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megaphonemonday · 6 years

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good shape will do

mazza: Mike teaches Ginny to play pool.

While, yes, I would love to see more of Ginny in Mike’s weird house because I love both of those things (Ginny and Mike’s weird house) I went for something else I love. Enjoy!

read on ao3

It was something of an exaggeration to say there was nothing to do in Peoria. It was a big suburb of a major city, not Bumfuck, Middle-of-Nowhere, after all.

It might’ve been an exaggeration, but that didn’t negate the fact that the six weeks of every year that Mike was stuck in Arizona, it always felt true.

Sure, there were restaurants that weren’t McDonald’s or Taco Bell, not to mention movie theaters and malls and more besides. Mike would know. He’d learned each and every one like the back of his hand a decade ago. And, yeah, Peoria even boasted a few clubs—on top of the scores of bars (because what else was there to do in suburban Phoenix?)—of its own, but their appeal waned with every passing year. Mike kept getting older, but it seemed like the clientele never did.

And wasn’t that just a bitch.

Maybe, he considered as he took another sip from his beer and tried not to look bored out of his mind, he’d been doing this too long. He’d been haunting the same bars and hot spots in this town since he was 20, invited to his first training camp for his first taste of the bigs and getting his fill—of the parties and the admiration and, God, the girls—in case it was also his last.

Obviously, it hadn’t been. He’d gotten much more than a taste. More than his fair share, he was sure some might say.

After 17 years in the bigs, Mike could maybe, possibly, see where they were coming from. Most days after a game behind the dish, his knees felt more like loose gravel than functioning joints. Spending nine innings over at first was less of a battle, but it wasn’t what he loved. Sure, it was still baseball, still kept him on the diamond and with his team, but the first baseman didn’t run the show like the catcher did.

And Mike really liked running the show.

He couldn’t quite manage it in his personal life—back in December, Rachel’d taken a promotion that would move her to New York without pausing to ask what he thought; it was probably better if he didn’t get into where Mike stood with the other women (well, woman, if he was being honest) in his life—so he’d have to settle for it professionally.

Thank God he could. He’d put in the effort over the offseason to win back the team, and it’d paid off.

Mostly. He still had to put up with more ribbing, often far less friendly than it used to be, than he was used to, but Mike had at least shored up his standing with his teammates enough that they listened to his input on what to do in the yard.

And, more immediately, where to spend their off nights.

Which was why the San Diego Padres had ended up in the seediest pool hall Peoria had to offer on this particular Wednesday evening.

Hey, it was hard to be bored when the possibility of a bar brawl increased exponentially with every round of shots Hinkley and Melky knocked back. The Padres hadn’t gotten into a dust up off the field in a long time. Maybe it would be enough to knock Mike out of this mood.

Probably he shouldn’t be pulling for one or more of his teammates to get their faces beaten in, but, well... Mike couldn’t take yet another night in yet another townie hangout he’d been frequenting the last seventeen years of his life.

So, the pool hall it was.

Was there a pool table in Mike’s Arizona house? Definitely; he loved playing pool, liked the meditative aspect of it. Did that mean he wanted a horde of ballplayers descending on that house just so he could teach them the fun of the game?

Hell fucking no.

A few of them, sure, but Mike wasn’t about to re-alienate the ones he didn’t want around just for the sake of not having to leave his house. Mike didn’t want to spend more time with most of them than was absolutely necessary.

Most of them.

The woman currently leaning on her pool cue, casting a skeptical eye over her table, however, was not most of them.

Ginny Baker was, and always would be, in a class all of her own.

Tonight, wearing a pair of beat-up jeans—they’d probably come off the rack with all those holes, but the way the denim hugged every last inch of her leg had to be the work of a very dedicated tailor; one Mike would probably be better off never meeting—with a loose blouse that showed off her shoulders and delicate collarbone and the shadows pooling there in the low lighting, that was more than clear.

