The Perfect Catch

by Meghan Quinn

  “Upstairs?”

  She nods. “Yeah. I’ll be waiting. Thanks.”

  She quickly turns on her heel and heads out the door, giving me a brief glimpse of her ass before she vanishes.

  Ryot must catch me staring because he says, “Dude, could you be any more obvious?”

  I sink lower into the ice bath. “Obvious about what?”

  “About wanting to fuck her.”

  “I don’t want to fuck her.”

  Ryot scoffs. “Okay. Keep telling yourself that, but the minute she walked across the tiled floor, your eyes narrowed in and never once stopped trying to strip her down to nothing.”

  I shrug. “Her shirt was nice.”

  Ryot barks with laughter. “Hell, you liked what was under her shirt.”

  From the small glimpse I got . . . I did.

  It’s not a secret that Kate is hot and all kinds of my type. Not only is she beautiful with her mysteriously dark eyes and the little freckles that dot her nose, but she’s the type of girl you hope to come home to after a long road trip. A good girl. A relationship girl. A smart and intelligent girl who knows better than to risk her job to do anything with me.

  “Whatever,” I answer maturely.

  “Are you going to do anything about it?”

  “About what?”

  “Your obvious feelings.” Ryot makes a production of rolling his eyes dramatically.

  “There are no feelings, and even if there were, she’s off-limits.”

  “Bet you can get away with a quick fuck in a conference room.”

  I would be lying if I said the thought hadn’t passed through my mind a few times, but I always quickly tamp it down.

  Trying to get out of the “hot seat” I ask, “Did you see that Redding got pegged last night? He’s out for ten days.”

  “Changing the subject about an opposing player? You’re pathetic, man.”

  Yeah, pathetic, that’s exactly what I am. My entire body has settled into a state of numbness, not just from the ice, but from my goddamn life. How much more of this agony? I check the clock. Fuck. Ten more minutes.

  “We don’t have to talk at all,” I suggest while closing my eyes.

  “And now you’re shutting me out. Real cool, man. You’re making it hard to be your best friend.”

  “Who said you were my best friend?” I ask, a small smile pulling at my lips.

  “Fuck you,” he huffs. “If I have to put up with your grumpy ass on a daily basis then I’m claiming the title.”

  “Do whatever the fuck you want.” I take a deep breath and let it out, trying to focus on what’s to come when I’m done icing down.

  The players’ suite is for large parties and season ticket holders to grab a drink before a game. There would be no reason for us to meet there. What is Kate up to?

  Chapter Sixteen

  KATE

  I lean against the wall right outside the ice room and press my head against the hard surface while clutching my tablet to my chest.

  Oh.

  My.

  God.

  When the trainers told me Walker was icing down, I didn’t think much of it. That’s why I marched into the ice room to ask him to meet me, not expecting to see him without his shirt on, hair all mussed up, and his scruff thicker than yesterday.

  And, of course, all I could look at was his chest, the definition in his thick pecs, the perfect circle of his nipples. Then there were his arms with his carved-out shoulders and boulder-like biceps that popped even when he wasn’t flexing. When I said he was a mammoth of a man, I wasn’t kidding. He’s huge, which only makes him that much more devastatingly handsome.

  Gathering myself, I push off the wall and head up to the players’ suite. I’ve no clue how much time Walker has left in the ice bath, but I want to make sure I’m ready for him.

  Today is the perfect day to have a little fun. There aren’t a lot of people in the offices, the players are taking the day off, and the day-to-day operations are minimal given there’s no game tonight, so I couldn’t have found more perfect timing.

  I press the up button to the elevator and luck out when the doors open right away. I hit the button for the suite level and hope and pray Walker is going to be receptive to my idea.

  The elevator doors open and I head straight to the large players’ suite.

  I hope I didn’t push him too hard the other night. I felt as though we had a breakthrough, and the last thing I would want is for him to go back to being his cantankerous self around me.

