Page 1 of Home Run

Part I

Rhett

1

The hotel bar was nice. Empty, but nice. It was the kind that could host a cocktail hour or small party. High ceilings, open floor with high tops, low armchairs around tables, a central bar with a black, modern counter and a bright white light above the bottles to create some sort of moody effect.

But tonight there was no party. Just me, my scotch, and Scotty the bartender flipping channels and trying to seem busy. As the alcohol warmed my skin it made my collar seem tighter, so I loosened the tie and unbuttoned the top button. Just in time too because Scotty stopped on the sports channel as it played highlights from tonight's games. I looked away before my clip came on, slamming the last bit of my drink.

It wasn’t like Scotty didn’t know who I was already. The team was staying in this hotel. Everyone knew we were here, especially the staff. I’d sat in this exact chair at least a dozen times over the years. I was used to all of it.

But for some reason tonight was different.

“That was a hell of a catch.” Scotty pointed at the television with the remote.

I glanced at it out of the corner of my eye. It was weird to see myself leaping into the air, glove up, snagging the baseball just before it crossed over the center field wall. I remembered all of it, but from my perspective. Hearing the crack as it came off the bat and feeling my body instantly respond to the sound, knowing it would be a home run. Running as fast as I could to reach the wall, all while tracking the apex, adjusting my angle, and then giving it all over to a combination of instinct, experience, and my brain doing all the necessary calculations, whether I was consciously aware of it or not. I didn’t watch the ball enter my glove. I’d already done all the work. I would either catch it or I wouldn’t. I was already onto the next problem: not killing myself on the wall.

The image of me on the television caught the ball, bounced, and landed on his feet. My memory was different. All the air left my body on impact, everything went black for two seconds. Next thing I knew I was on my feet with my glove in the air, displaying the ball to the crowd and umpires.

“Thanks,” I grunted. “Want an autograph?”

“Uh…yes. Absolutely! Fuck yes.” Scotty grabbed a paper cocktail menu and slid it over to me.

I scrawled my name on the back. I learned a long time ago it was easier to offer the signature and get it out of the way, rather than suffer through the will-they-won’t-they tension of watching them work up the courage to ask. Hell, I was that kid once, standing anxiously beside the dugout with a ball and a Sharpie in one hand, my hat in the other, hoping for anyone to sign them. I didn’t care if they’d just been called up or were on their last day in baseball. It was a thrill.

So it was a no-brainer to do the same now that people wanted my autograph. Plus it usually bought me some goodwill and peace and quiet.

Maybe my motivations were selfish.

“Thank you so much, Mr. Ryan.”

I made a noise in the back of my throat. My teammates called it the Rhett Ryan Rumble. I fucking hated it.

“Didn’t feel like hitting the club with the rest of the team tonight?”

I grunted again. Half the team was out on the town. It was a Friday night after all. We had a night game tomorrow. There was no reason for the single guys not to be out enjoying themselves, drinking, finding someone to hook up with for the night. The other half of the team was up in their rooms. With their wives and children. It was why I was alone at the hotel bar. For the first time in my life I felt like I didn’t belong with either group.

And that confused the hell out of me.

Normally I’d be out with the guys or, if I was tired, just say fuck it and go to bed. None of this wishy-washy shit, alone with a scotch, a bartender, and weird lump in my chest that screamed something inside me was wrong. I didn’t want to be in my room. I was restless. I wanted…something. But not the clubs. I was dressed and ready to go, sliding my wallet into my pocket when images of the night ahead hit me. The noise. The music. The fucking giggling. Always with the giggling. Can I get a selfie? They always wanted a selfie to show their friends. Even better if they came back to the hotel with me. A story to tell everyone—the night they slept with the rich and famous center fielder for the Mantas.

Scotty refilled my glass and shifted to another customer who wandered up to the bar in their pajamas. I took the opportunity and moved to a quiet armchair facing the windows.

The more I thought about all the women I might have met tonight the more I realized why I was sitting here instead. They weren’t attracted to me. Well, maybe they were attracted to me, but more than that, they were attracted to Rhett Ryan. The idea of Rhett Ryan. The celebrity. The money.

The fantasy.

Physical attraction aside, my name and identity upstaged me every time. And apparently I wanted more than someone to sleep with tonight.

Huh.

The scotch no longer burned my tongue on the way down. Instead it warmed everything and made my focus slip a little. It felt nice. I didn’t like these thoughts or this feeling. Hated even more that I didn’t know what to do about them. Was it just an off day? Did my catch knock more out of me than I realized?

“And then we wound up at some sort of literal fork in the road and our GPS wasn’t working.” The female voice cut through the fog in my mind and I found myself turning to find the source.

The pajamaed customer had morphed into three pajamaed customers. All women. One wore a full romper with unicorns and rainbows all over, another had on what appeared to be an old man’s set of blue pinstriped pajamas, and the third also wore some old-fashioned pajamas, but her top was unbuttoned, revealing a tank top underneath. The strange thing was that, aside from the sleepwear, all three women looked dressed for a night out. Lipstick, eyeliner, big hair.

My cock stirred as the one in the tank top climbed onto the bar, hands waving out the story she was telling. I was mesmerized. “So Marissa says we should flip for it. She picks up this flat rock, right? It’s smooth on both sides, but one side is blue and the other is kind of pinkish. She says, Pink is right, blue is left.” The woman dramatically demonstrated the rock coin toss. “And so that’s how we wound up spending the night in a castle in France.”

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