Unfortunately, Mike wasn’t the only one who noticed.

It was impossible to miss the way too many pairs of eyes trailed her trim figure as she circled the table, looking for a shot, lithe fingers trailing up and down her cue. His did, too, but he knew how to fucking keep it subtle. Especially when it came to Ginny Baker.

Playing down the way his attention always gravitated straight to Ginny Baker, no matter the crowd or situation or distance between them, had become something of a specialty of his.

And even if her ass did present an incredibly tempting prospect as she bent over to inspect an angle, the way she jabbed her cue forward, skidding the tip across the green felt and making the cue ball bounce twice before it knocked weakly into the 10-ball, was enough to drive all thoughts of her perfect backside straight out of Mike’s mind.

Well, almost.

“Someone needs to work on Baker’s technique.”

Mike was so focused on the game across the room that he missed Blip’s disbelieving snort. “Is that what you’re calling it these days?” the center fielder asked, something knowing and more than a little belligerent in his tone.

His captain ignored it.

“If she tears a hole in the felt,” he reasoned, less interested in convincing his teammate than working out the rationale for himself, “I’m not gonna pay for it. Are you? It only makes sense to make sure she doesn’t cause too much damage.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it, man,” Blip started, but Mike was already walking away, heading straight toward the small knot of Padres across the bar.

He hadn’t picked a pool hall just so he could show Ginny the ropes—to say nothing about a little quality time that had so far been in short supply this spring training with her while he was at it—but now that he had the chance, Mike certainly wasn’t going to complain about it.

“C’mon, Baker,” he said, catching her awry elbow in one hand before she could jerk it forward and send the cue ball popping into the air yet again. “Someone needs to show you a thing or two.”

He didn’t give Salvi or Butch a chance to protest, knew Omar wouldn’t once he’d been sufficiently glared at, and pulled her over to an empty table tucked into the far corner. She only dragged her feet a little.

“I don’t need—”

“How’s your elbow feeling?” he interrupted. Mike didn’t really want to hear that Ginny didn’t need, or maybe want, anything from him.

“More than up to the oh-so strenuous task of shooting pool,” she sniped.

Mike rolled his eyes. “Just making sure.”

“You and everyone else in a 15-mile radius,” Ginny muttered grumpily, like she hadn’t thrown four shutout innings of baseball today.

To be fair to everyone else, she’d just thrown her, much anticipated, first start of spring training. Al’d kept her in the bullpen until now. She’d made a few strong showings in relief, but Ginny would be the first to say coming in to throw out one or two batters wasn’t the same as going the distance from the first pitch. Still, they’d been strong enough that she’d more than earned her start today.

Mike couldn’t help but worry.

Rather than tell her that, though, he shrugged. “We’re in the middle of the desert. What else is there for people to care about?”

He didn’t give Ginny a chance to snark back, just ushered her onto a stool and launched into a soliloquy on the mechanics and motion of the perfect stroke and trying to make her laugh.

Mike wasn’t proud about commandeering what should have been her victory lap, but he hadn’t suggested this outing so they could all get kicked out when Ginny inevitably ruined all the playing surfaces. Or so Omar could stutter and blush every time Ginny leaned over to take a shot, his eyes right where Mike’s wanted to be. And what Mike really wasn’t going to do was give some other mook the opportunity to crowd up behind her and give her a hands-on lesson—as he was sure more than one person had considered.

Not that Mike planned on doing it, either—not if he wanted to maintain his grip on sanity—but he definitely didn’t want anyone else thinking they could even try it.

As he went over the basic rules and racked the balls, he couldn’t help but notice Baker’s restlessness.

The whole—though it really was short for him—spiel about stripes and solids and racks and breaks, Ginny’s leg bounced up and down, impatient and unwilling to pretend otherwise. Apparently, Ginny Baker was too good for the rules. Mike wanted to laugh. That was just typical, wasn’t it? She wanted to run before she even had the lay of the land.

