by Devney Perry
Easton
“Shit. Maybe I need to get a shoulder injury, if that’s how you come back and swing the stick.”
The next pitch comes. I swing and connect. The crack of the ball against the bat is the most satisfying sound in the world. And even better, there’s still no pain. No pinch. Just like new.
“He’s the only lucky fucker who could pull it off, though.”
“Bunch of fucking cackling women. Leave the poor man alone. He needs to reacquaint himself with his balls right now.”
I laugh as I take a swing and miss the fat pitch Coach Walton lobs from the mound. All three guys say, “whiff,” in unison.
I hold a batting-gloved middle finger up to J.P., Tino, and Drew standing behind the portable backstop as I take my hacks. The Santiago Brigade. Following me around like the three musketeers anytime I hit the field at the same time as Santiago.
They’re trying to keep my nose clean and my temper at bay. It doesn’t look too good when the unofficial team captain goes fist-fucking his replacement’s face. But shit, how satisfying would that be since the asshole seems determined to annoy me every chance he gets.
Another pitch. I channel my anger at Santiago, my drive to return, my need to prove to Scout that I’m good to go.
And when I hit the next pitch—a line drive that goes right through the five-point-five hole between third base and shortstop—I know I’m back.
“What do you think she’s telling Walton out there?” Drew chimes in, trying to get in my head as I watch Scout lean in and say something in Walton’s ear. He nods.
“Oh, Walton, you handsome devil. If you hit that pain in the ass Wylder in the nuts, you can take me out to dinner tonight,” Tino says in a high-pitched voice. I step out of the box, my hand up to hold the pitch.
“Fuck you, Tino,” I laugh as both Walton and Scout look to me from the mound, wondering what the hell is going on.
“It’s just the asshole brigade,” I shout to them and wave for them to pitch.
Used to our antics, Walton winds up, throws the pitch, and when I let loose on my swing, the crack echoes in my ears as I watch it clear the wall into the stands in left field.
Hell yeah, I’m back.
“Looking good out there, Hot Shot,” Scout says as I walk into the training room.
“Felt damn good.” I roll my shoulders and smile at her.
“I can tell,” she laughs. “You got your swagger back.”
“My swagger?”
“Yep. That cocky little smirk you used to get before you stepped into the batter’s box was there today. It’s the first time I’ve seen it since I started training you.”
“I don’t get a cocky little smirk when I step in the box,” I say with a chuckle as I slide onto the table. Do I? She steps up behind me to work the muscles in my shoulder as I try to think of my batting routine and smiling is not something I do.
“Yes, you do. It says, you better bring your best stuff, Mr. Pitcher, or I’m gonna take you downtown,” she murmurs. And there’s no way I should find what she says sexy, but the fact that she can talk baseball terms while her fingers slide over my shoulder is definitely a turn-on. It doesn’t matter how many times she touches me—here in a rub down or at home in my bed—because every fucking time she does just makes me want her more.
It doesn’t hurt that that murmur of hers reminds me of when she climbs on top of me, straddles my thighs, leans forward, and says in my ear to get ready before she takes my cock for a ride.
“You’re all kinds of swagger and arrogant when you play. It kind of turns me on,” she says under her breath, but I catch every damn word.
“You know what I like more than hearing you say that?” I reply with a groan as she digs her knuckles into the knot in my shoulder.
“My magic hands?” she laughs.
“Well, those, too, and that’s not the only thing on you that’s magical . . . but I like knowing that before you were my trainer, you were watching me. That you knew I had a cocky little smile.”
The hitch in her movement tells me she didn’t realize she just gave that little fact away. “You also wiggle your ass two times.”
“I do not,” I deny, but know damn well that I do. It’s unintentional but always there.
“Yes. You do. Everyone knows your routine.”
“Oh please.” I roll my eyes, even though she can’t see it.
“I’m serious. Everyone stops and watches you when you walk to the plate, Wylder. They can’t wait to see what you’re going to do next. The lightning in the bottle you create. You’re just that kind of player.”
“The player,” I murmur more to myself than her, remembering that first week we worked together.
“We’ve come a long way since then,” she says, knowing where my thoughts have gone.
And yes, we have. I laugh, though, playing it off, because just like she gets spooked easily, I am, too. This has been too easy, how we’ve fallen into sync with each other, and I don’t want to jinx it.
Don’t want any bad juju fucking this up.
I tilt my head back so I can look at her. “I’m still waiting for that lap dance, Kitty.”
“If you play your cards right,” she murmurs under her breath, “you just might get one tonight.”
Hot damn.
“You looked good out there today, East.”
I glance back to the doorway of the press box where my dad stands, arms braced on both sides of the doorjamb with a proud smile on his face.
He’s looking old. It’s my first thought when I see him. The lines in his face are deeper, his eyes serious, his trademark cheer muted.
“Thank you. It felt good.” I angle my head and study him closer.
“You looked stronger than I’ve seen you. The time you’ve put into your rehab has paid off.” I wait for the ‘but’ from him—in classic Cal Wylder backhanded compliment fashion—but it doesn’t come. He just stands there for a beat, shoulders square, with pride on his face. “I’m proud of you and how you’ve handled everything.”
