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baseball!Harry blurb

My first job out of college was good--good in the sense that I didn’t have to relocate out of Southern California, and good in the sense that I didn’t end up somewhere like Springfield, Illinois.

No offense to Springfield, Illinois--but my dream to be a broadcast journalist and on air talent was more more likely to take flight in Los Angeles than it was in the middle of nowhere.

I’d gotten to the ballpark early enough to have dinner, get settled, and do a few promotional shots with Mark, the faithful cameraman who’d been giving me pointers and tips since I’d started at NBC Los Angeles. The crowd was already pretty full--which wasn’t shocking for game three of the World Series--and I was constantly trying to calm the butterflies in my stomach.

“Relax,” Mark said, looking up from the camera he held. He’d set it down on a seat nearby--adjusting a few settings as fans filed down the aisles around us. “You’re doing fine, you’re gonna be great.”

I appreciated his words of encouragement, mostly because my boss had made it clear that they were taking a chance by sending me to game three. Ilana Perry--the usual sports girl they sent out to the sidelines--had come down with the flu and was unable to do the gig.

Lucky for me, I was young, bright-eyed, and obnoxiously asking for bigger and better and more assignments since I started with channel 4 in May.

They’d liked me well enough--they liked my highlight reel and my resume was impressive for someone my age. I’d had access to amazing equipment and good stories at UCLA, so getting the job offer from NBC was like hitting the jackpot. I accepted immediately.

“I know, I know,” I said to Mark, holding my microphone and papers close to my chest. In a minutes, we’d head to the locker room to do a few interviews before the start of the game, but Mark needed to fix whatever technical issue was occuring.

“Alright, I think we’re good,” he said, lifting the camera off of the seat and inspecting the side of it once more. Mark, a 55-year-old man who was old enough to be my father, had been working for channel 4 since he was my age. His regular reminders about my on-air charm and my ability to sniff out a good story helped in moments like these--moments where it felt like my career was on the line.

I nodded at him, allowing him to take the lead as we made our way down into the concourse. We strolled passed vendors, past fans in face paint and the long lines at the bars, until we found the unmarked door and security personnel who granted us access into the locker room.

Thankful for the laminated pass around my neck, I stepped in behind Mark, and seemed to take my place behind fifteen other journalists and reporters.

Beyond the other microphones and recorders, I could see his brown hair peeking out beneath his hat. He chewed on a piece of gum, nodding at the person in front of him who scribbled down whatever words he was saying.

Harry Styles, the young and questionable player from England, of all places, was somewhat of an interview favorite. He’d been with the Oklahoma City Dodgers last season, and after another player had surgery, Harry was brought it and immediately made a difference.

No one expected him to be so good, and no one expected him to be so funny, so charismatic, and so friendly.

“If we can talk to him, we should,” Mark muttered under his breath, standing beside me as we stepped forward in the line. A few other players milled about, but it was clear, everyone wanted to get a chance to speak with Harry.

“I know,” I nodded. “I’d love to ask him about that game in June when he hit for the cycle and came into home with a bloody nose.”

Mark let out a laugh--he always liked it when I came up with good questions, or conversations that seemed out of left-field. Everyone tonight would be asking how he felt--only 24 and playing in the World Series. He’d expect it from me--he’d expect the blonde girl with channel 4 to ask him if he was nervous, if he was excited.

But I knew the game better than that--I knew the amazing feat it was to hit for the cycle, and I’d rather talk to him about something unique. If I really wanted to know how nervous he was for tonight’s game, I could easily watch KTLA in the morning, or just about any other news station.

I watched the man in front of me ask him the same old questions. How’s the weather here compared to London? What’s it like to be in the World Series? You’re so young, are your parents proud?

He answered the questions with a grace, nodding and smiling and making an effort to be approachable--he adjusted his hat and locked eyes with me when the man walked away.

“Hi, Nicole Pearce, channel 4, NBC,” I shook his hand, smiling up at him as Mark moved around me, trying to find a good angle to get the shot.

