by Mj Fields
Contents
Intro
Goodbye Minor Leagues
Bachelorette Party
Afterparty
Smashed
Easy Come, Easy Go
Home
All Better Now
New Beginnings
Spring Training
Hell … I’m In Hell
Sweet(s) Dreams
Family Daze
Eye on the Prize
Play Ball
Batter Up
Ours
Magical
Poolside
Back to Jersey
Home Sweet Home
With Both Feet
Love At Last
Long Ride Home
Epilogue
Epilogue Two
Next In Steel Crew
Are you ready to write?
Books by MJ Fields
About the Author
Copyright © 2021 by MJ Fields
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imaginations. Any resemblance to actual persons, things, living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.
Cover design by Jersey Girl Designs
Edited by C&D Editing
Proofread by Julie Deaton
Photographer: Furious Fotog
Graphics: Ally B
Intro
I never wished on falling stars or simply dreamed of making it into the major leagues.
I did the work.
I made it happen.
I never expected my last night out with my minor league crew would end up with us stepping in for a no-show stripper at a bachelorette party in the VIP section of Kingston’s.
I sure as hell didn’t expect that the hottie with the pink sash and gold lettering spelling out “Bride To Be” would have me calling dibs on a woman for the first time in my life.
Spoiler alert: she had no ring, she was no bride, and I knew that going … in.
After the hottest hour of my life with the stand-in bride, I left her with my number on a baseball card, confident I’d see her again, and then headed back to Jersey.
In the blink of an eye, everything changed.
I woke up in the hospital, not remembering anything from that night. What I did know was I had been dropped by my team and that I had a long road ahead of me in order to get back on the field.
Then life swung hard, returned me to the game, gave me some vivid dreams, and dropped the stand-in bride back into my life.
Except, she wasn’t at all what I expected, and she brought her own issues to the field.
Nothing good in life comes without doing the work.
This would be no exception.
Batter up.
Goodbye Minor Leagues
When it rains it pours, I think, looking down over the city as the sun takes a knee to the day and the rain attempts to wash away its troubles.
The troubles my family has faced over the past few years have been more than anyone I know could possibly handle on their own. I thank God on the daily for our family and the way we all work together as a team to get through this thing called life.
My sister, Tris, just a year younger than me, lost her shit after a boyfriend cheated on her. For a good six months, she partied, kissed every damn punk she could get her lips on, probably would have went a fuck of a lot further if myself and our cousins weren’t around to break that shit up. She lost it so badly that she even tried to take her life. After her diagnosis—bipolar personality disorder—getting married to a guy who she had only met a few months prior—a much older guy, a guy who didn’t even speak English—and then a trip slash honeymoon around the world with our older sister, Brisa, she seems to have leveled out and is now back in the US.
The troubles are behind us now. I hold up my beer and tap it to the glass and toast to the setting sun.
“Come on, man; let’s roll,” Cowboy, our first baseman, calls from behind me. “There are drinks to be had and ass to be handled.”
When I was called up, and the guys I played with in the minors, guys I had gotten really close with, weren’t, it sucked to walk away. We were tight, still are tight, but it won’t last.
I bought this place in the Bronx so that I’m closer to Yankee Stadium, right after I signed an endorsement deal with Indestructible. Even with social media and all the stupid shit you see and read about people making bank on some seriously stupid fucking shit, it shocked me that they gave me a cool mil to hold their damn bat. Easy come, easy go. But straight up, there’s nothing easy about making a dream come true and staying on top of it, so this place is an investment.
My family would be crashing here for home games. Four bedrooms, only one in use on the daily, all state-of-the-art shit everywhere, and a kick-ass gym on the third floor of the apartment complex.
I’m not afraid to be alone, but having been a team player from birth, having had a crew all my life, and knowing the likelihood of seeing any of these guys in the same dugout where I would be hanging my hat, the odds sucked. It was a no-brainer to invite them to come chill and, of course, to hit the clubs in the evenings.
The guys have been here for two weeks. They all head back to their respective corners of the world in the morning. So, tonight, we drink, and then they go to the airport hotel and sleep until they board their prospective flights. I will either come back here or head home for the weekend to chill. Not sure what will happen yet. It all depends on what we run into tonight.
“Let’s get a move on,” Hawk, our second baseman, chimes in.
“Chill, he’ll be ready when he’s ready,” Nour, our shortstop, adds.
“Chill?” Cannon, our catcher, huffs. “I’m going back to Indiana. Indi-fucking-ana. I have one more night to push down on plush pussy before heading back to—”
“Indi-fucking-ana,” we collectively finish his sentence.
“Fuck you all,” Cannon barks.
