by K. Bromberg
“Boseman came to see me.”
“Like came here? To the house?” I ask, surprised he’d go that extra mile, but then again, it is Easton. And he did say he feared lawsuits.
“Yeah. Shocked the shit out of me, but he explained everything. How Tillman did what he did, and then he apologized for what he did to me.”
“That’s good, right?”
“It doesn’t change a damn thing for me. The trade was still made. I’m still a Wrangler. He even said he’ll work to try and get me back, but hell if it doesn’t take some of the sting out of it.”
“I’m glad then,” I say as I step into him and accept the welcome-home kiss he gives me. This is so much better than last night. His laughter. His upbeat mood. The sound of a man vindicated.
I’ll take it any day.
And I’ll worry about how this affects me later.
How I may be out of a job.
I press my fingers to my eyes for a moment and take a deep breath before looking at the hospice paperwork. The doctor said it was precautionary, but after another stint in the hospital this week, he handed me the packet with my dad’s discharge papers, and told me I needed to have a look at it. My dad’s health is only going to decline more rapidly, so I need to mentally prepare myself for the next steps.
I flip through the pages and skim over the dos and don’ts and how to know when it’s time to call hospice to come in. But it’s too much for me right now. I don’t want to accept this yet. I shouldn’t have to.
And yet the doctor gave them to me.
I close the folder and push it away. Out of sight, out of mind. Do I really want some stranger there with us in his final hours? Wouldn’t it be better if it were just Sally and me? Then again, death is a scary thing that I’m not sure I can face on my own. I’m petrified to admit it, but when the time comes, am I going to be able to hold his hand and talk to him as he takes his last breaths or am I going to want to run and hide and pretend it’s not happening?
Both terrify me.
Easton’s laughter rings through the condo. It’s a welcome sound—the sound of hope cutting through my silent despair—and one I’ve heard over the past few hours since Helen’s been here working with Easton.
“I’m heading out,” Helen says to me as she pokes her head into my office.
“It’s already that time?” I check my watch and can’t believe I’ve been sitting here procrastinating and doing little for two hours.
“Yes.” She lowers her voice, but her smile remains. “He’s different now with the sessions. He wanted to learn before, but now it’s like he has something to prove. When he gets frustrated, he powers through instead of wanting to end for the day. I’m pretty sure that’s because of you.”
“Thank you for telling me that,” I say and she nods and heads to the door. It’s exactly what I needed to hear. Tears well in my eyes and a lump forms in my throat. Her words mean more to me than she could ever imagine. I’ve spent hours dealing with something I have absolutely no control over or cannot influence in any way—my dad’s health—to being told my support has given Easton new legs to stand on.
“Hey, you.” Arms slip around my waist and pull me back against the hard length of his body.
“A good session?”
“Mm-hmm,” he murmurs and presses a kiss to the back of my head. “I won’t bore you with the details but it was better than good. Breakthrough kind of good.”
The happiness in his voice warms so many parts of me.
“That’s great to hear.”
“Any news from Boseman yet?”
“No.” I link my fingers through his that are around my waist and try not to think about my upcoming meeting with the owner of the Aces. Currently they’re in the midst of reviewing all contracts Cory Tillman initiated in an attempt to figure out whether he wants to keep them or void them. And of course that includes mine.
“Hey.” He turns my shoulders so I’m forced to face him. “Boseman is a good man. Case in point, seeing the bastard that Tillman was and firing him even though he had a solid contract. I’m certain it cost him a fortune, but he knew it was the right thing to do . . . just like I’m sure he’ll know that giving you the team contract is the right thing to do.”
“I know. I just feel like the earth is continually shifting under my feet these days, and it’s only going to get worse with everything to come.” I think of my dad, of the hospice paperwork on the desk, and hate that I know this discombobulated feeling I have has nothing on what I’ll be feeling sooner than I’d like.