“Got somewhere to be, Baker?”

“Just wondering how long this is gonna take,” she drawled, hopping off her stool to stare up at him in exasperation. “I already know how to play pool.”

Mike snorted.

“I do!” she defended, laughing at his skepticism. “How else would I know I can win the game on the first shot if I sink the 8-ball?”

“Yeah, I don’t think that’s something you’re gonna have to worry about.”

“Asshole.”

Mike shrugged in agreement, but grinned down at her.

Hanging off her cue, she tilted her head to the side, soft, pink lips following in an uneven grin. Just the one dimple pressed into her cheek. Her curls cascaded messily over her shoulder and bounced away when she waved off any more explanation, uncovering more of her smooth, unblemished skin. Not that Mike was capable of much more when she looked like that.

Like she was his dream come fucking true.

Then again, she always looked like that.

“You gonna show me how it’s done or not, Lawson?” she challenged, teeth sinking into the lush curve of her lower lip for a bare second.

“If you insist,” Mike replied, shaking off the slight daze that Ginny so effortlessly inspired in him. It was easier now that he was methodically filling the rack, keeping his eyes down. “You want the break?”

She shrugged, fingering a spare cube of chalk and inspecting the sheen of blue dust it left behind before brushing it off on her pants. Disinterestedly, she replied, “If you don’t want to, sure.”

“All right,” he said, determined to get her interested in this game if it killed him. Maybe, once they got back to San Diego, Mike could get her to come over and play a few games. With Blip, of course. If he wanted. It wasn’t that he just liked the idea of Ginny in his house. Okay. It wasn’t only that. “Go ahead and put the cue ball in the kitchen, then.”

One of Ginny’s eyebrows climbed her forehead, and she leveled him with an unimpressed stare. “You better not follow that up with a joke about a sandwich, old man.”

“A little faith, rookie,” he threw back, clutching at his heart in mock offense. She pursed her lips, but didn’t protest the nickname. Ginny Baker might not technically be a rookie, but she was always going to be Mike’s rookie. One of his last, maybe. Tapping the diamond a quarter of the way down the table, he said, “Just put it down anywhere behind this line.”

Ginny shrugged and carelessly let the ball roll out of her fingers. It came to a stop just a few inches away from the edge of a rail.

“You sure that’s where you want to put it?” he checked, eyeing the ball in question. It was far from an impossible shot, but it didn’t give her a great angle for a clean break.

“It doesn’t really matter, does it?” Ginny shrugged as her attention wandered around the bar, clearly more interested in their teammates’ bullshit than the truly excellent advice Mike was trying to give her

He rolled his eyes but did his best not to frown. “If you don’t get a legal break, it matters.”

“And you think I can’t.”

It was hard to tell in the dim light, but Mike would have sworn Ginny’s eyes were twinkling in spite of the accusation in her tone. She blinked slowly at him, one corner of her lips tugging to the side. He shook himself and went to recheck the rack. They hadn’t moved, but it gave him something better to do with his time than gaze adoringly at Ginny Baker. He’d already hit his quota for the day.

“It happens sometimes. You have to get at least one ball in a pocket or four to the sides.”

Of course, she caught on quick. “If I don’t, then you get a shot at it?”

“That’s the idea.”

She eyed the ball once more before nodding. “It’s fine there.”

“If you say so.”

The doubt in his voice didn’t seem to get to her as Ginny leaned over and lined up her shot. Before she could take it, though, she lifted her eyes to Mike, all the way at the foot of the table. With a grin that did dangerous things to his insides, she asked, “What do you say we make this interesting?”

Mike raised a brow of his own. “What’d you have in mind?”

Her lips quirked to the side in thought. If she had a free hand, he was sure she’d tap her chin to really sell the bit. After just a moment, she lit up, and if Mike had thought her grin was dangerous before, the curve of her lips now was downright deadly. A throb of interest pinged low in his gut. Lower, if he was being honest.

