Catching Tatum (15 page)

“Too bad I don't have one now. No, I'm not over it. You're a jerk and you deserve more than that, but I need to pay my bills and you're the new pet. So, once again, you get everything you want and I get shafted.”

He looked sorry. I wasn't falling for it. “Tatum, please let me talk to you. You threw me a curve last night.”

“Last night?” Derrick muttered to someone behind me.

“I'm not going to talk about that here,” I said, hoping my face wasn't flushing.

“Good. But I still want to talk to you, even more now.”

“Dude! Get a clue. I'm not into you. I don't want to talk to you. Ever.”

He stared me down. He was mad but he shook his head and went over to the weights where he lifted in solitude for several minutes before joining Derrick at a bench.

I turned the music up; hardcore heavy metal would help them lift and me relax.

They left that afternoon and I was free, if only for a while. All I had to do was get through the next eighty-eight days and he would leave and I would have months to recoup before the next season. If I even did a next season. I could do it. I knew it, but it killed me inside knowing he was on the team.

I tried not to care about him or pay him any attention but he drew me in; he drew everyone to him. It was like before—well, not exactly—he was still charming, but he was passionate about the game like I never remembered him being. He was loud and boisterous and full of energy and himself. If time had done anything, it had made him even more of a showman. He ignited the crowd. When he was in the box, he took practice swings with the pitcher’s throws and talked to himself if he missed it. He was superstitious, too, always gave thanks when he got a big hit. He pointed to the sky; index finger extended, and then pressed his hands together. Actually he did it if he got any kind of hit. But the clay was the best part: he loved the clay on his hands and would pat and pat it onto his hands in just the right places. He refused gloves, but used enough clay to make up for it. When he got to the plate it was two taps, two twirls of the bat at his shoulder, and golden-flecked eagle eyes on the pitcher. He was a good hitter; not, in my opinion, major’s material, but his batting average was respectable at .292.

It was his catching abilities and charisma that would get him to the majors, though, I was sure of it. He came to life on the defensive field. It was almost like he could tell what the other team would do ahead of time and he called defensive plays and the pitches beautifully. The players trusted him and Coach Winfield was more in love with him than I ever was. He was one with the fans; he fed off their cheers, and that fired them up. He was even more of an exhibitionist than I was. His winks to the ladies in the crowd disgusted me, but made them swoon. He handed them out, like candy, to the girls—and women—in the stands. I imagined him sleeping with as many ladies as he could, seducing them, like he had me, without a care or concern for their hearts or bodies. But it was all a show. I realized before long that his flirting didn't leave the field, at least as far as I could tell. When the game was over he talked to the young boys in the crowd about following their dreams, and the old guys about their glory days. He didn't spend much time on the women who flocked to him. That wasn't the Cole I knew. I was cautious and still wanted to hate him but by the second week of home games he had my attention. I pushed him away when he tried to make small talk but I watched him closely, from a safe distance.

He made the watching worth my time, on and off the field. He was well-built, and beautiful as ever. I could see the time and dedication he put into his physique. Like Derrick, he clearly did more than team workouts. He was faithful to the gym, in every morning by six when they were home. His arms showed proof of his hard work every time he was at bat. With each flex and pull his muscles twisted and turned and defined themselves. He wore standard pants on the field, the good kind that let a girl's mind wander and left little to the imagination. I caught myself staring a time or two. I was a little upset he wasn't as built when we were together. I had gotten the analog version of Cole, not the smoking hot, HD version he had become.

When he was at the gym, shirtless and sweaty, he was the definition of youth and perfection. He didn’t have any tattoos, but I imagined leaving marks of my own all over him. I hated it but I wanted to touch him again. I wanted to straddle him while he lifted on the bench and rake my nails down his eight-pack abs. It only went downhill from there. In milliseconds I imagined leaning down over him trailing my tongue up his chest and kissing him, fiercely. He would sit up, tangle his hands in my hair, pull my head back and kiss my neck before ...
“Knock it off, Tatum,”
I told myself, reminding myself of how much I hated him. It didn't matter that I had had him in my past; he was evil. That was why he was evil—because he made me want him. He was the worst part of my past, an ever-present reminder of the biggest mistake of my life, but he was fast becoming everyone's favorite player and for that I tried to hate him more.