  Although, wasn’t that what he was back in the ice room? Short with me? Cantankerous?

  Possibly, but the fact that he was wet and shirtless while using his clipped tone somewhat excused his brusque attitude. I could handle it better because I saw his nipples.

  Man nipples that were all tight and pointy from the cold water. Maybe weird, but I thought it was really hot. He has great nipples . . . really great.

  Flickable.

  Just . . . lovely.

  The air conditioner in the room kicks on, startling me from my thoughts of nipples and causing me to laugh quietly to myself. Daydreaming about a man’s nipples. Honestly, is this how far I’ve really come? With a shake of my head, I survey the way I’ve set up the room.

  It looks . . . cheesy. And for the first time today, I’m second-guessing my idea.

  Is he going to hate this?

  Probably. He’s going to see what I’ve set up and walk right back out the door he came in. He’s not one to spare someone’s feelings, it seems, so there’s a really good chance of him taking one look at the room and leaving without a parting word.

  Despite the looming rejection that I can feel heavy in my chest, I don’t want to back down.

  I don’t ever want to back down from him because I bet people back down from him all the time, given his intimidating presence. But not me—I refuse.

  I’m going to help him whether he likes it or not.

  I take the next few minutes to make sure everything is in place and then sit down on a stool and wait for him to show up.

  I’m in the midst of typing out an email when I hear the elevator ding down the hall. My nerves skyrocket into overdrive. Deep breaths. It’ll be okay.

  I turn in my seat to see Walker stroll in wearing a pair of black sweatpants, a Bobbies shirt and matching baseball hat. Since Walker wears a backwards catcher’s hat most of the time with his catcher’s mask, I don’t get to see him in a regular hat very often. It does things to my already rapidly pounding heart.

  No wonder there’s a no fraternizing with the players policy—people would be doing it like bunnies in the hallway any chance they got.

  Walker strides toward me and sets his keys, wallet, and phone on the counter as he takes a seat. “How long is this going to take?”

  Brusque, unfriendly . . . surly. Looks as though our little night of talking didn’t stick. Too bad for him. I’m relentless and I’ll get him to open up again.

  “Have a hot date?” I ask him, wiggling my eyebrows.

  His gaze sears into me as his brows sharpen above his deep brown eyes. “No.”

  Clipped, angry . . . annoyed.

  “Oookay,” I answer and hop off the chair. I go to the door, shut it . . . and lock it. From the click of the lock Walker raises a brow in my direction so I quickly say, “I don’t want anyone to disturb us.”

  “What the hell do you have planned?”

  Realization hits me of what he must be thinking, and I quickly recover by saying, “Not naked stuff. I didn’t lock the door because of naked stuff. No, clothes will be staying on the whole time.” I point my finger at him. “So, keep your pants and panties fully secured.”

  He stares.

  Unwavering, stoic . . . like a stone.

  This is harder than I thought it was going to be. I spent four years dealing with hospital CEOs, opinionated, overworked doctors, and dedicated RNs, and have now spent plenty of time with the other Bobbies players. I should be able to
handle Walker, but there’s something about him that eats me up and spits me out. Maybe it’s his brisk responses or the way he so intently focuses on me. Either way, it has me scrambling to find my words.

  Unable to stop from being nervous at this point, I twist my hands together in front of me and say, “Remember the conversation we had the other night?”

  He shifts on his stool to face me and nods.

  “Well, I was thinking about how we talked about you not having fun anymore—”

  “I didn’t mean to say that.” And just as quickly as he arrived, he hops off the stool and grabs his items. He’s retreating.

  I quickly catch up to him and place my hand on his forearm before he can get too far. “Please don’t leave. Just give my idea a chance.”

  He works his jaw back and forth, the muscles ticking on rapid-fire as he mulls over his decision. I can see slight vulnerability in his eyes as I stare up at him, as if he wants to stay but doesn’t think he should. Oddly, I hold my breath, waiting for his response. And I realize, I don’t just want to help him, I want to spend more personal time with him.