Jesus Christ. This was not the time.

“If you lose, you have to pay for my dinners for the rest of spring training.”

Mike could imagine worse fates than treating Ginny to a few dinners here in Arizona, even with her bottomless pit of a stomach.

“Fine,” he agreed. Though not so quick as to seem desperate for some of her time. “What about if I win?”

“Up to you.”

Oh, now that was a dangerous prospect. There were so many things Mike ached to say: If I win, you sit next to me on every plane ride this season instead of walking by like you have so far; you come over and watch Star Wars without complaining about the hokey special effects; you tell me the name of your perfume so I can soak my sheets in it; you agree to talk about this thing between us; you let me take you home and show you a much better use for a pool table. The possibilities were limitless.

But, Mike wasn’t going to push it. They were only just getting back into the swing of things, slowly easing into a collegial relationship that was indisputably aware of the current of desire underpinning it. He didn’t want to mess with their fragile status quo.

So, he said, “If I win, you can only shake me off twice a game until we leave Arizona.”

“Four times.”

“Three.”

“Deal.”

She reached out, across the table so Mike had to lean in too, and they shook on it. Ginny’s warm, callused palm against his felt beyond right, but now wasn’t the time for Mike to get all mushy about holding her hand. So, after maybe a second longer than necessary, he released her and nodded to the table.

Ginny studied him for another long beat before bending back down to line up her shot.

Unlike the few strokes he’d seen her take in that game he’d pulled her from, this one was smooth and measured, brisk. The cue ball shot forward and knocked into the rack, scattering the formation easily.

Definitely a legal break. She hadn’t pocketed anything, but there were certainly more than four balls on the rail. A couple were still lazily spinning toward them, too.

One happened to be the 8-ball.

Transfixed, Mike watched as the black ball, freed from its spot in the middle of the pyramid, spun its way towards a center pocket. Just when he thought it would stop, only a smidge shy of the hole, another ball ricocheted into it, neatly pocketing it and winning Ginny the game.

One stroke and she’d beat him.

Smoothly, Ginny straightened, a triumphant smile making her glow.

God damn it, that was hot as hell.

From a table away, having clearly drifted closer when Mike wasn’t paying attention, Blip burst into howls of laughter. Ginny grinned over at him, lifting her chin in acknowledgment before leveling her victorious grin on Mike again. It probably shouldn’t have made his heart swoop in his chest, but there were a lot of things about Ginny that shouldn’t make Mike feel the way he did. The center fielder wiped a few tears away from the corner of his eyes, his shoulders still shaking.

“Man, I wanted to tell you,” he crowed when he caught sight of Mike’s shocked face, “but you didn’t even give me a chance. Ginny used to hustle all the locals back in San Antonio.”

When Mike turned his disbelieving stare on her, she hitched a shoulder modestly.

“Minor league pay only takes you so far.”

That was certainly true, but it didn’t make pool sharks out of all its players.

“How the hell did you learn how to do that?” Mike demanded, feeling more than a little guilty for underestimating Ginny. Someday, he’d learn to stop doing that.

“I lived in Texas for three years, Mike,” she said, like that explained everything. Then again, it wasn’t like he’d spent a lot of time there in the minors, so maybe it did. “And I aced Geometry.” Ginny shrugged, like that was a reasonable segue. Mike just stared at her, still more than a little gobsmacked. The right side of her mouth quirked up, dimple sinking into her cheek. “That’s all this is. Planes and angles. Like pitching.”

“Like pitching?” Mike sputtered, staring in bewildered amazement at this woman.

“Yeah,” she said, finally turning that steady gaze of hers on him. An eyebrow arched. “Haven’t you heard that before?”

There was a fog or something clouding Mike’s brain. That had to be why his voice sounded so distant when he said no.

