Free The Hot Corner by Amy Noelle

the entire batting practice and even through the national anthem, admiring his butt as he stood with his team and held his hand over his heart. I couldn’t blame them, because it was a prime ass. Where had that ass been when we’d dated? He hadn’t been nearly as defined back then.
    The game started, and the seats around me filled in and drowned out the girls’ conversation. Good. I wanted to concentrate on the atmosphere. When Brad jogged over to third base, people cheered. He took off his hat and waved it before putting it back on and getting to business.
    The Dodgers brought out the big gun. Adam Stuart was on the mound. He was easily their best pitcher, and he’d been runner-up for the Cy Young last year. Between him and Brad and DJ Carter—the new outfielder they’d acquired from the Red Sox—the team had high expectations. When Adam struck out the first batter with three straight pitches, it was easy to see why.
    After the Mets’ second batter lifted a shallow pop out to right field, their best hitter stepped to the plate. Mark Wagner consistently batted over three hundred with a hundred RBIs and around thirty homers. He smoked the first pitch down the third-base line, and Brad dove and caught it before it went into the outfield. The crowd went wild as he got up grinning. He tossed the ball to me and I managed to catch it. “Luck,” he mouthed, and I laughed. I tucked the ball into my bag and took out my notepad to jot down my thoughts so far.
    He moves with the same catlike grace he had in college. Few players could have snagged that ball and kept it from being at least a double, but he did it with what looked like no effort at all. “Hands” is the perfect nickname for him, in more ways than one.
    There’s an arrogance in his play I don’t recognize from before. In college, when he made a play like that, he wouldn’t have worn the “look at me” smirk he had on just now. He likes standing out, being the superstar. I’m interested to see what his teammates think about his sportsmanship. I can’t imagine he’s a “me” player, but he definitely enjoys the attention. Then again, maybe part of this show is for me. Time will tell, and I’ll see what his everyday demeanor is soon enough.
    The noise level in the stadium elevated, and I looked up to see Brad taking his position in the batter’s box. He cocked his bat and swiveled his hips and I wished I could see his face, though I knew exactly what it would look like. That hadn’t changed. He focused in on the pitcher with complete concentration, his eyes narrowed, his muscles bunched and poised to strike.
    The first pitch was high and inside for ball one. Brad leaned back and the crowd groaned and yelled at the pitcher. The second was low but over the plate, and Brad fouled it back. The third pitch was low but inside for ball two. Two and one, a hitter’s count, and Brad knew it. The next pitch was right down the center of the plate, and the resounding crack as bat hit ball had the crowd gasping. My pen cap cut into my hand I gripped it so hard as I watched the ball sail into the outfield. It was close, so close, but instead of going over, it hit just below the top of the fence. It bounced right over the center fielder’s head, and Brad slid into third just before the ball landed in the third baseman’s glove. He stood up, and I swear he was grinning at me as the crowd roared for his triple.
    The cleanup batter, Mike Hager, came up next, and the pitcher walked him rather than risk giving up a two-run homer. Mike had a tendency either to hit a home run or strike out and not much in between, so they played it safe. It didn’t work, anyway, because Lance Green squeaked a single between first and short to bring Brad home and give the Dodgers a 1-0 lead.
    The inning ended when Doug Freeman popped out to first, and the damage was limited to one run with two runners left. I picked up my pen again as the players took their positions.
    His swing hasn’t