Switch Hitter

Her perfume, which used to smell like pure gold digger, now has traces of citrus and flowers and vanilla, hitting my nose when she flips that mass of hair over her shoulder.

She looks different tonight, conservative.

She’s barely wearing makeup, just some mascara.

And—obviously—the whole turtleneck thing is confusing as shit.

The black color is stark against her pale skin. That’s another thing throwing me off—the few times I’ve been out with Lucy, her skin has been a warm hue of…well, orange.

This Lucy? She looks like someone I could actually bring home to mi madre.

I shoot a quick glance at the front of her sweater; it might be covering the entire column of her neck, but it’s tight, outlining ample curves I don’t remember her having. Large silver hoops catch the light from the modern chandelier above, her one vanity.

“We can talk more after dinner,” I tell her.

Her chin tips, lips say, “Okay.”

A tentative smile.

We’re quiet while I look at the dinner selections and steal glances at her over my menu. Lucy is staring at hers, biting down on her bottom lip, undecided.

“Need help deciding?”

“I, uh, didn’t realize they had food, so I wasn’t prepared for dinner.”

Annnnd there it is. I swear to God, if she’s one of those girls who eats like a fucking bird—salad with no dressing and a side of water—I’m going to seriously reconsider dating her.

“Did you already eat?”

“No.”

“Are you hungry?”

Her head lifts. Our eyes meet. “I didn’t really come here to eat, but yeah, I am hungry.”

My lip curls. “Let me guess, you’re going to have a salad.”

“Well, let me see.” She lifts the menu and disappears from sight as the waitress approaches and glances between us.

“Are you all set to order, or do you need a few more minutes?”

Lucy reappears from over the giant folded menu. “I’m ready if you are.”

“Ladies first.”

“Okay.” Her index finger trails along the first page’s entrées. “Can I get the filet please, medium rare, with a wedge salad—ranch dressing—and a baked potato with sour cream? And bacon.”

She closes the menu and hands it to the waitress, clasping her hands serenely. Lifts her brows my direction.

Damn, I’m impressed.

“I’ll have the same.” I hand my waitress the menu, mimic Lucy’s pose. “So.”

“So.”

My head tilts and I relax into the hard back of the wooden chair. Across the table, my date does an inventory of me that has nothing to do with physical attraction; oddly, she hasn’t flirted or giggled at me once, another thing that seems…off.

Her eyes scan my broad shoulders—the width earned through hours of busting my ass on the diamond—up my thick neck, landing on my lips. My high cheekbones, the left one with a stitch holding it closed. My expressionless eyes and tired brow.

Her lips part. “Where did the bruises come from?”

“Someone’s bat.”

“I thought catchers wore face masks!”

“We do.”

Those blue eyes go wide. “Have you ever lost a tooth?”

“Yes.” I tap on my teeth. “This front one is fake.”

“On a scale of one to ten, how bad does it hurt to get jacked in the face with a baseball bat?”

That’s an odd way for a girl to put it, but the answer is easy: “Fifteen.”

“What are your plans after college?”

I pause.

We’ve already discussed this, on our first date when she peppered me with questions about my odds of playing professional ball, how soon that was going to be, and if I had an agent.

“The pros.” I drag the words out in a duh tone of voice.

She cringes. “Oh yeah, right. Sorry, I forgot.” But then, “But you have a major, right? What are you falling back on, just in case? What happens if you get hurt?”

No girl has ever asked me that. “If I don’t get drafted, I’ll…” I shift in my chair uncomfortably. Discussing what would happen if I weren’t eligible for the draft isn’t something I normally talk about, not with girls like Lucy, girls who have no real investment in my future other than a meal ticket. “DNR.”

“Department of Natural Resources?”

I blink. “You actually know what that is?”

She shrugs. “My dad likes to fish.”

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“What are you doing when you graduate?”

“I’ve never told you my major? That is so unlike me.”

Did she just admit she likes talking about herself? I chuckle.

“You’ve told me you’re a fashion major, but never said what you plan on doing with your degree. We didn’t exactly do a lot of chatting on our first few dates.” I shoot her a lazy smile.

“Oh. Right.” Again, she tucks those long locks of hair behind her ear, causing her earrings to shine in the light. “My major is, uh, fashion design.”

Now she’s repeating herself. “You told me that already.”

“Right, sorry.” She avoids my eyes, taking a drink, suddenly fascinated by the heavy burgundy draperies covering the walls. “So, Dash, what’s your real name?”

“Don’t you think you should know if we’re going to give this thing a shot?”

Lucy cringes. “Yes?”

“The fact that you’re asking means you haven’t adequately done your research. Haven’t you tried looking me up at all?”

“I haven’t had time?”

“It’s Dante.”

“Dante,” she repeats quietly to herself with Spanish enunciation. Bites back a smile. “Dante Amado,” she says, articulating my entire name. “Huh.”

“What about Lucy, that short for anything?”

“She’s—I’m, uh, named after our grandmother—my grandmother.” Her head shakes. “Lucille. Lucy is short for Lucille.”

Lucille does sound like someone’s abuelita. The name is unsexy and unfuckable.

We’re interrupted by the busboy refilling our water glasses. “Thank you,” she says with a smile.

I recognize the dude from my environmental law class and give him a nod. “Yeah, thanks.”

For a few moments, we sit in silence, and I feel Lucy sneaking glances. Then, “If you could live in any city, which one would it be?”

This one is a no-brainer. “I’d play for the Rockies.”

My date rolls her eyes. “That’s not what I asked.”

“It’s not?”

“No. I asked if you could live in any city, which one would it be. I didn’t ask where you would play.”

“Oh. Well…” I set down my fork. “No lo sé.” I don’t know.

Lucy tilts her head and studies me, eyes softening. “That much of your future hinges on you getting drafted, huh?”

I raise my head, meeting her eyes. “Yeah.”

Her clear gaze bores into me. “What’s it like?”

“What’s what like?”

“The pressure.”

For a second, I want to tell her that’s a strange fucking statement to make, but then I go quiet and think about it, really sit and think.

She’s right.

It is a lot of pressure, especially since mi familia is depending on me to make something of myself.

All the money my parents sank into a lifelong baseball career that isn’t even an official career yet, that’s nothing but a goddamn hobby if I don’t get drafted.

No one but mi mamá has ever asked me how the pressure makes me feel.

And now Lucy.

This—this right here is why I found myself really fucking liking her last weekend on our date. I think she might actually give a shit.

“It’s heavy.”

I don’t mind saying it, admitting with two words that I have a world of weight crushing down on my shoulders, broad as they may be. It feels…