That fog only thickened when delight spread across Ginny’s face, lighting up her dimpled smile. Grinning like a maniac—the prettiest god damn maniac Mike had ever seen—Ginny hung off her pool cue and teased, “Are you telling me there’s baseball wisdom Mike Lawson’s never heard before?”

He rolled his eyes and did his best to cut through the haze hampering his critical thinking skills. That and the knots his tongue had been tied into.

“You make me sound like a walking encyclopedia,” he eventually managed.

“Aren’t you? When it comes to baseball, at least? Coulda sworn I saw your name in Ken Burns’ credits.”

“I am wise beyond belief, yes,” he replied, puffing out his chest and ignoring Ginny’s incredulous snort, “but even I don’t know everything. I’d be too amazing if I did.”

“You’d be too something, that’s for sure.”

“Respect your captain, rookie!”

She bit her lip and looked down, long lashes casting a heavy arc of shadow on her bronze cheek. When she glanced up at him, her eyes were sparkling, delight dancing deep in the whiskey brown depths. God, if this was how he felt from just a smile, fuck him if she ever decided to— Well, fuck him. “Only if you keep me well fed, captain.”

“Now that, I can do. I make a mean chicken parm.”

What? He said he’d pay for her dinners, and he would. Just, she never specified who was going to make them.

Both of Ginny’s eyebrows jumped in surprise. “You don’t have to do that,” she tried, a flush rising up her chest. It was unusual to see, and not just because Mike usually didn’t have such an unencumbered view of her chest.

“I’ll pay for your dinners, Baker, but don’t think I’m paying for you to eat a cheeseburger and a strawberry malt every day. Oscar and Al’d kill me if I let you clog your arteries at the ripe old age of 24.”

“My dietician says it’s malts every other day,” she corrected, another grin tugging at the corner of her mouth.

“Well, that makes all the difference, doesn’t it?” Ginny laughed and Mike didn’t keep himself from joining in. When the brash, braying sound—which sounded more and more like music every time he heard it—faded away, Mike tipped his head to the side, regarding her. Something that felt an awful lot like yearning burned a hole in his chest. “C’mon, Baker. I promise not to poison you.”

For a long moment, she studied him. Mike had no idea what she wanted to find, but she must’ve because Ginny nodded and asked, “Your place or mine?”

“Do you even have cooking utensils in your kitchen?”

“My dishes are all microwave safe. What more do I need?”

He rolled his eyes. “That’s a no, then. All right, tomorrow after the game, you’re coming over and I’m feeding you food that didn’t come in a microwaveable box. How’s that sound?”

He’d be lying if he didn’t want the next words out of her mouth to be: “It’s a date.” And while Mike Lawson could lie with the best of them, he had no interest in stretching the truth on this front.

He also knew that now, as was so often the case lately, just wasn’t the time.

But maybe now was the time for laying a foundation. For when the time eventually came.

Ginny nodded. “Works for me.”

“Good.” Mike tried not to heave a sigh of relief and pushed all the plans he was already busy making to the back of his mind. “Now, show me that trick shot of yours.”

“It’s not a trick!” she protested, laughing but still circling the table to start reracking the balls. “It’s geometry. And physics.”

Mike rolled his eyes but listened attentively as she leaped into her explanation. No, he had no idea how torque or angles or the Newtonian laws of physics could be applied to a pool table, but Ginny did, and he would be more than happy to listen to her talk about duller things for much longer.

Okay. So maybe Peoria still didn’t have much to offer in the way of entertainment, especially not when Mike had learned the town inside and out over the past 17 years. It was as familiar as the back of his hand.

However, for the next month, Peoria had Ginny Baker. And, as Mike was learning, with Ginny around, the familiar things had this funny habit of feeling brand new.

#bawson #bawson fic #pitch #pitch fic #i wrote something #editing this was a nightmare #because this fic wanted to be #approx 3 separate fics #when it should be just the one #it's currently about 2 #long post

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