Hard Luck

by Liv Morris

  “I love babies,” he says. I raise my brows in shock as I imagine little blue-eyed Brady babies with blond hair. The thought makes my ovaries explode.

  “Well, God knows you’re a pro at what it takes to make them,” I deadpan, intending to punch him below the belt where his perfect baby maker sits.

  “I am.” He slowly nods his head in agreement and wiggles his brows.

  “You have no shame.”

  “No, it’s never been a problem for me.”

  “And here I thought your mother raised you Catholic.”

  “You seem to know a lot about me.” His smile shines even brighter and I cringe. Kill me.

  “Lucky guess,” I deflect.

  “Why don’t you go out with me tonight?” Brady walks closer to me, invading my personal space, but I stand my ground…barely. He’s so close, I can inhale a whiff of his cologne. I take a short breath to take in more of it. Maybe I have no shame either. But I do, along with self-respect, even if my traitorous body wants to jump his big bone.

  “You mean sleep with you?” I whisper, not wanting to bring the saleslady into this conversation and give her more fuel for our not-in-love fire.

  “I’d be okay with that,” he says with that adorable lopsided grin. He’s cocky through and through.

  “I’m going to have to decline.” I pull away from him and turn to head toward the escalator to make my escape, but it takes effort. The force is strong with this one.

  “What? You’re turning me down?”

  “Down and out of here. Bye, Brady.” I raise my hand and wave toward the back of me where I hope he’s standing. He can’t follow me, or shouldn’t, but will I be disappointed if he throws in the towel?

  I make it to the opening of the escalator and take a step onto the first moving piece. As I begin to descend, I lose my fight to turn around to see if Brady’s there after all. I gasp at what I see by the counter where I bought the baby gift.

  Brady is standing where I left him with his hands in his pockets and his head down, but the saleslady is now in front of him with a finger pointed in his face. The scene reminds me of a mother giving her errant child a scolding. I wonder how much she overheard, likely enough to take his sweet ass to the woodshed.

  I smile as I exit Nordstrom’s a Brady-free woman. I saved my heart from likely getting broken by another stuck up, sex-crazed baseball player. Now, if only I could convince my body sex with Brady is a bad idea.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Brady

  “What the hell happened today?” I say out loud to break the silence in my empty high-rise penthouse.

  I look out the wall of glass windows and see nothing but the late evening sky as the sun sets in the West. I’m so high above Chicago, it’s like I’m sitting alone in the clouds, and I fucking hate it. My only friend tonight is my favorite bottle of Kentucky bourbon sitting on the coffee table in front of me. At least it doesn’t talk back to me.

  I pour another three fingers of the good stuff into my empty glass, lift it to my lips, and throw it back, hoping it helps me forget the fact that Cali Jones totally dissed me today. And I needed her. Dammit.

  I don’t get it. A woman not wanting a piece of me? That shit never happens. I usually have to shake the chicks off.

  I run my fingers through my hair for the millionth time since the Nordstrom’s army sergeant berated me. She got off on calling me a jerk for only wanting sex with Cali.

  Whatever. I’m young and looking for some fun and dick assistance. And every time I see or speak with Cali, I’m as hard as stone. I’d be losing my shit right about now if that weren’t the case.

  I refill my glass and check the time on my phone. Coach wanted me to call him at nine. It’s a couple till, so I pull up his number and hit call. He answers on the first ring.

  “Luck, how’s your evening been?” he asks.

  “Not so good,” I confess. I spoke to him before I saw Cali at the coffee place when I was in a better mood, hopeful she’d give me a fun night, but she shot that idea to hell.

  “What’s up? Did practice go shitty?” He has me on a tight schedule of morning and afternoon sessions with a hitting coach. The guy works as a shrink too, asking me what I’m thinking about when I hit. The thing is, I never think, I just do it.

  “My spark is gone,” I sigh.

  “Well, you need to find it. Chase it down the street and carry it home if you have to. Snap out of it, Brady.”

  “Believe me, it’s not that simple.”

  “Something else is going on. You’ve turned into a powder keg. No one turns on a dime like this without a reason.”

