Dirty Curve

“Okay, that was the last question. Now we can get a head start on your research essay for history. You have a few weeks, but if we can narrow down what you plan to write about and get the materials mapped out, we might be able to drop one of our sessions.”

I stare at her, waiting for her to glance up, but of course, she doesn’t.

She never does.

We’ve met for two weeks now, eight sessions in total, and this chick is still holding on to her ‘I’m stronger than thou’ act. I mean, she’s a damn good actress. I’d almost believe she truly didn’t want to be here if it weren’t for those big brown eyes of hers.

See, every now and again, she has to look up, has to make sure I’m paying attention and what not. When she does, the second her gaze locks onto mine, her lips part, but just a tad, and she sucks in a tiny little breath.

It’s like my eyes pull at something in her, probably her pussy strings. I dig it.

Just last night, the ball babe waiting for me after class said she wanted my night to be hers, all so she could see the shade of blue my eyes take on when they take me on.

It’s a thing, girls talk about it all the time.

So yeah, my dick’s big and my eyes hold the vaginal verdict—to screw or not to screw, that is the question … that only holds one answer.

Not that I took the chick up on her offer.

This girl, though, I give it to her, she’s good at hiding her lack of control.

I bet it’s buried under that sweater.

“Are you even listening?” Her head lifts.

See? If I don’t answer, she has to look at me.

Lips part, tiny gasp …

I don’t answer. I tilt my head in an attempt to get under her skin and make her wonder what I’m thinking, but she looks away, back at her fucking books.

What the hell?

It’s not like I want her to want me, but it’s damn weird that she doesn’t.

I just want to fuck with her, to tease her, to have the upper hand like I’m supposed to. But she just keeps … schooling me.

“Okay, so I’m emailing you a list of options now. Pull it up and we’ll eliminate based—”

“I’m hungry.”

“You just ate.”

“I had a sandwich.”

“You had two sandwiches and a bag of jerky. And a Vitamin Water.”

“I’m hungry.”

She huffs, pushing to her feet without verbal complaint, so I hop up and start packing my stuff as she packs hers.

“Chinese or Mexican?” I ask, glancing over to her, staring with a deep-set frown. She says nothing, so I repeat myself in case she’s in awe at my invite and needs reassurance she didn’t imagine it. “Chinese or Mexican?”

She pulls her bag over her shoulder, turning away. “The list is in your email. Try and look it over before Thursday if you have a chance, okay?”

Thursday.

This chick pisses me off.

I cross my arms, widen my stance, and stare at her.

She looks from me to my feet and back. “Don’t be difficult.”

A slow smirk spreads across my face, and yet another deep sigh escapes her. Her shoulders drop an inch.

The girl knows already what I’m about to say.

We’ve only been here for an hour and ten minutes. I got her for another fifty.

“Chinese or pizza?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Pizza or pasta?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You’re a damn liar. Your stomach’s been growling for twenty minutes. Did you eat at all today?” She’s still that pale girl she was, but sometimes she looks like she’s rested and other times she looks like she was partying all night, and hell, maybe she is.

“Not that it’s your business, but yes, I ate.”

“What?”

“What?”

“What did you eat?”

Her cheeks grow slightly pink, and she avoids my gaze, like normal. “I had a peanut butter sandwich.”

My eyes narrow. “No jelly?”

She pulls fake lint off her jeans. “No jelly.”

“Why not?”

“Oh, my god.” She turns and walks past me, but, of course, I keep up. “Mind your own business.”

“Well, I should know if my tutor is starving herself because she thinks she’s fat.” She gasps. “You’re not, by the way, so if my shitty, insensitive phentermine comment has you cutting meals. Don’t. You need to eat.”

She scowls. “I said I ate.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I don’t care.”

“You need Chinese.”

“I don’t want Chinese.”

“Well, you’re eat—”

“Stop!” She turns to me, resolve in her eyes, but something deeper behind them. “Please, just … I’m walking out the door now. I’ll see you Thursday.”

Slowly, cautiously, she leaves.

And I follow.

No one tells me to get lost or whatever it is she’s doing. I do that. Not her.

I give her a small head start, let her think she’s in the clear, and then step in line beside her.

“Will you go?” she whispers, glancing around as we strike it across the grass.

It takes a second to register, but when she looks to the side for the millionth time, sweeping the vicinity with jerky movements, it’s clear as damn day she’s making sure no one’s eyeing us.

No fucking way she’s trying to avoid being seen with me.

