The Player (The Player Duet Book 1)

by K. Bromberg

  The Player

  Copyright © 2017 K. Bromberg

  ISBN: 978-1-942832-04-1

  Editor: Madison Seidler Editing Service and Help Me Edit

  Cover Designer: Helen Williams

  Interior Design and Formatting: Champagne Formats

  Published by JKB Publishing, LLC

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or establishments is solely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT

  PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF K. BROMBERG

  OTHER BOOKS BY K. BROMBERG

  DEDICATION

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF K. BROMBERG

  “An irresistibly hot romance that stays with you long after you finish the book.”

  —# 1 New York Times bestselling author Jennifer L. Armentrout

  “Captivating, emotional, and sizzling hot!”

  —#1 New York Times bestselling author S. C. Stephens

  “Bromberg is a master at turning up the heat!”

  —New York Times bestselling author Katy Evans

  “K. Bromberg is the master of making hearts race and pulses pound.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Jay Crownover

  “Sexy, heartwarming, and so much more.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Corinne Michaels

  “Super charged heat and full of heart. Bromberg aces it from the first page to the last.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Kylie Scott

  OTHER BOOKS BY K. BROMBERG

  Driven

  Fueled

  Crashed

  Raced

  Aced

  Slow Burn

  Sweet Ache

  Hard Beat

  Down Shift

  Sweet Cheeks

  Sweet Rivalry

  UnRaveled

  This book is dedicated to those women who love sports. The ones who didn’t think twice about getting grass stains on their tights as little girls, and now that they’re older, have no shame in sitting down to watch a game with the guys.

  I’ve always been a sports girl.

  The book is dedicated to nerd girls. The ones who like to sit at home on a Friday night and get lost in the pages of a good book. The ones who always want to learn new things. Never be ashamed of being smart.

  I’ve always been a nerd girl.

  This book is dedicated to strong girls. To the ones who would rather help their fellow women succeed rather than try to bring them down.

  I’ve always been a strong girl.

  This book is dedicated to the insecure girls. Yes, you. I see you. I’ve been you. I am you. It’s okay to spread your wings every once in a while and see how far you can fly. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

  Look at me, I did.

  The rush hits me.

  The adrenaline through my body.

  The roar of the crowd in my ears.

  The mixture of scents—dirt, popcorn, leather, pine-tar—in my nose.

  They’re my lifeline.

  My constants.

  The only religion I was ever taught to believe in.

  The only thing I was ever allowed to be.

  For those few moments before the pain hits—the blinding, excruciating, unending pain—when the dust is dancing around me and I can feel its grit sliding beneath my body, I remember why I love the game.

  Everything about it.

  And then I look up.

  Our eyes meet. It’s a split-second connection. But I’m reminded of something. Of someone.

  And then it’s gone.

  Because now there’s only pain.

  It takes over.

  Steals my breath.

  Kills my streak.

  And hopefully doesn’t ruin my future.

  Four months later

  “How do you want me?”

  Hazel eyes.

  An arrogant smirk.

  Those are the first two things about Easton Wylder that grab my attention when he peeks his head around the training room door.

  I open my mouth to speak but fall silent when he walks over the threshold and comes into full view. And it’s not just because he’s shirtless—that’s par for the course in my job—but rather it’s everything about him that knocks the words from my lips. The bare, tanned, and very toned chest. The low-slung gym shorts showcasing a perfect V of muscles. The happy trail ever so slightly visible, which draws my eyes to where I shouldn’t be looking.

  But I do look.

  And that’s a problem. Because even if it’s only for a moment, it’s still long enough for him to notice. I snap my eyes back up and over his dark scruff to once again be greeted with that cocksure smirk that I swear taunts me and asks if I like what I see.

  Another day. Another client. Another player.

  I shouldn’t have expected any less.

  He’s hot. I’ll give him that. Like the mouthwatering, stop-traffic, draw-all-eyes-when-he-walks-into-a-room type of hot. And not only that, but he’s a freaking god on the field. One of the best catchers I’ve ever seen. Batting average, on-base percentage, caught-stealing percentage, pick-offs, pass balls—all his stats say if he stays on this track, he’ll be one of the greats someday.

  The total package.

  But if first impressions are any indication—the arrogant lift of his eyebrows and cocky set of his shoulders—I already know he’s going to be like every other total package I’ve worked with before. Great to look at but a bore to work with. Conceited and one-dimensional. If it’s not about him, he doesn’t want to talk about it.

  I hope I’m wrong, or else this is going to be a long three months. Not only that, but I’ve admired his career over the last few years and would prefer to keep admiring the man I perceived him to be, too.