All we’ve been doing is hitting clubs. Doesn’t matter a shit bit that I’m a minor. Every bar owner knows damn well who I am—the newest and youngest player in the MLB. They practically roll out the red carpet. Not only do they let me in, but I drink for free. The problem with that is the women come crawling when they think you’re “someone,” and yeah, that was cool for the past few weeks, but now it’s getting old. When you get sick of fucking beautiful women every night, the Jersey chasers on the road when we’re playing minors, and the ones who want to bag a pro athlete at the clubs we’ve been hitting, there is definitely a problem.
Shit needs to simmer, and I need to get back into the routine. Hell, even my workout schedules have been dicked up. I hate late morning or afternoon workouts; they just don’t give me the same buzz morning training sessions do, but when you’re out into the wee morning hours, you don’t hit it at five or six in the morning. Well, not the gym anyway …
I promised the boys a good time, and I am nothing if not a man of my word. They are all planning to leave here and get their heads straight before spring training where they hope to catch the powers-that-be’s eye and get called up.
Truth be told, I hope to fuck they do. They’re all the kind of friends that I should h
ave been making in high school. Instead, I kept my AirPods in just to avoid conversation with anyone but family. Hell, I kept them in when I was getting head in the hallways, under the stairs, bleachers, empty bathroom stalls … classrooms.
I inwardly scold myself for being so fucking stupid back then. Not about the girls—they wanted me, they got me—but about keeping everyone at arm’s length because life was pretty fucked up there for a hot minute. Can’t be that way, not anymore. Gotta find my new crew.
I look at my watch, a Rolex, my graduation gift from Dad and Mom. Engraved on the inside is It’s your time. Love, Mom and Dad.
My time is standing at the plate, the ball pitched at me is every dream I’ve ever had wrapped in cowhide and ready to soar. The bat, every issue we’ve dealt with over the past few years, splintering into pieces. Until then …
“Grab some beers, and let’s toast to us.”
“Stop looking at the time, man,” Cowboy slurs, or at least I think he does. Maybe it’s my brain that slurred. We’ve been pounding shots while bouncing from bar to bar.
“Just checking out how much time we have before you all hit the airport hotel.”
“You gotta date?” He hands me another shot.
I look around at the women surrounding us. “I’m not seeing anything I haven’t seen before.”
“Oh shit!” He chuckles.
I scowl at him. “Oh shit, what?”
He barks out, “You’re looking for something steady.”
The guys all swing their heads toward me.
“I already got a steady. Just looking for a side piece.” I hold up my shot. “To the only steady that matters—baseball!”
They all hold up theirs and cheer, “To baseball!”
Bachelorette Party
My body vibrates to the beat of the techno music playing as I look down from the coveted VIP section of Kingston’s at the packed dance floor. I grimace. The average twenty-six-year-old single woman living in New York City would be in her glory if she were able to get into this club. The average twenty-six-year-old single woman living in New York City would be in her glory if she were in strappy red-bottom heels, a gift from the bride-to-be. The average twenty-six-year-old single woman living in New York City would love the black sequin designer dress that hits well above the knee and shows off every curve. The average twenty-six-year-old single woman living in New York City would be down on the dance floor, trying to remove “single” from her label. She would be doing shots off abs, flirting, dancing, grinding up on any one of the men down there in designer clothes with expensive Italian leather shoes and a bright, shiny Rolex watch wrapped around his wrist, hoping his name was proceeded with the initials D.R.
Although I am technically the average twenty-six-year-old single woman living in New York City, I’m also a mom, and as of two weeks ago, the initials D.R. with the period, proceed my own name.
Clubbing is so far out of my norm that I may as well be on Mars. Heels instead of tennis shoes or slides, or a dress “hugging” my curves when I prefer leggings hugging my ass and a baggy sweatshirt covering my curves that have no business being showcased in this damn dress.
Lily spins me around and starts slipping her sash over my head.
As soon as I realize what she’s doing, I start smacking at her hands to, once again, stop her from literally labeling me something I’m not.
I shake my head. “No! You’re the bride-to-be, not me.”
“I promised J.R. no flopping man meat will touch this”—she waves her hand up and down the front of her, the pink silk sash waving like a flag in my face—“unless it’s his. You’re the only single bridesmaid, Ellis, so you have to take one for the team.”
“Bridesmaids are not technically a team,” I argue as she throws the sash over my head like she’s playing ring toss at a carnival.
Throwing her arms around me, pinning my hands between us and rendering them useless, she laughs. “You certainly are a team—Team Lily.”
“Fine, I’ll give you that, but what makes you think I want man meat touching me?” I tug at it, disgust evident in my tone.
“You haven’t had sex in years.” Her sister, Tonya, the matron of honor, gives me a tight smile.
