Bad Boy Prospect (Alpha Bad Boy Book 2)

by Howell, Sloane

  Bad Boy Prospect

  (Novella #2 in the Alpha Bad Boy Series)

  By: Sloane Howell

  Bad Boy Prospect

  Copyright © Sloane Howell

  Stock Photo courtesy of Shutterstock.com

  Cover Design by Sloane Howell

  www.sloanehowell.com

  All rights reserved

  This ebook is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, photocopying, mechanical, or otherwise—without prior permission of the publisher and author.

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  Other works by Sloane:

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  Novellas In This Series (these are standalones that can be read in any order):

  Bad Boy Revelation (click here)

  Novels:

  The Matriarch Trilogy:

  Book # 1: The Matriarch: An Erotic Superhero Romance

  Books # 2 and 3: Coming in 2016

  Short Stories and Novellas:

  The Panty Whisperer Series:

  The Panty Whisperer: Volumes 1 - 5

  The Panty Whisperer: Volume 6

  The Payne Capital Series:

  Payne Capital

  GAVIN

  Coach walks out of the dugout and heads toward the mound. He taps his right arm as he glances out to us in the bullpen beyond right field. It's the bottom of the ninth and there's one out. This is the shit I live for.

  The outfield wall swings open and I jog out onto the field. The smell of stale beer and hotdogs cuts through the dirt kicked up all along the warning track. I make my way through the outfield, scanning the stadium from left to right as it grows larger in my vision and the faint cheers slowly turn to a roar.

  Coach and Jackson — our catcher — are standing on the mound waiting for me, most likely discussing scouting reports and how to approach the next batter. It doesn't really matter. He's not going to touch a fucking thing I throw. This is my opportunity to shine. This is my shot at getting called up to the show. The only thing that can fuck this up is me.

  My feet pound the grass in right field as I near, my cleats ripping up the bermuda as the wind rushes over my face. Some loud screams pierce through the din of the crowd. I'm dumb enough to glance over to two girls who couldn't be more than nineteen or twenty as they turn and flip their shirts up, revealing my name on the ass of their shorts.

  My cock tries to grow against my cup, an impossibility that's bound to have me walking like a goddamned cripple. Focus motherfucker! Think of something to take your mind off fucking those girls. Aspertame. Dung Beetles. Marla Hooch. Robert Plant.

  Fortunately, my dick gets some relief. I want to look back at them, but it will only end in a dick disaster. I'll fuck both of them after the game, so I'm not too worried about depriving them of my attention.

  I finally reach the mound and Coach looks like he is trying to explode my brain with his stare.

  "Done admiring your goddamn hooker harem? Can you give us a few minutes of your time, superstar?" He folds his arms across his chest, and I realize he's still holding the ball. It pisses me off. This mound is my domain and he's intruding on it. He's not welcome here. I lean down — way down — and stare him in the eye.

  "Give me my fucking ball, and go to the dugout while I make you look good." It's more of a growling order than a simple request. I can see Jackson eyeing me with caution. Coach eyeballs me long and hard. It's an admirable play on his part, and I respect him for it. But he needs me way more than I fucking need his ass. I flip my glove out and he slaps the ball into it, but he doesn't let go.

  "This guy crowds the plate. You need to work him off of it. Then bring the slider and make him chase."

  "We got runners on first and second. I'm not trying to work his ass in. What if he decides to lean into one? Then we got bases loaded."

  Coach chuckles and releases the ball in my glove. "He ain't leaning into a goddamn thing you throw, son. Not if he wants to survive."

  This is why I love baseball. Two seconds ago we were at each other's throats. But Coach always says something, in some backhanded way, that gives me a dose of confidence. Not that I need it, but it probably works great on the other guys.

  I belt out a laugh that probably has the other team's hitter pissed off. I make sure to turn and look at him while I finish chortling at his expense. "Touché coach."

  I hear the familiar footsteps coming toward us, letting me know it's time to go to work. The three of us turn to face the home plate umpire.

  "Let's go fellas. Break it up," says the ump.

  "No worries, blue." Coach turns back to me. "Go get 'em, son." I get a thumbs up and then he walks back to the dugout, hands in his back pockets. I don't know why every coach on the planet does that shit. It looks ridiculous.

  Jackson is standing there seemingly catatonic and staring before he snaps out of his daze and looks up at me. A moment passes and his face still holds a blank stare. It baffles me that he always does this. He knows how Coach and I operate.

  "You're gonna need to go behind the plate if I'm gonna finish this shit."

  "Oh, umm, yeah right."

  He trots back behind the plate and crouches down as I throw my warm up pitches. When that's finished, I mosey around the back of the mound, tuck my glove in my arm pit, and rub some dirt in my hands. I bend the bill of my cap so that it's tucked tight around my face, old school, none of that flat billed shit everyone does nowadays. My back is to the batter as I slip my glove back on and pound the ball into my mitt. Let's do this shit.

