He sighs against me, resting his chin to my forehead and says, “I’m going to miss this. Wish I knew you weren’t married way earlier.”
“What would you have done if you had known?”
Holding me tightly, he says, “Asked Jason for your number, asked you on a date, and then never would have let you out of my sight.”
I draw small circles over his chest and say, “What do you think our vacation to St. Croix would have been like?”
He chuckles and says, “Probably a lot like everyone else’s: multiple hours in their hotel rooms, not watching The Office. Although, I did love watching The Office with you.”
“I miss it, so maybe that’s what we should do tonight,” I tease.
His brow pinches together as he says, “Fuck no. I’ll be eating that sweet pussy of yours.”
God, Ansel never talked so crudely to me and I’m glad he didn’t, because it makes it that much more provocative when Cory does. He holds nothing back, so I know exactly what he’s thinking, especially in the moment.
“Still hungry?” I ask with a cheeky grin.
“Very.” He lifts my chin, kissing me again, but I only give him a short taste before pulling away. He groans in frustration. “You’re killing me, Natalie.”
I chuckle. “Just hold me for a little while longer. I love how your arms feel around me. I want to soak you up.”
His eyes soften and he pulls me in tighter, kissing the top of my head. “Do you know what the key to a successful long-distance relationship is? Well . . . what I’ve read up on, at least.”
“You read up on how to succeed in a long-distance relationship?” My heart, how freaking adorable is he? It just shows how much he cares.
“I did. And one of the things I learned was if you talk every day, FaceTime as much as you can, send each other pictures of one another, and keep the lines of communication open, it will all work out.”
“That seems easy.”
“That’s what I thought. Oh, I almost forgot. It also said the woman should perform a striptease at least twice a week over FaceTime.” He shrugs. “I didn’t come up with the rules.”
“You’re ridiculous, Potter.”
“Ridiculously in love with you.” Both of us pause as the words fall past his lips. From the shocked look on his face, he didn’t mean to say that, but then his features soften and he lets out a breathy laugh. “Shit, I’m sorry. I know it’s too soon for you. I don’t know why . . .” He chuckles again and then looks up to the sky. “Fuck, this is embarrassing.” Taking a deep breath, he cups my cheek as my eyes water. I look up at him. My heart thumps so heavily in my chest that it drowns out the sounds of the city beneath us. “I love you, Natalie, and please don’t think you need to—”
“I love . . . you,” I choke out softly, a small tear floating down my cheek.
“Wh-what?” he asks, shocked.
Gripping him tightly, feeling like everything is right, I say, “I love you too, Cory.”
“Are you”—he drags his hand over his mouth—“are you fucking serious?”
I laugh from his reaction and nod. I’m positively stunned. He loves me. “I am.”
“Holy shit.” He quickly grips both of my cheeks. “Holy shit, Natalie. I love you. I love you so fucking much. I started loving you the minute I saw your smile at the fundraiser.” He’s talking so fast, it warms me up inside. “Fuck.” He rests his forehead against mine. “Please tell me I can take you to my bedroom now.”
“I need you to,” I say, my heart just about to explode from how happy I feel.
He laces his fingers with mine and guides me to his bedroom right after he turns off the heaters, locks the balcony door, and turns off the lights to the main living space. His intentions are clear, and I am all in.
When we reach the foot of his bed, he takes the blanket from me, tosses it to the ground and then turns me around where he finds the zipper of my dress.
Speaking closely to my ear, he says, “I’ve been waiting all fucking day to see what you have hiding under here.” Slowly, he unzips me and lets the dress fall to the floor, pooling at my feet. Immediately his hands fall to my hips as he sucks in a sharp breath. “Fuck, Natalie.” He spins me around so he can take in the one-piece lingerie I’m wearing. I’m not going to lie and say it’s been comfortable to wear since it’s a one-piece thong with just about zero coverage anywhere, but the look on Cory’s face is completely worth it.
His fingers trace over the red lace that shows everything—my breasts, my nipples, my pussy. It acts as a thin veil, and that’s about it. Not to mention it cuts high on the bikini line, giving him an expansive view of my hips.
“You’re so fucking gorgeous . . .” He shakes his head. “And you’re all mine.”
I wrap my arms around his neck and say, “I’m all yours.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
CORY
“Going to finally earn that paycheck this season?” someone hollers.
“You’re washed up, Potter,” another person shouts.
“You’re a fucking piece of trash. Go back to Baltimore,” a fan drips with venom.
I push past the flagrant insults and make my way into the ballpark; it’s the first day of spring training and I already want it to be over. I’ve never had this feeling before. Heading into spring training I’ve always felt invigorated, ready for the season to start, but with the combination of leaving Natalie in Chicago and the shitty treatment I’ve gotten since I became a Rebel, I’m already begging for the season to be over.
And I hate that.
If anything, I’ve prided myself on the fact that I love this game. I play it because I love it. I train hard because I love it. It’s never been about the money or the accolades for me. It’s been about being the best I can be for my team, for me, and for my family.