  Finally, he walks away from me and toward the counter, puts his items back down, and asks, “What do you have planned?”

  Oh, dear Jesus, he’s giving in. Talk about excited relief.

  And even though I’m trying to remain professional here, I clap excitedly and then kick off my heels, making me three inches even shorter than his already towering height.

  “We’re going to have some fun today, Walker. I hope you’re ready.”

  “We’ll see,” he answers while crossing his arms over his bulky chest.

  “Is that a challenge?” I ask as I head to the center of the room, him following closely behind.

  “It’s a ‘don’t disappoint me.’”

  And why do I find that response adorable? Maybe because coming from a man who’s notorious for not smiling, it’s cute to see him keep up the act and not budge.

  “You know, I love a good challenge, Walker. Care to make a wager?”

  “You want me to bet?”

  I pop a hand on my hip. “Not on a real game, but on this little activity. Come on, if you don’t have fun you can make me do something, and if you do have fun, then I win and you have to do whatever I say.”

  “Those are terrible terms.”

  “You get the idea, though.” I poke his arm. He doesn’t flinch. Goodness he’s . . . hard. “Are you afraid you’re going to have fun and lose?”

  From under the bill of his hat, his eyes narrow. “Fine. If I don’t have fun, you have to replace me on that Build-a-Bear bullshit of an event with Ryot.”

  “Throwing your friend under the bus?” I chuckle, thinking about the event Audrey tossed in my direction, needing a representative to unveil the new Bobbies “bear.” I signed up Walker, just trying to get as many events on his calendar as possible, not realizing how terrible he was for the job. Fuzzy, teddy bear shop for a man who looks as though he eats teddy bears for an appetizer. Not smart.

  “Okay, that’s fair. But if you prove to have fun, you have to wear your socks high tomorrow night.”

  “No fucking way.” He shakes his head.

  “I agreed to pulling one of your events off your plate. Wearing your socks high isn’t even bad. Remember what I said about it being good luck? The change might be exactly what you need.”

  He grumbles something and drags his hand over his face. “Fine.”

  “Fine?” I excitingly ask.

  “Yes, fine. Now let’s get on with it.”

  “Whoa, don’t start having fun too soon,” I say sarcastically while holding up my hands. “Wouldn’t want you to do that, now would we?”

  He shakes his head and goes to pick up his wallet and keys again when I stop him, laughing.

  “I’m kidding. Now come here.” I drag him by the arm to the center of the room, where I’ve set up a mini baseball field, using pillows as bases.

  “What’s this?”

  I walk over to the wall where I have a foam bat and ball resting. I pick them up and ask, “How about a little one-on-one baseball?”

  “One-on-one?” He stares down at the bat. “You realize to play the game you need nine players, right?”

  “Not when you’re playing foam ball. The rules are simple. We pitch to each other and for every pillow we touch, we get points. To get the out, you have to be hit by the ball or tagged, like dodgeball. If the ball is caught in the air, you’re automatically out. Three outs and we switch. Five innings. Think you can handle it?”

  He takes the bat in his hand and tests its weight. I can’t help but giggle because it looks like a little toothpick compared to his size.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “You’re just so . . . big for that bat.”

  “It’s not regulation, that’s for damn sure.” He looks at me and says, “Fine, let’s get this over with. Are you home or away?”

  “Flip a coin?” I hold out a quarter and flip it in the air before he can disagree.

  He calls it in the air. “Heads.”

  I catch it and flip it over on my hand, revealing heads. “Damn. I’m guessing you want to be home.”

  “Damn right.” He hands me the bat and takes the ball from me. I step up to the makeshift home plate and give it a few taps as he stands a few feet away, ready to pitch. “For the record, I’m not very athletic. So, if you can—”

  He winds up and throws a screaming pitch right past me. He holds up his hand and says, “Strike one.”