  I turn around and step up to the rubber. The crowd goes ballistic. They love me because they know I get shit done. They came to see their superstar first round draft pick mow down hitters. I dig my cleat in front of the rubber, creating a shallow trench for my foot, and lean in, raising my glove almost to the bill of my cap, so that my glove and hat form a narrow oval and all the hitter sees is my eyes, glaring down at his bitch ass.

  This is what baseball is all about. Only one of us can win and it sure as shit is going to be me. I hope his mother is in the crowd to witness her son's failure. Jackson throws down the ol' number one on the third sign he flashes and I oblige him with a nod. Coach wasn't lying. This sack of shit is on my plate, damn near hugging it. It's time to teach him a lesson and establish my dominance early.

  I come set and look back to the runner at second to make sure he doesn't try anything stupid. Once I'm satisfied, I kick my left leg to my chest, and explode off the rubber with my right, whipping my arm around and throwing exactly where I want — right at this cocksucker's chin. I hear the familiar whistling of the seams cutting through the air as I follow through and kick my back leg around. It sounds like a shotgun blast when the ball pummels into Jackson's mitt. My opponent is flat on his back, bathing himself in dirt and the chalk outline of the batter’s box. The ball barely missed his head and he does not look happy.

  He leaps up from the dirt, bat in hand. "What the fuck?"

  I take a few steps toward him
, my brow tightening, giving him the glare I give everyone. "Stay off my fuckin' plate, or I'll put your ass down again." I head back up the mound and look out to the scoreboard in centerfield. The bottom right corner flashes "101 mph." I'm just getting started.

  The opposing hitter still looks mighty pissed and that gets a smile out of me as he steps back in the box. This time he's not nearly as close to the plate as he was. Got him.

  I can see his weight on his heels. It's time to give him the slider and watch him wave like a fucking clown. Jackson probably sees it too and flashes more signs. I know when he flashes the three fingers on the third sign that he's calling for the slider. I nod once more and come set. I'm thinking about how stupid this chump is about to look when I glance to the runner. He has three fingers on his thigh. I turn my head to the third base coach and see him eyeing his runner closely and then he shouts out the hitter's last name. "Thibodeaux!" These motherfuckers.

  I step off the back of the rubber. I'm not putting up with this Mickey Mouse bullshit. It's an unwritten rule of the game. A complete bitch move to steal someone's signs. Kneeling in the grass, pretending to tie my shoe, I look up to the baserunner. He's staring back at me.

  I glance over to the field umpire. He is staring off at the two girls I'll sink my cock into later. I turn back to the runner. "You steal my signs again and he's going to eat this next pitch."

  He decides to act stupid. "Fuck you, bitch."

  "I'm not fucking around, chicken dick. Throw 'em down on your goddamn leg again and see what happens."

  The tone in our voices has grown and we now have the field umpire's attention. "Let's play ball, boys."

  "Yes sir." I flash him a smile and the little bitch running his mouth takes notice.

  I step back to the rubber and look to Jackson. He gives the same sequence of signs like an idiot, but I don't care. The cocksucker on second base is going to determine the pitch selection, not Jackson. I turn my head back and sure as shit he has three fingers on his leg again. Wrong move.

  I shake my head at him and come set. I grip a four seam fastball, kick my leg and fire the goddamn thing right at their batter. He flips around and takes it right between the numbers, arches his back, and hits the deck.

  "You motherfucker!" The runner on second is halfway to the mound when I step off and start toward him.

  "Oh, goddamn." I can hear coach's voice from the dugout. It doesn't faze me. I can feel my face turning tomato red as I sling my glove off and ball my hands into fists at my sides.

  "Fuck you. I told your ass to quit bein' a bitch." The umpire tries to get to us, but he's too late. This son of a bitch sticks his finger in my face and I grab it and twist as hard as I can. I hear the bone in his index finger snap as I throw a right cross and hit him so hard his helmet flies out by our shortstop.

  The benches clear on both sides. It's like a sea of red and blue in the middle of the diamond. Both sides in each other's faces, bowed up, just waiting for someone to make a move. The field umpire grabs me by the shirt and I grip his collar and squeeze tight before I know what I'm doing. His eyes get big before I come to my senses and let go.

  "You're out of here, Markoff!" He slings his arm around and points to the parking lot out beyond right field.

  Fuck! Coach is going to go ballistic. I walk off the field and into the dugout. Some fans are cheering, some booing. Before I walk down the steps I look up and see a boy who couldn't be older than six. He has tears in his eyes and his parents are glaring at me. I drop my head and walk down the steps. I pummel the water cooler as hard as I can when I storm past. Water explodes everywhere. It's not enough. I need the rage out of my system and I need to milk this situation for all it's worth. I pick up the cooler, knowing cameras are on me, and hurl it into the concrete wall. It rattles around the dugout as I walk to the door that leads down to the clubhouse. I'll never hear the end of this. But rest assured the country will see this on Sportscenter, and hitters will fear me.

  GAVIN

  I've managed to calm myself a little and my knuckles are swollen and red. I should've used my left hand. I hit that son of a bitch pretty hard. Lesson learned.