  “On my back
?” he rephrases his question before I can recover from my thoughts, and takes a step closer. “On my stomach?” He stops and scrubs a towel over his face so that his dark brown hair sticks up every which way, yet somehow it only adds to his appeal.

  Give him a chance, Scout. He’s baseball royalty. Besides, he might not be that bad. Does it really matter if he’s a conceited jerk? There’s still a contract, a set timeframe, and he’s still your client. So, chop-chop. Get to it and do your job.

  “Uh,” I say as I glance down again, trying not to let that body—the hard, damaged, perfection of it—scatter my thoughts and undermine my professionalism.

  “Uh?” he repeats, as those multicolored eyes of his laugh at a joke only he seems to understand.

  “Sorry, you distracted me.” Once the words are out I realize how they sound, giving the implication that his body is the culprit.

  “Distracted?” A lift of his brows. A ghost of a smile.

  I start over. “I’m the new PT the club contracted to help get you back on the field.”

  “The club hired you? I thought they were hiring Doc . . . and you’re definitely not Doc.”

  “Doc’s the one who assigned me to your case.” My tone is defensive, my soul sagging under the weight of why I’m here and he’s not.

  “Doc Dalton, Doc?” Disbelief tinges his tone.

  “Yeah, Doc Dalton, Doc. I’m his partner.”

  “Partner? Doc’s notorious for working solo.” He narrows his eyes and studies me unabashedly for a moment. The silent scrutiny has me shifting on my feet, and just as I’m about to speak, he chuckles under his breath at something I’m obviously not privy to. “Which one of the guys hired you?”

  “Your general manager. Cory Tillman.”

  “Cory?”

  “Yes. Cory.” Why is this so hard for him to understand?

  “And she even has the name right,” he mutters, more to himself than to me, only furthering my confusion. “Nice try, though. My bet’s on Drew or Tino. They covered all of their bases with you, didn’t they?”

  What in the hell is he talking about?

  “Not that you care, but I don’t need my bases covered. I’d really like to get started.”

  “No.”

  “No?” Is he being serious?

  “You think I’d let just anybody touch my arm?”

  “Excuse me?” The insult hits me harder than it should. It’s one I’ve learned to expect—the assumption that I can’t be as good as Doc—and yet my temper still lights. “I assure you my touch is every bit as magical as Doc’s is.” Asshole.

  “I’m sure it is,” he murmurs, drawing the words out, while his eyes roam down the length of my body. The look in them—one of pure male appreciation—sets my nerves, already tinged with temper, abuzz. And I don’t want them to be abuzz. I don’t want them to feel anything when it comes to him and how much of a prick he is proving himself to be right now.

  “Try it on someone else, Hot Shot. Your charm isn’t going to work on me.”

  “My charm?” I love the little startle to his head. The one that says he’s not used to being called on the carpet.

  “Yeah. The ‘I’m a cocky bastard’ charm. Do you really get women when you act like that?”

  “I wasn’t aware I was trying to get a woman.” His eyes lock onto mine. There’s humor in their hazel depths, but all I feel is stupidly hurt as if he’d just rejected me, when I didn’t want to be wanted by him in the first place. “And for the record, it works all the time.”

  What I’d give to knock that smug smirk off his face right now.

  “So, what? You just walk up and throw some stats at her? ‘Hey, baby, I’m having a killer season, batting three seventy-five with a twenty-game hitting streak. Wanna go out?’”

  “Nah.” He fights back a laugh, and I hate that even though I know I’m being mocked, that sheepish smile of his draws me in to take a step closer. “I just tell her I have a big stick and I know just how to use it.”

  “Seriously?”

  He shrugs. “No, but you’re going to think what you want to anyway, right?”

  “Sure am.”

  “And you have a thing against big sticks, I take it?”

  He’s taunting me. Seeing how far he can push me. Little does he know, I push right back.

  “Nothing against big sticks, but they’re worthless unless you know how to use them. And guys who drop cheesy lines like the one you just did definitely don’t take the time to learn how to use them properly.”

  “Are you speaking from experience? Do a lot of men try lines like that on you?” Our eyes war across the small space.

  “Not men I’d give the time of day.”

  “That’s a pity. Maybe you haven’t met the right one, then.” He just stares at me with an unrelenting gaze that asks questions and makes assumptions I’d rather he not make. This conversation has veered way off course from where it needs to be.

  Back to him.

  Focused on him.

  And the irony isn’t lost on me that this is the exact opposite of what I wanted moments ago.

