Various States of Undress by Laura Simcox Page A

announcement over the PA system: “Ladies and Gentlemen, we have a special guest here to throw the first pitch of the game. Please welcome Miss Georgia Fulton to AutoZone Park!”
    No more stalling now. Smiling, Georgia walked into the open air with Monty and Ship, pausing to give each of them a handshake so the media could get their photos. All around her, the crowd cheered, a sea of people awash in red, white, and blue. Her stomach jumped. She’d known there were a lot of people here because she’d watched the pregame crowd surge around the ball players, who’d signed autographs before the game. Brett had been the most popular player, and it was obvious why. He loved the fans—took extra time to chat—and was liberal with hugs for the little ones. Just like he had been with Ricky.
    He was definitely not an asshole. He was dreamy. That thought made her stomach jump again before Monty offered her a glove and ball. She took them and trotted out to the pitcher’s mound as the cheers swelled with the crowd’s anticipation. She shrugged her shoulders against the stiff, snowy-white Redbirds home jersey, shoved the brand-new baseball glove onto her right hand, and squeezed the baseball in her left.
    Taking a couple of deep breaths, she focused on home plate and Brett, who gave her a brilliant smile before pushing his catcher’s mask in place. He squatted. As she positioned herself in the gathering dusk, flashes of light from cell phone cameras winked all around her. Tamping down a fresh wave of nerves, she wound up, careful to control her force, like Brett had taught her. “Don’t throw as hard as you can—throw deliberately,” he’d said. So she did that now, letting go of the ball in one smooth motion.
    Grimacing, she watched the ball go high, way higher than a pitch ought to be, and Brett sprang up, leaning forward to catch it, but she was glad that he had. It wouldn’t have made it across the plate otherwise. As the crowd went wild, a sigh burst out her lips, and she waved at them. A few seconds later, Brett was in front of her, holding out the ball. Her first instinct was to hug him—after feeling his arms around her so briefly yesterday, she hadn’t thought of much else—but she didn’t. She just grimaced again. “So . . . that’s over.”
    â€œDid you have fun?” He handed her the ball.
    â€œHonestly? If I weren’t so hard on myself, I’ll bet I would have.” She smiled at him, and, when he raised his eyebrows in mock disbelief, a giggle slipped out. “Okay, yes. In very recent retrospect, it was fun.”
    â€œYou did great.”
    â€œThanks. I kind of feel like if I don’t sit down soon, though, I’m going to collapse.”
    â€œWe can’t have that,” Brett commented in his slow drawl. “Just play along for a minute and I’ll have you outta here.” Slipping the catcher’s mitt from his hand, he extended his fingers. “Shake. The crowd expects it.”
    Fumbling, she wedged the ball back into her glove and took his hand. It was warm, and when he squeezed her palm with his thumb, she looked up into his eyes and immediately became lost. The crowd seemed to retreat, the noise became a dull roar, and she stood there, her tennis shoes planted on the mound, her gaze locked with his.
    After a moment—probably too long of a moment—he cracked a smile. “Okay now. Hold up the ball, wave it around some, and let’s get out of here.”
    She released his hand and did as instructed. The crowd roared back to life, and Brett chuckled. “Where are we going?” she asked.
    â€œYou’re gonna go sign that ball to put in a charity auction, and I’m gonna get back behind home plate,” he said, touching her back and gently propelling her forward.
    â€œYou are?” she asked stupidly.
    â€œYep. Away team always bats first.” As he walked