Page 17 of Draft Pick
Tangible, even.
Anthems blast from the surround sound, the crowd chanting back as they join in on whatever game the announcer is leading. We must have come to the busiest game of the season because “Opening Day” signs are plastered on every free surface.
I never really went to ball games or concerts in Nashville, more so because so much of my adult life was centered around advancing my education. Med school was extremely taxing and didn’t leave much free time for fun.
Now that I’m established in my career, this is my time to do all the things I missed out on. Experience new experiences.
“I’ll grab us a drink. What do you want?” Val yells over the loud cheers.
“A beer works,” I tell her before nodding to the merch stand beside us. “I’m gonna go buy a shirt. Try to spirit myself up a little,” I laugh.
Val nods and takes off, meeting back up with me minutes later, beer in her hand and my newly refined team spirit at large. “Damn, girl. You look hot.”
I glance down at my outfit, which was once a basic black tee, black cut-off shorts, and all-black Dr. Martens. Now, however, I look like I’m wearing much less. I hold my hands up in misfortune. “They only had an XL left. This is as good as it’s gonna get.”
The hem of the shirt reaches my upper thighs, only a small amount of distressing from my ripped shorts peeking underneath.
Val twists her lips, dragging her eyes down my body. “You won’t hear any complaints from me. That XL just turned your attempt at a shirt into a minidress. Trust me when I say, no one minds.” Her head spins in circles around us, attempting to point out the watchful eyes.
“Would you stop it?” I shove her playfully and reach for my drink. “Gimme that beer. We’ve got a game to watch.”
Val smiles. “I think you’re going to like it here, Junip.”
I think so, too.
“So, that’s how they warm up, huh?” I gulp, my eyes indulging in harmless lust. Yeah, lust is a mild term to describe my take on the view.
Val’s eyes split wide as she drinks a long guzzle of her spiked Cherry Coke Slurpee. “Isn’t it wonderful?”
I smirk, not at all disagreeing with her. “Beyond, actually. And since I’m going to be sad and assume they all have spouses, they’re okay with this?” I wave my hand in circles, gesturing not so gracefully to the stretch of six players lunging across the plush green field. And this isn’t some leisurely little stretch. Big booty Judys are emphasized while hamstrings are being pulled as far as humanly possible, guaranteeing they aren’t the only thing warming up.
How ever will their ball sacks survive?
Maybe we should head down and find out? Offer up our medical services? There’s got to be some serious elasticity in those knicker pants.
“According to my thorough research, most of them are married, aside from a few. I think it kinda comes with the territory, ya know? Gotta know what you’re marrying into,” Val tells me, our gazes locked in on their tall and muscular frames, now separated into pairs to throw.
I should come to baseball games more often.
“Go, Strikers!” I yell abruptly, surprising even me and earning myself some crazy stares.
“Game hasn’t started!” an older woman yells from behind me, and I spin on my heels, suddenly feeling spontaneous.
“Who cares when you’re cheering for the winning team?” I splay my arms out wide and don’t even recognize myself.
This is so much fun.
“Dr. Wilde!” a newly familiar voice calls from somewhere close by. I was wondering when I’d see the royal lady herself.
“Someone’s calling you, Dr. Wilde,” Val tells me as if I’m completely unaware.
“You don’t say?” I tilt my head and scope out the stadium park. There are hundreds of fans everywhere, all in the same yellow and black colors. There’s no way it’ll be that simple to find a cute little girl with ringlet curls amongst this rowdy crowd.
“Dr. Wilde! Dr. Wilde!” she calls my name again, except this time her voice is closer, and I know the moment I spot her.
Less than ten feet away and running up the stairs is Queen Adeline Briggs of Emerald City, my six-year-old patient who immediately made a friend out of me. And what a friend she’s been.
Her hair is thrown into a mountain of curls on top of her head with a black-and-yellow lightning bolt bow, the number 37 in bold on the right side. She must be a true fan because her dress is, once again, a tutu with the Strikers logo on the front, and the same pink-and-white Nike Blazers on her feet I remember her wearing that day in my office.