  “How’d you get so smart?” I take a deep breath, preparing to confess. What the hell? He’s the closest thing to a father I have in this world. Plus, my brother would only rib me from now until my grave if I turn to him for help.

  “Years of dealing with knuckleheads like you,” Coach laughs into the phone.

  “Here’s the deal. My mojo isn’t just off in the batter’s box, it’s also messed up in the sack.”

  “Are you talking sex?” Coach sounds confused, and God knows I am too. “You’re a damn chick magnet.”

  “I’ve had some issues,” I mumble, the words painful to say.

  “Like with your dick?” he asks, his tone turning serious.

  “I think a hookup cursed me. Nothing’s been the same since I slept with her.” How do I explain this without going into details?

  “Wait a second. Those photos with you and that voodoo chick were right before your hitting went to hell in a hand basket.”

  “Yeah, I pissed her off. She spouted some weird stuff at me the morning after. Told me I was now cursed and it would take a special woman to break it. Then she hightailed it out of my apartment and I now have issues.”

  “I don’t know about that black magic stuff, but we’ve got to get you back to hitting again. If a guy’s dick isn’t happy, everything else falls apart. Our jobs depend on you swinging the damn bat.”

  “There is this one girl.” Even thinking about her now gives me a semi, but it’s not enough to jack off. “Things work when I’m around her.”

  “Well, what’s the problem then?” Coach asks, and I wish I had an answer to his question.

  “Fuck if I know. She’s avoiding me.” At every turn.

  “From the sound of it, she’s got you hoodwinked.” The concern in his voice relaxes me. I’m glad he’s not blowing my feelings off. “Are you thinking she’ll solve your problems?”

  “I can’t get her off my mind, and wonder if she’s the woman who can reverse the curse. Not to mention, I’m moving on two weeks without sex. Coach, I can’t remember when I’ve gone two days without it.”

  I feel like I’m confessing my problems to a priest. But instead of telling me to abstain and go say a few Hail Mary’s for my penance, I’m hoping he’ll help me get Cali in my bed. My mother would slap me across the face for even thinking this way.

  “Email me everything you know about this woman and I’ll get to work on a plan. I have an idea already.” I sigh in relief. I feel like my life is unraveling.

  “Okay, but I only have a short list of things I know about her. She’s a PA and pretty.” I decide not to say she gets my dick hard. It’s been implied already. “I’m more a stranger than a friend, really.”

  “Your problem isn’t in your pants, it’s between your ears, and you’re convinced she’s the one to get you hitting at home plate and in the bed.” Coach’s comments make me think.

  Is it all in my head? I’ve never had any mental issues with my game or dick, so I’m not sure why they’d start out of the blue. Add the pin-to-the-groin incident at my house and I’m wondering if the curse thing is true. Either way, I’m fucked.

  Coach continues. “Leave it to me to get this straightened out by the time you’re off suspension. I’ll call you with more details. Better get your guest room ready and buy some girlie shit for the bathroom.”

  “I am not for chicks s
taying over. That’s what got me into this mess.” Coach wants Cali to move in with me, but after today, I don’t see how that will ever happen. She didn’t want to breathe the same air as me.

  “If you want to get past this slump, then trust me,” Coach says, and I do for some strange reason. “I’ll get my personal lawyers on this. No team business. Are you willing to cough up some money?”

  “How much?” I ask him, even though my bank accounts are overflowing with my salary, bonus, and endorsements. Still, one major injury, or a slump like I’m in now, and my career is over.

  “I’m hoping the low seven figures.”

  “Holy shit,” I whistle in shock. “I don’t really have a choice, do I?”

  “Trust me, Brady.”

  We end the call and I feel encouraged for the first time in days. I have no idea what his plan is, but I’ll sign up for just about anything to get my homerun streak back.

  I close my eyes and lean back on the leather couch, wishing I’d chosen anyone but that voodoo chick to bring home that night. Then, it hits me. I met Cali that night, too. There was something about her. She stood out in the crowd with her innocent blue eyes and hopeful expression that said “date me” versus “fuck me.”