“Harry Styles, outfielder, Los Angeles Dodgers,” he smirked back, his accent was thicker than I imagined, his eyes were a shade of green that couldn’t even be captured on TV. “How are you?”

“Good,” I nodded at him. “A little overwhelmed, I only started back in May.”

I didn’t know why I was telling him that--the last thing I needed was for him to think I didn’t know what I was doing or what I was talking about. He didn’t actually care, he was just being nice and making conversation while Mark got everything set up.

“I know how that feels,” he laughed. This was his first season in LA, he was young and bright-eyed and ambitious, just like me. “Sometimes when I get nervous, though, I just pretend everyone else is naked--that usually helps.”

I laughed, feeling a flush come to my face when his eyes went wide.

“I mean, not now, like--I’m not nervous now, you’re making me very comfortable,” he said, his words rambling into a run-on sentence to avoid any awkwardness. It might have been too late.

“Alright,” Mark looked up, a smirk tugged at his lips as he looked between us. “Ready?”

Harry only nodded, his cheeks still tinged pink from his accidental innuendo, but then he looked at me to start us off.

I cleared my throat when Mark gave me the count--3, 2, 1.

“Nicole Pearce live from Dodgers Stadium with outfielder Harry Styles,” I spoke into the microphone, focusing on the lens in front of me. “Harry, I’m sure most people are asking you the typical questions tonight--are you nervous, how’s it feel? But I’ve actually got a question for you about that game in June, if that’s alright.”

He immediately knew what I was talking about, fighting a bit of a smile that tugged at his mouth. He nodded, waiting for me to continue.

“You’re the youngest player to hit for the cycle in your first season with the Dodgers, but that Tuesday night game--how’d you get a bloody nose?”

He gave me a full smile now, chuckling a little as he nodded. I hoped he appreciated the humor, I hope he was thankful that I didn’t ask him the same thing that everyone else had asked.

“I’m not sure, really,” he shook his head. “It was totally out of the blue and couldn’t have been worse timing.”

“I’ll take it there was no celebration after that home run, then? No high fives or anything?”

“No, definitely not,” he shook his head, “I went straight to the locker room with a trainer--but it stopped, I was alright.”

“And Los Angeles is thankful for that. Good luck tonight, Harry. From the locker room, I’m Nicole Pearce, channel 4 sports.”

Mark pointed in our direction to let us know we were out--I looked back up at Harry, who’s eyebrows were somewhat raised. He chewed his gum still, but I couldn’t read the expression on his face. For a second I was worried that I’d bothered him--was he embarrassed, was he annoyed that I didn’t focus on tonight’s game?

“That was good,” he nodded down at me. “It’s always nice to get a break from the same old questions.”

“I was hoping it’d be a welcomed break,” I said honestly, pushing a strand of hair behind my ear.

“Will you be here after?” He asked suddenly, Mark watched on as he held the big camera in front of his torso.

“Here? In the locker room?” I suddenly felt aware of the line of people behind me--the other reporters who were waiting to get a piece of him, waiting to ask him a question and get some insight into his mind.

He nodded, crossing his arms as he looked down at me again. His uniform--the white and blue--complimented him well. Despite his newness to the team, he had an air of confidence that I could tell was genuine. He knew he was good, he knew he was making me a bit nervous.

“Yeah--I’m here all night,” I answered.

“Good to know,” he smiled. “I’ll try to find you later.”

**

I knew that being in this line of work meant uncertainty. It meant flexibility and it meant doing a lot of things on the fly. I had no idea, however, when I walked into Dodgers Stadium at 6pm that night, that I would be there until the next morning.

The game went 18 innings--the equivalent to a double header and the longest game in World Series history. While the fact that Mark and I stayed to cover the whole game was good for my career, it was anything but for my sanity.

At the 13th inning I was sure we were going home--the Red Sox had scored and our luck wasn’t great. I’d almost resigned to another loss, until we tied it again.

The longer the game went, the longer I watched Harry play and make catches and celebrate with his teammates, the more intrigued I was about our conversation.

