Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 73383 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 367(@200wpm)___ 294(@250wpm)___ 245(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73383 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 367(@200wpm)___ 294(@250wpm)___ 245(@300wpm)
“Hmm,” I murmured. “Your house isn’t on the lake…it’s on the lake!”
He chuckled and opened his door, and I followed suit.
He rounded the truck just as I jumped down.
His hands on my hips startled me, and I looked up into his eyes with surprise.
“What…”
He slammed his mouth down onto mine, and I gasped, stealing his breath as I did.
His tongue took advantage of my opened mouth and plunged inside.
My hands went to his biceps, my tongue found his.
He growled as he pushed me back against the truck, and it took everything I had to stay upright as he took my mouth.
The moment he disengaged, I opened my stupid mouth.
“What was that?” I gasped.
He grinned.
“That…well, that’s something I’ve been wanting to do for three freakin’ days.”
Hancock went on to have the best hitting game of his life…and guess what became his newest superstition?
Chapter 6
The only thing dirty about my beard is the mind that comes with it.
-Coffee Cup
Sway
“More ice?” I asked, taking glee out of the fact that each bucket of ice I added to Hancock’s water made him shiver even more.
Today had been a practice day, and tomorrow would be a rest day, and the next day would be the actual game, and he’d practiced like shit today.
Though, I had a feeling that had a lot to do with the fact that he’d lost his catcher’s mitt somewhere rather than him intentionally playing like shit.
“N-no,” he said. “I think I’m getting sick.”
My brows rose.
“You running a fever?” I asked.
Now that I was looking at him, he did look a little rougher than normal.
“T-think so.” He nodded his head.
I reached down between his legs and started to pull the plug on the bath, but he stilled my arm.
“My thigh is fucking killing me from where I took that knee,” he let my arm go. “I need the bath. For now. I’ll get out in a few.”
I watched as the color that was high on his cheeks that, earlier, I’d thought was due to the game, became more prominent.
Looking over at my assistant, Lacey, I beckoned her over with my hand. She was in the trainer program at a local college.
“Can you take a look at Gentry Green and make sure he’s good to go?” I requested.
Lacey looked over at the bench that Gentry was sitting on, talking to another player, and then nodded. “I can do that.”
She practically skipped as she rushed in his direction, and I had to hold my laugh in as she stopped directly in front of Gentry, completely blocking off the player he was talking to.
“She seems…excited,” Hancock’s rumble broke into my contemplation of how I was going to have to tell Lacey to take a chill pill.
“She’s young and excited,” I nodded my head. “I think she’s going to turn into an awesome trainer…as long as we can get that starry-eyed look out of her eyes.”
Hancock snorted, his eyes never opening.
“Where do you think you lost your glove?” I asked him, leaning against the tub as I stared down at him.
With his eyes closed, I admired his built chest and his tight, muscular thighs.
Most players wore their skivvies into the ice baths. Most.
Hancock usually didn’t.
Today, though, he was still wearing his tight boxer briefs, not giving me the view of absolutely everything like he usually did.
However, it was enough.
Enough to heighten my breathing and make my face flush.
“Saw it in my locker before I went to eat after practice,” he murmured. “And when I got back it was gone.”
I pursed my lips.
“You think someone stole it?” I asked worriedly.
He cracked an eye open. “Yeah.”
I frowned.
Stealing in professional baseball was nearly unheard of.
These guys had a lot of money and didn’t need to steal.
If someone stole it, and he didn’t just misplace it in a sickness-induced haze, then someone was about to get their ass kicked.
I had no doubt in my mind that Hancock would find his glove.
Hell, he’d hire a freakin’ private detective and half the police force to find it if he had to.
Money, as I’d said, wasn’t a problem for these boys.
Which made me wonder…why?
“Maybe you should start putting a lock on your locker,” I suggested.
He grunted.
“I would…but numbers get fucked up in my head. I’m dyslexic,” he muttered, sounding completely out of it. “Nine and six are a bitch for me to work with since they flop in my head.”
He made a hand gesture to explain how they were switched around, and I felt a sweet sense of longing hit me.
“So, get one that doesn’t have numbers, but a key,” I suggested.
Hearing he was dyslexic tugged on my heartstrings.
He grunted. “I don’t know what happened,” he muttered. “But if it continues, then I’ll get a lock.”
“What if your batting gloves are taken next time…or your shoes?” I asked.
Lord knew his shoes were eight seasons old.