Assured she won’t be reprimanded, I pivot until my back rests against the wooden edge and peer past the open entrance into the dining area. My gaze lands on the guy, looking every bit as delicious as Lexie described. His sandy-blond hair is cropped short on the sides with an almost spiky top. I can’t tell the color of his eyes. He’s glancing at his phone, brow scrunched, while finger-punching the screen. It’s as if each hard jab conveys his tone. The mystery person can’t see you. Spare your keyboard. Send the angry-faced emoji or a few exclamation marks instead.
He pauses, jawline set in determination. A moment later, he shakes his head then jabs away at the screen again, clearly not getting my mental message. Somebody has pushed his hot button.
The whirling buzz of blending ice alerts me to the drink that’s almost done. It doesn’t matter. I’m not moving. I’m too busy checking out Mr. Delicious’s black T-shirt stretching across those broad shoulders. Casually dressed, given his surroundings, he exudes an “I don’t care” attitude. The way he conducts himself reeks of confidence. I’ve seen shoulders like his before. In fact, the same lean muscle and strong forearms look familiar. Too familiar.
“He’s an athlete!” The accusation in my voice draws the attention of the nearby table. I smile apologetically at them and then scowl at Lexie. The bartender sets her drink behind us, but I continue to glare at the person who knows about my no-dating-athletes rule.
Lexie laughs under her breath and picks up her drink. “Can’t get one past you. They don’t call him Modern-day Babe Ruth for the hell of it.”
“Really. You made me scope out a baseball player of all things?” My rule doubles down for baseball players. They’re the worst. And I should know. I’m the Goddamn queen of knowledge when it comes to dating them.
“What? So, he’s captain of the baseball team. Doesn’t change the fact that Braxton Smith is still hot.” She fakes a curtsy, balancing her drink on the small round tray. “You’re welcome.”
The traitorous voice trails behind me as she steps away. I shake my head, and my gaze strays back to Mr. Delicious. His date rejoins him, and I don’t miss her hand grazing across his bulging biceps as she brushes past him to her seat. The seductive glance he gives her as she tosses her long, auburn curls over her shoulder isn’t hard to miss either.
Well, there you go. Maybe, she’s his girlfriend, and he isn’t like my ex-boyfriend, for lack of a better word. I’d call Drake an ex-fuck, but that sounds so wrong. When push comes to shove, that’s all I was to him. A means to get off when no one else was around.
I bite back the bitterness crawling up my throat and push forward. My heels click against the wooden planks, but my thoughts sink to the upcoming fall semester and my responsibilities.
Like writing articles about said athletes.
When I make it toward the entrance to the dining area, I sneak another glance toward the happy couple. Modern-day Babe Ruth stands and places his hand on the small of his date’s back. Their half-eaten food lies on the table, and as he guides her toward the exit, I can’t help but wonder why they’re leaving so abruptly. His date smiles up at him as he holds the door for her. At least she’s not leaving mad, I assess.
With a quick shake of my head, I spin on my heels, walk back into the bar area, and head straight to the bathroom, the entire time questioning why I even care. What he does or doesn’t do with his date is not my concern. I don’t even know him. He’s cute and plays baseball. That sinfully sweet smile mixed with being a good player is a toxic combination. Let alone the fact he has a date. So, I question myself again, why do I care?
At the bathroom sink, I splash water on my face and steady my breathing. I don’t know where the sudden anxiety comes from. It must stem from the mere mention of Drake. His name may not have been spoken out loud, but his memory screams volumes. I can’t escape athletes altogether—not when my brother plays for the major leagues—but I’ve been good at avoiding them at CU.
I puff out a breath and stare at the scared, bug-eyed reflection. What the hell is wrong with me? I’m stronger than this. I won’t let another hot athlete reduce me to an enamored girl, left pining over him. I won’t be that person. Not anymore. I straighten my spine and tip my chin. I’ve got this.