He was friendly, that I had heard from other reporters in the field and other people I knew from work. I’d never met him before, but the way he smiled at me and said he’d find me later--it made me not as mad about sticking around.

Then again, it wasn’t like I had much of a choice--it was my job, after all.

I brushed on more makeup in the media bathroom, hoping to cover the circles under my eyes and make it seem like I wasn’t so exhausted. My schedule at the station had my sleep all over the place--some days they’d want me to do the morning shift and cover for one of our main anchors. That had me up at 2:30am and in the office by 3:30.

Things like this--games, sports, the thing I really wanted to cover--had me reapplying makeup in the middle of the night. I’d already done a sideline interview with the manager. Apparently he recognized Mark as one of the usual suspects nearby and offered a few seconds--that was one of the perks of working with Mark.

I’d watched Harry, out of the corner of my eye, make his way out of the dugout when they’d won--they all stormed the diamond to congratulate their teammate who’d hit a walk-off homerun. I think they were just as happy as I was that it was finally over.

“Excuse me, sorry--NBC, excuse us,” I muttered, hoping to push through some of the people at the back of the locker room. It was smellier than before, all sorts of scents wafted through the warm room. There were plenty of players who’d already been in and out of the shower, but the heat from the bodies and their exertion still clung to the air.

“Want to talk to Styles again? He played pretty well,” Mark asked, taking a second to hoist the camera up to his shoulder.

I scanned the room. I needed to be professional--I couldn’t let the flush on my cheeks or the skipping heart beat take over, even if the Dodgers’ youngest star player had possibly pictured me naked. That wasn’t the point.

“Sure, yeah, we can find whoever,” I shrugged my shoulders, hoping to just forget about the entirety of my conversation before. I needed to take this seriously. Covering this game was huge, I didn’t need to fangirl over someone just because he was a professional athlete.

We made our way to stand in the group of people near Max Muncy, I shoved the microphone through the crowd of recorders and iPhones, hoping to catch whatever he said. He was appreciative, he was excited, I managed to ask him a question about how he feels heading into game four, and then it was over.

The locker room was thinning out most of the players had changed and talked for a few minutes, they were likely heading home for what was hopefully a good night’s sleep.

I was standing with Mark, who was just about to power off the camera and gather his belongings, when I spotted him near his locker. His name was plastered above it, he stood, bent over, as he packed up his things. He smiled and offered a handshake to one of his teammates, the same smile on his face that I’d seen much closer early in the night. I cleared my throat when Mark, with raised brows, caught me staring.

“Relax, I was just seeing what he was doing,” I rolled my eyes, annoyed that Mark was clearly amused by my crush.

“Sure,” he laughed, dropping his Sony HXR into the bag he toted around. “I heard him say he’d find you later. I can give you some space.”

“Oh my god,” I rolled my eyes again, falling into step with him quickly as we headed towards the door. “Please, I’m going home, too. I’m exhausted.”

He opened the door back into the concourse and paused when we were outside. He took out his cellphone, looking at the time. “I’m in lot five, where are you?”

I pointed down the main hall and frowned. “Lot ten,” apparently the senior media got the better lot. “But have a good night, I’m back in on Sunday.”

He clicked his phone shut and put it back in his pocket. “Have a good night, Nic.”

I waved him off, draping my own bag over my shoulder as I began to trudge down the hallway. The walk to my car wasn’t terrible, but it was long--especially in the heels I’d been wearing for the last 18 innings.

I scrolled mindlessly as I walked, watching the array of tweets come in about the game, the score, the insanity of the entire evening. I was about to turn down the hallway that would bring me out to the parking lot when I heard voices approaching behind. The whir of a golf cart quieted, causing me to turn around.

“Hi,” Harry Styles smiled at me--clad in athletic shorts and a sweatshirt. The man driving looked familiar, maybe one of their trainers, maybe a teammate. “Nicole Pearce, NBC 4, right?”

I nodded, feeling a flush rise on my cheeks. His hair was brushed back under a Dodgers hat, which sat backwards on his head. He smirked at me. “Need a ride?”

