Swing

by Adriana Locke

  Because I’m cursed, both with loving athletes and having them love me, reality douses the fire as quickly as it starts. The passion, while white-hot and intoxicating, turns steel-cold and suffocating.

  It’s why I’ll continue to remind myself just how bad it hurts when they prove, as they always do, that their first passion is, and always will be, the game.

  Lincoln

  “MOTHERFUC . . .” I STOP SHORT OF saying the rest, wincing as my injured arm is raised up and back as far as it will go. No, farther than it will go. It most definitely doesn’t go this far back.

  This guy is a fucking sadist.

  “There you go,” Houston says, guiding my screaming arm to my side. “You’re going to be sore tonight and really sore tomorrow. Ice it and be back here in two days for another session.”

  I look at him. “Two days?”

  “Yes,” he says, turning his stocky body away from me and heading to a big purple ball.

  “You do realize I need this thing completely healed in about six weeks, right? And our progress is negligible.”

  He nods, eyeing me like I’m the crazy one. No, I’m sane. I’m clear about what has to be done. His blasé attitude about this entire thing is the problem.

  “Okay, let’s start over,” I gulp, irritation racing across my forehead. “I have exactly two months to have this one hundred percent. I have less than that to prove to the Arrows owners that I am worth a contract.”

  “I understand that.”

  Waiting for him to continue his thought, I stand and roll my shoulder back and forth. By the time I’m on my tenth rotation, gritting my teeth through the fire, he still hasn’t responded, and I’m about ready to lose my shit.

  “So . . . I’m hoping we can be at one hundred percent by, say, Christmas? End of January at the latest. I need substantial rehab by Thanksgiving, Houston. We need to make that happen,” I insist.

  A wide, cheeky grin stretches over his face, his head shaking side-to-side. I’m not sure what he finds funny about this, but if I could raise my arm far enough, I’d be tempted to throw punches.

  “Lincoln, listen. Your shoulder needs stretching to regain your range of motion. Once we have that we can build up your strength in several ways. But right now it also needs rest.”

  “I don’t have time for rest.”

  “Spoken like a true athlete,” he snickers. “You do have time for rest. Give your body time to heal itself. We’ll do the work in here, but when you’re not, you have to let it do its thing.” He walks in front of me, looking me right in the eye. “So tomorrow, no lifting. No stretching. No throwing a ball. Don’t even jack off too hard. Nothing. Do you hear me, Landry?”

  I start to fire back, but his gaze steadies.

  “I know you’re used to pushing through the pain and making shit go on your schedule, but that’s what got you here. To me. The expert.” He gives that a second to sink deep into my psyche. “Are you following along?”

  I grab my hat off the floor and slam it on my head. “I hear you,” I grumble.

  “Good. See you in two days.” With a little wave, he and his attitude problem head to his office.

  I turn towards the elevator. I need out of here before I explode and damage this thing further. I doubt it would help my shoulder or my relationship with Houston if I picked up a dumbbell and sent it soaring out of the tenth-floor window.

  The door dings and I enter, taking a spot next to a woman in a grey skirt and white shirt. She’s cute with her curly hair and golden lips, and she clearly likes what she sees, but I’m so pissed off by this two-day bullshit, I can’t even find it in myself to flirt. That might be the most shocking thing to happen to me all day.

  Since when do I not flirt?

  That’s it. Graham was right. This injury has affected my brain.

  I’m dying.

  “Ground floor,” I say with a hint of a smile, trying to find the philanderer I know is lurking somewhere inside me.

  She uses a red fingernail to punch in the number. “You’re Lincoln Landry, aren’t you?” She pulls the clipboard she’s carrying towards her body, her lips stretching into a dazzling smile.

  “That’s me.” I watch the floor numbers drop, feeling her watch me. The air like the dugout before a game in July—stale and hot with the promise of more if you’re willing to make it happen.

  I’m not. Strangely.

  Yup. Dying.

  The door stops and chimes as it opens.

