Cleat Catcher (The Cleat Chaser Duet Book 2)

by Celia Aaron

  “They’re as perky as the day is long. I’m jealous.” She sighed and ran her hands down her sides, highlighting her hourglass figure.

  I wanted to throw my stapler at her. “Show off. And if I remember correctly, the last time I saw your big squishies, the nips were still pointing north, so I’m pretty sure you could go strapless if you wanted to.”

  “Maybe, but I’d probably get written up for indecent exposure.”

  I waved her words away as if they were an irritating gnat. “Days without a reprimand aren’t worth living.”

  “Oh, Nik, what am I going to do with you?” She stood to leave. “I just wanted to stop by and congratulate you. I’m proud, and I can’t wait to see what you come up with.”

  I slapped her thigh. “Put that fine ass back on my desk. I’ve got news.”

  A creaking wheel noise echoed through the hall. I knew the sound. I pretended to reach for my notepad and knocked it off my desk and onto the floor at Kyrie’s feet. Like a dutiful friend, she bent over to pick it up. Right then, Grady pushed past with the mail cart.

  He stopped, his pervy eyes growing huge as he got a good look at Kyrie’s ass. Her skirt was short enough for me to wonder if he got a view of panties. When he reached down to adjust himself in his pants, my hypothesis was proven accurate.

  “Here.” Kyrie straightened and handed me my notepad, then followed my gaze to the door. “Grady, get the fuck out of here!”

  “Y-yes, ma’am.” Grady took off with his cart, but seconds later a crash sounded from down the hall. He must have run into the nearest cubicle.

  I howled with laughter. Thank God that creeper followed us over to Style and Substance. His stalker ways always managed to lighten my day.

  “You did that on purpose.” Kyrie, her cheeks red and her eyes flashing, grabbed a lock of my hair and yanked.

  “I had that coming.” I couldn’t contain my laughter. “Just like Grady’s going to be coming all over your imaginary ass in the men’s room in about five minutes.” That comment got me another, harder hair pull.

  “I’m leaving.” She huffed and turned for the door.

  “No, don’t go. I’m sorry.” I grabbed her hand and stowed my giggles, though I had to push the image of Grady’s bugged-out eyes from my mind to do it.

  She glowered. “You’re going to regret all this when I’m at the bottom of Grady’s well rubbing lotion on my skin.”

  I gave her my most earnest look. “You have to do it, or else you’ll get the hose again.”

  “Dammit, Nikki.” She fought a smile, but her lips won and she finally let out a laugh. “You are the fucking worst. You know that?”

  “I do. I think you tell me about once a day. Now sit down. I’m being serious. I have real, actual news.”

  She dutifully reclaimed her perch, though her eyes had a wary glint. “Good news? Bad news? What news?”

  “Great news!”

  “That’s my favorite kind.” She crossed her legs at the knee. “Hit me.”

  “Well, you know how my parents moved back from Florida two months ago?”

  She nodded. “Yeah, did they sell the beach house?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Are you kidding? No. They’re having a major renovation, so they’ve come back to the estate for a few months. As soon as it gets cold, they’ll be flying south again for the winter.”

  My parents had inherited more money than they knew what to do with. I’d learned long ago that vast sums of money allow people to be their real selves. They go about life completely differently than normal humans. My parents were a prime example. They’d returned to the city because of what they’d termed a “monumental hardship.” This “hardship” was the scent of Vietnamese food. They’d hired a new housekeeper at the beach house, but didn’t like the smell of what she cooked in her own personal kitchen in the servants’ wing of the house. So, they decided the only wise thing to do was buy the beach cottage next door, knock it down, and build a separate servants’ home. Totally logical to people like my parents, but batshit crazy to the normal people of the world.

  “So, if they aren’t back for good, what’s the news?”

  “They want to meet Braden!” My voice was too loud for the office environment, but I didn’t care. “I can’t wait for them to meet him. They are going to love him.”

  Kyrie smiled but crossed her arms, pushing her boobs up and straining the button on her white cardigan. “Does Braden know?”