Reaching out, I catch her upper arm and quickly jump in front of her.

She doesn’t expect it, and she takes a step the exact moment my feet plant, bringing her right against me. All fucking on me and yeah, there’s some major miracles under this fucked-up rag she wears.

I wonder if they’re real? They’re on the firmer side, full, but still offer that natural squish against my body, like I could grab ‘em good and hard and she’d like it.

Would she like it?

Her eyes widen, and her hands come up to push off my chest, but I grab ahold of her other arm, keeping her right there, right where she is.

She inhales through her narrow little nose, causing her tits to press harder into me. Those big, sandy brown eyes of hers, begging me to let go.

Don’t want to.

Someone bumps her with their backpack as they walk by and she stumbles closer, her hip brushing against the hard-on that came out of fucking nowhere, uninvited, yet painfully present.

Her chin slowly lowers, and while she tries her hardest not to allow it, her eyes then follow. She’s looking at my jeans, and with the new angle, the scent of her freshly washed hair assaults my nose.

Fuuuck, this girl smells like vanilla ice cream. I happen to love me some vanilla ice cream.

“Tobias,” she whispers, looking away.

“That’s the first time you’ve said my name.”

Her brows crash. “What?”

“Uh, huh.” Oh, it’s that spicy vanilla, too. “Thought maybe you were afraid of it.”

Her head turns, and I realize I’ve reached up to hold a fallen strand of her golden-brown hair.

“What are you doing?” she worries.

“What am I doing?” I push even closer. “I’m wondering why I want to fuck you all of a sudden, and why all you ever do is try real hard to get away from me.” She gulps, but I ignore it. “Why you worried about being seen with me, Tutor Girl? Women beg for me. Being around me might be good for a girl like you. Get you noticed more.”

Why would I want that?

Why wouldn’t I want that?

Something makes her sassy after that and she steels her spine.

“Yeah, well. I’ve never felt a need to be noticed. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go.” She yanks herself free of my grip, but I catch her around the waist because she’s pissing me off.

“You didn’t answer the question.”

“Let go,” she whispers.

“Why you tryin’ not to be seen with me?”

“I’m not—”

“Don’t lie.”

She sighs and finally meets my gaze again. “We aren’t friends.”

“And?”

“We live different lives.”

“And?”

“Why are you asking me questions that you don’t really want the answers to?”

“What the fuck does that even mean?” I glare at this frustrating little thing in front of me.

“What’s my name?”

I open my mouth to respond, but I’m forced to pause a second and her brows lift as if she’s proving a point. “Well, what is it?”

She clears her throat. “It’s Meyer.”

“I like it.” I nod.

A tight laugh leaves her and she nods, frowning at the ground.

“We’re strangers, Tobias.” A hint of dejection crosses her face. “You’re here because you have to be. I’m tutoring you because it’s my job, and I’m obligated. That’s it.”

“For the hundredth time … and?” I prompt, irritation crawling up my skin. I know there’s more.

I know where this is going, and her next words confirm it.

“And I can’t afford rumors being spread about me.”

“Cause I’m a rumor waiting to happen, right?”

She makes it a point to lead my eyes the way hers point, where a stack of Avix Inquirer sits, a photo of me stepping out of the locker room after Tuesday’s game printed across it. “Don’t pretend you’re not.”

I can’t control what they write, but what’s the point of telling her this?

She probably thinks I ate that shit up. That I wanted the pathetic bad boy label and press that came with it.

I didn’t, but the papers created him anyway, and once I realized they’d never stop, I did the only thing I could: I accepted the role.

They could say whatever the hell they wanted, it didn’t matter, because on game day, their mouths were clamped shut or hanging open. There wasn’t a negative fucking thing they could say about my game, and my game is all that matters.

Not the girls I do or don’t bring home or the assholes I’ve knocked out. It’s all about the fastball, the slider, and my filthy fucking curve.

Meyer clears her throat, hesitating briefly. “I should … go.”

“Why do I get the feeling that’s the opposite of what you want to do?”

Instantly, her chin falls to her chest. “Message me if you need me before Thursday and I’ll do what I can.”

My hand twitches against her back. “And if I said I need you now?”

“You’d be lying.”

“I’m not a liar.”

“Then I guess you won’t say it,” she whispers, her eyes lifting to mine.

She gently pulls from my hold and, this time, I let her because this entire situation makes no sense to me.

Offering a small, anxious smile, she walks away, leaving me and my hard-on to fend for ourselves.

