Total pages in book: 36
Estimated words: 34122 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 171(@200wpm)___ 136(@250wpm)___ 114(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 34122 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 171(@200wpm)___ 136(@250wpm)___ 114(@300wpm)
I’d never admit this in an interview, but the reason I throw so few pitches is that I want to get to GG. She’s the one that pumps the blood in my heart. I love baseball. I do. I love this game, and I’m so fucking honored that I get to paid to play it, but my heart belongs to GG. I get up in the morning and thank God she’s sleeping next to me, and when I get out of the locker room and see her smiling face waiting for me, I feel like I’ve won at life, no matter how the game went.
“You’re up,” Hank tells me.
“Six more batters,” I reply and slide the photo into the pocket of my playlist.
She’s waiting when I’m done. I bend down and press a kiss against her lips. “I stink,” I say.
“It’s honest sweat.” She presses a towel against my temple. “Go shower and do your press conference.”
I drop my now dry forehead against hers. “I don’t wanna,” I whine.
“You pitched a perfect game. Go get your flowers.”
I don’t move.
“Sooner you go, sooner you’re done.”
“Is this old man complaining about the press again, Mrs. Broussard.” Booker sidles up beside me. He went to Harvard law and is now an agent. I think he might make more off his roster of athletes than I do.
GG laughs. “He is. You better get him into the showers or he’ll try to escape.”
“Come on, Colt. Sooner you face the cameras, faster you’ll be done.”
“That’s what I said.” GG swats me on the ass to get me moving.
Booker grabs my non pitching arm and starts to drag me toward the locker room. I reluctantly give GG one last kiss and do what I’m told. The shower takes two seconds, but the press conference feels endless. How do you feel? Tired but happy. What went through your mind during the last out? Wonder what position GG wants me to take her in after the game. Last night we did reverse cowgirl and I watched her titties bounce while she rode my dick for an hour. Take us through each pitch? Each pitch? Are you out of your mind? Do you think you deserve another Cy Young? Yes?
Of course, I don’t say those things. I give rote, acceptable answers like I’m happy to be considered for the Cy Young, and getting to the locker room and putting ice on my shoulder was what I was thinking about.
After what seems to be a century later, but is only a couple of hours and a thousand congratulations, I’m allowed to escape. When I emerge from the tunnel, I heave a sigh of relief. I had expected a bunch of fans, but other than a few cars, it’s nearly empty except for my beauty standing next to my black and red Lambo.
She waves her hand, and my heart swells. Seeing her is better than pitching a perfect game. Winning her love was more important than the World Series. I pick up my pace until I’m all but running, rushing to snatch her up and spin her around.
“What is this?” she cries happily, bracing her hands on my shoulders. I let her down slowly, allowing her bump to glide down my chest. My baby’s in there.
“I’m just happy.”
“You should be. You pitched a perfect game.”
“Nah. I pitched a perfect life.”