But my brain … that’s a different story. I begin to snap back to reality a bit, realizing just where we are and who we are.
I can’t do this. We can’t do this.
I’m still struggling to get a grip on the scandal my father caused, both professionally and personally. The organization is just starting to wipe some of the dirt off its face, we’re finally getting some good press and the media is reporting on our actual wins rather than the dirty underbelly of the industry my father helped create.
And for me, I’m finally hitting my stride. I feel comfortable in my office, have more of a handle on my day-to-day duties, and I haven’t let my father and his doubts invade my thoughts in a few days. Which is better than I’ve been doing. I still haven’t been able to open the letter he sent, or have a frank conversation with Uncle Daniel about how he needs to stop treating me like his niece, and more like his business partner.
But I’m doing well, the team is doing well.
Getting involved with a player, much less one with a star image like Hayes Swindell, is the absolute worst thing I could possibly do. Kissing him alone is probably a sexual harassment lawsuit waiting to happen.
“Hayes.” I press a hand to his chest, his heart hammering under the material of his shirt.
The kiss is broken, but he doesn’t move away. Doesn’t even move his hand where it’s molded to my breast. Both of us are breathing heavy, and I’m trying to remember why I stopped us in the first place. My lips long to be under his again. The wetness that coats my panties has me thrusting my hips involuntarily, which should be embarrassing, but I’m almost dizzy with lust.
“We can’t do this,” I tell him, repeating my own thoughts.
His eyes burn with greedy passion. “You kissed me back.”
I sigh, because of course, I did. I want to do it again. But that isn’t the point.
“I did, but it can’t happen again. I … I shouldn’t tell you what I’m feeling, it won’t help. What I will remind us both of is the fallout that could come from this if anyone found out. There is no world in which we work out, at least not while you’re in the league, or possibly while I have a career in it at all. We both know this. With everything you’ve already been put through, and all that I have on the line with this team and my father’s crimes …”
The Adam’s apple in his throat bobs as he swallows hard, and then nods. “No, you’re right.”
Standing there in silence, Hayes slowly pulls back, taking his hands off me. My chest caves in at the absence of his touch, and there is no denying that I’ll play that kiss over in my memory for years to come.
“You should go out first, make sure the coast is clear. I’ll wait a few minutes.” I shift aside so I’m leaning against the brick wall of the supply closet, and Hayes can turn the doorknob.
I watch as he adjusts himself, a palm to the bulge in his pants. Masochistically, I can’t turn my eyes away, knowing that I could have that if I want it. I do want it, which is the problem.
One large hand grips the knob, about to turn, when he shifts his eyes to the side, catching mine. “I wish …”
He doesn’t complete the thought, but he doesn’t need to. I wish, too.
And then he exits, footsteps echoing down the corridor until I can’t hear them anymore. It’s a good thing I’m the one to stay back, because I need more than a few minutes to collect myself.
Hayes Swindell is not a man who kisses you and just leaves a polite reaction. I feel like I’ve been branded, stamped with his mouth on mine.
There will be traces of him on my skin for a long time after this.
20
Hayes
Walker Callahan’s house isn’t a Malibu beach house, or a mansion in the Hollywood Hills, but the guy has a sweet setup.
He lives on the edge of Packton, where a lot of the wealthy decided to set down roots. There are neighborhoods out here with massive homes, sprawling acres, and I’ve even seen some people with straight-up barns and stables. It isn’t my scene; I prefer sunny weather and an ocean breeze, but I can see how this is appealing. There is something down home and very Camelot a la the Kennedy’s about the neighborhoods out here.
When my teammate, and now friend, invited me to come for a guy’s night, I figured why the hell not. It’s not like I’m doing anything else, and he said there would be free food and beer, so count me in.
His home is a six-bedroom, seven-bath monstrosity that he gave me a tour of as the other guys milled about, stuffing their faces with the pig roast/barbecue buffet that Walker catered the get together with. His kitchen is a massive white marbled spot that he doesn’t use an inch of, or so he informed me. The counters in there are lined with delicious smelling meats, heaps of corn bread, macaroni and cheese, and every possible top shelf liquor bottle you could think of.
“Most of the guys are down in the media room, so load up a plate and a glass and come join us.” Walker points to a door in the front hallway after giving me the lengthy tour that I didn’t ask for.
I follow instructions, my stomach rumbling from my lack of a good meal recently. I’m no cook, and I didn’t bother to employ a chef out here as I sometimes did in California. I’ve been getting by on either food from the Pistons’ private dining room for all of my meals, or baking chicken breasts if I was sick of my lineup of go-to take-out places here. Piling a plate high with food, I add in a healthy helping of whiskey and head for the door Walker pointed me to.
When I make it down to the media room, I realize it’s not a media room at all. It’s the typical athlete cave, a massive level of the house dedicated to Walker’s achievements or other expensive baseball memorabilia he’s collected. It’s not a room, it’s an entire floor of his house, with multiple flat screens, movie theater seating and a projector in one portion of it, game tables, arcade machines, and a fully stocked wet bar. It’s a bachelor’s wet dream.
