Champagne Brunch: The Stiletto Sisters Series by Ainsley Claire (easy readers .txt) 📗

I put my hand on Lilly’s leg, and she shrugs. Sorry, she mouths.

“I mean, isn’t it fun to go shopping and find the perfect pair of shoes or a dress you know will look fabulous on you?” Candy says.

“Without a doubt,” I say. “Who’s your favorite designer?”

Candy wiggles in her seat and her eyes glimmer. I’ve found her hot button. I spend the remainder of the ninety-minute flight listening to her drone on about her fascination with Gucci, Prada, Yves St Laurent, and other big names. I smile and nod. She may be a bit catty, but she seems happy, and that’s all any of us can hope for.

As we exit the plane, I feel Axel’s hand on my back. “Thank you for coming today.”

I lean in and kiss him on the cheek. “Thank you for sharing this with me.”

He holds my hand as we get in the car with Nate and Lilly. In the front seat are Nate’s security—I recognize Trevor, one of his usual guys—and Peter. We race off to the stadium.

“Sir,” Trevor says. “The press is at the back entrance. Would you prefer to be dropped elsewhere?”

Nate looks between Lilly and me. “It’s Jeremy Hamilton excitement. Are you all okay with that? We can have the guys drop us off and we walk in like anyone else?”

“The energy from the crowd would be great. What do you think?” Lilly asks.

“Peter and Trevor will be with us?” I ask, both terrified and excited by the idea. No one knows who I am, but Nate’s pretty popular.

Nate nods. “Are you okay with walking in, Axel?”

“I always walk in a regular door. I’m fine either way.”

So, the car lets us out at the edge of the crowd, and we make our way in. We look like any other group of people going to the game. The driver is going to take our luggage to the hotel and get it all taken care of.

As we approach the entrance, Nate turns to us. “I know you have seats, but you’re welcome to come up to the visitors’ VIP box and join us.”

“Thanks,” Axel says as we weave our way through security and into the stadium. “We’ll be up shortly.”

Once we’re inside, I can see the crowd is pretty decent for a Thursday evening. The Killers’ “Mr. Brightside” blares through the speakers, and I know Jeremy’s warming up. That’s his song. The crowd roars, and it seems they don’t care that he’s not a Tarantula.

Thomas Luck and Candy Kane materialize behind us as we survey the scene from the top of the stairway into the seats. “A lot of pitchers can beat the record at practice but crumble with the crowds,” Thomas notes. “He’ll be lucky if he lasts past the third inning.”

“We’ll have to see,” Axel says with a knowing smirk.

That Luck guy is ridiculous. Unlike many pitchers in the majors these days, Jeremy Hamilton almost always lasts way past the third inning. He’s old school—no middle relievers necessary. That’s another way he’s like Nolan Ryan.

We walk down to find our seats, which are four rows up from the field and halfway between home plate and first base.

I look over at Axel, and he seems pretty relaxed. The young boy sitting on the other side of him, however, is bouncing in his seat.

“Did you know Nolan Ryan has the record for the fastest pitch, and he got it before my dad was born?” the little boy asks Axel.

“Really? Do you like baseball?” Axel asks.

He nods. “My dad let me leave school early so we could see if Jeremy Hamilton breaks the record.”

“Are you a fan of the Prospectors or the Tarantulas?”

“We usually go to Dodger games, but I’m totally a Jeremy Hamilton fan. I want to be just like him. Who’s your favorite team?”

Axel gestures down the row. “We live in San Francisco, so we’re big Prospector fans.”

“They have some good, young players, but they need more strength in their catcher and a deeper pitching bench,” the boy counters. “Hamilton can’t be the only one to carry the team.”

“Wow, you really do know baseball.” Axel nods. “Do you hope to play in the big leagues one day?”

“Maybe coaching.”

“That’s a good job.” Axel gives him a thumbs up.

“Oliver, leave the man alone,” the boy’s dad admonishes.

Axel gives them a smile, and the boy turns to point something out to his dad. A few minutes later, the national anthem plays, and the game begins. We’re the visiting team, so we hit first and the Tarantulas are in the field. We manage to get a run in, and the score is one to zero.

In the bottom of the first inning, Jeremy is on the mound. I reach for Axel’s hand as he winds up. There’s a camera on the radar gun behind the fence, which broadcasts to the jumbotron. The crowd is nearly silent—all watching, waiting, and hoping to see a record-breaking fastball.

When the batter is ready, Jeremy throws a curveball and gets his first strike. The batter steps out of the batter’s box and does an easy practice swing, rolling his head to the side. He steps back into the box and digs his feet in the dirt. The catcher gets in his crouch. This guy’s looking for a home run off the fastball.

Jeremy throws, and it looks like a fastball, but it’s a splitter—moving inside at the last minute. It’s the kind of ball that shaves the hair off your chin, as they like to say.

The batter swings, and it’s the second strike. Axel and I have white knuckles as we hold hands in anticipation.

The crowd wants to see a fastball, but Jeremy is focused on the batter. The jumbotron shows his last pitch was eighty-eight miles an hour.