Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 61180 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 306(@200wpm)___ 245(@250wpm)___ 204(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61180 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 306(@200wpm)___ 245(@250wpm)___ 204(@300wpm)
“I want that so much more than a pot roast. So, the answer is yes.”
Grant turns into his league’s locker room as I grab my phone from my back pocket and google local car companies.
As I search, my phone buzzes with a text. I click open the thread from my agent.
Vaughn: The Legends shoot in New York was moved to nine a.m. tomorrow instead of the afternoon. I switched your flight to an earlier one, so no time for press conferences or post-game shenanigans! I’ll have a car service at the park so you can catch the flight on time. We only have one day with the sponsor before your New York Minotaurs series.
Groaning at the quick demise of the limo plans, I reply like a professional.
Declan: Do I look like a rookie to this whole sponsorship thing? I know the drill. And I will be there on the earlier flight. You’re cute when you worry.
Vaughn: I’m cute all the time. See you tomorrow, slugger. If you win MVP, I bet I can score you even more sponsors. It’s such a feel-good award.
Declan: But hey, no pressure.
Vaughn: As if you ever feel pressure.
Declan: I am cool as a cucumber.
I close the thread with him, open one with Grant, and fire off a quick text.
Declan: Looks like I won’t be seeing you post-game after all. Gotta catch an earlier flight for the Legends shoot tomorrow.
Grant: It’s hard to be so popular. How ever do you manage?
Declan: It’s a tough life, but someone’s got to do it. I’m so damn important that a helicopter will land on the field to whisk me off to make my earlier flight to New York.
Grant: Can you still fit through the locker room door with the size of your ego?
Declan: You weren’t complaining about the size of my anything this morning.
Grant: Are you trying to distract me with sweet nothings? If that’s the case, when you stride up to the plate you better not think about what I did to you this morning in bed.
Declan: I’ll think about the bed, and the table, and what we did in the shower. And I will still hit an epic homer. I am that good.
Grant: What are you? Babe Ruth calling your cock shot?
Declan: I am the Sultan of Swat at the plate and the King of Your Pleasure at home.
Grant: I don’t know if I should be annoyed or impressed with your swagger.
Declan: Take door number three. Turned on. You should be turned on.
Grant: If I were any place but a locker room, I’d snap a shot of my dick right now and send it your way to distract you. Oh wait, I took one last night. Here goes. Think of this steel at the plate, Mister Steele.
My phone fills with a fantastic image that makes me want to get down on my knees.
But I need to get rid of this boner, stat, before my teammates walk into the locker room. Deleting the image and closing the phone, I imagine pop music, crowds, and dancing in front of the whole entire stadium.
Yup. That’s an erection eraser for sure.
“And now batting third for the visiting team is Declan Steele with the San Francisco Dragons. Hailing from the great state of California, the Golden Glove shortstop bats right and throws right. Let’s give it up for Number Eighteen.”
I stride to the plate in the top of the first, wave to all the fans in the gloriously air-conditioned ballpark, as well as the ones watching at home on TV, then adjust my batting glove. Taking a practice swing, I do my damnedest to avoid making eye contact with the guy behind the plate.
It’s time for baseball, not for flirting.
I sense him behind me, though, and I put on my mental blinders, blocking everything out—his sexy taunts earlier, his dirty pics, and his big heart that I adore.
But especially his fantasy of striking me out.
Grant gives the signal. The pitcher nods, then goes into the windup and fires off the ball. Looks low and out, so I check my swing.
“Strike one!” the ump calls out.
Grant’s delight wafts off him as he lobs the ball back to the pitcher, who takes a beat, leans in, nods.
I dig in, and the pitcher throws the ball.
Less than half a second later, my brain says swing, and I follow that instinct, connecting with a loud crack.
Dammit. That was a goddamn hanging curveball, and those are pitcher’s pitches.
But I run it out anyway, hoofing it to first base, even though I’m sure it’s a foul ball as it soars, and arcs, and flies, and holy fucking shit! The ball flies over the right-field fence. I pump my fist, smacking palms with the first-base coach, then running the bases, and sending the man on second home.
I cross home plate with a triumphant grin on my mug.