Wearing my fake bravado like a badge, I march back into the bar, but two things happen simultaneously. My breath hitches at the exact moment the wooden planked floor warps beneath my feet and I stumble forward. That’s my excuse when I slam into the waiter, and Calamari and fried mushrooms splatter in a crunchy fried mess. Clanking sounds of the dishes reverberate around me as I freeze and then glance toward the actual reason for my demise. My gaze locks with a certain blond-haired guy for a split second. Braxton Smith. He’s back at the bar, sitting at one of the side tables, but the woman with him now is blond.
Two dates in one night? At the same restaurant? A bold move if I’ve ever seen one.
I force myself to look away before I end up glowering at him. Un-fucking-believable. What a pig. Anger rolls through me. A fury not for myself—it’s none of my business what he does—but one born out of empathy for the girls. They’re probably like me and clueless to the many women parading around him like Black Friday shoppers during a BOGO sale.
“I’m so sorry,” I say as I drop to my knees and pick up the pieces of the broken plates. I curse to myself that I let this guy even get to me. But maybe, it’s not him and the fact I’m still harboring pained feelings over my ex. I don’t want him back. In fact, I don’t ever want to see him again, but that declaration doesn’t negate the feelings I had toward him. It hurts to be used.
“Don’t worry, ma’am. I’ve got this,” the waiter says as he picks up the larger pieces.
I stand and adjust my bun. My feet carry me past the patrons, including the cheating captain of the baseball team, on the way back to the private room. I bite my lip. I can’t blame everything on my ex Drake. I knew about the other girls in the beginning and chose not to care. After spending an amazing weekend together at his cabin, I really thought he had changed for me. My lovely brother had informed me otherwise. That still wasn’t enough to deter me though. Nope! I continued to answer every phone call and went running to him like a dog after a treat.
It took my brother being traded and Drake celebrating in front of me while knowing how much I was hurting before I saw Drake Gunner for what he was worth. Of course, being the team’s secondary catcher, he slid into my brother’s spot, which would naturally make him happy. But it became obvious he didn’t care about me or my feelings. Then when he tried having congratulatory sex with me, I left and ran to my brother’s apartment.
My brother came through for me, yet again. AJ moved to Los Angeles, and on his dime, I transferred to Cessna University in Los Angeles last semester. I kept low-key and concentrated on my studies. I was serious before. I’ll never let a man, especially an athlete, control me ever again.
The fall semester starts next Monday, along with my newest adventure, and I know exactly how to pay homage to my fellow females. It’s my obligation to stand up and fight.
Look out Modern-day Babe Ruth, you’re about to meet your match. And I just found my story.
Chapter Two
BRAXTON
Trepidation swirls through my veins and settles in my stomach—an unwelcome feeling catching me off guard. I rest my head against my sister’s twelfth-story window and watch the happy freshmen scatter across the quad. Their excitement is almost palpable as they move a year’s worth of possessions into a room the size of a Cracker Jack box. Two years ago, I was in the same situation—excited and nervous, but ready for the next four years.
Four years.
A curse slips past my lips. Any elation associated with the sense of freedom is long gone. Responsibility and high expectations snuff out any chance at being excited. Junior year is supposed to be fun. Sort of a transitional period before senior year. Most people don’t start school with a huge decision looming above their head. But I’m not most people. I’m Braxton
Smith—Cessna University’s star baseball player.
Shannon bursts through the dorm’s door, all bright eyes and smiling. I’m almost envious. “Isn’t this place great?”
“This dorm hall blows. Everyone knows it.” I slide off the glass, leaving behind the warmth from the California sun.
“It does not. It’s awesome.”
“Sure, if you like the smell of fifty years’ worth of sweaty freshman boys.” Hell, I’m a dude. Even I can admit there’s a certain stench when too many hormonal-ridden guys are crammed together. But this building is original to the college, and no matter what the custodians try, staleness lingers in the air.
“Whatever.” Her gaze bounces between the four bubble-gum-pink walls. “I love it.”
“Okay, weirdo. I’m glad you’re happy living inside a Pepto-Bismol bottle.” That earns me a half attempt at a slap on my arm.
“It’s not that bad.”