“Oh--I’m fine, I’m in lot ten,” I said, pointing over my shoulder to motion to where my car was parked.

“You’ve still got a ways to go,” he informed me, the corners of his mouth still pointed upwards. “Come on, get in,” he motioned to the backwards facing seat behind him. I looked up and down the hall, wondering if this was something that I’d get in trouble for.

Since I didn’t know the answer, I figured I was allowed to feign ignorance. “I hope I don’t lose my job because of this,” I said quietly, climbing up and taking a seat--my feet were immediately grateful for the relief.

“If you lose your job because of me, I’ll personally call your boss and give him a very stern talking to,” he nodded solemnly.

I laughed, running a hand through my hair, hoping that my cheeks weren’t so pink that he could tell I was nervous.

“Are you local, Nicole?” He asked as we lurched into motion--the driver took the turn down the hall for lot ten, I nodded in response to his question and cleared my throat.

“I went to UCLA, grew up in Sherman Oaks. Now I’m in Studio City.”

He was twisted around to see me, his arm on the back of my seat. I could see the stubble on his face, the way it grew up his chin and on his jaw line, the way it sprinkled his upper lip. He was tan--all the playing in the sun must have changed his skin tone a bit, but he smiled at me.

“Bit of a drive in rush hour from here, no? How was your drive out?”

I shrugged--the 5 was always a mess, but I’d left from the studio after Mark and I had gotten the equipment we needed, so the route was more direct. “It’ll be better now at almost 1:30am.”

He smiled still, his eyes just scanning over my face as if he had something to say as we exited out the stadium and into the dark parking lot. I kept eye contact for a minute, though self-conscious about the heavy makeup I wore. It looked fine on TV, but in person it always seemed obnoxious.

The gold cart slowed to a stop. “A couple of teammates are headed back to my house just to hang out, have a drink, if you’re not doing anything.”

My eyes must have went wide, he laughed and shrugged. “Or not--if you don’t want to.”

“No, no, I appreciate that,” I said quickly, cursing my overly expressive face and my inability to ever play it cool. “I just, it’s late, I figured you’d all go home and sleep.”

He laughed again, taking the baseball cap off of his head to smooth out his hair before replacing it. “Yeah, we will eventually. Hard to go straight home after a night like that,” he threw a thumb over his shoulder back towards the stadium.

I nodded--it made sense. It’d be hard enough to sleep at all after the events of the night. I stared at him, his eyes scanned my face once more, a smirk tugged at his lips and he shrugged his shoulders, as if asking me why not?

“Yeah,” I said. “Okay.”

**

When I found myself seated on a plush beige couch in Harry Styles’ living room, directly next to Joc Pederson and Walker Buehler, I knew that I could definitely lose my job for this.

I mean, it wasn’t like any of them cared who I was or even really asked. I’d walked in with Harry, thankful that the ride from the stadium to his house was only 25 minutes. I’d abandoned my car at the stadium, he said that of their trainers could drive it out later for me or I could get it in the morning.

I pushed the fear out of my head--I wasn’t the type of girl to do this, but something in me told me that it’d be a night to remember, a night that only comes once in a lifetime. I think I was right.

There was enough beer to furnish three college frat parties, a few of Harry’s teammates swatted a ping pong ball back and forth at a table near the kitchen, a few of them were watching replays of the night’s biggest plays on the TV in front of us.

Harry, who’d disappeared into the kitchen to get me another drink, returned and handed it down to me. “I can give you a tour, if you want,” he held a hand out, helping me from the couch. I stood, surprised at the height difference between the two of us now that I was without my heels.

He was tall, that was clear. He had broad shoulders, white teeth, curly, messy hair that was still tamed beneath his backwards hat. I followed him out the living room, away from the people and down a main hall.

He flipped on a light switch and stepped aside so I could see in. “Guest room,” he said. “Normally where my mum stays when she comes out.”

I smiled, picturing his family from the U.K. coming out to experience America’s past time. “How often does she come?”

“Eh,” he shrugged. “A few times a season. She’s out now with some of my aunts and cousins, but they’re all in a hotel.”

