When we enter the living room, all eyes are on us and I can feel Emory cower behind me. Keeping a strong hold on her hand, I say, “Any pizza left?”
“Tons,” Carson says, pushing a box toward us. “You must be ravenous.”
Fuck, I knew Emory was too loud.
Slightly cringing, I turn toward my mom, who’s enjoying a piece of pizza while sitting cross-legged on the couch. She looks . . . happy.
“Uh, Mom.”
“Oh yes, honey, come sit down.” She pats the chair next to her and motions for us to take a seat.
I do as she says and pull Emory onto my lap.
“This must be Emory.” My mom wipes her hand on a napkin and holds it out.
Still shy and blushing, Emory says, “Mrs. Gentry, it’s so nice to meet you. I’m so sorry about that back there. I’m completely humiliated that you saw me like that.”
My mom waves her hand in dismissal. “Oh, nothing to be humiliated about. You should actually be proud. You have quite the beautiful bosom.”
I choke on my own saliva as the room erupts in a fit of laughter, all the guys on my team intent on hearing our conversation.
“Mom.” I attempt a scold through a fit of coughs while Emory’s hands cover her face in sheer embarrassment.
Unsure of what she said wrong, my mom looks around. “What? It’s true. So perky with wonderful nipples. I wish I had such a set on me.”
Jesus.
Christ.
I mean . . . yeah, Emory has some mouth-watering tits, the best I think I’ve ever fucking seen, but I don’t need my mom appreciating them, or getting me hard as she describes them in detail to the entire living room.
I catch some of the eyes of my teammates falling to Emory’s covered-up chest.
“Hey.” I motion around the room. “Eyes up here, dickheads.”
They laugh and go back to their pizzas.
Still unapologetic, my mom continues. “And your physique is quite beautiful, but I will tell you two things.”
“Mom, maybe we just drop it.”
She shakes her head while chewing on a piece of pizza. Swallows. “This has to be said.” We quiet down, and I grip Emory a little tighter, trying to convey to her just how sorry I am about what my mom is about to say. “Oreos in bed, sweetie, is not a good idea. Think of all the crumbs.”
Emory nods. “You’re right, Mrs. Gentry. That was careless.” There’s a note of humor in her voice, and I see the small smirk that curves the left side of my mom’s lip upwards. Fuck, it sends a beam of joy right up my spine.
My girl is so damn cool.
“And although quite attractive, the undergarment you chose isn’t very sensible. It barely covered your nether regions.”
This time, she blanches. And I don’t blame her.
“What kind of undergarments?” Carson asks.
“I believe your generation calls it a Z-string.”
“A what?”
“G-string, Mom.” Why did I just correct her?
She nods, realizing her mistake. “Yes, G-string. Oh, it was quite lovely on Miss Ealson, but very insensible. You don’t wear those all the time, do you?”
Almost every goddamn day, but I don’t say that.
“No.” Emory shakes her head. “Just while holding Oreos in bed . . . topless.”
Her answer shocks my mom, but before I can cover for her, everyone in the room, including the woman who raised me, busts out into a fit of laughter. It’s then I look around and notice something important: Emory fits into my entire world. And my mom just approved my girlfriend’s tits and met her match in sass . . . sounds like this girl belongs here, forever.
* * *
My teammates have retired to their respective rooms, giving Emory, my mom, and me some alone time together in the small common space near the bedrooms. We have multiple common room areas in the loft and since the big one is taken up by five of my teammates, including Carson and Holt playing baseball on the team PlayStation, we sectioned ourselves off.
I thought about bringing my mom into my room, but my bed is unmade and given the mind-blowing hand job Emory gave me an hour ago, I thought it would be weird to have my mom sitting on my bed. I can only imagine what she would say if she saw evidence of our coupling earlier.
With Emory on my lap, because I refuse to let her sit anywhere else, I keep my arm firmly wrapped around her waist and my hand resting on her hip. She leans into me, thankfully feeling a little more comfortable.
My mom crosses her legs and brings a cup of tea to her mouth. She carries teabags in her purse so wherever she goes, she can enjoy a cup of her favorite hot beverage. She even has a specific tea wallet where she holds three different types of tea at all times. An English breakfast, a green tea, and a peppermint. They are for specific times of the day or mood.
Right now, she’s drinking peppermint. I can smell the fresh and minty flavor from here.
She tilts her head to the side after taking a sip of her tea, studying us. “You know, I can’t get over how beautiful you two are together. One of those couples you love to follow on Instagram, you know, the really cute ones that are so sickening in love that you can’t get enough of them.”
Way to drop the love bomb, Mom.
Jesus.
Thankfully Emory doesn’t show any kind of hatred for the term but instead says, “Like Jennifer Lopez and A-Rod?”
“Yes,” my mom answers with excitement. “Oh my gosh, I’m obsessed with watching their stories. The little videos they do together, I just can’t get enough of them. J-Rod,” my mom says dreamily. “Oh gosh, what would your couple name be?” She thinks about it for a second. “Emox . . . or Knemory. Oh I love Knemory. Sounds so poetic.”
“Knemory does have a nice ring to it,” I add.
