“If you’d slow down, I wouldn’t have to jog to keep up with you. Oh, and people wouldn’t see things bouncing that shouldn’t be bouncing!” I called to his back.
He slowed and turned, surveying my bouncing bits as he waited for me to catch up to him.
“Sorry,” he muttered. “I hate taking photos.”
“I noticed,” I said. “You ready to go?”
He nodded.
“Yep,” he sighed. “Have to be back for the game in an hour, and I need to drop you off and go back and get my stuff from my house.”
“I’m not against riding with you if you want to run by there,” I offered almost shyly.
He shot a small smile at me, and I had to take a deep breath as the full force of it hit me.
“It’ll take half an hour to get there from here,” he added as if he was making sure it was okay.
I nodded my head. “It’s okay.”
The second time I got into his big blue truck went better than it had the first time, on the way to breakfast.
He held the door for me while I placed one foot on the step. With one small jump, I heaved myself up into his truck, and wondered why on earth he had one so big.
He growled at one point, and I turned to survey him.
“Did you say something?” I questioned him.
His eyes went from where my ass had just been, to my face, and he shook his head.
“No,” he said gruffly. “I didn’t.”
He slammed the door closed, and my brows furrowed as I watched him walk around the hood of the truck, and easily heft himself inside.
He didn’t even need the handle like I did.
“I like your truck and all,” I mused as he pulled into traffic and started heading in the opposite direction of town. “But it’s impractical.”
The corner of his mouth twitched as he chuckled softly.
“No,” he smiled. “Not impractical. I’ll show you why when we get to my place.”
“Okay,” I replied. “Why do you have to be at the stadium so early when the other players don’t have to get there until one?”
He let his eyes flick to mine before returning them to the road.
“I don’t, technically, have to be there until then, but I like to get there earlier,” he hesitated. “It’s a superstition.”
“Mmmm,” I murmured. “I know all about those superstitions.”
“You do?” he asked in surprise.
“I do,” I confirmed. “My brother is the king of superstitions. Although I don’t see the point of them myself, I know what the thinking behind them is.”
Hancock smiled as he pulled the wheel slightly to the left, taking the exit that would either lead to nothing, or Caddo Lake.
My guess was the lake, but he could surprise me and live in the middle of nowhere. Like a serial killer.
How much did I know about him?
Well, if I was being honest, I knew quite a bit. I knew his stats. His grade point average in high school. Oh, and I now knew he had a brother. But did that mean I knew him as a person? No.
I did trust him, though.
Even though he still made butterflies take flight in my belly every time he looked at me.
It was bad enough sitting in a confined space with him.
Adding in the fact that he smelled good had my hormones going haywire.
“What are some of your brother’s superstitions?” he asked, startling me out of my reverie of his cologne.
“Uhhh,” I cocked my head to the side and flicked up one finger. “He has to have on one specific pair of underwear, even if it’s unwashed and stinky from the last game.” I flicked up a second finger. “He has to drink a full bottle of red Gatorade, followed by only half a bottle of blue Gatorade.”
He started to chuckle.
“He drinks the second half of the blue Gatorade only after he’s won. If he didn’t win, he throws the Gatorade away.” I flicked up a third finger. “He shaves his head before each and every game.”
“That’s kind of the opposite of me,” he fondled his beard. “After the first game, I don’t shave anymore.”
I noticed.
Everyone noticed.
By the end of the season, he was looking more like a homeless man than a baseball player.
He worked it, though.
“I think I noticed,” I teased, turning in my seat to face him. “You won ‘Baseball’s Best Beard’ last year on ESPN.”
He rolled his eyes, his mouth quirking as he thought about what I’d just said.
“You’ve seen some of mine,” he continued. “Have to sit in the same spot every game.” He smiled but didn’t look over at me. “I pull my pants up after my first at bat.”
Yep, noticed that, too. Everyone did.
“You know that you have your own superstition Facebook page, don’t you?” I inquired.
He chuckled as he made another turn, and my eyes went to the road we’d just taken.
“You live on the lake?” I asked.
“I do,” he confirmed. “And Conner lives one house down from mine.”
“Why do you live out here?” I asked.
