Garret and Lexie seem deep in conversation, so I stand.
“I’m going to the bathroom.” I need to regroup.
“You want company?”
“No, I’ll be okay. You keep discussing this awesome building.” I wink and take off toward the corridor. I stop to admire my brother’s jersey one more time.
“It’s kind of cool one of the greats to have come out of this program shares your last name.”
His whisper caresses my ear, and a tiny shiver skates through my body. The tiny hairs on the back of my neck rise, but I can’t tell if it’s from the desire to be cocooned by the massiveness of Braxton or from the panic gripping my chest at the thought of being outed. I swallow hard and turn to face the reason for this sudden turmoil.
“You know who this jersey belongs to?” I feign ignorance as his icy-blue eyes stare into mine, the slight hesitation in his answer not helping my nerves.
“Of course. He’s actually playing against the Mets right now.”
My gaze flicks to the nearest television, and I can’t stop the small smile forming. A sense of pride bubbles inside me. It happens every single time I catch a glimpse of my brother playing. I’m so proud of what he has accomplished. The words fumble from my mouth before I can stop them. “He’s winning.”
“Yeah, but not for long. The Giants will edge them out for the wild card spots.” The sureness to his statement jumbles my thoughts, and the slight dimple in his right cheek catches me off guard. He steps closer, and I’m suddenly engulfed with everything Braxton. His scent. His empowering size.
“Is that so?” I step back, trying to break this connection, but he matches the movement. Warmth courses through me as I try to harden my insides. I have to fight this attraction. I can’t afford not to.
“It is. You know what else?”
The tiny gap between us disappears as he closes the space. I take another step back but come to a halt when my backside stops flush against the wall. I feel caged by my brother’s paraphernalia to my left and Braxton’s body standing in front of me.
“What?” My words come out breathier than I’d like, and I force myself to look away. This need to cave to the desire coursing through my hormone-riddled veins battles against my will to stave off any baseball player’s advance.
A beat of silence passes. Then he grazes his finger across my chin and lifts my face until I see nothing but the curiosity and intrigue eclipsing the blues of his eyes. He searches my face, and I can hardly breathe, reduced to a pool of need. One that needs squished before it blossoms into a full-out want. Although, it may be too late.
“What are you afraid of?”
Our stare locks and holds. He has no idea how loaded the question is, but he also has no inclination about what his presence does to me. No other guy, especially my ex, has ever looked past my good looks. No one takes me seriously. But the way Braxton stares, I feel like he’s trying to catch a glimpse of my soul.
“Nothing.” Everything.
Braxton remains quiet, studying me. The air between us charges with uncertainty and unspoken words. Those rough, calloused fingers slide across my chin and brush a loose strand of hair out of the way. “You’re an intricate puzzle, Pole Girl. Mark my words, I will figure you out.”
His confidence is staggering but also persuasive. Part of me wants to believe him, wants him to decode my most inner secrets, and wants him to kiss me. But my mind eventually wins. He has yet to tell me he’s a baseball player. Player being the keyword. I won’t set myself up to be hurt again. With all my willpower, I push him away. The hard wall of muscle moves easily enough, but I have to fight the temptation to bring him closer.
“I’m really not that difficult, Smith.” My legs carry me across the polished concrete floor straight into the ladies’ room where I can finally breathe. Holy shit, that man affects me.
When I exit, I shouldn’t be surprised to find Braxton waiting at the end of the corridor. He’s texting, but when he notices me, he quickly hits send and places his phone in his pocket.
“You shoot pool?”
I should say no. I should tell him I’m here with my friend who needs me. Except, when I glance Lexie’s way, she and Garret are still deep in conversation. Being the third wheel to that party sounds grueling. Even Garret’s friend Noah seems to have ditched them for some chick. You owe me one, Lexie.
“With the best of them,” I say, my expression holding way more confidence than I feel.