“Go get some fancy clothes on,” he says, shocking me to look up. I’m met with a wide smile and mischievous eyes. “Let’s go out.”
“But I thought you were still . . .”
“Screw the press,” he says, waving his hand in indifference. “There will always be an asshole somewhere with a loud mouth calling me a dumb jock. I’m a big boy. I can handle myself. Besides, since the Aces made the playoffs, attention has shifted gears.”
I love how this little bit of confidence he gained today has made him care less.
“Where are we going?”
“I don’t know, Scout, but we’re going to have some fun.”
And the minute I buy into his infectious mood and turn to go get dressed, the buzzer on the door rings.
“Buzz kill,” he says with a laugh as he heads over to it. “Go get dressed. I’ll get rid of whoever it is quickly.”
But for some reason, I don’t move. There are a select few who have elevator access to the penthouse. Security didn’t call to tell us there’s a visitor so it has to be someone on the list.
“Dad. Long time, no see, Derek. How long has it been, man? What are you guys doing here?”
Cal steps off the elevator and gives Easton a pat on the back of his good shoulder and greetings are given all around between the three. I stare from where I’m standing in the kitchen at baseball legend, Derek Penbrooke. The man known for his bat in clutch situations, his three thousand-plus hit career, and his ten Gold Glove Awards for fielding.
“Derek was in town, so we had a late lunch together to catch up. We talked about the club, about that asshole Tillman, and then he asked how your arm was doing so I thought we’d stop by and check on you.” Cal looks every part the proud father. I hate that I question if it’s an act or if it’s the truth.
Easton glances my way, an apology written all over his face and I just shrug. It’s not exactly how I thought our night would unfold, but the smile on his face is sincere and I love seeing it there.
“Oh, Scout, I didn’t see you there.” Cal walks over to me, voice booming, chest puffed out. “Derek, are you familiar with Doc Dalton?”
“Very much so.” He smiles. It’s warm and genuine and draws me to take a step toward him. “He worked on my shoulder way back when.”
“You mean back in the Ice Age?” Cal asks.
“If I was playing then, so were you, Wylder,” Derek says with a laugh.
“This is Scout,” Easton interjects. “Doc’s daughter.”
Derek narrows his eyes as he stares at me for an odd moment. “Well, what do you know? That is you. Last time I saw you, you were about this tall,” he says, holding his hand at about three feet high. “You were chewing a wad of bubble gum too big for your mouth, had a bunch of freckles on your nose, and were giggling like mad with that brother of yours. Scout Dalton. My how you have grown.”
“Good to see you again, Derek,” I say with a smile and warm shake of his hand.
“How is that old man of yours? Rumor has it he hasn’t been working much lately. Has the retirement bug gotten hold of him?”
“Something like that.”
“Scout’s taking over the business if and when he does,” Easton says, saving me from having to add one more white lie to the mountain I’m making.
“Come on in, gentleman,” I say with a smile. “Can I get any of you a drink?”
“So there was a purpose to his little stop by.” Eas
ton laughs before bringing the bottle of beer to his lips.
“Your old man had ulterior motives,” Derek says with an unabashed shrug. “Like that should surprise you. Two surgeries on this cuff, Easton, and the second was definitely harder to bounce back from, but once I did, wowee, it was perfectly fine. I won a Gold Glove and smashed forty-something homers that next season.”
“Is this your way of trying to tell me it’ll be okay, Dad?” Easton asks with a roll of his eyes as he taps the neck of his beer against Derek’s.
“Just trying to give you a little positive reinforcement is all. Let you see that if you do what you’re supposed to do, you’ll return next season and kick some serious ass.”
“Pushy fucker,” Easton says but his lips are all smile.
“Someone’s got to be.”
I stand in the kitchen and listen to them drone on and on. The laughter is rich and continuous as the three men talk baseball and club politics and the upcoming match-ups for the playoffs. It’s the most at ease I’ve ever seen Easton with his dad, and it’s the most I’ve ever heard him talk baseball outside his teammates.
