Page 8 of The Sweet Spot

“Holden?” I say just as he starts to walk to his dugout.

He glances at me from over his shoulder.

“Don’t leave before you get Midnight's gift.”

“Midnight?” That makes him stop and turn. “As in my cat?”

I nod. “Got her a little Catfish toy since I haven’t seen her since you were traded in the minors. I miss her and figured she'll need it since she's going to be a regular here in two years.”

Holden barks out a laugh. “The Fish are the last team in the league who'd want me in free agency.”

“Fans are fickle. They'll get over that grand slam in the playoffs that has put us into a three year slump if you're doing it for us. Then they'll start calling you their second coming.”

“Sure,” he says with disbelief before jogging off to the other dugout, leaving me to enjoy one of my favorite meals of the day.

Hot dogs.

The best thing about the stretch.

I get a little sustenance, and I get to talk to my favorite maintenance man...

Only...

Shit.

Larry Marlow.

It’s all fun and games until your handyman bestie is waiting for hot dogs with you, but you're going to have to tell him you mortally offended his daughter.

She didn't even know who I was.

How is that possible when I know everything about this woman, and yet, Larry hasn't mentioned me once.

And now I can see why.

He knew. Whit is high strung and must have known that I would say something to tick her off.

I'm halfway through the tunnel, ready to face my demise, when Max Brennon steps into my path, towering over me. He's not pitching today, but that doesn't make him any less intense.

“Where are you going?” he asks.

I point to the player's lounge through the locker room behind him. “To get my daily dose of hot dog. Want one?”

He tips his chin to the field. “You aren't done. We've got to go back out there.”

“What? Why?” My body is on high alert. The only thing that's been keeping me going through this game is being able to sink my teeth into a delicious dog while humming the theme tune to The Baseball Bachelor. “How am I expected to keep playing without my seventh inning fix?”

He rolls his eyes, grabs my shoulders, and turns me around. Then he pushes me back toward the field.

I plant my feet, putting all my weight into my legs to resist, and it works. Max might be one of the tallest motherfuckers on the team, but I've got density and lower body strength on my side.

“ProAm picks. Before the anthem,” he grits out.

Right. Right. The ProAm that the Catfish are throwing for the players who aren't going to the All-Star Game, which, for the record, I'm not bitter about. I promise. The All-Star Game is a popularity contest dressed up as a merit system. I have plenty of merit, but sure, let's send three catchers who hit .240 instead of the guy who leads the league in framing percentage. It's fine, and I'm happy about it, since it's the sole reason why my golf crush, Whit Marlow is even here. Although, the way she looked at me after I essentially told her I drooled over her bikini shots has made me marginally less excited to see her again.

Or Larry. He has no idea that I nearly fell into the cooler when Tate casually mentioned that Larry's daughter is the best female golfer of our generation, Whit Marlow. The man I've been sharing hot dogs with for the last three years produced the greatest creature alive.

Should I be surprised?