Hitting the Curve Read online

  Hitting the Curve

  Alphas of the Diamond 1

  Regina Wade

  Contents

  Sliding into Home Playlist, Vol. 1

  1. Charity

  2. Levi

  3. Charity

  4. Levi

  5. Charity

  6. Levi

  7. Charity

  8. Levi

  9. Charity

  10. Levi

  11. Charity

  12. Levi

  13. Charity

  14. Epilogue

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  Protecting Her Curves: Alpha Authority 1

  Saving Her Curves: Alpha Authority 2

  Rescuing Her Curves: Alpha Authority 3

  Also by Regina Wade

  About the Author

  Sliding into Home Playlist, Vol. 1

  Cheap Seats, Alabama

  Paradise by the Dashboard Lights, Meatloaf

  The Greatest, Kenny Rogers

  Centerfield, John Fogerty

  Mrs. Robinson, Simon & Garfunkel

  Cubs in Five, The Mountain Goats

  Glory Days, Bruce Springsteen

  Cherry Pie, Warrant

  The Baseball Song, Corey Smith

  Eye of the Tiger, Survivor

  Load Up the Bases, Whiskey Falls

  That’s the Way Baseball Go, Merle Haggard.

  Chapter 1

  Charity

  This town aint big. This town aint small. It’s a little of both they say. Our ball club may be minor league, but at least it’s triple A. — Alabama, ‘Cheap Seats’

  September at Louisiana State University is just too hot.

  Then again, it’s just too hot for seven AM, but what can you do? I’ve only been out of the shower for twenty minutes and my curls are already drying in every direction but down, a thin sheen of sweat clinging to the back of my neck. The walk from my dorm to the lecture hall isn’t particularly long or harrowing, but the early-morning Baton Rouge humidity is both.

  They say you get used to the weather in the south. I’ve lived in Arkansas, Oklahoma, and various parts of Texas over the years, and I’m still waiting to acclimate. Louisiana, as it turns out, is no better. Maybe I’ll grow some gills by my twenty-third birthday.

  “Lecture hall two-oh-three,” I say out loud to no one in particular, letting myself in.

  It’s blessedly cool inside the massive tiled space. The hum of the air conditioner is my only company as I make my way to the front row. There’s something oddly comforting about an empty classroom. Maybe it’s just a holdover from my childhood— years of being the first kid in the room, the last one to leave. School’s always been a haven for me.

  Within these walls, the rules are defined; clear. Do this paper, read these chapters, complete this many assignments by the end of the semester and ta-da! You get a good grade. Nothing else in my life has ever been as easy to understand as a syllabus. Stability and security don’t come included in your pre-packed foster kid starter pack.

  By the time the door opens again, letting a handful of chattering classmates in, I’m already halfway through the first chapter of a textbook that’s nearly as thick as my forearm.

  “Oh! You already got the book?” A bright-eyed brunette with a wide smile plops down next to me. “I didn’t think we’d need it on the first day. I guess I should have at least looked at the syllabus huh? Is it expensive?” She nods her head towards my copy of Come as You Are: Liberation, Activism, and Women’s Issues.

  One look at the girl and I can tell that hair color isn’t the only thing that makes us polar opposites. There’s no trace of slow southern anything in her. A west coast accent colors her words as much as her attitude. She’s put together in ways I thought only happen in magazines and Hollywood makeover shows. Her bright red lipstick is perfectly lined, highlighting the plump contours of her mouth like I never manage without getting it all over my entire face.

  I can pass an organic chemistry exam with my eyes closed, but the mystique of makeup has always remained just beyond my reach.

  “Oh, I don’t know. I have enough ramen money left for at least the rest of the month, so I guess it wasn’t too bad.” I give her a noncommittal shrug.

  The brunette laughs, a full-throated sound that fills up the space around us. I have a feeling everything she does is larger than life.

  “I don’t even know why we need a book for this class. I’m Pru, by the way. Prudence, but don’t you dare call me that. I have no idea what my parents were smoking. It must have been the good shit though.” She stretches out in the chair next to me, plopping her Doc Martens on the empty rolling cart in front of us.

  I close my textbook. Clearly, I’m not getting any more studying done before class starts. Normally, something like that would annoy me, but I can’t help but like Pru. Maybe it’s just the fact that I’ve never really had the girlfriend experience like other college-aged girls, but she’s warm and welcoming and cool.

  “I mean,” she goes on with an exaggerated wave of her hand. “It’s women’s studies. Hello. I’m a woman. Study away.”

  “I’m Charity. Nice to meet you.” It’s my turn to laugh. If nothing else, sitting next to someone this over-the-top is bound to be an interesting semester. “I heard Professor Thorburn can be a stickler, so I wanted to be prepared.”

  I tap the edge of my textbook with a fingernail that suddenly looks a lot more chewed up now that I’ve seen Pru’s perfectly polished digits.

  “Shoot.” Her button nose scrunches at the revelation. “I guess I should have at least checked Rate my Professor before signing up, but I waited until the last day. Shocking, I know.”