“Dude, finally. We were just watching the game. You into basketball?” Clark pats the black leather recliner next to his, and I sink down, propping my plate on my lap.
As I dig into a piece of brisket, which is heavenly, I shrug. “I’m not really into other sports, though I appreciate them.”
“This guy is all about baseball, one of the purists.” Jimenez waves me off, rolling his eyes.
“I’m a one woman man.” I wink, letting the whiskey burn as it slides down my throat.
“Not me. I like ’em all. Sports and women.” Clark chuckles, turning the volume up on the basketball game.
“You got money on this one?” Jimenez nods across the room.
Max, an outfielder, is currently working the controls of a pinball machine. “Yeah, I put ten thousand on it.”
I whistle low under my breath. “Better watch that shit, it can get dangerous.”
“You’re a nun, Swindell.” Jimenez’s expression says I’m too much.
I shrug. “Just a guy who likes my money where I can see it, in my pocket or at the bank.”
Walker claps me on the shoulder. “I knew there was a reason I liked you. I keep telling this moron to stop gambling his entire fucking contract away, but he’s too addicted.”
Max flips him a middle finger over his shoulder. “What’s the point of all the money we make if you can’t have a little fun with it?”
“That’s how guys like us end up working for car dealerships or doing testosterone pill ads when they retire,” Clark mumbles under his breath, and I nod in agreement.
I’ve seen too many idiots like Max end up squandering their entire multi-million-dollar salaries by the time they get out of the league. Gambling, partying, trusting the wrong advisors, too many divorces … you hear the horror stories and then see them play out when a successful pro can’t even buy a condo in Florida after retiring.
“We’re going to have a pong tournament in a little. Want to play?” Walker asks, changing the subject.
“What is this, a frat party?” I laugh, digging into the mashed potatoes smothered in gravy
.
“No, but it is another way for competitive assholes to be competitive.” Clark grins.
“Sure, I’ll play. It’s been … hell, I don’t even know how long since I played pong.” Having never gone to college, I didn’t partake in a lot of those games.
“You didn’t go to school, right?” Clark asks, his eyes on the basketball game on the projector in front of us.
“Nope, went right to the minors. I had no use for college and it had no use for me.”
“The best part about college was the girls.” Jimenez looks off into the distance wistfully.
“Can’t you get bat bunnies anytime you want?” Max looks at him like he’s nuts.
“I’m a committed man, now, dude. Carla would have my balls if I cheated. I nearly get punched in the dick anytime one of these stupid broads comes out with a fake story that she sucked my dick.” Jimenez makes a lewd hand gesture.
“Lovely.” I blink at his choice of words.
But this is what it’s like being around a bunch of competitive, successful, testosterone-fueled athletes.
I played with my team in Los Angeles for close to ten years. They drafted me into their farm system, and I moved through the ranks quickly, until I became a starting player on the major league roster. There are still two guys on the team there that I consider brothers. Since California is my home state since I was born there, I also have a few close friends who are my adopted family, aside from Bryant and Ronnie who actually feel like my family.
But I’ve been pleasantly surprised to find myself gelling with the Pistons’ players. My friendships with Walker and Clark have become truly genuine, and I feel a connection to them in the same way I do to Bryant or my California buddies. And I don’t mind the other guys too much, when they’re not being crass or chauvinistic.
Everything about my new circumstances has turned out better than I expected, and it has me wondering what else I’ve been missing out on by focusing all of my energy on baseball.
Accepting this invitation tonight is also a last-ditch effort to get Colleen off my mind. Idly, I wonder what Walker would think about me making a move on his cousin, who also happens to be his best friend.
Off to the side by a bank of old arcade games, Walker is looking down at his phone, shaking his head.
“Something wrong, man?” I ask, walking over.
He glances up. “My agent is texting me. Apparently, my uncle is going to give another interview. That piece of shit. Can’t he just rot away the rest of his days in prison?”
The hairs on my arms stand up straight. “Believe me, if I could guarantee he never got out, I would. Prick put my entire career on the line.”
Walker’s eyes are sympathetic. “If it makes a difference, I’m glad his fuckup brought you to our team. You’re a great addition, and a good friend.”
“Don’t go getting all emotional on me.” I smirk.
He rolls his eyes. “But seriously, my uncle is fucking useless. He was an asshole my entire childhood, and I didn’t even have to live with him. He did a fucking number on Colleen, though please don’t repeat that. She’d kill me for saying it to anyone else. My own father is no saint, but hers is a calculating, vile human who … shit, this is probably boring you.”
He has no idea just how much I am interested in the subject of Colleen. It’s been a little over twenty-four hours since I took her into that supply closet and kissed the fuck out of her. My stomach drops and my heart flutters just thinking about her mouth on mine, the way she kissed me back, the anticipation of what was going to happen.
I’m like a goddamn woman, obsessing over every intricate detail of those few minutes. But I’ve never felt this way, thought this way. Sex has always been just sex for me; a fun, pleasurable means to an end of release. I’ve had some meaningful relationships, but none where thoughts lingered long after I’d gotten off.