The implication behind everything is there, and I smile softly and nod my head, knowing he went to bat for me against Cory, even though I never asked him to and knew nothing about it until after the fact. The Iron Giant, Cal Wylder, tried to throw his weight around and let it be known that you don’t run a front office or win a pennant by making a trade that divides a team when they’re mid-season.
Luckily Manny had let me know about the conversation he’d overheard between Cory and my dad, or I would’ve never known. To say it shocked the shit out of me is an understatement. The fact my dad hasn’t said a word about it to me even more so.
But knowing he tried without wanting glory for it makes it mean that much more.
“Thanks. Someone once taught me I can only do my job to prove them wrong.”
His smile is slow to spread from his lips to his eyes—the sadness not fading completely—as he nods his head when he hears his own words repeated back to him.
“You want to join us for a bit, Mr. Wylder?” Bruce, the Aces’ on-air sports announcer asks him, pulling me back to what I’m about to do. An on-air, pregame chat with the team’s broadcast network to update the fans on my progress, how I’m feeling, and when they can expect me to return. I wait for my dad’s answer, already scooting my seat over as I adjust my headset because he’s never been one to turn down talking about baseball.
“No, thank you. Easton, here, has the team covered. The fans want to hear about him, not me. I’m old news.” He winks with a soft smile before meeting my eyes and nodding to me.
“Maybe another time, then.”
“Maybe,” my dad says before turning and walking out of the press box, leaving me to look after him and worry why he seems so subdued.
“Okay, let’s get started, Easton. Here is the list of questions in case you want to prep for them ahead of time.”
“Nah, I’m good.” I don’t even glance at the sheet of paper he hands me. “There’
s nothing you’re going to ask me that I can’t answer on the fly.”
“Even about Santiago?”
I look over to him, and his eyes tell me that he’s behind me and my displeasure with the team’s bullshit move.
“Let’s leave Santiago off the table,” I joke. “This is a PG show after all.”
He laughs, shakes his head, and pats my back. “You could always knock him out and leave him on the floor if it’s easier.”
“I like the way you think, Bruce.”
“Thought you might. You ready?” I nod. “We’re good to go in five, four, three, two, one.”
Scout
“Goddammit, Wylder!” The voice rings out and then a few more curse words, followed by a riot of laughter rumbling through the clubhouse.
I peek out of my training room, and once I see that all of the guys are covered and decent, I head out to see what’s going on.
“Where is that asshole?” I think it’s Tino’s voice, I’m not sure though because the players are all standing together and blocking my view of what’s going on.
“That’s one way to sparkle and shine on the field, Tino,” J.P. says through the laughter that doubles him over.
“Aw man, this shit is everywhere.” It’s Tino again and the guys around him slowly begin to back away as they laugh and shake their heads. “It’s like I’m fucking Tinker Bell.”
“You always said you were light on your feet, now you just have the fairy dust to prove it,” Drew says drawing another round of laughter from the guys.
This time when the crowd parts, I can see what they are all laughing at. Tino is standing at his locker in just his undershirt and sliders on with his baseball cap in his hand, and every inch of him is covered in sparkly blue glitter. From the amount that is concentrated in his hair and down his back, it appears to have been put in his hat so when he put it on his head it fell all over him.
“Tinker Bell Tino,” someone chimes in and when Tino looks up to glare at them, he sees me standing there.
I can’t help but laugh as he moves toward me, his whole body shimmering and shining under the locker room lights.
“You’re a girl,” he says.
“Way to state the obvious, Einstein,” Drew says earning him a death stare from Tino before he looks back to me.
“Yes, I am,” I say fighting the smile on my lips. Now that he’s closer, I can see the glitter is that very fine type of powder that’s basically impossible to get rid of.
“How do I get this shit off me? The more I wipe it off, the more it sticks.” His eyes plead with me, but it’s so hard to keep a straight face when I notice even his eyelashes are coated blue.
“Why would you want to wipe it off? I think blue’s your color.” I bat my eyelashes and feign innocence as the guys hoot and holler in response around me.
“Why you gotta be like that, Scout? Wylder’s starting to rub off on you isn’t he with his ...” His voice fades off as he looks down to his hands coated in blue sparkles and does the only thing he can, laugh.
“You can shower, Tino… but you’re still going to sparkle under the lights for the next few nights, if not weeks,” I tease as I turn to head back to my training room.
There’s more ribbing as I walk away but there’s one comment that rings louder than all others to me. “Wylder’s almost back, boys. That much he just proved.”
He sure did.
The thought makes me smile more than anything has all day long. Well, since the last time I saw him that is. Because if Easton’s pranking the guys again, that means he’s getting back in his groove—mentally and physically.
“One scoop of chocolate peanut butter in a cup, please,” I say to the girl behind the counter waiting for my selection with her ice cream scooper in hand.
“Make that three scoops.” I yelp at the sound of Easton’s voice and before I can turn around, his hands slide around my waist and pull me back against him. “Hi.” His breath is hot against my ear, and after a long day it takes everything I have not to sink against him and just close my eyes.