  Shaking my head, I reach into my battered canvas backpack. Pulling out the blue spiral notebook that’s already neatly labeled with the class name and time, I also pluck two gel pens from the front pocket. I hand one to Pru and, after a second, also rip a couple sheets of paper out and pass them to my ill-prepared classmate.

  “Well thank you!” She beams a genuine smile at me. “I knew you were going to be my new bestie.”

  “Good morning.” The clipped voice of the professor interrupts my snicker. “Welcome to Women’s Studies 104. Let’s get started. I trust that you’ve all taken the time to go over the syllabus?”

  Pru and I exchange silent looks.

  Without waiting for anyone to respond, the teacher launches into the first lecture of the semester. The crowded classroom is filled with the sound of students scrabbling for pens and laptops booting up. Despite the frigid air being blasted in, I feel a new trickle of sweat making its way down the side of my neck as my fingers threaten to cramp.

  “I know many of you assumed this is an easy A class. Let me dispel that myth immediately. You will have to work for your grade here, just as much— if not more— than any other humanities course.” Professor Thorburn’s marker squeaks across the whiteboard as she ticks off a list of required reading to be done before next week’s meeting. Her hair doesn’t dare move as she makes her way along the length of the board. I’m surprised it had the audacity to begin turning grey.

  Beside me, Pru makes a sound somewhere between a groan and a sigh.

  “Now, first and foremost,” the professor goes on, “let’s talk about your first project. It’s due one week from today, and I expect both a written component as well as an oral presentation. The topic, as I’m sure you’ve all seen on the class website—”

  She does pause now, as the class rushes to whip out electronic devices in unison and pull up the web page in question.

  “Is the female orgasm.” She looks around as if daring us to laugh or make inappropriate comments. “You may work alone or in groups of no more than three.”

  A ball of ice drops int
o the pit of my stomach at her words.

  Her passionate lecture on women’s sexuality in literature and art fades into a drone as I mentally implode.

  How could I have missed this?!

  I was so focused on getting my schedule just right— all the classes needed to land the perfect internship next year and start working with an actual social work agency instead of just studying— that I missed this stupid project right smack dab at the top of the syllabus.

  “Well, at least this class isn’t all terrible.” Beside me, Pru’s dark eyes are dancing.

  Because of course someone like her would think a project about sex and orgasms is the best thing ever.

  Well. Nothing to worry about, right? I had never identified a DNA strand before I managed to ace my biology class. Never lived with Aborigines, but I nailed sociology.

  So, just because I’ve never actually, you know, had an orgasm doesn’t mean I can’t kill this project too. Right?

  Right?!

  At the head of the class, the professor takes a sip of coffee from her Vagina Monologues mug. Her eyes seem to drill into me as if she’s some sort of predatory wolf that can smell the fear and virginity roiling off of me.

  I am suddenly very, very nervous.

  Chapter 2

  Levi

  Ok here we go. We’ve got a real pressure cooker going on here tonight. Two down, nobody on, no score, bottom of the ninth. — Meatloaf, ‘Paradise by the Dashboard Lights’

  Eight AM classes shouldn’t exist. They are an affront to human decency. They should be outlawed by the Geneva conventions, right up there with mustard gas and atomic bombs.

  I’m struggling to tug my pants on and get out the door when my phone buzzes again. The third time in the last fifteen minutes. The first one was easy to ignore, rolling over and going back to sleep for a blissful five minutes. The second jolted me awake as I realized what the calls were about. My one and only early morning class.

  The third time, I manage to answer. I put it on speakerphone since I need both hands to finish tugging clothes into place. Last night’s shirt and last week’s jeans. Wrinkled, at least they don’t smell too bad. The same can’t be said for my practice gear. I’m surprised my laundry hamper isn’t cultivating flies.

  Mental note: laundry this weekend.

  “Hey, Coach. Can’t talk, heading into class.” I try to bluff as I race down the dorm stairwell, taking entire flights of stairs at a time with my hands on either handrail to launch myself forward. Stupidly reckless and an easy way to twist an ankle, but also the fastest way down.

  “Miller, you get your sorry lying ass down here. I’m standing outside Thorburn’s classroom, so don’t even think about lying to me again, boy.”

  Coach has the deep Cajun accent of a native of East Baton Rouge parish. He somehow turns the word ‘boy’ into three syllables. I’ve always worked hard to distance myself from the accent. Some people like it, but it just makes me feel like I’m talking with a mouthful of marbles.

  “You’ve got it, Coach. On my way.” I stick the landing of the last flight of stairs. The shock of it races up my shins, and I know I’ll be feeling it at practice later, but a little pain is nothing compared to dropping the ball scholastically.

  When I first started at LSU, I promised myself I wouldn’t be just another meathead jock coasting through easy classes on a baseball scholarship. I’d apply myself, get my degree as a fallback option. I’m good, but being good isn’t enough to make it into the Show.

  The road to hell is paved with good intentions.

  Time got away from me, that’s all. Endless practices and drills. Class didn’t seem as important as baseball. Nothing has ever been as important as playing ball.

  You had plenty of opportunities, you just squandered it. Now you’ve got one chance left, hotshot.