This was just a kiss, and I can’t fucking stop thinking about it. Or her. The way she smelled, like a warm sugar cookie with a side of zesty, spicy orange. The sounds she’d made, these tiny little moans that I don’t even think she was conscious of letting out into my own mouth. The way it had felt, like our lips were meant to connect until the end of time.
Jesus Christ, I was so far gone over this woman who was, essentially, off fucking limits. It was probably a good thing, though my cock disagreed, when Colleen put a stop to it. She was the more level-headed of us two, because I would have unzipped my pants and fucked her right against the door in that supply closet.
“Not at all,” I say huskily, trying to mask the desire building in my body again.
I resorted to my hand three times in the last day thinking about Colleen. I’m like a fucking teenager who just discovered masturbation for the first time.
“Any time he does an interview, it just causes more problems for the club, not to mention my father. And when it comes to Colleen … shit, she tries to act like it doesn’t fuck with her head, but it puts her in an ugly place. He seems hell-bent on destroying her from behind bars, as if he didn’t mold her into this robot of a person her entire life. I wish the media would just stop giving him attention, but I know this is their fucking life blood. Freaking vampires.”
I nod in agreement, understanding a little bit more about Colleen than I had before. I grew up an orphan, for all intents and purposes, and typically let that cloud my view of kids who grew up with parents in a family home. I’ve always thought that nothing could be worse than what I’ve been through, which is why I said as much after she was crying in the massage room after her father’s first interview. It dawned on me that growing up with the same narcissistic, ugly-souled human could cause just as much damage as being passed around foster care.
“You’ve got that right. They’re a necessary evil, and unfortunately, Jimmy is getting his fifteen minutes before he fades off into the background with his scandal. Don’t worry, it’ll happen. Just like all those guys who did steroids, or cheated with call signs, they were the talk of the town. Until it dropped them, and they’re even worse off now than they were when their trouble was the highlight of the news reel. Hopefully, he’s getting a good beatdown in prison.”
Walker snorts. “One can only hope. All right, man, enough energy has been focused on that motherfucker. Let’s play a round of pool before pong.”
A grin has my cheeks flexing, because I’m damn good at pool. Walker doesn’t know that, though, and I’m going to take a lot of sadistic fun in hustling the shit out of him.
21
Colleen
By the time I make it to my floor of the hotel in Baltimore, my feet are screaming at me and I have a headache building behind my left eye.
The lock flashes green as I swipe my key card in front of it, and the minute I’m behind the door, I kick off the heels that I stupidly wore on the flight here. It was a dumb move, one I thought made me look more professional, but after running into old acquaintances in the lobby and having to stand and chat for half an hour, my baby toes are paying for the fashion moment.
The air in the room is stale, as it is in most hotel rooms, but someone took the time to stock my favorite kind of flavored water and unzip my bag on the bed, so that’s a plus. Plopping down on the end of the fluffy, white linen king, I wiggle my toes. The feeling is glorious, my little piggies are set free, and I’m just about to fall back on the bed and consider letting myself doze off when my throat gets so dry, I begin to cough.
God, I need a drink. Of the alcoholic sort, at that, and I wonder if there is something stronger than wine or beer in the mini-fridge. Going to investigate, I find a mini bottle of gin, and a small bottle of tonic. Bless whoever left these here.
But upon further exploration, I find that my ice bucket hasn’t been filled. I’m usually not a diva about someone getting my room ready, but it’s been a long week. I’ve had to deal with another one of Dad’s interviews, the upcoming budget review process with all the Pistons’ shareholders, and I’ve been traveling with the team
on this road series.
I’ve also had to file a restraining order against the two men who’ve now been identified as my attackers. They were taken into custody, and one was bailed out while the other still sits in a jail cell. The trial has yet to be scheduled, but I know I’ll have to testify. The thought makes my insides shiver. I’ve been in too many courthouses the past year.
I used to travel with the team a lot more, when my various roles in the PR or marketing departments called for it. As general manager, it’s still a job responsibility, but oftentimes I’m flying home in the middle of an away series to fulfill administrative tasks back at home base, no pun intended.
Sighing, because I really want that cold, stiff drink. I pick up the ice bucket and traipse into the hall. It’s not until I’m walking back, a bucket piled high with ice from the machine, that I realize
I left my goddamn key card on the dresser. Inside my hotel room. Along with my masochistic shoes.
I will not cry, I will not cry.
Weighing my options, I lean my head back against the door, stemming the urge to sob. This is the cherry on top of a horrible week, and why does it feel like I’m constantly taking one step forward to only take sixteen back? Somewhere, I better be tallying up dozens of karma points.
I don’t even have my phone to make me look busy when someone passes. I stand by my door like a weirdo, nodding and smiling at a couple who passes me. They don’t pay me much mind, but if I continue to stand here, others will pass and look at me like I might be trying to break into this room.
Just as I’m about to head for the elevator, sans shoes, hoping that I don’t bump into anyone I know, I’m greeted by the last person I’d ever want to see me right now.
“Hey,” a voice greets me, and I swing my head down the hall.
Shit. Of all the people who could catch me in this precarious situation. At least I’m not naked in nothing but my hotel towel.
Warning Track: The Callahan Family, Book One Page 11