  “Yeah.” I fidgeted in my seat. The chemical burn on my pussy had entered the itching stage of healing.

  “Is he excited?” She raised a brow.

  “Well, not as excited as I am—”

  She sighed. “Oh, Nik. Nobody gets as excited as you do. That’s a given.”

  “I know, but I think he wants to meet them. He didn’t say no or anything. We’re supposed to go to their house for dinner this weekend. I can already imagine him wowing my dad and flirting with my mom, and oh my God, it’s going to be perfect.” My words ran together in a jumble of excitement.

  “Just make sure he’s comfortable with it. Boys are weird about meeting parents. And sometimes parents, not just yours, get overly protective. But yours … I can see Catherine and John playing good cop, bad cop.”

  I wrinkled my nose. “I don’t want to hear about my parents’ perverted sex games, you deviant.”

  She held my gaze and ignored my attempt to deflect. “You know what I mean.”

  I shrugged. “Just because that one time my father shot my boyfriend when they were out hunting. I mean, it was an accident, and Clay didn’t die or anything.”

  “Yeah, but where did he get shot?”

  I looked away and chewed my lip. “In the groin.”

  She kicked my leg with her black pump. “In the dick. Have you told Braden about that?”

  “Ow!” I rubbed my knee. “I mentioned it in passing. Said it was a hunting accident.”

  “Did he buy it?” She pulled a strand of dark hair between her teeth and bit down.

  She must have been really worried. She didn’t do the hair-biting move unless something had her riled up.

  “Look, they will love Braden because I love him, okay? Don’t worry so much. And I won’t let him go hunting with Dad, so none of that will be an issue.” Despite my words, worry swirled in my stomach. Was she right? Had I underestimated the pressure this situation would put on Braden and me?

  “What about Vanessa and Ben?”

  “Vanessa’s away at school, and Ben might show up.” My little sister was the sweetest soul in the world, and my older brother wasn’t far behind. If a black sheep was allowed in the Graves family, I was it.

  Even so, my parents had always been polite to my boyfriends. Except that one incident in the woods, they had never openly declared war against any of my dating choices. Braden was my first long-term relationship since college, so surely they would realize it was serious.

  I tapped my index finger on my thigh. Come to think of it, I had failed to mention we were living together. And by ‘failed to mention,’ I meant ‘intentionally did not mention.’ Not that I was ashamed of Braden, but I didn’t want to rock the boat with my parents. They wouldn’t be too pleased about me shacking up with a baseball player they’d never met. But I hadn’t lied to them or anything. I just hadn’t mentioned it. That was different, wasn’t it?

  Kyrie put a hand on my shoulder and squeezed, drawing me from my thoughts. “I’m sure everything will be fine. It has to be, right?”

  “Right.” I nodded, though I wasn’t quite so sure anymore.

  She stood and smoothed down her plum skirt. “Now, let’s get to work. When are you going to start on the waxing article?”

  I shook off the worrisome thoughts and grinned at her. “No time like the present. So, when was the last time you had your cooter waxed?”

  BRADEN

  RAUCOUS CHEERS MORPHED into a steady roar from the crowd as Cox slid into third. I swung my bat in the on-deck circle to the right o
f home plate.

  “Hell yeah, kid!” I yelled.

  Cox popped up on third and fist-bumped our assistant coach before brushing the dirt from his uniform. The frenzy continued in the stands. I turned my gaze out to second base where Hamilton stood after driving a double to the right centerfield wall. “Atta boy, Ham Chops!”

  He stared at me with a bright-white, toothy smile and pounded his chest twice with his fist. I returned the gesture.

  I strode up to the plate from the on-deck circle, and the thunderous applause grew louder as my name rang out over the speakers. Pendleton had struck out to start off the inning, but now we had two runners in scoring position with one out. Momentum was on our side. Adrenaline pumped through my veins as I looked up to the scoreboard—a giant picture of my face covered half of it—to verify the scenario. We were down three to two in the bottom of the ninth.

  I couldn’t help but notice my batting average taunting me underneath my pretty face.