  “See you later,” she breathes.

  The doors make the grinding sound that happens right before they start to swing closed. And then, just like that, everything changes. I see her. Danielle Ashley, the fiery little raven-haired beauty that gives as good as she gets.

  Oh, how I would like to know how true that is.

  She’s holding the hand of the little boy she was with the last time I saw her. He threatens to touch her with a very blue, drippy hand and she tries to look at him sternly, but it doesn’t pass as anything more than adorable. They both look up just as the doors begin to close.

  Her steps falter, her eyes go wide, as the little boy’s light up with recognition.

  “Lincoln Landry!” he squeals, tugging the hand she’s holding until he’s free.

  The doors inch closer and closer, the window of visibility narrowing as they prepare to shut me in and whisk me way. Not happening. Not after I’ve thought of her every hour since I left here yesterday. Not after I had to jack off three times to visions of her bent over, her riding me, and me caging her into my mattress while I bust it deep inside her tight little body.

  My hand shoots in front of me. This is fate. A pitch offered from the heavens. My cheeks start to ache, right along with my forgotten shoulder, as I smile at the look of pure amusement on her face.

  The room is vacant besides Danielle and the little boy as I step onto the tile. He runs to me and jumps straight into my arms with no warning, his blue painted hand stamping a perfect little print on the front of my The Resistance t-shirt. Danielle’s face bunches in horror.

  “Rocky!” she shouts.

  The little boy giggles, positioning his face directly in front of mine. Bright blue eyes look back at me above a spattering of freckles. “You’re Lincoln Landry,” he breathes like he’s just seen Santa Claus.

  “I am?” I ask, my eyes going wide.

  “You are,” he breathes in awe. “I know who you are. My big brother has a poster of you in his room.”

  “And you don’t?” I ask, frowning.

  “My mom won’t buy me one. She says I’m too little.”

  I lean forward until our noses are touching and whisper, “She can’t say no if I give you one as a gift, right?”

  He giggles. “No.” Rocky presses his paint-free hand against my shoulder, making me grimace in pain. Danielle is to our side just as I stifle the string of profanities threatening to spill out.

  “Rocky,” she says, reaching us. “You can’t go jumping on strangers. Look at Mr. Landry’s shirt.” He doesn’t look at her. He’s still watching me. I’m still watching him, too, even though the entire universe seems to be pulling me to the woman at my left.

  “Did that hurt?” he asks.

  “A little,” I say with as little evidence of just how bad as I can manage.

  “Lincoln, I’m so sorry,” Danielle apologizes, taking Rocky out of my arms. “Give me a minute, please.”

  She bends her fine ass down until she’s eye-level with the boy. I’ll give her all the minutes she needs if I can stand here and watch her about to burst out of that dress.

  “I need you to go back to your room and wash your hands,” she tells him. “Can you do that for me?”

  He nods, but looks at me over his shoulder. “Lincoln?”

  “Yeah?” I ask.

  “Will you come paint with me tomorrow?”

  “Rocky . . .” Danielle scoffs.

  “Sure I will,” I say, grinning at her. “What time, Rockster?”

 
“I don’t know how to tell time,” he says, his brows coming together. “After lunch I watch the Muggies on TV. After that, you can come.”

  “Okay. I’ll be here after lunch and Muggies.”

  He darts down the hall, his hospital gown blowing in the air behind him like a superhero’s cape.

  “I’m so sorry about your shirt. Let me put something on it so the paint comes off easier.” She turns away and pads over to a little closet. She rummages around, and when she faces me again, nearly drops the bottle in her hands.

  “What?” I ask, extending my hand in front of me. My t-shirt is balled up, a smirk deepening as I watch her gaze sear my abs. “Didn’t you ask for my shirt?”

  She starts to speak but gets stuck on the lump in her throat.

  “I think,” I say, running a hand down my front, “it’ll be a ten-pack soon.”

  “If I came closer, I’m pretty sure I could count ten.”