He chuckles. “Come on then, pool shark. Show me what you’ve got.”
I follow him out to where the billiard tables are lined up. Braxton places a stack of quarters on the far corner table to reserve our spot.
“What are you drinking?”
“Moscow mule.” Forgive me, Mother.
“I’ll be right back.”
While I wait for Braxton to return, I shoot Lexie a text and let her know where I’m at.
Lexie: You’re what? Playing with the enemy?
Cara: Apparently so.
Lexie: Has he fessed to being a baseball player yet?
Cara: No, and I’m not mentioning it. I want to see how long he plays it off.
Lexie: You’re bad. Do I need to rescue you?
Her question makes me ponder. It hasn’t been awful talking to him. And I can keep my attraction in check.
Cara: No. I’m good for now.
Lexie: Okay. Let me know if things change. TTYL Garret’s giving me the side-eye. Lol.
“For the lady.” Braxton hands me my drink as the guy, currently working the pool table, lines up his shot and calls the far-right corner.
I thank Braxton, but his lack of teasing about the bar’s special intrigues me. “What? No jokes about sausages or wieners?”
His stare lingers for a beat, and then, the corner of his mouth rises. Cheers from the pool table erupt, signaling the win, but all that fades to the background. I’m too focused on that sexy but oh-so-cocky grin.
“There’s only one wiener I want you talking about.”
My mouth parts as I try to formulate a comeback, but all I can think about is his package and if he could deliver. My nipples pebble inside my bra at that thought—a clear sign it’s been too long.
He laughs at my expression. “It’s our turn. Show me your skills, Pole Girl.”
Chapter Eight
BRAXTON
Cara sucks at playing pool. I figured she would have some skills to back up her smack talk, but nope. She was clearly being sarcastic. But I’m kind of glad, because in that rare moment when she sinks a ball, her entire face gleams. And seeing her smile is a thing of beauty.
It has me doing stupid things like missing shots on purpose and setting the table so she’ll have an easy shot. I’m not saying I’m Fats Domino, but I’ve been known to work the table. Maybe it’s my competitive nature or genetics handed down from Dad, but I excel at most sports. Throwing my game should be eating me alive. Instead, when those big brown eyes turn to me with nothing but joy, I’m a goner. I’ll gladly lose every time. Like right now as she sinks the eight ball into the far-right corner.
“I did it!” She throws her arms up in victory and tosses her head back in laughter. So fucking cute. “See, I told you I was good.”
“You sure did.” My gaze doesn’t stray from her as she bounces over to hand me the pool stick.
“Seriously though.” She tips her chin up toward me, a smirk in place. “You must be extremely bad. Like beyond bad if I beat you. I actually suck balls.”
“Do you now?”
Her face flames red as her words settle in between us. “Oh my God, I just meant I—”
I laugh, letting her off the hook. “Maybe you’ve improved your game.”
Her lips press together as she studies me. “Sure, we’ll go with that.”
A roar descends across the bar. Our gazes snap to the television, and I suppress a groan. The Dodgers just won. The race for the wild card is heating up, and every win and loss is crucial if I want my Gi
ants to come out on top.
The look Cara wears as she eyes the television causes me to pause. She’s in a different world. Almost as if she’s proud. I shake my head. That makes no sense.
“Baseball fan, huh?” I rack the balls.
“You can say that.”
I offer for her to break but she shakes her head. I line up my shot and shoot, sinking two stripped balls. “What exactly turns you on?”
Her gaze flashes to mine. “Not the players. If that’s what you’re getting at.”
“Ouch, you wound me.” I feign hurt even though her answer isn’t directed at me personally. She still doesn’t know I play. “I meant what draws you to the game.”
Her laugh holds a bit of nervousness as I line up my next shot and purposely miss. “That’s a loaded question. What’s not to like?”
“Touché.” If I didn’t know better, I’d think this woman was after my heart. “But I’m surprised you’re a Dodgers fan. Shouldn’t you be rooting for the Mets?”
