for the love of the game ; g.d.

Chapter 8

A Week Later •
"Camden! Get your ass off that bench and out on this field!" Our assitant coach, Coach Taylor yelled from the 3rd base line. We had after school practice, from 3 to 7:30. We had a long week ahead of us, with several games and a tournament somewhere in there, and weeks like this one meant super oong practices when we weren't playing a game. Coach called this, "keepin'us fresh."

I had been chasing ground balls most of the practice, in 80° weather, and I was exhausted. I groaned and tossed my water bottle into my bag and slid on my glove, stepping back on the field. The sun hit me like a truck, blinding and burning me at the same time. I threw my hand up to shield my eyes as I jogged over to the coach. "Where do you want me this round?" I asked. She shoved me in the direction of 1st base, so I walked over to it and got in position.

After practice, Grayson was leaned up against his truck, in his baseball uniform, smiling his award-winning smile. I punched his shoulder before kissing him on the cheek. "Good job at practice today, hot stuff," my friend Jordan said as she walked towards her car. I winked at her. "You too, Legs."

"Man, even the girls flirt with you. Looks like I've got some competition," Grayson said as we got into his truck. I laughed. "You just might," I joked. He slapped my arm and turned up the radio. Notorious B.I.G blared from the speakers as we raced out of the parking lot. Him and I don't necessarily agree on music hardly ever, but B.I.G is one neither of us can get enough of.

Once we got to the park, we both grabbed our gloves out of our bags and ran onto the field. Some nights after practice, we go to our city park and play catch in the ball field for hours, as if we weren't already exhausted enough from our real practices.

It's always an argument on whether or not we play with a baseball or a softball, but tonight we settled on a baseball. We stood at a reasonable distance apart, and began tossing it back and forth, with music still blaring from his truck in the parking lot only a few feet away.

After about 30 minutes of playing catch, joking around, and listening to music, I noticed a mischievous grin begin to form on Grayson's face. He held the baseball I had thrown to him in his right hand, not passing it back to me. "I've got an idea." He raised an eyebrow at me.

I raised one back and played with the loose, leather stitchings on my glove. "What's your idea?"

He took a few steps toward me, which didn't seem like anything due to how far away he originally was. "Stripball."

I let out a short laugh. "Stripball?"

"You're gonna pitch a ball to me, and if it's a ball, you have to take off an article of clothing. If it's a strike, you don't. We'll switch every pitch," he explained.

"What the hell, Gray. We're in a public place," I replied. Although the field was pretty well-hidden and in a fairly secluded part of town, it was still a crazy idea. I shook my head and crossed my arms. "No way." He tossed the ball up in the air and caught it in his glove, keeping that stupid grin on his face. "So, that's a yes?"

I rolled my eyes at him and shrugged my shoulders.

I grabbed a softball from the dugout and got into my pitching position. He stood in the batter's box, and crouched down into his catcher stance. Normally, I play shortstop. But over the summer I practiced pitching, and I'm actually not terrible. I pitched the ball in, and it hit the center of his glove with a loud smack. He stood up for a second to throw it back to me. "Strike."

I smirked and dropped the softball next to me, next to the baseball. We switched positions, and I crouched down to copy him a second ago. He didn't hesitate to throw the ball to me with all of his strength, and I could feel the slight sting in the palm of my hand when I caught it. "Ball," I said as I stood up.

He sighed and took his shirt off, revealing his ridiculously chiseled torso. We switched spots again, and I pitched a ball. I took my shirt off as well and dropped it next to his, growing more and more nervous of someone passing by.

This went on for a couple more rounds, until eventually we were just in our underwear. It was his turn, and to end a perfect game of good ole' fashioned Stripball, he pitched a perfect strike. I'd never admit that though. I took a second to stare at his tan and toned physique as he stood there stretching his arms. His black boxers were pulled down low enough to see his wide v-line. "What's the call, ump?"

I smirked up at him from the box, and stood up slowly, taking my glove off and strutting toward the mound. I flirtasiously hooked my finger onto the band of his boxers once I got close enough to him and pressed my lips to his. He wrapped his hands around my waist, and moved them down to my ass. "Ball," I whispered against his lips.