Chapter 1
"Strike!"
The catcher stands and throws the ball swiftly back to the pitcher, right arm crossing over his body, eyes warily watching the runner on third. The third baseman is ready, posture tense and set to explode from his stance to move and make a catch if the pitcher or catcher decided to take a shot at the runner. When the catcher kneels once more, his right hand brushes over his right kneecap, like an involuntary movement to brush the dirt off of his equipment. But the pitcher knows it was something different altogether.
The pitcher draws himself into his stance, breathing deeply into the glove, keeping the runner at third in his peripheral. He winds up, and releases, throwing his body weight into the step and the throw, the ball spinning upon the seams, leaving roughly from his fingertips as a curveball. The batter twitches, his arms moving up in a minute effort to draw his arms up before beginning the piston movement to hit the incoming pitch.
The T.V. snaps off, the man on the couch of the video room in the Orioles facility yawns before stretching out his legs with a groan. He knows what will happen after the batter swings. Kenderoff was a strong, clutch hitter, the middle of the batting order. Despite the small movement to draw back before the swing, Kenderoff made up the movement with his speed and his ability to make contact with the ball. The pitch would hit his glove in the lower left hand corner of the strike zone, and Kenderoff wanted to make the hit one that counted. He would drill the hit down deep into right field, just out of the reach of the right fielder and center, Slinsho and Chen. The hit alone would drive home two hits, a strong last inning for the Rays that the Orioles couldn't come back from, despite being the home team.
It hadn't been a terrible last game, nowhere near crushing, but it was not the way the team wanted to end their season. After doing so well in the season, the abrupt end to the run had been devastating. Another season gone and another year of waiting for the chance to come again. The umpire had been slightly difficult to adjust to, the man on the couch muses, but it was something that he needed to do in order to help his team.
Sighing, he grabs his coat from the chair beside him and slowly makes his way out of comfortable presence of the team conference room. Spring training is only a month and a half away. His teammates and the new rookies should be preparing for the training – it was always grueling especially for those who have never played in the league before. The vibrating buzz of his phone shakes him out of his musings as he crosses his way through the dark, empty parking lot, illuminated slightly under the glow of the streetlights. He answers without looking at the caller ID flashing up at him.
"Leweski."
"Hey Kyle. How've you been?" The all too cheery voice of the head public relations manager springs from his phone.
"Alright Meghan. What's the event?" He replies tersely, while fishing his car keys out of his pocket. The off-season has been quiet so far, and god, if Brandon Telson is running around stirring up who-knows-what again, Kyle isn't going to hesitate to throw him to the dogs.
"Well, we're thinking of having you run, well feature I should say, at this charity for the local youth baseball program in Ellicot City. You up for it?"
"Yeah, I guess. Anything in particular that I need to do there?" Kyle has done this before, but it has become more of a habit to ask after four years in the MLB.
"You know the procedure, the standard. Smile, sign autographs, talk to the kids. And maybe a little speech if they ask."
"There going to be any other players there?"
"Not that I know of. You guys are kinda spread out tomorrow. But it's gonna be at the batting cages. The one connected with the sporting goods store."
Kyle settles into the driver seat of his car and starts the engine of his old Corolla. "Yeah, I can do that."
"Fantastic. I'll catch you later tomorrow. Don't be late, and don't forget to smile for the cameras!" Meghan sings before the line goes dead.
It isn't a big deal, Kyle reminds himself as he placed the phone in his pocket and pulls out of the parking lot. He enjoyed working with kids, and as long as it promoted the sport, he was happy with it. At least it hadn't been a phone call to fix Brandon Telson's latest screw-up, whenever that would be.
Kyle's neighborhood isn't a rich one. It isn't filled with mansions and flawless lawns – unlike Jordan Crowl's thank you - but it is a small, quaint neighborhood with plenty of kids ranging from teens to children. It isn't quite a gated community, but it still provides enough perks of privacy from media or super-fans. He likes this neighborhood, the quiet stillness in the mornings, and the warm glows of the lights emitting from windows reminds him of his own childhood, riding bikes down the street in the early evening. His neighbors are okay with having him around; he is never home, and there usually aren't many cameras. He is fine with them as long as they aren't bothered by his presence. And they aren't. For the most part.