  I should’ve listened to my instincts and chosen her. Hell, she fell at my feet once. Maybe with Coach’s help, she will again.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Cali

  “You should be wearing sunglasses as a disguise,” Taylor states as I sit down at the bar, and I shoot her a look of surprise. There’s no way she knows Brady showed up in his incognito getup the day of his appointment. I’ve told no one about his appointment. “I mean, you’re almost a celebrity now. At least your backside is.”

  “Too funny,” I huff. “Since no one posted photos of my face, I’m the unnamed, unknown girl with Chicago’s baseball prince. I still can’t believe you figured out it was me.”

  I keep checking the Chicago papers and sports gossip columns, and so far I’ve dodged a bullet…or a baseball. I’m still holding my breath, though. One post on social media of my face and I’m out in the open as “the girl” having the heated conversation with Brady.

  “You were wearing the dress I let you borrow. The one I’ve been meaning to get back.”

  “I’ll get it dry cleaned for you. I wish I hadn’t changed out of my scrubs, but I hate going to nice stores looking like I just left the exam room.”

  “I still would’ve figured out it was you anyway. No one wears maroon scrubs like you do. So, what is it? Two run-ins in two weeks with Brady? There’s something you’re not telling me.” Taylor gives me a pointed stare, searching my face for a reaction. “Especially with this last one.”

  I want to tell her every last detail, but I can’t. It all begins with the fact that he’s my patient and ends with the HIPAA law. It protects the patient’s information, even if he’s been the one chasing me.

  “Think Fight Club.” I throw her a little hint, but that’s it. If she pushes me, there’s nothing more I can say.

  “Brady is Brad, I’m guessing,” Taylor says with a knowing smile and my eyes go wide. She’s closer than she realizes with the whole Brady being Brad Luciano thing.

  “I can neither confirm nor deny.”

  “Right, what happens in Fight Club stays there or doesn’t exist. It’s worse than Vegas. As your best friend though, I wonder.” She eyes me over her Cosmo, waiting for a reply, but this Brady talk needs to end.

  Shrugging, I break her gaze by looking toward the bar area—and I’ll be damned, literally. Brady is there standing in all his gorgeous glory with a hot blonde practically humping his leg.

  His hair is perfectly gelled with a sexy, just fucked look. A touch of stubble across his angular jaw makes him look more masculine than usual, and delicious. He’s wearing a fitted navy jacket that looks like it was tailored just for him, and likely was since he’s rich as sin.

  Under the jacket, his yellow buttoned-down shirt pops against the navy, making his blue eyes look even bluer. He resembles a model in a glossy clothing ad or billboard. No wonder he gets so many sportswear endorsements. Women want him, and guys want to be him.

  The blonde moves her hand to rest on his chest like she’s staking her claim and I can’t deny the jealousy that’s making my blood boil, or the fact that I’m attracted to him. However, I’d prefer a non-player version of him who won’t break my heart. Because this Brady, the one who has slept with some two-hundred women since he landed in Chicago, would tatter it to pieces.

  I glance at Brady to see his reaction to her forward advance, expecting him to be all over her too. Instead, his eyes are like laser beams on me. Maybe it’s my imagination, but my face feels warmer from his stare. I glance back down at the table and sink into the booth. This is bad, bad, bad.

  “I see who you were looking at, and he’s not taking his eyes off you.” I try to look everywhere in the Drum Bar except where Brady and his teammates are holding court, looking like gods. Suddenly, the room feels too warm with not enough air.

  “Whatever,” I say back to her in a dismissive, please-move-to-another-topic tone.

  “You have to be kidding me, girl. It’s your man, Brady, and the hottest guys from the team.” Taylor flashes her lashes like they could see her from far away.

  I shrug my shoulder as I inch down even further into the booth. I swear, my chin is almost on the tabletop.

  “What’s the matter with you?” She gives me a punch of a look, and on a normal day, I would take it like a champ. But nothing about this day is normal. Or yesterday. Or even the last two weeks.

  “I think I’m switching from baseball to hockey.” I say it like I’m just changing toothpaste brands.

