by Kristy Marie
I let her behavior go on for a whole year before I stepped in. I proposed another deal, of sorts. Made it out like I didn’t have time for clingy chicks with my ball schedule and the douche-canoes she was dating were no better. I’d like to think she wanted me as bad as I wanted her, and that she was tired of punishing me for that night. But, more than likely she was just being a realist, as usual. It makes sense to have a piece on the side that you can trust. That you can call whenever, with no expectations. And that’s how McCallister’s Monday and Theo’s Thursday were started. I was at her mercy on Monday (her only free day from class) and she was at mine on Thursday (my off day in the pitching rotation). We could not date or sleep with anyone else on those particular days. It was fucked up, but it kept her mine.
Eventually, she came to Washington with me, the friendship picking up where we left off. We never talked about that year again. Mondays and Thursdays inevitably turned into every day of the week that we could manage with our hectic schedules.
Now, we pretend it’s no different, but we both know otherwise. This year, she took a step back from my training to spend more time in Madison, claiming it was time to “spread her wings and find herself.” I don’t know exactly what that means, but it makes me a little queasy because I’m thinking it may translate to laying down some roots with someone. Someone other than me.
So here I am, biting my nails to the quick, walking on the goddamn treadmill like a worried mother hen. Our Mondays and Thursdays have turned into: whenever we see each other. But the more I am away from her, the more fear settles in that she will meet someone. So, her “something came up” bothers me immensely.
“Von Bremen! Get your ass in the shower!” Coach Bellamy screams at me from the doorway, breaking through my mental meltdown.
“You played like shit today! Go get laid and get your fucking head together, boy!”
What the fuck ever. I did not play like shit today. I might not have played up to par, but not like shit. Coach Bellamy is an asshole of the highest degree. He makes the whole pitching staff miserable on a daily basis. It’s almost like he hates his job, much like me.
I’m done with this shit for today. My shoulder is sore from lobbing balls at Brody with sorry technique, and now my legs ache, all because Ans blew me off. Coach is right, I do need to get my head on straight. I need to see her. Yeah. That’s it.
Before I can change my mind, I yell, catching Coach right before his back disappears out the door, “Coach!” I make it sound whiney. “My shoulder hurts. I need to see my trainer.”
His head, very slowly, appears back in the doorframe, his eyes squinted to slits. He’s pissed but too late to take it back now. He moves toward me, meaning to intimidate me, but it won’t work. I know I’m the biggest pain in his ass. The problem is, I am the best he has, so he’s stuck with my outrageous requests. He barrels toward the treadmill, his angry, labored steps have him reaching me in seconds, his chest rising and falling in a dramatic flair. I don’t so much as flinch.
Bellamy does not scare me. The thing is, I don’t care if I get fined or suspended. Hell, they can fire me for all I give a fuck. Thad invested my money and if I never work another day, I will be fine. The only reason I even play professional ball is because: (A) I’m great at it. (B) It scores me pussy. (Okay, so I don’t really get that much use out of that one but I could if I wanted to.) And (C) I didn’t want to take over my father’s insurance empire. That boring shit is not for a person like me who can’t sit still in a movie theater. No, I couldn’t do insurance every day.
Coach Bellamy’s beady eyes stare daggers at me and I give him my trademark smile, but they don’t waver. Hard ass.
I take a long breath and rub my shoulder, faking a little wince to make the story believable. “It hurt earlier, Coach. That’s why I played like shit.”
This time, he doesn’t hesitate before barking, “See our trainer here. No reason you have to fly home to see your personal trainer.” He spits that last part, obviously disgusted that my contract is ironclad, enforcing that I use my own trainer (at my own expense).
I shrug like I can’t help that my shoulder hurts and I have to fly hundreds of miles to get it looked at by my hot little blonde. He’s onto my bullshit but his hands are tied. Thank you, Thad, for negotiating that contract like a mofo. I need to give him a raise.
Bellamy is still giving me the stink eye like he’s plotting my death.
“That’s not going to be a problem, is it, Coach?” I lay on that southern charm with a half-ass smile.
