Holy shit, it was hot! Not the fun kind of hot where you want to sunbathe or go hiking, but the brutal kind of hot. The weather app on my phone buzzed at least three times a day to remind me to stay indoors and drink plenty of water.
Well, joke's on them. I'm stuck outside for the foreseeable future. I was nominated for VP and voted onto the local Little League Board of Directors two years ago, and it's been the greatest awful thing to happen to my life. I love it, but Lord have MERCY, it is a lot of stress sometimes. For example, right now, three coaches are arguing on the field about a call. Mind you, the players are nine years old. I've been called over by numerous parents who are just about as done with the bullshit as I am.
As Division Head, it falls on me to work out the drama among the coaches (and sometimes parents), a responsibility that was NOT made clear when I accepted the nomination. But nonetheless, here I am standing at the fence, desperately hoping they will work out their issues on their own. HA! Fat chance of that.
Sweat has been rolling down my back and between my full breasts all damn day. The sports bra I opted to wear this morning is well-saturated by this point and is desperately trying to get everyone to notice through my thin baseball T-shirt. The desire to pour a bottle of water over my head and drench myself is so strong, but I also know it would get the attention of every male and piss off every female in the vicinity, then someone else would have to settle the drama. The thought makes me chuckle to myself. So, I opt to just chug the bottle instead, throwing the empty plastic in the trash with a sigh.
After standing at the fence line for a minute or so, the argument starts to kick up a notch and is surely about to go to blows. The intense heat makes some people so crazy! I make my way through the opening in the fence and over to the three grown-ass men pointing at each other and snarling like dogs.
"What in the hell are ya'll fightin' about now?" I ask with no preamble. "I am just about sick and tired of being called down here like a den mother with rowdy children!" That earns me dirty looks from all three, but I don't give a shit anymore.
"We don't need you to act like our fuckin' mother, Lottie," Jared, the tallest one, growls. "I was explaining to Scotty here that his call was bullshit, but apparently he's too fuckin' dense to understand, so I called Sean over to help try to explain it to him." He tilts his head and grits his teeth towards the shorter man.
I sigh as I see Scotty--a man who isn't much shorter than Jared but much bigger built--bristle and inhale for what I'm sure was about to be a full-blown tirade.
"How about you shove your opinions up your a--" Scotty begins before I quickly cut him off.
"EASY! There are quite literally two dozen kids plus their families watching right now. If any of you have ANY desire to coach again next season, you'll chill the hell out and walk away," I practically say through my teeth. "I'm going to talk with Blue and whatever he says goes. If you don't like it, you can forfeit and go home."
I turn and walk towards home plate, without bothering to see if they listen to my instructions. The ump is chugging what seems to be his fourth bottle of water and wiping the sweat off his face.
"We still have two more innings of this bullshit, lil Lottie," he says as he crushes the bottle and throws it in a pile next to the fence. His baritone voice is a deep gravel, which I assume is the result of age, strong spirits, and thirty years of smoking. It doesn't, however, stop a shiver from going down my spine at the sound of it. His caramel-colored eyes stand out against his dark skin tone, and the smile lines beside his eyes deepen as he looks me up and down. He also towers over me, which really isn't hard since I reach a whopping five feet tall on a good day. I give him the best dirty look I can muster in response to the nickname.
"Do you need your ass chewed out too?" I say as sternly as possible. His chuckle grates my nerves, but I decide to let it go. Instead, I fish a piece of cloth out of my back pocket and wipe it around my neck and dip it below the collar of my shirt, trying to soak up the sweat pooling in my cleavage. Blue's eyes track the cloth and widen when it dips beneath my shirt, the tops of my breasts peek out as if to say hello. I keep my face carefully neutral, even though the attention sends a thrill between my legs.
"What's your call? And I don't need a twenty-minute explanation, just a simple reason is fine with me." I really, REALLY want this to be over. The sun is burning the part in my hair, and I just know it is going to hurt for days.
"Number 12 is out at first. It was close, but I agree with the base coach." He shrugs and wipes his face again but not before getting another peek at my breasts. I take a deep breath and walk to the pitcher's mound.
"Number 12 is out at first. The call on the play stands!" I call out, using my diaphragm to project my voice as much as possible. Shouts of joy and outrage mix together as parents immediately react to my declaration. Oh, how I wish I could work inside in the air conditioning.
~~~
The days burn by at relatively the same pace. Most games run smoothly and have little to no drama other than your typical pissed off parent or coach fighting a hangover. However, one team in particular is a problem at least once a week. The manager is a hothead and will do ANYTHING to get ahead, including having his players use illegal bats and picking base coaches who will always call in their favor. I avoid them as much as possible.
Today, I'm sitting in the box working the scoreboard and keeping the books on Field 6, which is the farthest field out and has a box that is around ten feet off the ground and only accessible by a ladder. I'm almost positive it was built by someone's grandpa thirty years ago. I HATE this box more than the other five fields combined.
From my vantage point, I can see the field, but not into the dugouts and certainly not the ump below. This means you have to listen closely to his calls, which I swear just sound like random grunts 99% of the time. Between innings I like to look around and people watch, a hobby I've loved since I was a kid. As my eyes sweep by the home dugout, I see the man I've been lusting after all season. I've nicknamed him "the Pirate," and he is one of the hottest men I've ever laid eyes on. His hair and beard are midnight black with skin that's a deep tan color. It gives the impression he has a career outdoors. His eye color is a complete mystery though since they're always hidden behind opaque sunglasses, a fact that drives me absolutely crazy.
I have no issues going toe to toe with the men out at the fields. I have argued and had pissing matches with almost a quarter of them in my time as VP, but I avoid the Pirate as much as possible. Something about his demeanor absolutely obliterates my tough exterior. Luckily, he is a coach in the division above the one I'm head over, but he'll sometimes serve as a base coach when needed.
My heart kicks up a beat when I notice him staring at me. The instinct to cower back from the window is so strong I move back for a second before recovering and simply adjusting my position in my chair, straightening my back, and pressing my chest out a bit. I'll be damned if I'll let some man spook me just because he's all dark and moody.
I look down at the books and make sure everything is good before I sneak a peek at him again. He's moved back to his spot behind first base and is talking to the coach. This immediately irritates me as that's the coach that is known to lie and cheat in order to win. Is my Pirate the kind of man to make bad calls for a buddy? It wouldn't be the first time I've seen it happen. I quickly draw my attention back to the game as I hear Blue's voice call for the first batter.
After the game I carefully climb down the scary ladder and make my way to the concession stand, the line long and full of rowdy children. It is officially night as the sun has set and the sounds of frogs and crickets fill the air. I take a deep breath and smile to myself. I love summer! As I stand in line for half-off slushies from the closing concession, I look around at all the people chatting and socializing. Some of the men are downright delectable, but none hold a candle to my Pirate. I already know why: I read way too many dark romance novels.