  “Look, I’m here to do a job. It’s probably best if we stick to that,” I say in an attempt to reset this conversation for the second time.

  “You sure you want to? Your hostility screams how much you’re enjoying my company.”

  “Liking you is not a necessity. I’m good at ignoring people who rub me the wrong way.” I follow the dig with a sickeningly sweet smile. “Let’s get to it.” I motion to the padded table behind him.

  He looks at the table and then back to me. “What if I tell you thanks, but no thanks.”

  “And what if I tell you, you don’t get a say? I’m getting paid to do a job, and I intend to get that job done.” I take a few steps closer to him and make sure my voice is as authoritative as possible. “On your back.”

  “Gotta love a woman who knows what she wants.” There’s no mistaking the suggestion in his words, and it’s only reinforced by the intensity of the way he stares at me, as if with each passing second, another layer of my clothing is falling off. “But you’ll learn soon enough, I rarely do what I’m told.”

  “Pretty please.” Sarcasm rings through my voice as we wage a visual war of wills, but I’m unsure over what. I’m here to give him exactly what he wants—to be back on the field—and so his defiance is both frustrating and confusing.

  Because while I may have been questioned by players in the past—underestimated because I’m a woman, tested because I’m not as experienced as Doc—it’s so very different this time around.

  This time I have Doc Dalton’s benchmark career riding on rehabbing Easton Wylder. I have my father’s last wishes to fulfill. I have my reputation to solidify.

  “Feisty, gorgeous, intelligent, and polite,” he muses, crossing his arms over his chest so his biceps flex with the movement. Eyebrows lifted, he gives me a full-blown smile to boot. “Because of that, I’ll obey . . . but just this once.”

  Quit staring at me. “Let’s get to it.” Quit smiling at me like that. “On the table.” Quit flexing your biceps. “Shirt off.” Quit unnerving me.

  “My shirt’s already off.”

  “Oh. Yes. Sorry.” Crap. Nothing like showing you’re capable and in control by completely missing the obvious. “Do you want to tell me where it hurts the most, so I can start there?”

  “I’ve got a lot of hurts.” He laughs, and it irritates me that I find the sound of it sexy. “But I’m curious, how do you plan on fixing me if touching the clientele is off-limits?”

  “I touch, Wylder. There are no limitations. I throw my hands and my body into it until I’ve made the pain go away. Then we move on to your next ache and start the process all over again.” Ignoring the disbelief on his face, I point to the table behind him. “I thought you were going to obey this once?”

  “On one condition.”

  Condition? Is he serious? I have no choice but to play along. “What’s that?”

&nbs
p; “Stop pretending like you know what you’re doing when it comes to my arm.” He arches an eyebrow in challenge.

  The surest way to piss a woman off is to question her abilities and yet he just did again. “Don’t be an ass. You’re irritating me. And wasting my time.” I raise my eyebrows. “I don’t like my time wasted.”

  “Isn’t the customer always supposed to be right?”

  “Sit. Down.”

  “What the lady wants, the lady gets.” Resigned, but with a lopsided smirk that says somehow he’s getting what he wants anyway, he scoots his ass onto the padded table behind him, eyes still locked on mine. “One more condition?”

  “No more conditions.” The man is positively frustrating.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Scout,” I answer, already exhausted from this game I’m a player in but don’t quite understand.

  “Scout?”

  “Yes. Scout.” I opt to leave out my last name. There’s no need for him to question my abilities any further.

  “That’s not exactly the type of originality I was expecting. What happened to Star or Trixie or Kitty? Were those all taken?”

  What in the hell is he talking about?

  “Sorry to disappoint you, but it’s just Scout.”

  “Damn. My bet was on Kitty.”

  “Nope.”

  “Scout. Hmm.” He nods his head, eyes narrowing as if he’s trying to figure something out. “I was wrong. It wasn’t Tino. It was Drew. He’s the one who hired you, coached you on what to say, and told you what to do, right?” He swings his legs up onto the table, and I swear he says something about there being no Velcro but when he props himself up on his elbow and meets my puzzled gaze, all he does is give me a perfectly innocent, choir-boy smile.

  “I’m sorry, am I missing something?” I’m so confused.

  “Don’t you worry that pretty little head of yours,” he says with a smirk. “You’re not missing a thing.”

  I hear him—the mockery in his tone, the alarm bells telling me something’s going on that I don’t quite understand—but I’m momentarily distracted by our proximity. By the scent of the shampoo in his hair. By the sight of faded scars on his body, more visible now that I’m closer to him. By the unique color of his eyes, which are a mixture of brown and gray with a ring of blue around the iris.