He growls. Literally growls at me. Removing his hat, he runs his hands over his scruffy hair. “Fucking prick,” he mutters before turning back toward the door.
I chuckle, unable to help it and not offended in the least. I am a prick. I would hate to coach some punk with God-given talent who pisses it away when the mood strikes.
I have no drive to play. I do it because I am supposed to be a responsible adult. I don’t love it—I’m good at it. That’s all. It’s just a job for me. A way to make money. I can play hooky just like anyone else. And I plan on playing it all the way back home to Georgia to see my girl.
“Fine,” he answers me coldly, pivoting back around to meet my eyes. “I want a conference with Dr. McCallister after you are examined. Today.” His tone leaves no room for argument.
I nod, knowing she’ll do it. She’ll make me suffer for it no doubt, but she’ll do it. For me.
My flight was a total mood killer. After listening to the couple behind me argue the whole fucking flight, I’m as pissed off as the dude getting bitched at. His girlfriend was a complete twat. One second more, I think I would have turned around and told him as much.
Irritation consumes me as I bob and weave through the airport with stealth, keeping my head low in an effort to go unnoticed. A douchey move, I know. The fans are what makes the world go round but I’m not in the mood to plaster on a fake smile and sign a bunch of shit. It would only piss me off further and at this point—one comment away from an assault charge—I don’t think that’s a smart idea.
A car waits for me outside and like the ninja I am, I hop in, completely unnoticed. Score one for Von Bremen! I instruct the driver to Ans’, barely acknowledging his professional smile, my mood already looking up.
Anniston’s house is about an hour away from the airport. It’s been two days since I had more than four hours of solid rest. My anxiety and ADHD have been off the charts today, worrying about Anniston’s cool brush off. That kind of bullshit hasn’t happened to me in months. Usually, I can sleep for at least six hours with all the exertion I exhibit out on the field. Not this time, though. This time, I have been up pacing every couple of hours, thinking up crazy scenarios as to why her calls have become less and less. It has to stop. Seeing Anniston will be good. I’ll get my answers. I need answers.
Using the opportunity to catch up on some much-needed sleep, I recline back as much as possible in the back seat, and shove one hand down my pants. What? It’s comfortable. My eyes flutter closed as I will sleep to take me.
It doesn’t. One annoying hour later, the car pulls up to the plantation. I’m hungry, tired, and now a little hostile. The plantation hasn’t changed since the last time I was here. Its worn white paint is weathered, the porch a little shoddy, but it’s home to me. More so than my own Atlanta penthouse.
After paying the driver, I bound up the stairs, intent on barreling into the house and giving Miss-I-Can’t-Come-To-Your-Game a lesson in friendship that ends with her bent over my knees, and run right into a locked door. That’s odd. Anniston never locks the door. Yes, she is a complete idiot with no regards for her own safety. But she’s hot, so I bitch at her, and let it go.
I fish around for my keys, but pause when I hear footsteps. “Ans! Open the door!” I shout, hoping to be saved from setting my bag down to figure out which key it is. I haven’t used it in… well, forever.
Silence. What the fuck is she doing in there? I bang on the door. “What the
fuck, Ans! Open the damn door!” Footsteps again. Okay, she’s really starting to piss me off now.
“Anniston!” I shout as I give a couple more bangs to the antique door.
The door opens abruptly just as I throw down my bag, preparing to get out my keys.
“Theo?” My kryptonite stands wedged in the crack of the door looking oddly nervous. “What are you doing here?”
Who the fuck was she expecting? I smile, all the while looking her over, checking for any signs of disarray. Her little spandex shorts ride high on her thighs, milking the muscles there, while her loose tank has slid off her petite shoulder, just dying for someone to remove it. Rest assured little tank top, Daddy is here. She looks perfect.
“Hello, beautiful.” My voice is almost a damn purr.
She arches a brow. She knows something is up. Well, tit for tat, Ans. I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.
I clear the purr from my throat. “My shoulder hurts. I need you to look at it and call Bellamy.” I crowd her and begin to push through the doorway. Her solid mass doesn’t move. What the hell?