That love has been taken away from me, making my job a chore rather than something I enjoy, something I look forward to. And even though Marcus said fans would ignore my family, they are too proud and supportive not to be affected. My mom and dad would hate this. Rian and Sean would be mortified for me. And Milly? Devastated. Despite the fans not going after family, in my case, they’ve hit their mark regardless.
“Shitty crowd this morning,” Marcus says, coming up from behind me.
I shrug. “It is what it is. How are Kate and the kids?”
“The first days are always the hardest, but thankfully Kate gets along with my parents very well and they’re there right now, helping out. It will be better once we’re back in Chicago and I can lend a hand more.”
“I can understand that.”
We make our way to the locker room to get changed as Marcus asks, “How’s Natalie?”
“Good. Spoke with her this morning. She’s flying out in a week, booked her flight last night. Counting down the days.” Smiling to myself, I say, “Said the big L word before I left.”
“Seriously?” Marcus asks, just as Jason screams at us from down the hallway.
Galloping like an asshat, he flings himself into my arms and kisses my neck. What the actual fuck . . .
I know he does that to Knox and Carson all the time, but now me too? Not sure kissing me is going to be accepted by the fans, or my teammates.
“I missed you.” He turns to Marcus and puckers up, but Marcus backs away and holds his hand out.
“A handshake is good.”
Jason laughs a good hearty laugh and then pulls Marcus into a hug but keeps his lips to himself as I desperately rub my shirt on my neck, trying to erase the feeling of his mouth on my skin.
“How’s it going? I’m excited we all get to practice together today.”
At least Jason is feeling the spirit of spring training.
“Good,” Marcus says with a conspiratorial smile. “Cory was just telling me how he told your sister he loves her.”
Motherfucker, Marcus.
“Dude,” I say just as Jason takes a step back and crosses his arms over his chest.
&
nbsp; “You what?”
“Don’t make this a thing,” I say quickly but not quick enough, because Jason starts waving his hand in front of his face and talking in a high-pitched tone.
“You said you love her? Holy shit, you’re my brother-in-law.”
“Okay, so this is going to be a thing.”
“Of course it’s going to be a fucking thing.” Jason wraps his arms around me and picks me up, shaking me. The dude has to be really fucking strong to be holding me in the air right now.
I look over at Marcus, who’s shaking his head and laughing, leaning against the wall, taking us in.
“This is your fault.”
He laughs some more. “I’m not even sorry.”
Finally, Jason puts me on the ground and grabs me by the shoulders. Looking me square in the eyes, he says, “Don’t fucking hurt her.”
“Never,” I answer, making direct eye contact, and I mean it. I would never hurt her. Natalie has quickly wiggled herself under my skin and into my heart, and I can imagine a day when she’s the most important thing in my life followed by my family, and then baseball. That should terrify me.
Arm over my shoulder, Jason walks me toward the locker room, practically skipping.
“Dude, the pitchers and catchers are pretty cool.” Leaning in, he says, “Maddox is totally impressed with you.”
Talk about shocking the piss right out of someone. I stop in my tracks and say, “What?” Marcus keeps walking, giving us a moment.
“Yeah, said your work ethic was unlike anything he’s ever seen.”
I clear my ear out, trying to understand if I’m hearing the right thing. “What, uh . . . what?”
Laughing, Jason keeps walking me toward the locker room. “You would be surprised with how quickly you can impress someone when you put in the work.”
Well fuck. I put in the work last year, so where was the love then?
Knowing not everyone hates me takes away some of the dread of practice.
We push through the locker room door and there are a few guys stationed at their lockers, getting changed and ready. Some turn their heads to greet us, some nod their heads while music plays in the background.
The smell.
The sounds.
The distinct feel of spring training surrounds me and for the first time since I left Baltimore, I’m starting to feel at home.
“Nice attempt at a beard,” Maddox says, coming up behind me. “Could be thicker.”
His voice startles me at first because any time he’s talked to me, his voice has been full of malice, hate, dislike. He’s egged me on, encouraged me to fight, poked and prodded at me until I felt like I was at my breaking point. Not just him, but all the guys, and yet, they’re . . . smiling. What the fuck happened?
Not wanting to disturb the peace and call a spade a spade—why the fuck are you being nice to me?—I go with a joking lilt. “Have any oils for that?” I ask, knowing full well, Maddox is one of those guys who relies on “holistic” methods to help him ease the tension in his body.
“Nah, you either got it or you don’t.” He walks over to his locker and takes a seat in the chair in front of it, and it’s like being in a different universe. Teammates are smiling at me, shaking my hand, talking to me. What the fuck happened over the last few months that changed their minds about me? Because last I knew, they hated me. But it’s almost as if Maddox gave me his approval and so now everyone has.
Turning to Jason, I quietly whisper, “Did you say anything to these guys?”
He shakes his head. “Hell no. I wasn’t about to sign my death sentence.” At least he’s honest. “When that shit was released about you on the beach rather than preparing for spring training, they saw it wasn’t true. They knew you were the one busting your ass in the cages, taking ball after ball off the tee. And, a lot of the guys stepped up. There’s something to be said about leading a team without being vocal about it, and that’s what you’ve been doing.”
