He lifts onto his knees, grips his cock, and then closes his eyes in distress. “Fuck, I don’t have any condoms.”
“I’m on the pill,” I say, letting him know that it’s okay. “I trust you.”
“Hell.” He bends forward, his heavy erection pressing against my leg as he cups my cheek and kisses me with such force that he steals the very air from my lungs, only to return it when his cock rubs against my center. “I love you,” he says, against my lips and then grips himself and pushes against my entrance.
I gasp and spread my legs, welcoming him inside me, needing him inside me. He doesn’t take his time. Instead, he enters me in one smooth thrust and I nearly come from the guttural groan that falls past Cory’s lips.
“Oh fuck . . . me,” he says through clenched teeth. “Shit, beautiful. Best feeling ever. Best feeling . . . ever,” he repeats, starting to move in and out of me. “So warm. So tight. So wet. Shit, I won’t last.”
Neither will I, not when his voice is so strained, not when it feels like I couldn’t be any more full, not with the way his hand snakes down to my front and starts playing with my clit. By the way his thumb works my clit so quickly, he wants me to come with him.
“Shit, Natalie, I’m there. I’m right there.”
I thrust my hips up as he enters me, and I swear he touches me in a spot I’ve never felt before.
“Again, oh fuck, Cory, do that again.”
So he does, hitting me in just the right spot that my vision turns blurry and with every thrust. Everything fades until a burst of light hits me so hard that my nerves spread through my veins, rocking me into an eternal bliss.
I contract around him, scream out his name, and ride his cock so hard that I barely register him coming as well until we’re both breathing heavily, him on top of me, our sweaty bodies sliding against one another. Still inside me, Cory kisses my cheek, my nose, my eyes, and then my mouth for a few seconds at a leisurely pace before he presses his forehead to mine and says, “I’m so fucking grateful you’re here.”
I believe him, every last piece of him, because his grip on me is so strong that I’m concerned he’s not doing as well as I thought he was.
“I’m glad I came too,” I say, pressing a kiss to his chin, his scruff a total turn-on for me. “Think we can order some food and then talk? I’m starving.”
“Yes,” he says, giving me one last long kiss and then pulling out of me.
We both clean up. I quickly rinse off in the shower while he orders us a few burgers, and then we curl up on the couch together, me in one of his shirts, him in a pair of athletic shorts, and that’s it. It’s been a week . . . a freaking week and seeing him in person makes my chest squeeze with longing. I didn’t realize how much I actually fell for this man until just now, having him next to me, our fingers linked together, the relief in his eyes shining back at me.
“Thank you for coming, even though I told you not to.”
“I needed to see you. You haven’t sounded the same on the phone.”
He blows out a heavy breath and grips the ends of his hair. “Yeah, it’s been pretty hard down here. The guys are cool, but I can tell they’re not too excited about the attention and the added negative publicity to the team. Fans are brutal and it seems like no matter what I do, nothing is good enough.” He looks up at me and adds, “And then the article today, I’m guessing you saw it.”
I nod. “Once I landed. Dottie and Monica sent it to me.” I scoot in even closer and say, “I’m so sorry, Cory. I can’t—” I start to tear up and catch my breath.
“This is not on you. This is the media trying to make things exponentially worse to sell more ad space, more papers, more magazines. This has nothing to do with you or me and everything to do with their bottom line.”
“But at the expense of you? How is that fair?”
“It comes with the territory. The bigger the paycheck, the bigger the attention.” He looks me in the eyes and says, “I just hate that you’re being dragged into it and so is the team. I’ve had my fair share of press in the past, but nothing like this, and I really don’t know how to navigate it.”
“Well, telling me not to come visit isn’t the way.”
“I know,” he sighs. “I’m just, fuck, Natalie, I’m going through a shitload of stuff right now and I feel like I’m on the verge of actually breaking through to these guys on my team. They’re lukewarm with me, and l need them to trust me.”
“You don’t think you have their trust?”
“No.” He shakes his head.
“But Jason—”
He stops me with a squeeze to my thigh. “Natalie, I love you, but I think we need to draw a fine line right now. I know you’re close with your brother, but I don’t want you going to him for information about me. If you want to know something, you come to me. I had the same conversation with him this morning, to not play the middleman when he was telling me you were feeling like I was acting weird. If this is going to work, we need to keep our relationship to ourselves and not lean on Jason to communicate for us.”
Ouch, that hurts, but I understand where he’s coming from. I wouldn’t be too happy if Milly was coming to me about worries and concerns of Cory’s. I’d be really angry about it, actually.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “You’re right, Jason can’t be in the middle of us.” I bite the corner of my lip, nervous to find the answer to my next question, but I know it needs to be answered. “What’s going to happen next? With the article. Are they going to . . . make you break up with me?”
“What? No.” He shakes his head and brings my hand to his lips where he kisses my knuckles. “They can’t do that. I’m not really sure what’s going to happen. I got an email from Gregory before I walked in here; I have to head in early tomorrow to talk about it.”
