BRADLEY CANE HAD always been a loner. He was the type of guy who did well in life but, for some reason, he never really got to get along with women. He didn’t know if it was just him, or maybe he just had bad luck. He saw Michael when he first arrived on the team and was astonished by how natural it was for Michael to leave the stadium with a hottie he’d just met. It was an easy thing for him. He’d sign an autograph, or maybe take a picture, he’ll dictate his number to the girl, and by the end of the game, he’d just ask the girl to leave the place with him, in his fancy Mercedes. Bradley could never do that. Well, at least he had never tried, also, women just didn’t seem to throw themselves at him the way they did with Michael and other men he found to be ‘luckier’.

But regarding his job, Bradley was a beast. He was the best catcher in the league, by far. He just wasn’t too much of a ladies’ man nor too popular, but his numbers had kept him for years in the first team. Nonetheless his professionalism and success, this thing kept bothering him. Of course, he’d hire hookers, when need demanded so much from him, he felt he wasn’t going to be able to perform well in the field. But why did he have to pay, when others got the same for free? It kept bothering him. But one good day, he heard his name, amid a practice before a game against The Cardinals.

Bradley! Oh my God! It’s Bradley Cane!

He turned. On the other side of the fence, there was this young, blonde, curvy teen lifting a Lyon’s shirt in one hand and a pen in the other.

“I’m a fan of yours. You’re the GOAT of catchers. She looked nervous and excited. Bradley was nervous, too. He wasn’t used to this kind of interaction.

“Thank you,” he said, grabbing the shirt and signing it.

“I’m a catcher myself,” the blonde said.

Bradley frowned.

“Really?”

“Yes. Caracas Lionesses, softball inferior league.”

“Congratulations. It’s not an easy position to play.”

The pitcher called Bradley. He was warming up his arm.

“No, it’s not. But you make it look so easy. I wish I could learn from you,” Bradley saw her flush, and she moistened her lips, in a gesture that seemed as if she had intended to bite them, but changed her mind at the last moment. It turned him on.”

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“Well, I can be your teacher,” he said, and regretting the words as soon as they left his mouth. For some reason, he had always been scared of public rejection, and for being ashamed by a woman. Because of that, he’d always come across as shy. He had an irrational fear of being disrespectful or too direct with women. He’d always thought that kind of accusations, can lead to problems, and his career was the most important thing to him.

“Will you?” The blonde’s eyes shone with joy.

Bradley nodded, with a shy smile on his face.

“Bradley, come on!” Ryan Dean, the closer of The Lyons, yelled again at Bradley.

“I have to go, they’re waiting for me,” he said, turning around.

“Wait,” she said. “Extend your arm.”

Bradley was going to ask why, but then he just did what she asked. He extended his arm towards the fence. She wrote her number on his forearm.

“Here is my number,” she said. “Please, text me. I have too many things to learn from you.”

“All right,” Bradley now was almost speechless. For him, this amount of interest and attention was surreal. He turned again and carried on with his practices. During that night’s practice, when the pitcher was out of the mound, arranging his hat or just stretching his arm, Bradley would seize the chance to read the number on his forearm, over and over again all night long. He feared the sweat could erase it. He didn’t want to lose this chance at love.

***

He couldn’t sleep. He was turning around in bed over and over again. He had read or heard sometime somewhere that it wasn’t good to text a girl the same day she gave you her number, that the best was to play strong, not be thirsty and create some expectation, and let her wait for your message. It was still early. Just ten o’clock at night. Maybe she was still awake. “Fuck it,” he thought. He just couldn’t get rid of the picture of that beautiful face with pinky cheeks in his mind. He couldn’t stop thinking of those big, round buttocks she had, which stood out favored by the blue-gray yoga pants she was wearing. And her legs. Her big, white, and beautiful legs. He texted her.

“Hi,” he wrote and dropped his phone on his chest. He felt a childish impulse to cover his face with the pillow as if he didn’t want to face the consequences of his texting. A few minutes passed. He checked the phone every few seconds. The answer didn’t come. He began to think negatively. Maybe he was being too naïve. Maybe that girl just wanted some help with her catching skills, and he was making up a romance already in his mind. He was ready to sleep when he received the answer.

“Hey! Oh my God. Bradley, it’s you! I didn’t expect you to text me,” she texted.

He didn’t know what to answer now.

“I just came home from practice, and I remembered you asked me to text. So here I am,” he answered after writing and deleting three different versions of that same message.

“You don’t know my name. My name is Paula Lennox. Thank you for not forgetting about me.”

“Sure. So tell me, what is it that you need help with?”

“Well, I can tell you that tomorrow. Do you have twenty minutes to see me?”

“I think I do. The afternoon is better. I go to the gym in the morning.”

“That’s perfect for me,” she wrote. “We have a date, then. I’ll confirm the time and place tomorrow morning, is that okay?”

“It is, Paula.”

“All right. I won’t take more of your time. Have a good night, GOAT.” She sent some kissing emojis along with that last message. Bradley didn’t know what to answer, so he didn’t. He slept very well that night.