The house across from his has been empty for ages; the windows haven't been illuminated with the dim glow of being lived in since the old man who lived in it beforehand moved out. Kyle has been debating on buying it to refurnish the house before selling it to a baseball fan, but someone else has had other ideas.
When Kyle pulls into the neighborhood, in front of his driveway, he is startled to see the "For Sale" sign gone from the front lawn of the pale yellow house across from his, and an old but clean dark blue Honda in front. It's been a while since he has even seen a realtor stopping by to introduce the old abandoned house. The lights are still off, but there is a figure climbing out of the car with a box in her hands, slowly trudging up the steps of the walkway.
Deciding that he should be a good neighbor instead of sitting in his car and gawking like a stranger, regardless of what his agent thought of "drawing attention to other people instead of promoting yourself," he gets out of his car. Kyle distinctly remembers his mother's insistence to greet every new neighbor when he was a child, reminding him over and over again of the importance of making someone feel welcome to the community. She had made a point to make him read an article written by a man named "Saunders" on the importance of being part of a community. By now, it is deeply ingrained in him, making his steps sure as started across the road to introduce himself.
"Hey," Kyle calls, striding over to the newcomer. "You need help with that?"
The woman doesn't take his offer, but pauses to put the box down on the steps to look up at him. Something in her eyes makes her look unsure behind turquoise rimmed glasses. She looks slightly familiar, with her oval face and hair hanging in a low ponytail thrown over her shoulder.
"Hi," she says no more. They look at one another for a few moments before Kyle breaks the awkward silence that he can no longer bear.
"Sorry, my manners are terrible. I'm Kyle. I live across the street." He thrusts his hand out in front of him for her to shake.
Again, she hesitates before answering, but shakes his hand without a beat. Kyle notices briefly how the fingers of her right hand were slightly callused where they gripped his much larger hand.
"Erin," she murmurs. After a pause, she continues. "Nice to meet you."
Kyle looks at her to see if she is hiding any veiled recognition, but is pleased to find none. He finds her eyes searching his face in the same manner as he has just done, her brown eyes darting back and forth between his, before letting go of his hand.
"You new here? To Baltimore, I mean," Kyle asks. It is an effort to make her less tense, less like he was about to rip her one for just standing and talking to her, but there is no change in her posture. It briefly reminds him of a pitcher warily watching a runner at first base from his peripheral vision.
"I guess you could say that. I just moved down here to see if I could get a job," she doesn't offer any other explanation, so Kyle assumes that the stilted conversation is more or less… dead. He made an effort, and it was an effort that he'll take as a victory.
"It's nice meeting you. It's getting late, so I'll, uh, leave you to get unpacked. Unless you need some help?" Kyle winces at how awkward he sounds, and knows that his sister would laugh at him again for his lack of knowing what to say.
But Erin smiles, as if his stumbling words have broken the tension that knotted her back, and ducked her head as she picked her box back up. Her glasses glinted slightly from the lamp light near the mailbox. It is a unique color for a pair of glasses...
"Thanks for the welcome Kyle, and the offer, but I'm good. See you around." Her shoulders are relaxed, but Kyle takes no offense. His sister often reminds him how stupid he is when he doesn't know what to say.
He turns and snatches his gear from the trunk of his car before making his way into his house. It isn't large by any means, three stories –if you count the basement – with three bedrooms in case his immediate family decided to visit. It is clean and tidy, filled with little furnishings despite the money he has. Kyle finds no need to have TVs in every room or a fancy sports car, and has little idea what to spend his money on besides spoiling his sister.
Once he settles himself on the bed after cleaning up after himself, Kyle dials his younger sister's number, who is studying at Carnegie Mellon. She hasn't been able to continue on with her own sports dreams, when she damaged her knee and her leg after a particularly harsh fall when she had collided with another playing ice hockey. Not many people know, but he plays because he wants to play for his sister, and excel for her dream of playing in a national league.
And his new neighbor, she hasn't made too big of an impression, with her quiet, drawn remarks, but she definitely lingers in his mind. Kyle has never been that great with quiet people, the silence on their half of the conversation somehow always unsettles him a little. It figures his "group" revolves around people who like to talk (Jordan and Telson to name a few) or chirp him to death.
Author's Note
If you see any mistakes in this or the later chapters, please let me know. Enjoy!
Don't forget to check out Across the Ice if you're a fan of hockey and romance!