“Do you want to get punched?” She scoffs as if I truly offended her.
“What, I figured you for a New Yorker.”
“Nope. I’m from somewhere better.” With those words, she tosses those long, dark locks over her shoulder and brushes past me on her way to the opposite side. Her scent, fresh and clean and minty, lingers. She bends to line up her shot, but the baggy shirt she’s wearing covers her ass. They should really outlaw any shirt that can double as a potato sack. I’m not sure what store even sells this style. Even though her shape remains a mystery, it doesn’t stop me from looking.
“And that place would be?” I prompt.
“Right between Washington, DC., and New York City,” Little Miss Evasive says as she scratches.
She truly does suck.
“Ah, a Phillies fan.”
“Very good. You know your geography.” She looks genuinely impressed. I’m not sure whether to be offended or not.
I place the cue ball on the table and knock in one of her balls. Purely by accident, of course. “Makes sense to want your rival to go down, but if you want to root for a West Coast team, it should be the Giants. Just sayin’.”
“Hmm, second mention. I take it that’s your team?” She lines up her shot and misses by a mile. Doesn’t matter. I have all night.
“They’re the best.” The conviction in my voice leaves little room for argument.
“Hate to break it to you, but it’s your team going down.”
I stand corrected.
She hands me the pool stick, and our fingers slide across each other’s. I’m half hard picturing a different kind of going down. God, I need to get laid. But I’m smart enough to know she isn’t on the same page—yet.
“Oh, you think?” I bank the striped eleven ball into the far pocket, but then, I follow through by sinking a solid. I don’t want to get too far ahead.
“More like I know.” Her lips curve into a cute little smirk at my mess up.
“And what makes you so sure?” I ask, grasping the pool stick by my side.
“That guy right there.” She points over to Gonzalez’s jersey hanging on the wall. “He’s one hell of a catcher, and when you match that talent with the Dodger’s pitching, there’s no stopping that train.”
I should’ve known she’d be familiar with AJ Gonzalez. He played for the Phillies, and I had suspected she was from the East Coast. Being a baseball player almost slipped out when I mentioned him earlier, but I backpedaled fast enough. I’m pretty sure she never caught on. It’s not that I want to keep who I am a secret forever, but her not knowing I play is fun. For once, the conversation isn’t about me.
Don’t get me wrong, I love everything baseball, but having the interest of a girl for the sole purpose of being a player gets old really quick. That’s why, when she ducked inside the bathroom, I texted Garret and Noah to ditch me. They’ll undoubtedly razz me later, but I don’t care. I want to hide in this bubble for a bit longer.
“You turning on your team, Gonzalez?”
“Oh, no. My heart will always belong to the Phillies, but we’re talking about a back-to-back world-championship catcher, here. He’s good. I can’t help but root for him.” A slight pinkish hue sweeps across her face, and I have to admit I wish it were me not some random player that tinted her cheeks.
“That he is. Too bad they let him go. But that new guy, uh”—I snap my fingers trying to think—“Drake, I believe, is just as good.”
The blushing color drains from Cara’s face as her back goes ramrod straight. “He’s way too cocky if you ask me.”
“Wow,” I say intrigued even though I agree. I’ve watched his interview on ESPN. “You’re a true baseball fan, huh? I wouldn’t have guessed.”
“No? Why’s that?”
Because you haven’t shown interest in me at all. “No particular reason. You transferred last semester, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you catch any of CU’s games?” I’m fishing, but for someone who seems to know an awful lot about the players, she has to be a bigger fan of the game than she’s letting on. Surely, she would’ve caught a game.
“Nope, but there’s nothing better than spending a lazy Saturday afternoon at the ballpark.”
Her admission relaxes me somewhat, and I erase the distance between us with the pretense of handing her the stick. “I can think of something way better to do.”