He flipped the light off, shut the door, and led me down the hall. “Bathroom there,” he pointed into a dark door.

“Yep, I used it already,” I laughed, watching him offer a smirk over his shoulder as he continued to lead me towards the stairs.

The foyer through which I’d entered was impressive enough as it. Beautiful dark wood end tables lined either side of the room, a second floor was visible, wrought iron railings lined the stairs and the overlook above.

“You saw the kitchen and the living room,” he said, climbing the first few steps. I climbed behind him, keeping enough of a safe distance. Sure, my job had allowed me access to a few celebrities here and there. Once I got to go to banquet where Demi Lovato gave a speech, there was even the time in college where I’d gotten to go to a journalism expo where Katie Couric and Don Lemon were, but I’d never experienced this.

I’d never been invited into someone’s home who’d I’d interviewed only a mere hours ago.

Harry led me down a hallway that seemed to have an end in sight. “Bedroom there, office there,” he pointed at two doors on either side of the hall. “There’s a bathroom with that one, it has a really nice tub.”

I laughed, following him down the dark hallway until he stopped at a set of double doors. “This is the master, my room,” he pushed the doors open, revealing a king sized bed clad in gray sheets and a gray duvet. He had a few jerseys framed above his bed--names I didn’t recognize but teams that I did.

One of the Yankees, one of the Astros. “Isn’t is kind of against the rules to have these?” I teased, walking closer to his bed and pointing up at them. I could hear the people downstairs, the cheering at the TV when they saw themselves do something amazing. He flicked the light switch on but kept the lights dim.

I turned around to see him, his lips were tugged into a smirk once more as he shrugged. “I mean, maybe--but they don’t spend a lot of time up here,” he motioned to his teammates downstairs.

“And this,” I looked to the protected bat that was mounted on the wall, signed by David Ortiz. “This is incredible, have you met him?”

“Unfortunately no,” he rolled his eyes, coming closer to examine it beside me. “He retired the year I got drafted.”

“My dad has loved the Dodgers forever, but he loves David Ortiz.” I said mostly to myself, still taking in the shiny bat that hung on the dark red wall.

I looked over to him to find his eyes on me once again--his eyes scanned down my face to my lips, and before I knew it, my body was pressed to his. His lips were unbelievably soft, his hands felt rough from gripping a bat, but soft as the moved down my size. I let my hands reach up to his face, feeling the stubble on his chin against my palms as he kissed me harder.

It was crazy--all of it, really. A typical night at work became a historical game and now it was surely something to remember. I let Harry push me towards the bed, he pulled away slightly when we toppled down, a smile on his face as he looked at me.

“Sorry--I hope that wasn’t too forward,” he paused, a look on his face almost told me he was now embarrassed, as if he felt bad for the way we’d pressed ourselves together.

“It’s fine,” I giggled, he held his weight on his elbow as he stared down at me. “Forward isn’t a bad thing.”

He brought his lips back to me, less feverishly this time, kissing me deeply and letting his hand trace down the hem of my dress. Stupid work dress--it was the least sexy thing I owned. If I had known this would happen, I’d have gone with the black one with the questionable amount of cleavage.

His fingers pushed the fabric of my dress aside, trailing up the skin of my inner thighs. I heard laughter erupt from downstairs, but Harry didn’t budge. His fingers crawled up to the fabric of the thong I wear, which he quickly pushed aside to allow himself access.

I let a moan out against his lips when he middle finger grazed over my clit. He smiled into me, letting himself rub at my center harder as I arched my back into him. Something about the uniform, the accent, the way he’d smiled at me in the locker room--all of it made me want him more than I’d ever wanted anyone.

He pulled away from me quickly, his lips red from blood flow. “D’ya want to take that off?” He pointed to the dress as he knelt on the mattress. I nodded excitedly, reaching back to tug at the zipper, but he ultimately brushed his hand against mine when he pulled it along my spine.

He pulled it off of me, leaving me in my bra and thong on his mattress. He pulled his own shirt over his head, removing the hat along with it. He brought his lips to mine once more, his left hand moved down to cup my breast, grasping me over the fabric.

