The Unnatural *Wattpad Featured Story*

Chapter 8

We break out of our losing streak the next night. Mike Baron hits a home run along with two singles and drives in four runs. Travis Miles adds a key two-run single in the 8th that seals the win.

Miles beats his chest in the players-only privacy of the clubhouse right after the game, before reporters can enter. Rookie reliever Scott Jensen shakes up a bottle of Samuel Adams and sprays relief around the room as if we just won a pennant. Renfro, who started the game and earned the win, unbuttons his uniform top over his belly and rests his right hand in the slit as if he's an African Napoleon Bonaparte.

The only player who's unaffected by the win is the guy most responsible for achieving it. Mike Baron ignores the clamor in the clubhouse and racks out on his easy chair in full uniform.

A gleeful Jed rushes out of his office to join in the fun, only to turn red when he sees Baron, with his eyes closed, in his La-Z-boy. For a moment, it seems like Scorpion is going to pick up the chair by its footrest and turn it upside down, but his temper fades as his ears drink in the joyful shouts from the rest of the team.

"That's what I'm talking about, fellas! The first one's the hardest. Only 99 more to go for a championship season!"

Somehow, today, one hundred wins seem possible.

When we open the clubhouse to reporters, they ask polite questions for the first time since the beginning of the season. Everyone's happy that we don't have to explain what went wrong.

Over the next few days, our confidence builds into a winning streak. We take the final game against the Red Sox and sweep Tampa Bay. I even get in the third game and hit an RBI single. I must confess, the groupies are starting to get to me. I can't believe I'm thinking that. I know what they are but, as our winning streak builds, I can't help but want to continue the feeling of conquest by taking one of them home to my condo at night. Talking to Ashley only makes it worse.

After our sweep against the Devil Rays, I notice a girl wearing a pair of red shorts standing near the player's exit with her back turned to me while she talks to a friend. She's wearing sparkly white ballet flats on her feet, tight red shorts, and a white camisole top. Her legs are very nice. They have that perfect combination of muscle tone softened by lush feminine flesh.

She turns around and notices me looking at her. She smiles. She tosses her wavy black hair, which makes me notice her bright red lips and very white teeth. Too white. She's either bleaching them or she's got veneers, but they do look nice. I must confess, she's attractive enough. But she can't compete with either Ashley or Ishtar. However, my rational assessment of her charms doesn't matter.

I want her.

I want her because I can take her home, have sex, and extend the buzz from our walk-off win. I want her because she will go home with me and accept not seeing me ever again. It's not what she's hoping for, but she knows that's the likely outcome. And still, she's smiling at me. Inviting me.

I think about the women who followed me to my condo last week. I can give this girl an autograph, include my address, and write "follow me!" I'll bet she'll show up at my door.

Delivery sex. Loog, Rags, and Coach Carr don't have to know.

So much for Bible study.

I'm curious to see if she'll follow through with it—a little social experiment. My sociology professor from Tulane would be gratified to know I'm putting his training into practice.

Damn. This is harder than I thought.

I don't know why she is having such an effect on me. I never felt tempted by baseball Annies in the minors. Why now? It's not that she's particularly attractive. I ignored plenty of girls just as pretty in minors.

Why does she appeal to me now?

I mull this question in my mind as she and I look at one another until I realize that, for the first time in my life, I'm a spare part. All through high school, college, and the minors, I'd been counted on to drive in runs—even when I wasn't a top prospect.

I'm trying to replace the charge I used to get on the field with sex.

The pinch-hit I got today had only whetted my appetite.

As I turn away from her, I see her smile fade. I hurry to the player's lot while brushing past autograph requests. I find my banged-up Stealth, punch the keyless entry, and sit in my car while ignoring Jensen making out with his flavor of the night in the Porsche 911 parked to my left.

I pick up my Nokia and the green backlight shows me the time is 11:47. That would make it 1:47 in Maryland. I type a text message to Ashley:

R u up?

Her immediate reply comes from the matching cell phone of the shared account I set up before she left.

Yes.

I punch her saved number and she answers with a clear voice, "Hi, Butthead."

"What're you doing up?'

"I was watching your game on DirecTV. I saw your RBI in the 8th."

I really don't deserve her.

"I'm horny."

She laughs. "That's okay. You're supposed to be horny when you talk to me."

She's presuming that thinking about her is what led to my confession—and my call. I have no intention of correcting her.

"Oh? And what are you supposed to be?"

"I'm supposed to get everything I want."

"Why's that?"

"Cause I'm the girl."

Ashley has some very definite ideas about female privilege that she probably gets from living in girl-world. You can't find many jobs that operate within a more insular female environment than managing a women's accessory shop. With the ample supply of women available to me, I know I can break her attitude anytime I want—or chase her away—depending on her choice.

I don't want either of those things. So, I play along.

"Well, what do you want?"

I wonder how she's going to reply. She could answer "you" or "half" and make a play for us to get married, depending on whether she wanted to be sentimental or spunky. She could demand fur coats. Diamond rings. Pearl necklaces...

Hell, I've given her a blank check.

"I want to go to Venice."

"That can't happen 'til the winter. Wouldn't you prefer someplace warm?"

"I didn't say you had to come. You just have to pay."

"Good luck with that."

Ashley doesn't reply and we fall silent for a moment. Finally, she changes the subject. "My Jesters jersey with your name on the back came in today. I was wearing it while I watched the game."

"Are you wearing it now?"

"Yes. I'm going to sleep in it."

Suddenly, I've forgotten all about the groupie in the red shorts.

"Thanks. I needed to hear that."

"Good. Because I need to go to bed. I've got a ten o'clock class."

I start my car and drive home. I fall asleep faster and easier than I have in nearly a week.

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Off to watch my KC Chiefs---here's to going 9-0!

Next Chapter: The Jesters make a trade