Still feeling nervous, I say, “I really hope I didn’t ruin us.” I flip his hand over and draw light circles on his palm. “When I first started talking to you, I never thought you’d be interested in me, let alone want to date me. I didn’t even think I was ready for a serious relationship, but you proved me wrong and I’d feel so awful if I ruined everything by being careless.”
“You didn’t. I promise,” he says, cupping my cheek. “I’m not going anywhere.”
There’s a knock at the door and Cory stands from the couch but presses a quick kiss to my lips before grabbing the room service. While he makes small talk with the staff, I pull my legs in tight to my chest and look out at the window that overlooks the city. I hear what Cory is telling me, I can see it in his touch and words, but there’s something in the back of my head that keeps bothering me, something I can’t quite place. And for some reason, I think it’s going to hurt me as well.
Chapter Twenty-Five
CORY
I can’t fucking sleep, not with my stomach churning with uncertainty while Natalie is curled up into my chest, clinging to every inch of skin she can.
I can feel it, deep in my bones. I’m going to let her down.
With every breath she takes, every drawn-out inhale and exhale, it feels like the air filling my lungs gets smaller. My chest constricts and a light sheen of sweat coats my upper lip as I think about tomorrow.
That article . . . fuck. It’s way worse than I let on.
The small steps of progress I made with the team, yeah, fucking vanished in an instant. I could see them all recoil when the article came out. I saw the way they looked at me. It’s not that they think I’m a traitor, but it’s the fact that I wasn’t thinking. That I’ve made this team a laughing stock when they want to be taken seriously.
Here he is, the big contract of the year, playing first base for the Rebels and his girlfriend is wearing a goddamn Bobbies shirt.
It’s insulting to them, to the organization, and to the fans.
Management is livid. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Coach Gordan’s face so red. The front office is scrambling, and that’s why I have to go in early tomorrow. And the guys, well, fuck, ev
en Marcus gave me a side-eye with uncertainty.
I don’t fucking blame any of them though.
The only person talking to me at this point is Jason, but he’s not the one I need to win over; he’s not the one I need on my side. I need my infield teammates on my side the most. They say the pitcher and the catcher are the unit on the field—well, I’m at the fucking helm. My players need to trust in the fact that if they make a stellar play, they can count on me to catch the ball at first and do everything humanly possible to guarantee that out. How can they possibly trust I’m going to do my job on the field if they can’t trust me off the field?
It’s impossible, which will only lead to shitty play and another piss-poor season.
I don’t want that. I can’t have that. Not after being traded. I want to prove something to Baltimore, have them know it was a huge mistake letting me go, and then prove to the Rebels fans that even though I was a Bobbie for life growing up, I’m now a Rebel at heart.
But at what price?
I roll out of bed and order more room service while Natalie is still sleeping. Sipping coffee I brewed in the kitchenette, I lean against the counter and take her in from afar. Naked and beautifully draped in a white comforter, she looks picturesque with the sun only just peeking through the window. Her caramel-colored hair touches her bare shoulder and is slightly wild from my fingers running through it a few times last night. I can still hear her moans, feel the way her pussy clenched around my cock, begging for more. I can smell her sweet scent on my upper lip. I didn’t want her to visit, but fuck, having her here, feeling her, it made the stress, the anxiety temporarily fade away.
But now that it’s a new day, the anxiety has returned to the forefront of my mind. And I have to face it. Find a solution.
There’s a knock at the door and I quickly pull the food cart inside the room, keeping the door closed for the most part so Natalie isn’t exposed. I tip the staff member and then send him on his way. When I wheel the cart in farther, Natalie stretches her arms over her head and then opens her beautiful eyes to spot me. Giving me that devastating smile, she flops her head back on the pillow, hair scattering everywhere and says, “Good morning.”
“Morning, beautiful.” I climb onto the bed and bury my head into the crook of her neck, giving her a hug and sinking into her warmth. Fuck, I want to stay here forever. I don’t want to face the crushing reality outside that door. “I ordered you some food. I would love to stay and eat with you, but I have a meeting I have to get to before practice.”
She sits up, holding the blanket across her breasts while she rubs her eyes. “You should have woken me up. I could have spent more time with you.”
“I wore you out,” I say, kissing her nose and pulling away. “You needed some sleep.” I notice the beard burn across her chest and wince. I scratch the side of my jaw and say, “Are you sure you don’t mind my scruff marking your skin like that?”
She rubs her palm over her chest and shakes her head. “I love it.”
And I love her . . . so fucking much.
I press another kiss against her lips and then back away, putting some distance between us. “Not sure how long I’ll be today, but I’ll text you when I’m on my way back.”
“Hey, what about my passes to watch practice?”
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea yet,” I say. She lowers her head. “Just because of everything that’s going on. The fans are crazy.”