  .247

  It was fifty points lower than the numbers I usually put up each year. The breaks hadn’t gone my way at all this season, and those three little numbers were all that the people in the front office cared about. Not leadership, or heart. Fucking numbers.

  Focus, goddamn it.

  I slapped the hard lumber into my palm, and inhaled a huge breath through my nose. Hot dogs, beer, and fresh cut bermuda flooded my nostrils. The smell of the ballpark was heaven.

  I propped the bat between my legs and scooped a pile of fresh dirt into my hands, before rubbing them together. I clapped a couple of times, sending a cloud of dirt swirling out toward the mound, and grabbed the handle of my bat. Gripping it hard, I squeezed the wood tight in my palms, gaining the necessary friction to go to work.

  Fuck the numbers. Get your teammates a win.

  “Let’s go, B. Light his ass up,” hollered Easton.

  E and the others were in my peripheral vision, leaning on the barrier in front of the dugout. I kept my focus on the mound. Glaring at the pitcher, I dug in with my right foot as the cheers of the stadium turned to pandemonium.

  “Time!” The ump threw up his hands, cutting off all the energy that had built inside of me moments before.

  What the fuck?

  I shot a glance to the opposing dugout as their fat fuck manager waddled his ass onto the field. Cunt.

  I stepped out of the box, my concentration now broken, and walked toward our dugout. I headed right for Coach.

  “Fucker is going to bring in Martinez. He’s trying to ice me.” I glared at the old man.

  “Looks like it’s working. Get your fucking head in it.” His eyes bore into my skull.

  He was right.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Use your brain, son. It’s how you’ve always stayed a step ahead of everyone. You’re smart. Quit sitting on your heels and reacting to everything. It’s a chess game. You have to be thinking three moves ahead.” His hands went to his hips.

  Martinez jogged out from the left field bullpen. He was a monster. Six foot six and built like a brick shithouse, but with a gut. He damn near threw as hard as E, but didn’t have the same quality of secondary pitches.

  I nodded to Coach. “He’ll want to get ahead in the count.”

  “Good. Now you’re being a fucking ballplayer. Go on.” His lips curled up the slightest bit at the corners.

  What sounded like a gunshot shook me from my concentration once more. I turned to see the catcher shake his glove hand like it was hot and toss the ball back to Martinez.

  “Fucking guy can bring it.” Coach glared.

  “Alright. Fine. Let’s see.” I looked up and then back to Coach. “He’ll want to work ahead. His curveball is shit. So I need to sit on first pitch fastball. It’ll be the best pitch I get to hit.”

  “Exactly. You’re a catcher. Use it to your advantage. Think in reverse. What would you do if you were catching Martinez right now? That’s how you have to think, son. It ain’t rocket science.”

  “I hope not. You’d be way out of your fucking element.” I grinned.

  Coach smiled. “You little shit. Go win the fucking game already.”

  “Done.” I called over my shoulder.

  “Batter!” The ump called for me and pointed to the batter’s box.

  I strode back up to the plate as I caught Martinez smiling at me.

  I’m going to fuck you up, fat boy.

  Visualization was the key to success. I don’t know why it worked, but it did. Over and over I pictured the pitch, and me driving it right back at Martinez’s ugly-ass face.

  “Come on, baby! You got this.” Nik’s high, clear voice pierced through the ocean of noise.

  I turned to where the girls usually sat. All three of them were on their feet, waiting in anticipation. Nikki smiled and blew me a kiss.

  Anxiety coursed through my veins, as sure as the energy from the fans rumbled through the stadium.

  Her excitement reminded me of how happy she’d been about the dinner at her parents’ house. I glanced up to the scoreboard, but was confronted with the damn .247 again. Shitty batting average, dinner with the parents—I couldn’t win. I was a hot fucking mess.

  “Focus, son!”

  Coach’s voice. It was like he lived in my head. I regained my focus.

  I held up a hand to the umpire and dug my back foot into the batter’s box dirt like I was staking claim on my territory. When I dropped my hand to signal I was ready, I planted my front foot in and stared out at chubby fucknuts.