  Taylor drops her jaw, staring at me like I have two heads. She looks so shocked, I almost check to see if another has sprouted. And she’s right, I’m not a hockey fan, too much fighting for me. Though, I do love a man with a big stick.

  “But you hate hockey! You’re more of a baseball nut than I am.” It’s true, until Brady became my patient.

  Our love for baseball started back in our Northwestern days. We were a two girl cheering section for the Wild Cats. Even the guys who showed up to watch lacked the over-the-top passion we had for the game. To show our loyalty, we swiped swatches of black eye shadow under our eyes. Nothing says soul sister like baseball war paint.

  “A girl can change her mind, right?” I blow off the change of heart, because my mouth needs to stay closed like a vice when it comes to Brady.

  Helpless to stop the pull I feel when Brady is near, I glance over at the bar one more time and connect with blue eyes so vivid, they remind me of a crisp summer sky. But there’s steeliness or determination in them that wasn’t there on Wednesday.

  Overwhelmed by the intensity of his stare, I drop my gaze down his granite-like body, stopping at his thighs. They’re covered with dark jeans, but I remember their strength close-up. He’s pure man, and all those inches of him.

  “Ladies,” a server interrupts my Brady daydream. “Drinks from a gentleman at the bar.”

  The server motions to point out the man, but I don’t look. There’s no need. I’m sure the drinks came from my hot as hell patient. The lines are blurring and I need to reinforce them again. They’ll protect me from so much damage. He’s bad news, no matter how good he looks—and he’s looking beyond fuckable at the moment.

  “Please tell the person who bought us these drinks, thank you, but we respectfully decline.”

  The server doesn’t listen to me and sets them on the table. She probably doesn’t want to face the hot shot Brady with news that I refused the drinks. No one wants to upset the hero.

  “Ouch,” I cry when Taylor’s Louboutin connects with my shin.

  “Like hell we’ll ‘respectfully decline’ them,” Taylor argues and grabs a Cosmo while the server glances to and fro between us before scurrying away.

  I slump my shoulders in defeat instead of enduring another bruise
on my shin.

  “You’ve been acting peculiar since the night of the Brady swoon, then the photos of you on the sidewalk with him…” She taps her finger against her lips in thought, which is dangerous.

  “I know, but I can’t talk about it. Believe me, if I could, you would be the first person I’d tell every detail to.” I reach for the other gifted drink from Brady and suck about a third of the fruity Cosmo down.

  “I bet it revolves around that tall hunk of man staring straight at you. As a matter of fact, since when have you rejected drinks from a hot guy? I just wish you could tell me why.” Taylor pitches her brow and gives me a cough-it-up-sister stare.

  “You’re relentless. I can’t talk because it’s work related,” I confess, though I doubt she’ll stop hounding me.

  “I don’t get it. You see old guys who can’t get it up.” Taylor regards me over the last of her drink. I have only one way to escape her questions and Brady’s gaze, and that’s leaving the Drum Bar.

  “Listen, I hate to do this, but I’m calling it a night. Besides, Erin and Laurie should be here any second.”

  “You’re going? Now? It’s not even nine o’clock. I’ll quit talking about Brady and prostates. Promise.” She gives me an incredulous look. Add the frown, and she’s not happy either.

  “Trust me this once. I have to go.” I scoot to the end of the booth and stand, a little wobbly at first. Maybe that Brady Cosmo is the issue, but I didn’t finish it off. More likely, it’s nerves. All my senses are on overdrive under his stare. “Let’s go shopping tomorrow.”

  “Okay, but whatever is troubling you better leave you alone. I want my Cali back,” she says, her brows knit in concern.

  “I’m still the same me. I just don’t want my heart broken by a player again.” I glance over at the bar where Brady’s standing. He’s still focused on me like a hawk, but the blonde is no longer pressed up against him. Good. “And Brady would.” The thought sobers me.

  I bend over and give her a kiss on the cheek. Her sad eyes make me feel miserable too. I hate abandoning her before the others arrive, but Brady may try to talk to me if I stay. He’s already bought me a drink, which is a guy’s first attempt at saying hello.