“I don’t know, what about Emorox?”
“Ohhh, that sounds like a name that belongs in The Game of Thrones.” Taking on a more masculine voice, my mom says, “Look out, Jon, Emorox is coming over the hill, with her fire-spitting dragons, Knemory and George.”
“George?” Emory laughs out loud, covering her mouth. “Why George?”
“Well, look at the names they have in that show? They’re all exotic names you’ve never heard before—Cersei, Gregor, Arya—and then in waltzes good old Jon Snow. It’s only fair that the dragons have a lemon in the bunch as well.”
“Uh, Jon is anything but a lemon, Mom,” I defend. “He was raised from the dead.”
My mom’s mouth drops, pure and utter shock in her face. “Jon Snow dies?”
Shit.
Emory elbows my stomach. “Where the hell is your GOT etiquette? You never talk about the facts of the show until the air is cleared about how far someone is in watching. You are one of those people who spoils everything for someone just catching up to the trend.”
*Ahem*
“I mean . . . uh . . . he doesn’t die.”
“You just said he is raised from the dead,” my mom says.
Feeling guilty, I reply, “Well, at least he’s still alive, right?”
She slumps against the cushion of the couch and mutters, “Unbelievable.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Gentry, that your son is a barbarian and broke your GOT trust.”
Pressing her hand against her forehead, my mom says, “You know, I blame myself. I thought I taught him a shred of decorum, I guess not.”
“Don’t blame yourself,” Emory coos. “You did everything right. It comes down to the hooligans he hangs out with. There’s only so much you can control after they leave the nest.”
“You’re absolutely right,” my mom agrees and leans across the couch to smack me in the back of the head.
“Hey,” I complain while rubbing the sore spot. I look between the two women in my life and I say, “I don’t like this ganging up on me shit.”
“You wanted us to get along, right?” Emory asks. “Well, I happen to like your mom, especially since she complimented my bosom.”
“Ah, I see.�
� I continue to look between the two of them. “You’re okay with my mom catching you with your shirt off now, moved past the embarrassment?”
Emory’s eyes narrow. “With that kind of attitude, it might be the very last time you see me topless.”
My mom raises her fist to the air, as if to say, “Girl Power.” And then she says, “You tell him, Emory. Don’t let him push you around.”
“I wasn’t pushing her around—”
“You keep that beautiful bosom under lock and key, and if you have a temptation to show anyone, just flash me.”
“Mom, do you realize how wrong that is?”
“Want to go to the bathroom right now, Mrs. Gentry?”
“I would be delighted to.”
They both stand but before they can make a move, I pull on Emory’s hand, bringing her back down to my lap. “No way in hell is that happening. Jesus, what is wrong with you?”
They both laugh, getting too much joy out of their newfound connection. I can’t be mad, because it isn’t very often you find a girl your mom accepts, and from the twinkle in my mom’s eye, she really likes Emory. Makes me feel fucking awesome.
Chapter Twenty-Six
EMORY
“What should I expect tomorrow?”
Curled into Knox’s chest, I rest my hand against his bare skin, drawing small circles with my finger as he calmly threads his hands through my long locks.
“Since it’s an exhibition, nothing too special when it comes to pageantry, as they save that for our first home game of the season, but you do need to prepare yourself for my mom.”
“What do you mean? I’ve spent the last two weeks getting to know her, she’s fantastic.”
“She’s insane when it comes to baseball, especially my baseball games. She said she had to go home early because she was tired, but that was a lie. I know exactly what she’s doing.”
“And what’s that?” I can’t imagine Mama G—yes, I get to call her that now—doing anything out of the ordinary. She’s a little outspoken, which I love, and she’s a really good time, so I envision that kind of personality carrying over to the game. Unless she turns into someone completely different.
“Prepping. She is her own personal caravan at games. I’m talking flags, foam fingers, snacks for the crowd and the team. She has multiple outfits she tries on the night before, giving her time to decide what she wants to wear to the game, and I’m not talking fancy getups. She bedazzles her own baseball wear. She was once asked to take off her Brentwood denim vest because the sparkles were distracting the players, reflecting off the lights.”
“You’re lying.”
“I wish I was. She’s the real deal, babe.” Mama G is the real deal, and it’s easy to see where Knox gets his fun, lighthearted personality from. Seeing the two of them interact together makes my heart happy.
“If that’s the case, I hope she has a foam finger for me, because I’m excited to cheer you on.”
“Yeah?” He presses a light kiss to my forehead, his lips lingering. “I’m excited to show you my skills.”
“You think you can impress me?”
“Oh, I know it, babe. You’ve never seen anyone like me out on the field. I wear tight pants, so it’s not just my sheer talent on display. I’m a total smoke-show too.”
I chuckle. “And so modest.”
“I’m just preparing you. You might get really turned on. I don’t want you having an orgasm in the stands tomorrow, especially next to my mom. She saw your boobs, but seeing your O face, that’s crossing a line.”
“I’ll try to contain myself,” I deadpan.
Changing the subject, he asks, “What do you plan on wearing tomorrow?”
“Uh . . . clothes.”