It’s what I’ve always done. If you want a change, be the change. That’s the motto I’ve lived off. It’s why I don’t partake in any of the press, why I don’t shoot back at fans, why I keep my mouth shut, because if I want a change . . . I need to be the change.
“Personally, I think his beard is coming in nicely,” Ray, our second baseman says, coming up to me and examining it. “Has a thickness that will make him want to die in the summer.”
“You think?” Nate, our shortstop says, walking up to me now, so two of my teammates are examining my beard, running their fingers over it. “Huh, it’s softer than I thought.”
Marcus is now up in my face, cupping my jaw. “I saw it from day one, just little-bitty hairs. Now, it’s starting to gain some legs.” He pretends to wipe a tear. “Makes me so goddamn happy.”
I push at his chest and he laughs, backing away.
“How long did it take?” Maddox asks, leaning against his locker now, his arms crossed over his chest, looking like the actual rebel that he is. He drives a Harley into the stadium, has a mohawk, faux-hawk, not quite sure, and looks the part from head to toe with his dark features and menacing eyes, but right now, a worn-out book in his hand, the same leather one I always see him carry around, he doesn’t look menacing. He looks observant, interested.
“To grow it?” I ask. He nods. “Longer than I care to admit.”
He chuckles and I swear the earth rumbles beneath me, because I don’t think I’ve ever heard the man chuckle.
“The old man on the team can’t even grow a beard when management asks him.” He shakes his head and smirks. “At least you tried.” He opens his book and pulls a pen from behind his ear and starts making sketch marks.
“I’d do just about anything short of sucking your dick to support my team.”
Smirking still, Maddox says, “I get my dick sucked off enough; that’s covered.” He glances up and says, “The beard is a start, but your work ethic is what got you noticed.”
It’s weird having this conversation just loud enough for everyone to hear in the locker room, and a part of me wonders if Maddox is doing that on purpose, if he’s ensuring all the guys know where we stand. My conversation with Marcus about Maddox surfaces to the forefront of my mind. He cares about the team, homegrown, holds the Rebel badge to his heart. He’s not going to let someone just slip in; they have to prove themselves. I didn’t do that last year, but I’ll be damned if I don’t this year.
“Potter.” Our manager pops into the locker room. “A word.”
* * *
I’m a thirty-five-year-old man who’s been playing baseball for as long as I can remember. I’ve won every award you can think of including Platinum Glove, which is fucking rare, I’ve led my team in every batting category, and I’m one of the highest paid active baseball players in the league. But still, to this day, when a manager calls me into his office, I always feel nerves roll through my stomach.
It takes me back to the days in high school, when getting called to your coach’s office meant you were sitting out a game, or you were going to be cut if you didn’t get your shit together. Or in college, at Brentwood, when Coach Disik was about to ream you a new one. Going into the office never brought on anything good.
Today is no exception.
Standing in the office with my semi-new manager is Gregory, the head of PR for the Rebels. And they don’t look happy.
“Take a seat.” I sit down, sitting tall in my chair, as slouching shows a lack of respect. I clasp my hands in front of me and wait for them to lead the conversation.
From his back, Gregory lays a picture on the table and says, “What’s this?”
Invisible claws snag at my stomach as I lean forward and take in the picture. I’ve heard of this before, guys being pulled into offices and getting a picture slapped in front of them, one that is never in favor of the player, but I never expected it to happen to me. I’m a straight-laced guy. I don’t do stupid shit, ever. Hell, I love rules, they run my life, they’re my structur
e, so I’d never break them on purpose, so whatever the picture is, it has to be a mistake.
The lights from above are reflecting off the gloss of the paper, so I have to pick it up to identify the image and when I do, my heart starts to hammer a little harder in my chest. Not because of any harm to my image, but because I’m holding hands with Natalie, looking at her as if she holds my whole world in the palm of her hand. There are multiple pictures, so I flip through them. There’s one of us kissing passionately, me laughing at something she said, and of course, the one looking down at her.
I glance at my manager and Gregory and say, “These are pictures of me and my girlfriend, Natalie.”
“And what is Natalie wearing?”
Why the fuck does that matter? I glance at the pictures again and then I see it.
Fuck.
“Shit,” I say, pushing my hand through my hair. “She wasn’t thinking. She was running late and forgot to change.”
Gregory leans forward on the desk and says, “Do you realize how fucking bad this is? That you’re kissing a girl wearing a Bobbie for life shirt? Fuck, Potter, we’re trying to help you here and now these pictures surface. They’re going to be run this week. Not sure when, but they’re going to strike when the time is right.”
Fuck.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
“We weren’t thinking and . . . how the fuck were these pictures taken?” I ask, remembering we were just outside the golfing range. “I didn’t see any cameras there.”
“They are always watching, especially since you’re a big story right now. Any mistake they’re going to catch and this was a big mistake. Huge.”
“This was weeks ago,” I say. “Why are they bringing it up now?”
“Because, we’re starting spring training. We’re trying to save your image, they have enough fodder on you to make your life a living hell for at least the next couple of months. The city thrives off this rivalry, they live for it, and unfortunately you’re the perfect target, the perfect story to feed that rivalry.”
The Trade Page 30