“I understand.” She clears her throat and says, “I brought my computer so I can do some work while I’m here. I’ll catch up on that for now.”
“Natalie.”
“It’s fine, Cory, really. I understand.”
Sighing, I go back to the edge of the bed where I sit and lift her chin with two fingers, forcing her to look me in the eyes. “I’m watching out for you, okay?”
“And who’s watching out for you?” she asks, making me feel tongue-tied.
Unsure how to answer, I say, “I can take care of myself.” I glide my lips over hers and then lift from the bed. “I’ll text you.”
“Okay,” she says. “I love you.”
I stop and face her, looking her in the eyes. “I love you too.”
* * *
Sitting in an office made from cinder blocks, waiting for what feels like my death sentence, doesn’t help to calm my nerves. I’ve seen my fair share of manager’s offices and they seem to all look the same, stuck deep in the bellows of the stadium with no windows and worn-out carpet. Managers deserve so much more, but they’re treated like they belong in a small room under the stairs.
The creaky door behind me opens and shuts. Coach Gordan and Gregory both enter. Gordan sits down, Gregory leans against the wall. They don’t look pleased.
“I’m sorry,” I say, before either one of them can speak. “I’m really fucking sorry. Natalie is . . . hell, she feels like she’s been punched a few too many times.”
“This is a goddamn nightmare,” Gregory says. “Way worse than predicted. We have sponsors now sending emails, concerned about what the hell our organization is doing, questioning our reasoning for acquiring you last year.”
Shit.
I swallow hard.
Fans and sponsors, they bring in the money. Without them, there is no money, and I seem to have a penchant for cutting them both out.
“Is there anything I can do?” I ask, desperate to make amends. I want to discuss the idea of me going on the offensive or getting out there and quelling the lies with facts. But, over the years, I’ve learned my place. If Gordan thought it would work, he probably would have suggested it.
“Yes,” Gordan says, leaning forward on his desk. “There is.”
Please don’t fucking say break up with Natalie, please don’t fucking say it. I’m not not having her as part of my life. My days. My future.
“What?” I ask. My heart is breaking.
He clears his throat and steeples his fingers in front of him. “Lie low.”
I’m caught so off guard that a strangled sound constricts my throat. Sitting back, I blink a few times and nod.
“Yeah,” I answer with a hoarse voice. “I can, uh . . . I can do that.”
“No more drawing attention to yourself. Head down, play baseball,” my manager says, and even though I know he’s angry, when I look up, I can see a sympathetic glint in his eye, as if he feels bad for my situation.
I nod. “Play baseball, I got it.”
I go to stand when Gregory says, “This media attention is less than ideal. Your lack of fan appreciation really hurts the jersey sales we were expecting, and last season wasn’t what we were expecting from you on the field either.” Way to kick a guy when he’s down. “But”—Gregory crosses his arms over his chest—“I’ve heard from many that you’re the hardest working player on and off the field. That will translate, Potter. Keep it up.”
I give him a curt nod and head out of the office straight to an empty locker room. It’s still early, none of the guys will be here yet, which means I have plenty of time to get in a few extra workouts before them.
There’s one thing I’ve noticed during this debacle of my team hating me, fans hating me, press using me as a goddamn tool to make money: my game has fired up and I’m stronger now at thirty-five than I was at twenty-five. I’m more limber, powerful, and laser-focused. My mental game off the field is shit, but when I’m on the field, it’s as if nothing else exists. I see the ball so well off the bat, and off the arm of the pitcher, that it looks like a beach ball. We start spring training games tomorrow, and I can’t wait to annihilate every goddamn ball that comes my way.
Coach wants me to lie low. Well, the only place that’s not going to happen is on the field. It’s the only place I’ll gain respect. The only place where I can fix this mess, so when I do go home to Natalie, I don’t break out in a cold sweat when I see her.
Put in the time and this will get better.
* * *
“Hey Potter, where’s your Bobbies wh
ore?”
I grind my teeth and stare at my coach, watching him talk to one of the rookie shortstops trying to make it to the big leagues, about sweeping properly across second base when turning a double play.
“Her tits real?” another fan calls out.
Fucking “fan appreciation day.” Whoever came up with this idea should have their head dunked in a toilet. It’s our last day of practice before the preseason games start, and they let a certain number of fans into the stands to watch practice and “cheer us on.” You could imagine my excitement when everyone moved to my side and started jeering. Why the fuck do they do this?
Today, we’re not just practicing our sport, but I’m also mentally practicing ignoring the voices behind me.
The rookie sweeps across second and throws the ball right at my chest. I stretch out my arm, and when the ball hits my glove with a snap, I trap it in my glove and then toss it toward home plate where they’re collecting all the balls.
Coach says, “Again” and I take three more throws from the rookie, each deathly accurate. He’s fucking good and shows great promise. He has for the last week. I also heard he was tearing it up in the minors last season. Nate should be shaking in his cleats with Houston Morrow barking up his tree.
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