Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 95606 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 478(@200wpm)___ 382(@250wpm)___ 319(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95606 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 478(@200wpm)___ 382(@250wpm)___ 319(@300wpm)
“Captain. Captain. Cap—”
Sig shut down Mailer’s chant with a glare. Then he scanned the rest of his assembled teammates. “Has anyone here ever played this godforsaken sport?”
Two hands went up near the rear of the pack. “All right, one of you lead off. The other goes second. Just get on base and I’ll bat you in.”
“Gauthier with the baseball lingo,” someone said. “I think I just sprouted wood.”
“Really?” Mailer adjusted himself. “Because I fucking lost mine.”
Corrigan punched him in the shoulder. “There’s a lady present, jackass.”
“Sorry, Chloe,” Mailer said automatically.
“What? No, Chloe is used to our bullshit.” Corrigan rubbed the back of his neck, his attention glued on the field. “I was talking about the pitcher.” He sniffed, rolled a shoulder. “She’s obviously feeling me.”
“No, I’m not,” called Skylar, tossing up the baseball and catching it without looking.
“You will be,” Corrigan shouted back, grinning.
“Only if I have to check for a pulse after the game. Because we’re about to murder you.”
“Trust me, I’ve got a pulse, sweetie. You’re making it race.”
Was the pitcher blushing? Unbelievable, but yeah. Appearing to be of Mexican descent, her skin tone was already a natural burnished brown, but the furious deepening of color had the young woman pulling down the brim of her cap to hide her face. Apparently, the bar was low these days when it came to pickup lines. “Are you just trying to psych me out?” asked the blushing pitcher. “You are, aren’t you?”
“Holy shit,” Corrigan muttered, frowning. “It’s almost like . . . she doesn’t know she’s hot.”
Sig clapped a hand down on his shoulder. “You better marry her before she finds out she could do way better.”
Corrigan was already nodding. “I know, right?” Then to the pitcher, “Can’t wait to tell the grandkids how we met, Skylar.”
“Hey.” Elton barked while striding to first base. “Stop talking to my sister.”
Corrigan unleashed a groan toward the overcast sky. “Why does every attractive woman have to be somebody’s sister?”
Sig and Chloe traded a sideways glance. “All right, let’s get this over with.” He jerked his thumb toward the batter’s box. “Jorgenson, lead us off.”
“There goes my boner again.”
“Shut up.”
Jorgenson swaggered out to the batter’s box . . . without a bat. “Shit.” He looked back over his shoulder. “I think we forgot something. Like . . . bats?”
Sig massaged the bridge of his nose. “Go borrow one from them. Jesus Christ.”
“This is off to a fine start,” offered Burgess, from his casual lean against the dugout wall.
Mailer came up beside Sig. “Speaking of gear we neglected to bring, I forgot to bring a cup. Do you happen to have a spare?”
“If I did, do you think I’d share it with you?”
“If my grapes get crushed, I could be out for weeks. I’d really hate to have that conversation with the new GM.” He cleared his throat. “Not because my broken testicles would put me on the injured reserve list, but because I’d like her to know they’re fully functioning.”
“Please tell me you’re not hot for the new GM.”
“I won’t. Because that would be an understatement.” Mailer sighed, before giving Sig a subtle elbow in the side. “Look on the bright side. At least I won’t hit on Chloe anymore.”
Fire encompassed the back of Sig’s neck.
He’d been fighting the urge to turn and look at Chloe for the last five minutes and he finally gave in now, finding her watching him, too, her expression open and vulnerable and . . . missing him. Yeah, she missed him. Maybe even half as much as he missed her. And that was going to make staying away infinitely harder. God, it might kill him, but he had to respect the decision she’d made. The hard one he didn’t have the ability to make himself.
You okay, Chlo? Sig mouthed at her.
There was a long hesitation, followed by a series of too-quick nods.
She’s not okay. We’re not okay.
“Play ball,” shouted someone from the opposing dugout, dragging Sig’s attention back to the field, though his awareness never detached from her. Not for a second. Not even when the first pitch came whistling into the strike zone at what appeared to be at least eighty miles an hour.
“Son of a bitch,” Corrigan intoned, looking dazed. “Did I just meet my future wife?”
“No,” everyone shouted back, including Skylar and Elton.
Corrigan just grinned. “Can’t wait to prove everyone wrong.”
It came as no surprise that Jorgenson struck out.
The second batter managed to get on base, but only because Sig advised him to bunt—but it was not pretty. In fact, Sig wouldn’t freely admit to anyone who listened that he did not want to try his hand against Skylar, because, yeah, she had an arm like a fucking cannon and she hadn’t even broken a sweat. Outwardly, though, he kept his cool and approached the batter’s box, taking a couple of practice swings along the way. And he reverted back to the fake mind bets he used to make with himself as a kid for motivation. Such as, if you score today, you get to meet Sidney Crosby. If you practice for one more hour, you get drafted in the first round.