Not that I wanted her to handle it.

Not even a little bit.

I look down, frowning at the obvious bulge in my jeans.

Yup, dick begs to differ.

“What crawled up your ass?”

I spit a seed out of the corner of my mouth and lean forward to rest my forearms on my knees, watching these fucking idiots attempt to look like a baseball team that’s worth a shit. “Nothin’.”

“Right.” Echo wipes the sweat from his brow with a rag and then tosses it to the side. “’Cause your hats in your hand and your ball and glove are on the floor ‘cause nothin’s wrong. Fuckin’ liar.” He throws a few seeds at me.

“Fuck off.”

The asshole chuckles, wincing when a ball is hit, barely hops past short, and bloops into center field.

“Damn.” Echo shakes his head.

“Right?” I drop back against the bench. “Gavin can’t hit for shit, Shea can’t fuckin’ catch a ball to save his life and fuckface playing center didn’t even run up on that. How do they expect playing time when they play like pussies?”

“That what it is?”

Confused, I look to Echo.

He raises a brow. “You not gettin’ any pussy playtime, my man?”

I scoff and turn back to the game. “Like our walls are thick, my man.”

“Oh, I hear your grunts… of frustration.” He laughs, sliding down the bench when I whip my arm out to smack him.

“Imma kick your ass, Ech.”

“For real, though. What’s got you all chafed?”

I glance past Echo to see no one’s paying attention, and he leans in.

“Shit’s gettin’ busy, bro. Games are getting deeper, the tougher part of our schedule is damn near here and with it, fuckin’ midterms are creepin’ up” I shake my head. “It’s like shit’s piling up from every direction and it’s frustrating.”

“You failin’?”

“Not yet, but I need all my focus to be out here on the field.”

“If only it worked that way.”

“Fuckin’ right?” I huff. “Thank god this is the last year of this shit.”

We face the field when the crack of wood echoes around us, watching as the ball floats by center field, an easy out missed, and look back to each other. “Your tutor not helping?”

I frown at the thought of her. “She gets on my nerves, all serious all the time, and it’s boring, never wants to flirt to make things less miserable. She won’t do shit for me and she leaves the second we’re done.”

When Echo doesn’t say anything, I turn to him.

“You mean she ain’t bending over backward to meet your every need?” The bastard grins.

“Shit, I wish she would. And if there was a girl who could meet my every need, my man, I’d beg to be her bitch.” I laugh, snatch my mitt off the seat and push to my feet. “Don’t pretend you wouldn’t do the same.”

I slap Echo’s shoulder with it when Coach Leon, one of Coach Reid’s assistants, gives the signal for us to rotate in.

“Let’s get out there and show these fools what baseball’s supposed to look like.”

Together, we walk out of the dugout, knocking gloves as we part, and take our positions.

He stares me down, just the line of his eyes visible through his catcher’s mask, and I give him my full attention.

Right here is the only place guys like us are in control, worthy of more than meets the eye.

Here I’m not the Playboy Pitcher, the fame-seeking party boy people view me as. I’m not Friday night’s good time or a story to share with friends down the road. I’m not a prize that’ll lose its shine or a worthless memory that’ll fade into nothing.

Here, I’m not the man the tabloids have decided I am, an egotistical jackass looking to score in more ways than one.

Here, I’m Tobias Cruz, the real Tobias Cruz.

The twelve-year-old boy who got up before dawn to run four miles before school. The fifteen-year-old kid who tied an old Honda tire to his waste and drug it up and down the street to gain speed. The seventeen-year-old kid who missed out on school activities because I was busy throwing pitch after pitch into a taped-up tent I bought at Goodwill. The eighteen-year-old young man, who was still trying to learn to be one, but both worried and disappointed his parents regularly because I had no time for friends and one single goal in life.

To be the best at what I did.

To get to where I’m standing now, on this field.

I’m a man who knows what he wants and works his ass off to get it. Who understands there are no handouts when it comes to perfecting your craft, no shortcuts, no half-assing.

Who knows, there’s no way but the hard way. The grind. The focus. The sacrifice.

And yeah, sometimes that includes allowing the people on the outside to look at you and see a fool because the energy it takes to change their mind isn’t worth the time, not when yours is needed elsewhere.

Here, with me on the mound and Echo in his position behind the batter’s box, not a damn thing else matters. We know who and what we are.

Echo’s the guy who makes the call and I’m the guy who makes it happen.