  “I mean it, Miller. This is your last chance.” Coach echoes my own thoughts, never a good sign.

  “I will dump your ass and find another pitcher. There’s plenty of talent coming out of high school this year.”

  I roll my eyes. Coach has been threatening to replace me for almost four years now.

  “Come on Coach. We all know you won’t find another ball slinger that can swat them into the cheap seats like I can.”

  He grumbles and huffs. Coach is all bark, no bite. At least about this kind of thing.

  “Don’t push it, Miller. You’re out of here in the fall no matter what, cutting you loose a semester early won’t cost me nuttin’, sha’” Coach’s accent gets thicker the madder he gets. I can almost see his face growing tomato red in apoplectic rage, even as he starts to sound like someone who grew up a stone’s throw from the Bartholomew Bayou.

  Scratch that, I can see it. The humanities building is a two-minute jog from my comfy room on campus. Most seniors leave campus, but I’ve always enjoyed being in the middle of it all. Not to mention being within walking distance of classes.

  “Milla’, you had best be glad I’m as smart as I am. Ask me why, go on.” Coach is in his fifties, with a gut so big it makes me want to swear off beer every time I see it. He’s still athletic, arms and legs corded with sinewy muscle, but his belly could be used as a flotation device.

  “Why are you so smart, Coach?” I ask dutifully, leaning against the rail to catch my breath. I’m in tip-top shape, but even for me— especially for me, on some days— a breakneck sprint across campus is a lot. It’s the humidity. It’s like trying to breathe through pea soup.

  “Well fo’ starters, I ain’t had to run down here at a full sprint. So I’m not gasping like a guppy. But mostly it’s cuz I already let this professor know you’d be late. She told me that you get this one free, but that’s it. So don’t you drag your sorry ass in here late ever again, you hear me Miller?”

  Coach crosses his arms, standing firm. I nod in response as I straighten up.

  “I want to hear you say it.” He grumbles. I roll my eyes but relent.

  “I promise I won’t be late to this class again,” I sigh, shaking my head. “Although it’d be easier if you hadn’t picked a class at this ungodly hour, Coach. I know you're a sadist, but everyone has their limits, you know?”

  He smiles at me ruefully. “I’m afraid I can’t take credit for this one. Everything else was full. This is the only opening left, and it’s only because this professor is known for being devilishly difficult.” He claps my shoulder with one meaty hand, the grin on his face not quite making it up to his shark-like eyes.

  “Good luck, boy.” With that, he wanders away, leaving me to slink into the lecture hall at five after eight.

  Sure enough, the entire thing is packed to the gills. I didn’t even know they made lecture halls this big. It’s like the first game of the season, packed wall to wall in Tigers purple and gold. Despite myself, I let out a low whistle at the sight.

  Hundreds of heads turn towards me, including the professor.

  “Nice of you to join us, Mr. Miller. I gather you’re something of a celebrity on campus. I’m afraid to inform you that your skill with a stick will not help you in my class.”

  There are a few snickers at her phrasing, but only the most daring souls. And even they keep their laughter quiet and quick.

  I give her my best, most charming smile. Dimple and everything.

  “That’s alright, ma’am. I carry my weight on or off the field.” I make my way down the steps towards the front of the class as I speak, eyes scanning desperately for a seat. Some way out.

  “See that you do, Mr. Miller.” She looks back at her board then, dismissing me entirely.

  “For the rest of you who had the good sense to be on time —” Ouch, lady. “I will, in the spirit of fairness, excuse one absence. Mr. Miller got one, so everyone else will get one. You may all thank him by catching him up on the parts of the lecture he’s already missed.”

  Missed? How could I have missed anything? It’s five minutes into the first day of class.

  I don’t say anything, inst
ead continuing on the hunt for an empty seat. Apprehension begins to swell inside me as I make my way closer and closer to the professor. As I close the distance I note that she’s not as old as I first thought. She just has a severe choice of wardrobe — vintage librarian.

  “Mr. Miller, please take a seat. You’ve disrupted class enough for one semester.” Her voice is a whip crack. Somehow it fills me with more shame than any amount of yelling from Coach.

  “I’m trying, ma’am. It seems like you’re just too popular.” I try to inject a little humor. One of her eyebrows twitch, but her lips don’t budge an inch. Not even a ghost of a smile.

  “There’s an empty seat right here.” She points at the dreaded front row. I couldn’t make it out when I walked in, but as I draw closer, I do note an empty seat. The front row is divided by the different sets of steps leading down to the bottom of the hall, so this particular section only has three seats. One empty, and the other…

  Alright, alright, alright.

  The back of her head is the first thing I see. Blonde curls the color of honey in sunshine. It’s notable because she’s the only person still facing forward at this point. Instinctively, I wonder what those silky soft tresses will feel like in my hands.

  Without another word I slump into the seat next to her, leaning down to catch a glimpse of her face as I do.

  Poised perfection. Like a miniature version of the professor, except twenty years younger and easily twice as beautiful. Full lips set in a firm line. Perfect eyebrows furrowed into an expression of intense concentration and mild aggravation. Her blue eyes don’t cut my way for even a second. It’s as if I don’t even exist.