“You better be wearing clothes, but are you planning on wearing any Brentwood stuff?”
“The only thing I have is a simple T-shirt with the college logo. I don’t think that will be warm enough. You said it’s chilly in the stadium?”
“During the winter, yeah. The school doesn’t want to pay to heat the whole thing for exhibition games. Here’s an idea, why don’t you wear one of my sweatshirts.”
“The things I hate?”
“Yeah, it would be hot.”
“It would be huge on me. You wear an extra-large, Knox.”
He twirls my hair around his finger. “Do one of those twisty things off to the side that girls do all the time.”
“With a bulky sweatshirt?”
He sighs against my head, wisps of hair floating from the exhale. “Please.”
It’s one word that breaks every single wall erected. The tone of his voice, the way he asks, I can’t possibly deny this man.
Sitting up, hand on his chest, I stare at him. His eyes search mine for a few short breaths before I say, “I would be honored to wear your sweatshirt.”
“Really?” His eyes light up with hope. My man really is easy to please.
“Really. You’re my best friend, after all.”
The corner of his mouth tilts up. “I like the sound of that.”
“And my man,” I add before closing the space between us and pressing my lips against his.
He hums against my mouth and flips me to my back. “I like the sound of that even better.”
* * *
Holy.
Hell.
Knox was not kidding when he said Mama G was her own caravan. I’m sitting on a Brentwood University portable cushion wearing a bedazzled baseball hat with a Brentwood baseball blanket over my lap while eating a B-shaped peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
I can’t go into her outfit with all the razzamatazz happening, nor can I describe the excitement this woman is brimming with. It’s as if she’s never had a Christmas before and today is her first one. That doesn’t do it justice.
She’s beaming.
“Look at our boy out there.” She loops her arm through mine, holding me close. “So tall, so handsome.”
And those pants.
Yowza, Knox wasn’t kidding. He is a total smoke-show out there.
Tight white pants, perfectly tailored shirt that molds to his broad frame, a baseball cap that shadows his eyes, and a black sweatband on the same hand he holds his glove. It’s hot.
Really hot.
So hot that I’m thinking about all kinds of naughty things I shouldn’t be thinking about while sitting next to his mom.
And I’m not the only girl who notices just how sexy Knox is in his uniform. In the student section of the stadium, there are multiple signs and desperate women vying for his attention.
Knox, I want your baby.
Come home with me, Knox.
Party, my house, you and me, Knox.
It’s shameful, embarrassing, and frankly, pathetic. I could never imagine being one of those girls, flaunting themselves for a mere look. Well guess what, desperadoes, the only thing Knox is paying attention to is the game on the field.
And that’s the honest truth; his concentration is impeccable as the first inning is underway. He blocks out the rest of the stadium and focuses on the game, constantly moving around at shortstop, calling out the outs, delivering signs to his outfielders. He’s commanding, and it’s another reason why I can’t wait to get him back to the loft and see what other kinds of situations he can command.
“Don’t worry about those girls,” Mama G says. She must have caught my gaze. “They’re at every game, throwing themselves at the players, but Knox never gives them a second look. I raised him well enough to decipher between quality”—she eyes me up and down—“and trash.” She glances at the student section.
“Thank you, Mama G. I appreciate that.”
She gives me a side hug and says, “I adore you. You’re the first girlfriend he’s ever had, did he tell you that?”
I nod, as the crack of the bat sounds off. A ball is hit up the middle and before it gets past the infield, Knox makes a diving play, springs to his feet, and throws the guy out at first. The play lasts no longer th
an a few seconds, he’s so fast. Both Mama G and I clap vigorously, cheering for our boy.
He stands and holds up two fingers to his teammates as they pass the ball around the infield and finally throw it back to the pitcher. I watch Knox carefully, the way he carries himself on the field with an abundance of confidence, almost as if he’s daring batters to try to get the ball past him.
I’ve never been a huge baseball fan, but I think that play and the way Knox’s butt looks in those pants, just made me a fan for life.
“That was amazing,” I say, still astounded. “He’s so quick.”
Mama G holds a hand to her chest. “He just keeps getting better and better, it’s really impressive to watch. Being under Coach Disik’s training has vastly improved his skills from when he was in high school. It’s been hard, having him so far away, but coming to Brentwood was worth every mile between us.”
It’s endearing to see just how much Knox’s mom loves him, a pure, genuine, unconditional love. I consider my own feelings as I watch him get into position for every pitch.
Do I love him?
I think about him every moment I get a chance. I crave his touch, his voice, his hands dancing through my hair. I crave his warmth and his charm, his teasing and his sweet kisses. There are moments when he walks into my dorm and my breath catches in my throat from the mere sight of him, and when we part, it feels like a piece of me is leaving with him.
Is this what I felt for Neil? That I hated his absence, but loved every minute with him? No. This feeling is very different than what I felt with Neil.
I wear the necklace Knox gave me every day, and I remember what he said when he gave it to me every day too. I know I’m his. So, that begs the question, do I love Knox Gentry?
I think I might be too scared to admit it to him, but, yeah . . . I think—
The Locker Room Page 21