  “What’s holding you back?”

  Her cheeks heat, but she turns away from me and puts the bottle back in the cabinet. “Put your shirt on,” she orders. She looks at me and then pulls her gaze away instantly. “Now. Please. For both of our sakes.”

  “Fine, fine,” I say, trying to pretend to huff. “Now my shirt will be ruined.”

  “I’ll buy you another.”

  “Johnny Outlaw signed this one. You’re not going to just buy me another one.”

  “Johnny touched that? Well, in that case, give it to me!” she nearly sighs.

  “I also touched it,” I say, a little snarkier than I care to admit. “You know, the best centerfielder in baseball? The guy with these abs?”

  She rolls her eyes. “What are you doing here anyway?”

  “I believe a little boy ran at me like a bullet. I had to catch him. Catching things midair is what I do best, if you didn’t know.” I slide my arms through the shirt and drop it over my torso. Her eyes don’t leave mine.

  “Interesting,” she smirks. Her chin lifts a touch, enough to elicit an automatic shift in power from me to her. “I figured your best attribute was something . . . else.”

  Her lips twist in amusement as she flips a strand of hair off her narrow shoulders, tosses me a wink, and heads down the hall. I’m not sure what she’s expecting, but I follow. Of course I do.

  Left. Right. Left. Right. Her ass sways side to side in front of me, like a hypnotist erasing my mind from any thought other than the one she’s driving home.

  God, how I’d like to drive her home.

  Glancing over her shoulder, she flips me a look that makes me wonder if I growled out loud. I might’ve.

  Stepping inside her office, I shut the door behind me. When I turn around, she’s sitting at her desk.

  “Would you like to know what I’m doing here?” My chest is rising and falling to the beat of the sway of her hips from before.

  “What makes you think I want to know anything?”

  “Because you asked earlier, sweet pea.”

  This time, it’s me leaning across the desk. It’s my eyes digging into hers, my energy rolling across the faux-wood desk. She feels it. The uptick in her breathing gives it away. Her lips are slightly parted, as she waits for me to speak.

  “You can play this game, Dani—”

  “It’s Danielle.”

  “—but I can see right through you.”

  “You think?”

  “I know. But I do like your confidence. It works for me.”

  “That’s so good to know,” she retorts. It’s almost a mock, a little edge of haughtiness cut stealthily along the ridges of the words. “You wanna know something?”

  “What’s that?”

  “I can also see right through you.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Sure is.”

  The air is charged with our quick exchange, our bodies nearly buzzing with the excitement of the moment. We’re so close, near enough to reach out and touch the other, and that’s precisely what we both want. Our bodies, our gazes, our words are dripping with so much sexual frustration it’s palpable.

  “Tell me,” I say, breaking the ragged-breathing-filled silence. “What do you see when you see through me?”

  “I don’t think this is the place for that conversation.”

  “Would you rather move this to a locked conference room? I’m so, so game for that.”

  She laughs, her melodious chirp ringing through the room. It cuts through the tension and I find myself heaving in a fresh breath of air. Picking up a pencil as if she’s about to work, she smiles easily. “This was fun, but I really need to get to work.”

  “What?” I don’t mean for it to sound as brusque as it does, but fuck it. What is she doing? She has me worked up to beat all hell and she’s going back to work?

  A few seconds later, I’m still standing, trying to grasp what the hell just happened. She looks up from a notepad on her desk, seemingly surprised to see me still here.

  “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow,” I say, shoving off her desk.

  “And why is that?”

  “I’m painting with Rocky.”

  “We only paint one day a week. There won’t be supplies here tomorrow.”

  I just grin. She sighs.

  “You aren’t cleared to come by. There is protocol to follow, Landry, even for you.”

  “Good thing I’m me then,” I wink, knowing I’m pissing her off. “I’ll have my people call your people, and I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “I don’t have people,” she says through gritted teeth. “I am people.”

  “Sounds good. You’ll like them. My people are good people.”