In no time he owned our hometown stands and the team, and even my family. He kept the team tight on and off the field; he worked with the coach and pulled them closer than all the other years I had watched the Patriots. Their streak was unbreakable and the season was moving on. Good fans knew he was a contributing factor and talked about our new catcher with pride and speculated on how long it would be until he, too, was called up. He pulled Brett from the stands during warmups to practice with the team. Brett and my parents were grateful for his willingness to let him shine in front of the scouts. He was gracious, saying Brett had talent and deserved to be seen. He took time to come talk to them before the games when he saw them in their seats. I watched from the gate as best I could between handing out rosters to the incoming guests. When, I wondered, had he become so focused and driven and into other people? Maybe, I mused, Cole really was different. Maybe I should let him say what he needed to say.

When the announcer called the starting lineup the crowd went crazy, especially the ladies,

“And playing the position of catcher tonight we have the Casanova of catchers, number eleven, COOOOOOOOLLLLLLLLLE JACKSOOOOOOOOOOOOON!” The crowd cheered when he was announced and he ate it up. Raising his hands, winking, smiling and always finding a couple of the littlest fans to point out and wave directly to, melting their mama's hearts, and endearing the rest. No matter how many ladies he made eyes at, or how many hot girls came up to him and asked him stupid questions about the game, I never saw him take it out of the park. I tried not to watch him constantly but I watched him enough to see him toss numbers girls would pass him.

That was definitely not the Cole I knew. He made a point to personally apologize to me and stay cool even after I doused him with a drink; he kept his distance from the ladies; was he changed? Did he have a girl back home that he was finally faithful to? If he did, why the come-on the night I threw the drink at him? Was he so committed to the game now that women didn't matter anymore? What made him different? His consistent actions were weakening my resolve to hate him, but I wasn't ready to give in.

Two and a half weeks after I met Justin Parker and Cole Jackson joined the Patriots, my parents called and invited me to dinner. I didn't have anything going on so I went. It was not a normal dinner. I could tell something was up because they kept shooting each other glances back and forth and trying to play it cool all through dinner with Trav at the table.

“What's going on?” I asked afterward when it was the three of us alone in the living room. “Something's up. You didn't invite Brett, kicked Trav out of the room. Is everything OK?”

My dad went first. “Remember the airman that spent the night on the couch a few weeks back?”

Remember? How could I forget? Then it dawned on me we hadn't talked about that night at all. I had been caught up in Cole. I did kind of forget about Parker. I thought about his sparkling eyes and smile in the firelight, his smell, the way his neck felt under my lips, how he played and talked to me at the same time, the way I wanted more of him; but I hadn't seen him again. We never even exchanged numbers. I wrote him off and already bottled up his memory as nothing more than part of a great night. He was in love with someone else anyway; why would I even want to entertain that kind of fantasy? But I thought they were going to talk to me about bringing him to their house without notice.

“Hey!“ I said, “Thomas had as much to do with that as I did. We needed a ride home, he wasn't drinking, he gave us a ride. Call Thomas.”

“Calm down! Do you have something to hide?” My dad smiled.

“No, I just don't want to get my butt chewed when it was as much Thomas' idea as it was mine.”

Dad started. “You know, we were put off at first by you two bringing him here ...”

“But,” Mom continued, “you're both adults and we decided you guys did the right thing. We would much rather you have a sober driver bring you home than try to make it on your own. It was the responsible thing to do. And he seems really nice.”

“He came to pick up his jacket. He left it here that night, and we got to talking ...” my dad said. “He's a good kid.”

“Yeah?”

“He might be interested in taking you out.”

“Are you serious?” The biggest, fattest smile sprang up on my face.

“He was interested in knowing more about you. Sweetie, I know you have these rules for a reason, but you're getting too old.”

“Don't you like checking the guys out first?”

“I did when you were my little girl. You're old enough now to make these calls on your own.”

“But Daddy, it works for me. I have my reasons.”

He shot my mom a knowing look. She looked caught.

“What was that all about?” I asked.

“Ahhh, I'll tell you in a minute.” My dad continued. “Parker is getting over a bad breakup.”

