold my hands up in conciliation. “Sorry, I just wanted to get your attention. I saw what those jerks did back there; are you okay?”
Groups of people swerve around us as they walk back to their seats—shooting curious stares at the woman’s wet tee. Though, it’s hard to tell if they’re drawn by the spectacle or the way her nipples poke at the fabric—hard from the cold moisture.
Her voice draws my gaze back to hers. “I’m fine; thank you. I just need to buy a new shirt and change—not a big deal.” She shrugs nonchalantly, but the red coloring her cheeks along with the suspicious gleam of tears in her blue eyes reveals her true feelings.
“Look, I’m Corbin Montgomery.” I wait a second to see if recognition dawns, and when it doesn’t, I continue but shade the truth. “I know the owner of the team, and he wouldn’t want you dealing with this alone. He’s already having security ask those guys to leave, so you won’t be bothered again.”
Her pretty eyes widen in shock behind the big frames of her glasses. “Are you serious? That wasn’t necessary...They were drunk and ﹘”
“And being dicks. The owner doesn’t tolerate the harassment of women or really any of the stadium guests.” Which is true. Sometimes things get rowdy at games—especially night games when people tend to let loose after dark. The stadium is known for dealing with problems quickly to keep the environment family-friendly, and this situation was no different.
Except for the fact that I’d like to go down to the parking lot and beat some sense into the offenders. Forget them. Focus on her. She’s the important one.
The woman still looks concerned, so I take charge and begin ushering her down the tunnel. “Come on, let’s get you something dry to wear. We’ve got plenty of vendors to choose from.” Guiding us to the Clubhouse Store by Gate 7, I ask, “So, what’s your name?”
“Darcy.”
Pretty. Just like her.