  We stand off, each of us as determined to get our way as the other. She narrows her eyes. I widen my smirk. She throws her shoulders back, I shrug mine. This little game incenses her, riles her up. If I were the true gentleman my mother raised, I’d warn her that seeing her pissed off only makes me want her worse.

  Good thing I’m not.

  Danielle

  THE WATER SPLASHES DOWN THE sides of my favorite teacup. I hold it under the faucet, letting my dirty chai tea wash down the drain. Sitting it in the strainer, I pad through the simple little kitchen adorned with sunflowers and into the tidy living room. As much as I try to make it feel like home, it doesn’t. It lacks a flourish of warmth or coziness that I can’t fill with all the throw pillows and candles in the world.

  I glance at the handful of framed pictures on the mantle. There are two of me and Macie in college. One is of me and Pepper that was taken by a newspaper doing a feature on the Smitten Kitten. The other is of me and my parents, taken on the day I graduated high school. It’s one of the only pictures I have of the three of us. I’ve stared at it for hours over the years, dissecting how we look to the world. We are all smiling, my father’s arms stretched around my mother and I. We look normal. If only.

  The rumble starts in my chest, and I watch my hand reach for the phone. My brain tells my hand to stop. It warns my heart not to have too much hope that my mother will answer, and if she does, that we’ll have a nice conversation.

  Warning in hand, I dial the numbers and wait as it rings, once, twice, three times before she answers.

  “Hello?” she breathes into the receiver.

  “Hi, Mom. It’s me.”

  My heart leaps in my throat and I can feel my pulse in my temples. My mouth goes dry as I wait to see what she has to say.

  She takes in a sharp breath and blows it out in one long, drawn out action. “Hello, Ryan.”

  “How are you?”

  “I’m fine. Ryan, I’ll have to call you back shortly. Your father will be in soon, and I need to be ready. You know how he hates to wait.”

  Forcing the words to come out of my mouth, my hand not to drop the phone, I tell her it’s fine and even manage a laugh. And before I know it, I’m sitting on the sofa watching the shadows move across the wall with the setting sun. She won’t call me back. Not tonight, not tomorrow. This is a fact, the
way it is, but it doesn’t mean it still doesn’t sting. I wish it didn’t, I tell myself it doesn’t. I lie.

  Grabbing the remote, I flip on the television and wander through the channels until it lands on some reality drivel. The noise helps fill the house and keeps me company as I go into the kitchen and pour a large glass of red wine.

  Taking a sip, I consider heading downtown and grabbing a drink in a public place. Getting out. Fresh air and all that. Even as I’m thinking about it, I slide under a blanket on the sofa and take another drink.

  The show on the screen is about a dysfunctional family. I’ve seen it before. They fight and carry on but at the end of every episode, they reunite. Make amends. Reconvene as a family. And, as I do every time I tune in, I wonder what that feels like. Even the arguments are appetizing to me because they have each other. Looking at the picture of my parents and then at my phone again, it hits me again that I only have me. I could die tonight and it would be days before anyone finds me. Pepper would probably send the police because she needed feedback for her soup.

  “In, out,” I breathe, filling my lungs with oxygen and closing my eyes. As soon as they do, I see Lincoln Landry. His rugged jawline, the way those blazing eyes light up when he’s toying with me. The way his hand, large and calloused, cups his chin as he waits on me to process an innuendo, makes me shiver despite the flannel pajamas covering my body.

  “I deserve a cupcake for that,” I say out loud, mentally patting my back for holding my ground against him. “Maybe two.”

  There’s something about him, about the way he looks at me, that makes it absolutely clear he would be a force to be reckoned with if he had an opening and wanted in. Not that I need to, because I’ll probably never see him again, but I must keep that door closed.

  As if on cue, his smirk pops in my mind. I throw the blanket off and sit my wine on the table in front of me.

  “Why, God?” I say into the air. “Why couldn’t he have tormented someone else today?”