  You got this shit.

  I played the perfect scenario in my mind one more time—Martinez starting with a fastball, and me decapitating him with a shot up the middle.

  I looked up and everything else faded. It was me and him, and only one of us would win.

  Fastball. Fastball.

  I twirled the bat in small circles behind my head as he nodded to the catcher and came set.

  Loose hands. Fastball.

  I relaxed my grip. The big bastard kicked his leg high and hard as I rocked my weight to my back foot. As soon as he let go, I knew it was my pitch.

  I swung so hard I nearly came out of my cleats.

  As soon as I connected I knew I was money, because I didn’t feel a thing. The ball connected with the sweet spot and rocketed off the bat toward the left field gap.

  I dropped my bat and sprinted toward first as the crowd came alive around me, and my feet pounded on the dirt. I glanced at Cox, who represented the tying run, jogging from third toward home. Hamilton was flying from second to third, trying to score the winning run.

  I glanced to left field as I was rounding first, just in time to see the fielder lay out and make a catch that was destined to be on Plays of the Week in a matter of hours.

  No! Fuck!

  It was like a sack of rocks landed on my chest. Cox and Hamilton hurried back to their respective bases as the left fielder hopped up to his feet. All noise from the crowd ceased as I came to a screeching halt in the base path.

  I clutched the top of my helmet with both hands and arched my back, staring momentarily up at the inky night, praying it was a bad dream. How the fuck did he make that catch? It was my shit luck. All damn season. I’d let the guys down again.

  There’s no time for pity, Braden. You’re a goddamn leader. Act like one.

  I held my head high and sprinted back to the dugout like I always did, whether I hit a homerun or struck out. It was classy, and set an example for my teammates. When I ran past first base, I turned to our new rookie who walked to the plate. He was eyeing my reaction.

  I clapped my hands together and grinned at him. “Let’s go. He ain’t got shit.” I tossed a grin to the sumo-looking motherfucker on the mound who was smiling at me. “Keep cheesing, dickhead! You’re about to get lit the fuck up again.”

  I turned back to rookie bitch who now had a look of confidence on his face. He strode to the plate with a purpose. “You got this shit, kid.”

  When I reached the dug
out, Coach beamed like I’d actually won the game for us. I still wanted to go straight to the clubhouse and destroy a few things, or maybe just have a pussy style ugly cry in the corner. Not a chance though. My boys needed me, whether I was at the plate or not.

  Coach smacked me on the ass as I ran down the stairs. “Bad break. We’re still in it.”

  I shoved my bat back into the rack and tossed my helmet up into my cubby.

  Easton was leaning on the rail with the guys, and I made my way up next to him to cheer on the rook. I’d let us down, but I could damn sure do my best to help another brother get us the win.

  “You literally cannot catch a fucking break.” He slapped the rail, then reconsidered. “Well, I mean you can catch one. Fuck it, you know what I mean.”

  It got a chuckle out of me. “It’s the goddamn baseball gods. They have it in for me. What do you do?” I shrugged.

  He spit some sunflower seed shells out onto the emerald grass in front of us. “Indeed. They are being mighty cunty to you. Don’t sweat it, man. They’re moody fucks. They’ll come around. But rook up there doesn’t have a chance.”

  I frogged him on his non-pitching shoulder. “Don’t say that shit, bitch. You know better than that.” I glared.

  E scowled for a second, and then he dropped his gaze. “Sorry, man.”

  “Don’t apologize to me. Pick up your teammate.”

  E broke into laughter momentarily, and then turned his stare up to rook.

  “Rip his fucking tits!” E hollered, his hand half-cupped around his mouth.

  “That’s better.” I turned back to watch rook most likely fail as Easton originally predicted. But I wouldn’t have that kind of negative talk in my fucking dugout. Not a chance.

  Our obesity-laden insults sliced through the air as Martinez kicked his leg. He fired the ball into home.

  Crack!

  Any ballplayer worth a shit knew the sound. I could’ve had my eyes closed and known that ball was destined for the outfield bleachers.