“Hi.” My smile is automatic when I turn to face him and take a step back, ever conscious of being noticed together in public. I take him in and wonder if there will ever be a time that I look at him and don’t feel that flutter in my belly. “Blue glitter, huh?”
His lopsided grin turns full-blown, eyes light up with mischief, and he gives a little boy shrug in his grown man’s body. “Peanut butter and chocolate, huh?”
I nod. “Yep.”
“Treating yourself for anything in particular?”
My day flashes through my mind. The update from Sally on my dad. My double training session with Easton. The frantic call from my dad’s long time client, the Red Sox, asking me to drop everything and fly there to evaluate their ace pitcher who hurt his arm last night. My refusal and then agreement to hop on a video conference call so I could help develop a regimen for them to follow. Then there was the report I had to put the finishing touches on for Cory—my proposal for how I would handle the players’ day to day routine if I were to get the Aces’ long-term contract.
“Yeah. I survived.” My smile is soft when I respond. “It’s been a day.”
“That bad, huh?” He asks as he steps forward to pay for the ice cream despite my protests.
“Not bad, just crazy.”
“I like that you treat yourself to ice cream,” he says with a smile as we sit across from each other in the small seating area.
“I like that you chose glitter to showcase Tino’s talents under the lights tonight.” I raise my eyebrows and take a bite of the heavenly ice cream.
“If you’re trying to get me to admit I did something today,” he says as his shoe taps mine beneath the table, “then you’re barking up the wrong tree. The first rule about pranks in the clubhouse is that there are no pranks in the clubhouse.”
“Oh, please.” I laugh and roll my eyes. “Well, it was pretty damn funny and the poor guy is going to be scrubbing that off himself for the next few days.”
“Good. I’m glad to hear because the Nutella he hid inside my back pockets at the start of the season really sucked ass.” My eyes widen as the gasp falls from my lips. “Yeah. It was that bad. I was late getting changed after an interview ran long. I threw on my clothes and hauled ass to the field. First inning, I go to put something in my back pocket and all I feel is this gooey stuff. So now I’m behind the plate with a crowd at my back and something that’s the color of crap on my fingers. Where exactly was I supposed to wipe it? On my pants? That would be a great story for the announcers to create as they try to explain why Easton Wylder is crouched behind the plate with these mysterious brown smears all over his pants that appeared out of nowhere from one pitch to the next.”
I laugh so hard my eyes tear up because between the disdain in his voice and the image he’s painted in my head, I can see it all perfectly. And he’s totally right. “So what did you do?” I ask when I can finally speak through the giggles.
“I rubbed my hands in the dirt to try and cover it up some,” he says, the devilish look returning to his eyes again. “So … glitter.”
“Did you just break the first rule of the clubhouse?” I tease, realizing this was the perfect way for me to end the day. His only response is to take a big spoonful of ice cream and shove it in his mouth so he can’t talk. “Whoa. Wait. How did you know I was going to be here?”
“I was taking a walk toward your place to see if you wanted to grab a bite to eat and saw you in here.”
“You could have just called, you know?”
“I know, but I figured if I came in person, you’d have a harder time saying no.” His smile turns shy and it takes everything I have to not lean across the table and brush a kiss against his lips.
Doesn’t he realize he’s the only one I say yes to?
Scout
“Will he be ready?”
I startle at Cal’s voice beside me, but try to keep my cool, forget the she’
s a piece of ass comment, and turn my attention from where Easton’s currently crouched behind the plate in full gear.
“Mr. Wylder.” I nod and go to turn my attention back to his son but the look in his eyes—the genuine concern—stops me.
“He’s looking good, like his old self, but do you think he’s really back to where he was? The top of his game?”
“Are you asking me as his father, or as the club’s liaison?” I ask, trying not to sound disrespectful, but at the same time needing to protect Easton.
He narrows his eyes and angles his head as he looks at me, lips opening and then closing a moment before he nods as if he gets what I’m saying. “I deserve that.”
“I’m not trying to be disrespectful, sir, nor am I trying to overstep my boundaries. I’m just asking so I know which report to give, because with all the crap that’s happened over the past two weeks, I think he needs you to be his dad more than be on the side of his employer.”
He nods and then looks back out to where Easton makes a perfect throw down to second base that clearly beats the runner trying to steal. Yes, it’s just a practice. Yes, it’s his teammates helping him get back in the groove. But his talent is unmistakable. His natural ability is phenomenal.
“I know you must think I’m a pushy asshole. A guy who only thinks about the game, about his own image, and not his son who plays it.” He pauses, watches Easton throw to third base with laser perfection. “Easton’s the best thing I’ve ever done. I only want the best for him.”
The emotion in his voice stuns me and is such a contradiction to the hard-ass I’ve seen bits and pieces of.
“What’s best for him or what’s best for your legacy?”
He whips his head my way, and I know I’ve overstepped here, but it’s Easton, and he deserves to have a relationship with his dad. The kind I have, which I’m going to lose soon.