She narrows her eyes, totally not believing my story. “Really? Your shoulder hurts and you didn’t call me immediately?”
After the long-ass day I’ve had, I am in no mood for twenty questions. I snap, unable to control my anger, “Yes! Is that a problem, Dr. McCallister? I believe I pay you to be on call. Has that changed?” It’s an asshole thing to say, but I’m at my limit.
She’s silent and pissed, her heavy glare practically burning through my face.
“Can I come in, or are you going to examine me out here?”
The side of her cheek indents. Usually, that indicates she’s biting down to keep from speaking. I’m prepared for the onslaught of verbal sparring, as I stand tall and meet her glare in a challenge. She leans against the doorway for the longest fucking minute ever. Finally, she takes a deep breath and opens the door.
I don’t miss the reluctance etched on her face. Damn. What is her deal? “Gah. Finally. You are acting so weird today.”
I push through the small opening between her body and the door. I don’t dare ask if she is PMSing because last time I did, it did not go well for me. She punched me so hard it left a bruise for a week.
Inside, the house smells like buttery, sugary heaven. Oh, fuck me, is she making pancakes for dinner? My mouth starts to water just thinking about the buttermilk goodness. “Please tell me you are making pancakes and it’s not one of those damn candles that smell like it.”
She snorts. “Pancakes. You hungry?”
I’m always hungry and she knows it. She makes her way toward the kitchen, glancing down the hall every now and again. Why is she acting so nervous? It’s making me nervous. Agitated, I launch my heavy duffle bag toward the hall bench, its heavy weight rocking the whole piece. Oops. I check to see if Anniston caught it but she’s busy flipping the pancakes.
Hot damn! Motherfucking pancakes! I feel better already. I saunter over, enveloping her tight little body in my arms and place a chaste kiss on her neck. A quiet little moan escapes her.
“What have you been up to, beautiful?” I question softly, nibbling her earlobe. “I’ve been getting radio silence.”
She turns, wrapping her hands around my neck as I turn my head and plant soft kisses on her lips. She’s tense and not responding. I press another kiss to her forehead. “Anything wrong?”
She shakes her head and lets out a resigned sigh. “I need to tell you something.”
Uh oh. That pit of dread bubbles back up to the surface. I force a smile. “What is it?”
She chews on her bottom lip. “I, uh, I’ve been helping out a friend.”
Thank heavens! A friend. I can live with helping a friend. “No problem,” I respond cheerily.
She shakes her head with a small grimace. “He’s been down on his luck and needed my help.”
The anxiety is back. I know all of her friends, especially the guys. And I know for a fact she doesn’t have another guy friend, apart from me. She has associates, but not friends, and none of her associates have seen hard times. I have Facebook—just because I’m a pro ball player doesn’t mean I don’t stalk the fuck out of her Facebook page. I have downtime.
“A dude,” I confirm.
She nods and I’m at a loss as to what to say. I let go of her and rake my hands through my hair. I’m just going to ask her. I’m not going to be a pussy about it.
“Ans. Are you seeing someone? Is that what this is?” There. See? All balls, no pussy here.
She shakes her head quickly. “No. Absolutely not. It’s just a friend. I swear. He needed my help and I couldn’t not help.” Her voice cracks at the last part.
Her and her damn bleeding heart. The tension in my shoulders is unmistakable. I roll them for something to do so she doesn’t see how much she’s upset me. “Okay. So why haven’t you told me?” I know she’s still hiding something from me. It’s not like her to be nervous.
Her gaze drifts to my shoes. “You won’t like it.”
I already don’t like it. Her behavior is out of character and is freaking me the fuck out. Whoever this “friend” is, I’m sure to hate him. And she fucking knows it.
“I’m sure I won’t, but why don’t you go ahead and rip off the Band-Aid? The suspense is grating on my nerves.”
She nods. “You’re right, let’s just get it over with.”
Holy shit. This must be huge. With my hands secured in my pockets, I meet her eyes.