I pour more wine in my glass and when I turn around, Cal is standing on the other side of the island, head angled to the side, blatantly studying me.
“Did you need another beer?” I ask, suddenly nervous under his scrutiny.
“No. Thanks.” He glances back to where Easton and Derek are laughing about something and then back to me. “So, Scout, are you living here now?”
I purse my lips as I contemplate how to answer, because for some reason, I feel like I’m being judged. “I have my own place still, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“But this thing between you two is serious then?”
What’s with the fifty questions?
“I’d say so, yes.” I watch and wait for a reaction but his expression remains stoic.
“That’s good. I’m really glad he has someone like you to help him through this tough time. Between the shoulder being reinjured and the damn broadcasting blunder, he needs someone supportive on his side.”
Exactly. It’s not like he can count on you, Cal, to be that for him.
I stare at him for a beat, hearing the words he’s saying. However, I get the sense that he means something else. “He’s a good man,” I finally reply following Cal’s glance to the family room where Easton listens intently to a story Derek is telling him.
Every part of Easton’s smile is worth a missed night out with him.
“I know the next few months are going to be difficult for him. Itching to start rehab. Mentally readying himself so he doesn’t fear injuring his shoulder again.” He takes a sip of beer. “And whatever else life throws at him.”
I murmur a noncommittal sound, wondering what that means. There can’t possibly be more life can throw Easton’s way to shock him after the year he’s had.
“Sorry again.”
“Don’t be.” I look up from the bed where I’m perusing my iPad and stare at Easton. He’s fresh from the shower, jogging pants slung way too low on his hips—like it-should-be-illegal low—and his hair is still dripping wet.
Definitely don’t be sorry if this is the view I get as a consolation prize.
“I’m the one who should apologize. I know this has been hard on you—all of it—but until I listened to the three of you talking tonight, I don’t think I realized exactly how hard.” I scrunch up my face because I know that sounds stupid. “I mean, of course I realized it, but after listening to Derek describe his injuries and recovery I kept thinking about you and how you must feel going through this for a second time in less than a year. It must be maddening.”
“That’s putting it lightly,” he says and twists his lips in thought. “This time is different though. I don’t feel as isolated as I did the first go-round.”
“Why’s that?” I’d think it would be the exact opposite. The season’s moved on. Teams have moved on. The postseason is here.
And he’s basically missed all of it.
“Of course, I feel left behind. It’s like I was with the cool kids and then all of a sudden I’m on the outside looking in on a life I used to have.”
“You’ll be back next season, though.”
He shrugs. “Hopefully. But like I said, it’s different this time.”
“How’s that?”
“I have you.” The words alone make my heart skip a beat, but the matter-of-fact way he says it causes me to melt in a way I never imagined possible.
I stare at him, our eyes hold, and I stutter over how to respond properly to a comment like that and not sound like an idiot, because that’s how I feel right now. He’s told me he loves me—and nothing can take away what those words mean to me—and yet for some reason these three mean more to me.
Maybe it’s the setting, maybe the moment, but regardless I don’t think I’ve ever loved him more than I do right now.
“Thank you,” I finally say, touched beyond words.
“No need to thank me when it’s true.” That cocksure smile is back. “Tell me what else you learned tonight.”
“How much you truly love the game.”
He narrows his brow and chuckles. “I thought you had that part figured out by now.”
“I do . . . but tonight. I don’t know, listening to you talk . . . I could hear it in your voice. In your laugh. Your love for all things baseball was more than obvious.”
“We talk baseball all the time.” He shrugs.
“True, but not like that.” I shake my head and look out the window for a beat before looking back to him. “Your voice tonight, the passion for the game in it . . . you had the same zeal that night in the press box before everything else happened.”