I let my hand reach down to his shorts, feeling the bulge that grew beneath them. He let out a whimper when I palmed him over the material, he shoved a hand beneath me to remove the bra from between us.

His lips moved quickly to my nipple, he swirled his tongue in circles as I let me fingers grasp into the hair at the nape of his neck. He was good at this--which I think he knew, but he was surprised when I pushed him off of me.

“Go down on me,” I said suddenly, a smirk crossed his face as heat flew to my cheeks. I wasn’t necessarily one to be bossy--but I knew what I wanted and he seemed willing to do it. He moved his way down the mattress to the edge of the bed, looped his arms under my thighs, and pulled me closer to him.

“Gladly,” he raised his eyebrows as he pulled the black fabric from my hips, bringing it down to my ankles before I flicked it to the ground. He pressed a kiss against me first, just a light sucking and a gentle heat left me wanting more--enough so that I reached a hand down and pressed him into me. He laughed lightly, letting his tongue make contact with my clit, I let out another moan as he worked at me.

I don’t know if it was the fact that there were people downstairs, the fact that this was definitely against something in my contract, or the fact that I’d be sure to see him again, but something about the whole situation made it hotter.

He brought a finger up to slide in and out of me, his mouth still connected to my center as he licked away--my back arched off of the mattress and his name escaped my lips.

He liked that, apparently, because he pulled away from me and smirked. I sat up, reached forward to grab at his shorts, pulling him closer to me and pulling the fabric away from his cock in one swift motion.

His knees jerked a bit when my hand clasped around him, he let out a deep breath when I took him into my mouth. I giggled, smiling up at him as I let my tongue slide up and down his shaft.

“Fuck, Nicole,” he said, his eyes closing for a second as he leaned his head back. The sound of my name on his lips made me work harder--I wanted to hear it again. He was in my control, he was only thinking about me in this moment, and that felt good.

I sucked at the head, my hand cupping his balls for a minute, but soon, he placed a hand on my shoulder and gave me a slight push. “Can I just fuck you?”

I laughed, appreciative of his question as I shifted back on the bed. He crawled forward on top of me, stepping out of his shorts altogether. He grasped a hand around himself, bringing it to my core and letting a shiver rake through my spine as he teased me with his tip.

“Please,” I said, through a cracked voice. He smiled, pressing himself into me and letting out a groan.

He let himself come closer down to me, brushing a piece of hair out of my eyes before letting his lips find mine once again. “Fuck,” he said, a bead of sweat dripped down the side of his forehead.

I couldn’t believe it--his eyes were closed as he thrusted in and out of me, and not only did it feel amazing to have him fill me, but I couldn’t help but marvel at my own luck.

“Harry,” I said lowly, he opened his eyes to make sure I was okay--but when he realized I was as pleased as he was, he kept moving, his cock moving against my clit in the perfect motion.

“I’m close,” I said, arching my back again to let him rub against me more.

“Yeah, baby, come on my cock,” he said, his eyes open to watch my face as he thrusted harder. It didn’t take long, and hearing him call me baby didn’t seem to hurt, either.

“Oh, fuck me,” I whimpered, feeling myself tighten around him.

“Fuck, Nicole,” he said--seemingly as close as I was. I reached my hands up, cupping his face and bringing his lips to mine, in an effort to keep both of us quiet.

He moaned against my lips, I could feel his orgasm only a few seconds after my own subsided.

He pulled his lips away from me, I opened my eyes to catch him smiling, a laugh escaped his lips. He was panting, his breath still short as he pulled himself out, I propped myself up on my elbows as he climbed off of the bed.

“Would you like to take a shower?” He asked.

I sighed, hoping to calm my own heartbeat before standing. “Sure,” I said.

He offered me a hand and pulled me off of the bed, pressing another kiss on my lips once I was stood in front of him. I followed him into the bathroom, where he turned on the shower, and let me step in first.

I let the water wash over me, a smile on my face from the shocking events of the night. The only thing that would make it better is if I could have done a story on it.

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