A gasp escapes from her parted lips, and I grip the pool stick tighter to stop the urge of claiming them as mine. Lust glitters in her eyes for a moment before those damn shields slide into place. She’s fighting this attraction between us with everything she has. I just wish I knew the reason. Then, it occurs to me that she may have a boyfriend back home. It’s not like I asked.
“You should catch a game sometime. I think you’d find it interesting.” My voice comes across hoarse, but I need to say something to break this tension.
She nods and inches forward. I’m not sure what she’s doing until the pool stick ends up in her hands and she whirls around, her backside facing me. “Now, watch as I run the table.”
I laugh despite standing here with a chub, but her optimism is damn cute. Five minutes later, I’m slack-jawed, wearing the official loser title. Cara actually sunk her shots and won. How the hell did she pull that off?
She does a victory dance, her sack of a shirt swaying in the breeze. I want to enjoy the show, but the two guys waiting for the table eye her in appreciation. I narrow my eyes at them, but they don’t get the hint. Grabbing her elbow, I lower my voice. “Let’s nab that table.”
We leave the empty glasses and trudge across the floor. Cara trips over nothing, her knees buckling. I grab hold of her and pull her into my chest. Damn, she’s sporting some nice curves underneath these tanks disguised as tops. And I must admit, her body pressed against mine feels every bit as good as I imagined.
“Are you normally this much of a klutz?” I ask, wanting a distraction.
“I have perfected the art of clumsiness.”
I remove my hands although reluctantly. “Did you want another drink?”
“No, I have an early appointment tomorrow.”
So do I, but I don’t tell her that. Cara glances toward Lexie, but I can’t get a good read on her thoughts.
“You’re not dating anyone, right? No boyfriend back home?”
Her gaze flicks back to mine. “A little late to be asking now, isn’t it?”
“That’s not an answer.”
“No, there isn’t any boyfriend back home.”
“Anyone currently on the radar?”
She hesitates. Fucking hesitates. If it were me floating through her thoughts, I’d be down with it, but I can tell that’s not the case. My stomach feels like it’s been punched at the thought of another guy.
“No,” she draws out. “Not exactly.”
I need to think of something quick or else risk losing this girl—which blows my mind because I’m fucking Braxton Smith. I can h
ave whoever I want. And that confidence spills over to my next words. “We can change that.”
She sizes me up but her non-answer is telling…I can have whoever I want but her.
Did I say I’m an idiot? No? Well, I am.
“I better get back to Lexie. I’m sure she’s done planning by now.” She slides off her chair, and I find myself doing the same.
“You’re going to cockblock your friend?”
She scrunches her cute little nose. “You’re disgusting.”
“What? It’s the truth.”
“It isn’t either.”
“Hey, Braxton.”
I turn toward the pixie-cut blonde and flash her my signature smile reserved for the ladies. It’s out of habit and comes out naturally. “Kelly, you by yourself?”
My gaze flicks behind her in search of Isabella. Kelly is on the dance team with her, and they’re usually inseparable.
“Yours for the night.” Kelly bats her eyelashes and steps closer. Cara’s back straightens, clearly understanding the meaning behind Kelly’s words. Hmm, perhaps, Cara’s the type of girl that needs a dose of jealousy to make her realize she wants me. There’s no mistaking the chemistry between us. The way her eyes darken with heat and the tic to her breathing is telling enough. But for me to resort to stupid tactics, I don’t know. I always thought games were for desperate people. I am not a desperate person.
“Is that so?” I hear myself say. Cara’s mouth presses into a straight line, and I’m not going to lie. The fact she’s jellin’ makes me way happier than it should. But here is where I learn my impulsive decision-making lags outside the ballpark. I grip Kelly’s hip and erase the distance between us.
“Mmhmm.”
With a shake of her head, Cara takes off and leaves me standing with the girl I want nothing to do with.
SWINGING STRIKE: Cessna U Wildcats Book One Page 6