“Hmm.” He walks a few steps and stops in front of me, hands on his hips, and eyes alive. “I can’t remember the last time my dad stopped in just to talk. There was no criticism. No second-guessing. And then Derek. There’s so much to learn from his experience. So much I can learn from him.”
I smile. “Leave it to you to take a simple conversation and turn it into a chance to make you a better player.”
“The minute you get content, is the minute you lose your edge.”
“Does that pertain to all things, Mr. Wylder?” My tone is suggestive, my smile coy. He watches my finger as it trails up my inner thigh.
His tongue licks out to wet his bottom lip. “Are you telling me I’m losing my edge, Kitty?”
“Mmm.” I glance down to where his dick is hardening against the loose fabric of his pants before scraping my eyes up his mouth-watering physique. The view never gets old. When I meet the amusement in his eyes, it takes everything I have to play the seductress when my patience is all but nonexistent. “I’m not sure. I might need you to demonstrate your skill set so I can judge for myself.”
“I’ve got a damn good skill set.”
“That remains to be seen, Mr. Wylder.”
His chuckle rolls over my skin and makes me think of how his tongue feels when it does the exact same thing. He takes another step forward and without warning drops his pants to the floor. His dick springs to life and the sight of it—and the knowledge of what it can do to me—causes chills to chase over my skin.
“Show me your tits, Kitty.” His voice is an aphrodisiac.
I purposely make a show of biting my bottom lip as I reach for the hem of his shirt I’m wearing and pull it over my head. His groan is all I need to hear to know he appreciates that I’m braless and my panties are nothing more than strings holding a scrap of lace in place.
“That right there should be illegal,” he says.
“Me?” I ask, feigning innocence as I spread my legs wider. “Or my panties?”
“All of it,” he murmurs as he steps between them and runs a finger ever so softly over the heat of my sex.
My gasp is audible, the feel of his touch addictive as I look back at him. “Are you looking to get arrested then?”
“Any man worth his
salt wouldn’t hesitate getting arrested if it meant he got to taste you.”
“Should I take that as a warning, then?” I moan as he slips a finger under my panties and slides it up and down my slit before pushing into me.
“You can take it any way you want so long as you understand when I say by any man, I mean me.” He adds another finger and works both of them into me, moves them, and then slides them back out. He takes my arousal and rubs it over the length of his cock before stroking the full, hard length of it himself. “Only me.”
God, he is sexy. His head is back, his bicep bulging as he pumps his hand over his shaft, and he groans in pleasure.
“Hey, Easton. You need to fuck me to show me your skill set. Not your hand.”
And as quickly as I say it, he grabs my ankles, yanks me toward him, and then does some tricky move where he has me flipped over onto my stomach on the edge of the bed before I can even squeal in surprise. It’s only when the palm of his hand lands firmly on my ass that I make a sound. And this time it’s a yelp as the pleasure-versus-pain thrill races through my blood and ignites every part of me from within.
His hand fists in my hair as the stubble on his chin scrapes over my shoulder. “You want to be fucked?”
“God, yes.” My answer is a breathless plea. This dominant side of him so very different than I’m used to. It’s so goddamn hot.
He rubs the head of his cock up and down my seam, and I press into him to let him know how bad I want it. And oh, how I want it. His laughter is deep and rumbles through the room before it turns into tested restraint as he slowly presses his way into me.
“That okay?” he murmurs, heat on my ear, once he’s seated root to tip inside of me.
“Mm-hmm.”
That chuckle again. “Good, because that’s the last time I’m going to ask. I’m not in the mood for soft and slow tonight, Scout. I want you. Plain and simple. And I’m going to take you. You got that?”
I grind my ass against him in response and knowingly ignite the fuse to his control.
And when he moves, there is nothing gentle about it. He sets a bruising pace I can’t keep up with even if I wanted to. I’m so lost in the bliss of his cock and what it does to me that it takes everything I have to keep my legs from turning to jelly. Thank God, I have the bed beneath me or I’d collapse.