  A roar rings out above me and I can practically feel people stomping on the ceiling as the walls shake around me. Must've pulled it out.

  Jackson comes through the clubhouse first, a giant smile plastered on his face until he sees me. I start to say something and he shakes his head. I find out why two seconds later.

  "Markoff! In my goddamn office, now!" Coach looks like a fireball as his short pudgy frame barrels through the locker room and into his office. I follow behind at his heels, ducking through the door. "Shut the fucking door."

  I do as he says and he turns around, staring daggers into my eyes.

  " Coach—"

  He holds up his right hand and wipes his brow with his left. "Just save it, okay? Look son, you are the most remarkable, dominating goddamned pitcher I have ever coached—"

  "Coach—"

  "I said save it, goddamn it!"

  I can't stop thinking about how many times he says goddamn in one day. It has to be at least five an hour, meaning one hundred and twenty give or take ten either way. I think about adjusting for while he sleeps, but he probably says it in his dreams so I count those too. It makes me chuckle on the inside before I snap out of it.

  "Son," he flashes a smile, "look, I get it. It's tough to get mad at you. I admire your intensity. Fuck. You would have fit in perfectly on my team when I played. You play old school, and it makes me nostalgic. But shit fucking shit, you cannot do that nowadays. You can't lay a motherfucker out in the infield. You can't throw at people the way we did back then. The sport has become pussified."

  Is pussified a word? I don't know, but I like it.

  "You will get sued. You will get arrested. There is no room for it in today's game." He points his finger at me and shakes it up and down. "You most of all. Millions of dollars in your right arm. They will hit you the hardest."

  "Coach, I don't know how to play any other way. It's how I was taught. I'm the closer. People have to fear me. It's my role."

  His head is shaking and I can see the wheels spinning in his head, the conflict in his mind. He has to know I'm right. He might be a prick, but he's a smart one, a fair one. He holds his hand up over his mouth for a moment, seemingly deep in thought. A smile spreads across his face. "I know how to deal with this. I'll be in touch."

  I stand there, unsure how to take the news. I could tell him to fuck off, that I'll be doing as I please. But I do respect the man. It better not be some bullshit though. And I won't apologize for what those cunt weasels pulled on the field.

  His grin turns into a hard stare. "Well go on. Get the fuck outta my sight."

  I'd usually tell him to eat shit, but I can't get out of his office fast enough. There are a couple of girls that need my attention.

  ***

  Jackson is down to his sliders as I sit down on the bench in front of our lockers. He gives me a hard glare for a second and I return it. We both break out into laughter.

  "Jesus Christ, bro. Did you have to snap his finger? I heard that shit from home plate."

  I shrug and grin. "Shouldn't be pulling that bush league bullshit."

  "Oh, I agree. He had it coming. But fuck, bro. Sometimes I think you forget how big you are."

  I roll my eyes. "Let's get out of here. Blow off some steam. It's Saturday night. We ain't got practice tomorrow."

  "No, no, no. I am not going out drinking with your Andre the Giant ass again. Nuh uh, sir. Bad news."

  "C'mon. I need to drink."

  "You need to fuck. That's what this is all about."

  "I need both, like right now." I jump up from the bench and start dry humping his leg.

  "What the fuck, man? You are out of control." He laughs.

  "Imma toss your shit up like an episode of Oz if you don't say yes."

  "Fine, yes. Just stop. I'm begging you."

  I fist my hand ov
er my cup and make a gesture that suggests I'm coming all over his ass. I throw some toward his chest and face for good measure, complete with splooge sound effects.

  I nod toward his towel. "Clean yourself up with that come rag and I'll meet you out front."

  I walk toward the shower to the sound of him snickering.

  ***

  Jackson and I walk into the local bar where all the players hang out. It's dark and the jukebox is going, but not so loud we can't hear ourselves talk. It's why I like it here. When I go out I want to sit down and have a conversation, not scream over music. There is a cornucopia of pussy here tonight, but I still have my mind on the two girls from the game.

  They didn't look twenty-one, so I doubt they are here. But who knows these days. I'm only twenty, but then again at 6'6" 265, most bouncers just get out of the way. Nobody says shit to a number one draft pick either. In fact, they practically throw everything I could ever want at me.

  Jackson walks over to the bar and returns with a bucket of beers as we take a seat at a pub table with four tall chairs around it. The place is pretty dark, and the bar runs the entire length of one wall, backlit with purple and green neon to make the liquor bottles stand out. I reach into the ice bucket for a beer and leave my hand submerged for a second, welcoming the chill on my swollen hand.

  "Gonna take more than a bucket of beer to make that shit feel normal."

  I like Jackson. He's good people. He's twenty-six, which is practically ancient in AA ball. He's always been on the verge of making it to the show. The timing just never works out. I feel bad about it. He wouldn't be an all-star, but he's a grinder. It'd help him make enough coin to be set up for life. Nothing is certain in professional sports. He could blow his knees out tomorrow and be a Walmart greeter the rest of his life.