“It’s hideous, but it’s not like you have a choice. They force the freshman class to stay in this hall. I’m surprised you’re so excited. Most people view this dorm as a rite of passage.” She glares at me as if I’m lying. “It’s true. There’s even a saying about it.”
“No, there isn’t.”
“Uh, yeah, there is.” I laugh and make air quotes. “If you can survive these living conditions, you can survive anything life throws at you.” Including major life-altering decisions. I maintain my smile, but the words hold more truth than I’d like to admit.
“Well, I’m just happy to have my own place.” She lets out an exasperated breath, clearly annoyed. I drop the teasing.
“Mom and Dad take off okay?”
“Yes! No more being under their scrutiny. I’m free to do what I want.”
My eyes narrow. “Aren’t you being a bit dramatic? You act like our parents are tyrants, which is far from the truth.”
“Seriously?” She places her hands on her hips and shoots me a what-the-hell look. “So, when Dad said, ‘this is a very important year for you, son. Don’t let anything, or anyone, interfere,’ he wasn’t interfering?”
I don’t answer. There’s no point. She knows she’s right. Dad does push too much. He wants me to not lose focus. The whole keep-your-eye-on-the-prize type of shit. He has his reasons, but he also doesn’t need to worry. After what happened when I graduated high school, I have no intention of having a serious relationship. It’s pointless.
“So, what? You’re transforming into a party girl now?”
“Oh my God, leave. You’re killing my mojo.”
“I’m serious. This isn’t a hall pass to suddenly be wild.” My baby sister’s actions floor me. She’s usually more reserved. A hint of concern creeps into my stomach. Am I going to have to put out a memo to every single guy stating she’s off-limits?
“Don’t make me regret picking this college, Gee-Gee.” Her piercing stare dares me to challenge her while she calls me by the nickname she has used since junior high. She playfully shoves me toward the door. “Seriously, go. I want to arrange my décor before my roommate shows up.”
Unsure whether to leave her unattended, I study her a moment before relenting. She’s stronger today than she was last night. Peppier even. “I need to bounce anyway. I have my own unpacking to do. I didn’t get much done.”
She gives me a sly smile. “Thanks for meeting me. I needed to get away from the parents. They’re really hovering, after—”
“They care,” I interrupt. No need reliving the reasons she needed me last night. “Plus, you’re the last one to leave the house. Mom’s going to have a hard time.”
“I know.” She drops her head in her hands and groans. “Stop making me feel guilty.”
“Sorry. That’s not my intention.” Maybe I should cut her some slack. She doesn’t deserve to be held at the highest standard for moral code. No one judged me when I came, and Lord knows, I haven’t been saintly. Besides, she’s handling everything well, all things considered.
“When does practice start?” she asks, grabbing a box labeled “personal” and then placing it on her bed.
“Officially, next week.” Unofficially, I’ll be hitting the gym later tonight. I’ve been slacking these past weeks and dread the weight conditioning Coach puts us through.
Shannon pops the lid off and riffles through a stack of photos. The corners of her mouth curve into a smile as she pulls out a picture and eyes it for a moment. She turns that grin toward me with determination in her gaze. “You’re going to kill it this year.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“If you get drafted, will you go?” Her voice dulls, and her eyes lose their luster. Unease claws up my spine. Hiding the truth from Shannon has always been hard.
“Of course,” I assure. Even though I’d like to finish my schooling, it’s pointless to think otherwise. The choice is already made for me. “That’s the dream.”
“As long as it’s yours.”
For a moment, I wonder if she’s a mind reader, but I shake that thought away. Making it to the majors is the ultimate dream. I just want to achieve both things—holding a degree in one hand and a bat in the other. I don’t voice that, though. I never do. “You know the first time I belted the ball over the fence, I dreamed of hitting it into McCovey Cove.”
Her lips twitch. “That may be a little optimistic.”
“Hey, cut me some slack. I’m good. Besides, I grew up watching Barry Bonds. He made the ‘splash hits’ look easy.”
“I know. I know.” She glances at the photo in her hand.