You’re fine, Theo. Whatever she says, you will be fine. There are other girls out there. So what? You fucked up. Lesson learned.
Fuck, that’s not helping.
“He’s a veteran. I found him last week, hypothermic, in a ditch. I think he’s homeless. And I’m helping him get back on his feet.”
I choke. Literally, choke. Homeless? Has she lost her fucking mind? “Ans! Are you crazy?”
I am seething. Did she seriously bring a homeless guy in here to play house? “You could have been killed!”
She’s shaking her head in disagreement, but it doesn’t deter my yelling. “Or robbed. Or worse than that, raped!” I start to pace. It’s hard to focus on anything when my head gets jumbled up like this. Holy shit! A homeless guy!
Warm hands wrap around my waist. “I’m okay, Teddy.” Her voice is barely a whisper.
She’s trying to calm the raging inferno inside my head. It’s not working. I try to get free of her embrace but she holds tight.
“Don’t do this,” she demands, her voice firm. “I am an adult. I’m fine.”
Fine! She could have been lying in a pool of her own blood for an entire month. No one would have known she was harboring a stranger! “This is the stupidest thing I think you have ever done!” I yell.
Snatching free of her grip, I barrel past her, set on finding this asshole who would take advantage of my incredibly dumbass girl. Body tense, I search through the living room, throwing blankets and magazines as I go just to be an asshole.
“Where is he?” I shout, slinging one of the gloves I left on the table the last time I was here. It misses the TV by inches. “Tell me where he is, Ans!”
I’m unhinged, stomping through the hall like a beast when she steps in front me, a barrier between me and the guest bath.
“What are you doing?” I sneer as I stalk toward her. Her bottom lip starts to quiver. I’m scaring her. Good. She should be scared. I’m barely containing my fury right now. She lunges for the bathroom door when she sees my eyes track to the light coming from underneath.
“Is he in there?” I rush her, attempting to get my hand on the handle first. Before either of us can lay claim, the door wrenches open.
Steam billows out through the entryway as a dark-haired man, clad only in a white towel, crowds the opening. “Everything okay, Commander?”
Commander? What the fuck kind of kinky games are they playing? My jaw starts to tick. I need to text Thad and warn him that I’m about to go to ja
il and lose my position in the MLB.
“Commander?” I scoff, glaring at this new man in Anniston’s life.
The “vet” returns my glare and steps out of the bathroom with a fierceness in his eyes. With powerful strides, he reaches me in seconds, but before he can lay a hand on me, Anniston wedges her body between us.
“I’m fine, Cade. This is Theo,” she explains with a hand on his chest. “He’s just a little surprised is all. He wouldn’t hurt me.” She looks back to me. “Would you, Theo?”
Fuck yeah, I would. I feel like whooping her ass just for being a dumbass. But survival sets in as I meet the giant’s eyes. His chest is heavily marred by scars as he takes slow and steady breaths, his hands balled at his sides, prepared for a fight. This man has seen battle. I don’t doubt this man has killed.
Knowing when to retreat, I raise my hands in surrender. “Never,” I answer her question with confidence. “I would never hurt you.”
She smiles and turns back to the beast. “See? I’m okay.” She gives his chest a little shove. “Why don’t you go get dressed and we’ll all sit down for dinner.”
He doesn’t move or acknowledge her request. His eyes are locked on my face, threatening. I lift my eyebrow as if to suggest he is a pussy for taking orders from Ans, and he takes a menacing step toward me.
Anniston gives him another shove. “Go get dressed, Cade. I’ve got it.”
He tears his eyes away from me and gives Anniston a once-over. Verifying she is uninjured? She caresses his face and gives him “my smile.” My fucking smile! He nods in silent agreement and retreats to the guest room.
“I am going to beat your ass,” I tell her as soon as the door closes.
She looks exhausted from this whole ordeal. “Come on, tell me about your shoulder,” she says, passing by me, apparently done with the confrontation.
Oh, hell no.
“We are not done talking about this,” I yell at her retreating back.
“Later,” is all she says.