  Uh . . .

  I blink a few times as the ball hits the cushion I have behind home plate for a backstop and rolls back toward Walker.

  “That was inappropriately fast.”

  “Did you think I was going to take it easy on you?”

  “I mean, at least let me—”

  Another pitch whizzes past me that looked more like a blur than anything.

  “Strike two.”

  “Excuse me,” I say, hand on my hip now as I point the bat at him. “You’re being quite rude right now. You need to give me a second to—”

  He winds up and throws the ball again, but this time, without me even moving, the ball hits the bat and bounces into the “field.”

  “Did I just hit that? Did I hit the ball?”

  He chases after the ball and turns toward me, a sinister look in his eyes.

  Oh shit, I need to run.

  Screaming like a lunatic, I cover my head as I quickly trot to first base, but I’m pegged in the back before I can even make it halfway.

  “One out,” he calls out in his deep timbre.

  I spin toward him, my hand on my back from where he pelted me, and say, “What ever happened to chivalry? You could give a girl a chance. I’m going to have a welt on my back.”

  “It’s a foam ball, you’re fine.”

  “Your compassion is inspiring,” I deadpan as I pick the bat back up and settle myself next to home plate. I grip the bat and look up just as another pitch sails by me.

  “Strike one.”

  “Hey!” I snap, tossing the bat on the ground and charging the mound. I poke him in the chest with my manicured finger and say, “Stop being a dick and give me a chance or else I’m going to make sure the next time the Bobbies need a fill-in for the mascot, you’re nominated.”

  He doesn’t react, doesn’t even crack a smile; instead, his chest rises and falls where my finger is pressing into his shirt and the side of his jaw ticks back and forth. Yikes, he looks as if he’s about to crack his molars.

  Swallowing hard, I say, “Give me a chance.”

  “This isn’t a charity game.”

  “Nor is it a brutal bloodbath, you psycho. I get you’re a professional baseball player but at least let me get ready before you throw the ball.”

  “Fine.” He nods toward the batter’s box. “Hurry up. I have things to do today.”

  What a sweetheart.

  Annoyed, I walk back to the plate, pick up the bat, and h
old out my hand for him not to pitch until I’m ready. I stick my ass out, hike up the bat, and get into position.

  Brow raised, he asks, “You ready?”

  I tap the plate and raise my bat again. “Give me the good stuff.”

  Shaking his head, he brings his arm back and throws the ball. I swing and completely miss.

  This might be harder than I thought, and I’m not just talking about playing this ridiculous game, but cracking a smile from Walker Rockwell.

  Chapter Seventeen

  WALKER

  “Ahh,” Kate screams and ducks as the ball she just pitched bounces off my bat and soars right back at her. I take off toward first as she scrambles to find the ball. I hold back the laugh that threatens to leave my throat as she mutters swear words, turning in circles, looking for it.

  I round second and head to third as she finally spots the ball. She picks it up, whirls around, and chucks it . . . right into the ground as I hit home plate.

  I pick up the bat and say, “Thirty-two to zero.”

  Her hair’s a mess, and her sleeves are rolled up past her elbows. Fucking adorable. “Is that the inning cap?” Fuck, she’s cute.

  I nod and hand her the bat. After the first inning that would never end, we put a run cap on each inning so we weren’t here all night. It was a smart move, because she’s lobbing the balls and I can’t help but annihilate each pitch.

  That last one, though, I felt kind of bad about. It almost hit her right in the face.

  “Looks as if I need to step up my game for this last inning, huh?”

  “I don’t even know why we’re still playing.”

  “Because.” She taps the plate again, something I find far too cute. “I don’t ever start something I can’t finish. So, we’re finishing this game.”

  “All right.” I wind up and toss the ball at her, underhand this time since the game goes by faster when she can actually hit the ball. When I was striking her out every up at-bat, it was taking too damn long, plus it looked as though she was about to blow a gasket, so I eased up . . . just a little.