“I can’t wait.” My voice tapers off, but she’s already too busy clipping the pastel clothespins to the photo to notice my lack of enthusiasm. I stare at the picture after she hooks it to the fishing line strung along the wall by her bed. The photo is older. One with the two of us and my best friend, Noah. I remember the day it was taken. We were high school freshmen, and Shannon was still in junior high. It was a time when things were simpler. Noah and I on the baseball field playing for the pure fun of the game.
I bite back a sigh. “I’ll leave you to Margaret Locke Hall. If you need anything, text me.”
“I’ll be fine,” she says over her shoulder.
With reassurance my little sister hasn’t turned into a party girl, I leave to head over to the jock housing. Juniors and seniors get the privilege of sharing four-bedroom homes stretched along the outskirts of campus. I’m technically not allowed access to the house until next week when two of my buddies will be joining me over the weekend, but “star status” comes with certain privileges. I was able to pull a few strings and have my stuff delivered along with Shannon’s.
A pang of remorse punches my gut at the loss of Rick. Rick was supposed to be the fourth guy in the house, a would-be senior and one hell of a first baseman. When he got drafted last June, he seized the opportunity. He left along with his .351 batting average. That bites since we’re expected to be contenders in the College World Series. But that’s what happens to teams when players get drafted—constant regrouping.
My legs carry me across the grassy field in the center of the quad, the heaviness from my own looming decisions crushing my chest as if my spotter dropped a five-hundred-pound barbell on top of me. The last thing I want to do is let my team down. And that’s exactly what will happen, no matter what I choose.
A wall of loose ebony curls catches the corner of my eye. I snap out of my thoughts a little too late. The girl, engrossed with the stack of papers she’s carrying and her phone call, veers off the path and heads right toward the light post. I barely have time to react.
“Hey, watch out.” My attempt to thwart the catastrophe comes up short. The girl startles and smacks right into the unforgiving metal. Papers fly from her hands and scatter along the ground. I race over to her as a gust of warm wind kicks up and threatens to carry a few loose ones away.
“What the hell?” Laughter coats her voice as she drops to the ground in a frenzy, attempting to gather her papers.
“A
re you okay?” I ask while snatching a few sheets the wind blows just out of her reach. I happen to catch a list of football players’ names. Strange. What would she need with the team’s roster?
“Mom, I have to go… No, I’m okay. I barely bumped into it.” She heaves a sigh and flashes me a look before dropping her gaze. “It’s just some guy who saw me. He asked if I was okay.”
She pauses, and then, her eyes grow wide. “No, he’s not a serial killer.”
Another pause.
“Because I know. He’s another student. Quit worrying.”
Another brief pause.
“Goodbye, Mom.”
I laugh clearly at her expense. But I am concerned about her. Despite what she told her mom, she hit the pole pretty hard. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah, just embarrassed…in more ways than one.” She shakes her head like she can’t believe that just happened. It makes sense because I can’t believe it either. I’ve never seen anyone walk into a pole before.
“Nothing to be embarrassed about. I’m sure it happens all the time.” I pick up a few more papers and work my way back to where she’s bent over.
“Yeah, right.” Her voice comes out shaky, but it still holds a hint of humor.
“You lost your coffee.” I pick the paper cup up, the remaining contents spilling across the concrete.
“It’s tea. Not that it matters.”
“Tea?” I glance at the caramel-colored liquid and wonder what tea comes in that shade. Another gust of wind swirls around us and carries the fruity scent toward me. “Blackberry?”
I reach for another renegade paper, but she’s a beat too fast. My palm grazes over the back of her warm, silky skin. Her sharp inhale draws my attention to plush lips coated with pink gloss. Full kissable lips that part open in what my mind imagines as an invitation. I shake away the lewd thoughts and force my gaze upward. That doesn’t help. Eyes as deep brown as the rugged terrain at Big Sur stare back at me with an expression I don’t quite understand. Surprise? Recognition? Nervousness? I don’t know. She seems familiar, but I can’t place her. The bright sun blazes down from the cloudless sky and brightens her face. Surely, I would remember meeting someone this beautiful.
Swinging Strike (Cessna U Wildcats Book 1) Page 2