God, I hate this shit. The fact that a size zero, blonde-haired, blue-eyed, all-American southern belle and would-be-stranger, if it wasn’t for the fact that Lily and I bonded during graduate school, knows my shit.
Lily whips around and faces her sister, who may as well be her twin—Tonya being the evil one, of course—if not for the two years age difference. “That information was a drunken slip. You don’t get to use it as ammo.” Smiling, she turns back to me, leans in, and whispers, “Nothing wrong with getting broke back in by someone who’s well-versed in the art of seduction and knows how to move their bod.”
“I’ll wear the stupid sash, but don’t you dare try to live vicariously through me,” I grumble as I straighten the damn thing.
“Shots!” Bridgette, another one of our recent classmates and fellow December graduate, yells.
Looking down at the sash, I shake my head. Normally, I would stick to my three-drink limit for the night—hangovers and a four-year-old with more energy than national grid don’t mix—but if I have to deal with a stripper shaking his “man meat” in my face, I am going to need a bit more to drink.
Two shots later, and I notice Tonya, Bridgette, Colleen, and Natalie—Team Lily—and some of Lily’s cousins and friends from Texas are all huddled together, talking, while Lily and I look over the railing.
She sighs. “I asked her not to get a stripper.”
I don’t point out the obvious, and that’s that her sister doesn’t listen to anything. She already knows that Tonya does what Tonya wants to do.
“But seriously, Ellis, if he’s hot, why not?”
“Do I need to list all the reasons I shouldn’t have sex with a stripper?”
“I mean, obviously make him use a condom, but—”
“A condom makes him less of a stripper?” I ask, watching Tonya hurry past us and to the stairs leading down to the lower level.
Lily hip-checks me, calling my attention back to her. “Girl, J.R. tried to hook you up with his brother, who runs a hedge fund, and he wasn’t ‘your type.’ The barista at our morning coffee shop, who hit on you daily for three years, wasn’t your type. And Professor Hoskins wasn’t your type. So maybe you like the blue-collar guys.”
“J.R.’s brother is a nice enough guy, but he looks like he wants five kids, two dogs, and a trophy wife. I don’t want any more kids, prefer cats, and will never be a trophy wife.”
“You’re stunning, Ellis.”
I’m not stunning. I’m short and stocky. I’ll never be stunning.
Ignoring her, I continue, “The barista is stoned at seven in the morning, every morning. That’s not my thing. And neither is the fact that he has a genius IQ yet zero ambition.”
“How do you know he doesn’t have goals?”
I huff. “He’s stoned by seven in the morning, at his place of employment.”
“Fine. And Hoskins?”
“He was an asshole for the entire year then asks me out?”
“Which is professional,” she points out. “He could have tried to nail you while you were his student.”
“He’s like, forty.” I pretend to gag then lean down to see where Tonya is going. I don’t particularly care for her personality or her in general, but no woman should be alone in a club.
Lily laughs. “Well, you need to test drive a few men, so when you’re ready to settle down, you know what kind of car you want to buy.”
“You’re insane,” I grumble, taking the double shot glass from Bridgette hold it up, tap glasses with the others, and then toss back the vodka.
Throat burning, I turn and set the empty glass on the high-top table behind me and catch a glimpse of Tonya walking up the stairs, followed by five guys.
Five? I inwardly cringe.
The blond ha
s on a cowboy hat, a flannel shirt, and jeans. He’s at least six-foot. Hell, they all are. The black man looks like he’s dressed as a sexy undercover cop, maybe a detective. One of the two dark-haired men has a short cut all around, but long on top. If his hair wasn’t colored with platinum tips, he would look like a military man. Another is either Middle-Eastern or of Indian descent, with long hair and pouty lips. The tallest one with the broadest shoulders, killer traps holding up his long-sleeved tee like a hanger, is wearing a baseball hat. His black hair curls around the cap, chiseled face lightly bearded and doing not a thing to hide the asshole smirk on his incredibly full lips. If he did try to hide it, it would be given away in his expressive eyes … I think they’re green, maybe blue. He definitely looks like he’s the most dangerous off all the male types—the cocky and athletic species.
Lily nudges me, drawing my attention to her own smirk and arched brow. She totally knows I think he’s hot.
“Did your sister hire The Village People look-alike crew?”
Lily laughs out loud. “Maybe. I wouldn’t put it past her. And let me just point out that every damn one of them is smoking hot.” She throws her arms around me and hugs me again. Drunk Lily is even huggier than sober Lily. “Ellis, you have an all-you-can-eat stud buffet to sample from before you decide who to take down to your room and feast on.”
“I agreed to play decoy.” I wiggle out of her evil clutches. “I will not feed into your need to live vicariously through me.”