“I know. He told me about it.”

“He's looking for company, OK? But he's hurting ... I said yes because I really shouldn't be managing your dating life anymore ... but be careful. Guard your heart. He's not completely available even though he's technically single. I'd hate for you to get hurt.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah ... I know that. He told me about her. But he asked if I could go out with him?!” I couldn't help the smile.
Maybe he couldn't forget about me either
.

My dad nodded. “He did.”

“And you said yes!” I squealed.

“I did.” He nodded again, trying not to smile.

“Oh, I love you Daddy!” I said, jumping up on him and giving him the biggest hug in forever.

“He has your number. I imagine he'll be calling, or texting, or messaging, or whatever you kids do these days, if he hasn't already.”

“No, he hasn't. When did you give it to him?”

“Oh, about a week ago I think ... not too long.”

A week? My smile faded. A week was a death sentence. Maybe he was having second thoughts.

“Tatum, there's more ... Cole talked to us, too.”

“Cole? What? Why?”

“He's also been here ... for dinner.”

“What!? I hate him! Why did you have him here? It better have been about Brett and not me.”

“Told you, you should have started with him first,” my mom said, smirking at my dad. I didn't appreciate her gloating at my expense.

“He was here for you ... and he asked if he could take you out, too.”

“You said no, right?!” My dad didn't answer. “Right?! Daddy! I hate him.”

“You shouldn't say that about anyone,” my dad said.

“You don't know him like I do. Mom, tell him he's bad.” I looked at her but I didn't see the support I expected.

“I told him it's best to leave the past alone,” my mom said. “But he insisted on talking to us.”

“I told him no,” my dad said, grinning at the memory. “He's persistent. It didn't deter him, he wouldn't take no for an answer; he came back and ...” They both looked so strange.

“ ... And you said no again, right?” I asked, even though I knew we wouldn't be having this talk if he had.

“I did. And he came back again.” My dad smiled. He admired tenacity, and Cole had won him over. “After the third time I couldn't say no again. I understand you had a rough go of it when you broke up.”

“A rough go? Dad ... he cheated on me, he walked all over me. He ...” I was pretty sure she told my dad, but we never talked about it so I wasn't going to say the rest of it on the off chance she didn't tell him. “He ... broke my heart. And you said yes? Why would you do that to me?”

I was so mad that uncontrollable tears started to pool in my eyes. My dad wasn't a hasty guy, he had to have a reason, and he did, but at that moment I didn't care. He betrayed me. There had been plenty of boys throughout the years he flat out denied, a couple even after a second ask that I would have preferred to Cole but as I got older my prospects dwindled, and fewer “men” were willing to ask my dad permission to date me. After I turned twenty, he pretty much said yes to everyone. There was only one guy, an airman with a reputation that he flat out denied. All he was doing with Parker and Cole was what I had come to expect for the last couple years ... but none of them were Cole.

“Listen, OK? I understand it was not the best relationship,” he said. I rolled my eyes and started to go off on how it was a horrible relationship.

“Tatum!” My mom jumped in. “Listen to him explain it.”

I felt like a child all over again. They couldn't talk at me like that; I was a grown woman, “Fine!” I sat myself on the sofa, like I was the parent. “Explain to me why you two would give permission to my arch enemy to date me.”

I could tell they were both trying not to laugh and would call me overly dramatic for this for years to come. I didn't care.

“Things have happened to him and he wants the opportunity to talk to you about them.”

“What things?” I asked. They looked at each other again, and then my mom came over to put her hand on my back. It was what she did when she had to tell me bad news.

“It's best if he tells you.” She looked sad, sorry ... for him? For me? I couldn't tell. My heart started beating a mile a minute and I jumped to the worst possible conclusion. In that moment, all I could think was that he had AIDS and he was going to tell me I had it, too. He wouldn't tell my parents first, would he? But I hadn't given him a chance to explain. I thought back over the last weeks. He had tried so many times to get me alone, or talk, and I shut him down every time. What if he was trying to tell me then? When he couldn't get anywhere with me, he went to my parents, knowing they could get me to listen. I racked my brain for anything, anything else it could possibly be. Nothing came to mind. That was it ... I was going to die!