“Because it’s peaceful,” he muttered. “And because I like to fish.”
The loud sound of pipes had me looking at the road instead of him, and my eyes widened when I saw all the motorcycles parked outside one of the houses we were passing.
“What’s going on there?” I whispered. “That doesn’t seem very peaceful.”
He grunted.
“It can get loud, but they’re never rude about it. If it gets to be after nine in the evening during the season and I’m home, they’ll walk their bikes in so they don’t wake me,” he winked. “I think they like me.”
“Are they a club?” I probed, waving at the men.
Their eyes took me in, in the front seat of Hancock’s truck, and all they did was nod.
Not one of them waved back.
Guess that wasn’t a really biker thing to do.
“They’re a club.” He turned into his driveway, and my breath left me. “I’m not sure if they’re good or bad, though. They like to have parties. I’ve gone to one or two since I’ve moved in, and nothing too illegal or too out of hand goes on at them.”
“Hmm,” I murmured. “Your house isn’t on the lake…it’s on the lake!”
He chuckled and opened his door, and I followed suit.
He rounded the truck just as I jumped down.
His hands on my hips startled me, and I looked up into his eyes with surprise.
“What…”
He slammed his mouth down onto mine, and I gasped, stealing his breath as I did.
His tongue took advantage of my opened mouth and plunged inside.
My hands went to his biceps, my tongue found his.
He growled as he pushed me back against the truck, and it took everything I had to stay upright as he took my mouth.
The moment he disengaged, I opened my stupid mouth.
“What was that?” I gasped.
He grinned.
“That…well, that’s something I’ve been wanting to do for three freakin’ days.”
Hancock went on to have the best hitting game of his life…and guess what became his newest superstition?
Chapter 6
The only thing dirty about my beard is the mind that comes with it.
-Coffee Cup
Sway
“More ice?” I asked, taking glee out of the fact that each bucket of ice I added to Hancock’s water made him shiver even more.
Today had been a practice day, and tomorrow would be a rest day, and the next day would be the actual game, and he’d practiced like shit today.
Though, I had a feeling that had a lot to do with the fact that he’d lost his catcher’s mitt somewhere rather than him intentionally playing like shit.
“N-no,” he said. “I think I’m getting sick.
”
My brows rose.
“You running a fever?” I asked.
Now that I was looking at him, he did look a little rougher than normal.
“T-think so.” He nodded his head.
I reached down between his legs and started to pull the plug on the bath, but he stilled my arm.
“My thigh is fucking killing me from where I took that knee,” he let my arm go. “I need the bath. For now. I’ll get out in a few.”
I watched as the color that was high on his cheeks that, earlier, I’d thought was due to the game, became more prominent.
Looking over at my assistant, Lacey, I beckoned her over with my hand. She was in the trainer program at a local college.
“Can you take a look at Gentry Green and make sure he’s good to go?” I requested.
Lacey looked over at the bench that Gentry was sitting on, talking to another player, and then nodded. “I can do that.”
She practically skipped as she rushed in his direction, and I had to hold my laugh in as she stopped directly in front of Gentry, completely blocking off the player he was talking to.
“She seems…excited,” Hancock’s rumble broke into my contemplation of how I was going to have to tell Lacey to take a chill pill.
“She’s young and excited,” I nodded my head. “I think she’s going to turn into an awesome trainer…as long as we can get that starry-eyed look out of her eyes.”
Hancock snorted, his eyes never opening.
“Where do you think you lost your glove?” I asked him, leaning against the tub as I stared down at him.
With his eyes closed, I admired his built chest and his tight, muscular thighs.
Most players wore their skivvies into the ice baths. Most.
Hancock usually didn’t.
Today, though, he was still wearing his tight boxer briefs, not giving me the view of absolutely everything like he usually did.
However, it was enough.
Enough to heighten my breathing and make my face flush.
“Saw it in my locker before I went to eat after practice,” he murmured. “And when I got back it was gone.”
I pursed my lips.
“You think someone stole it?” I asked worriedly.
He cracked an eye open. “Yeah.”
I frowned.
Stealing in professional baseball was nearly unheard of.
These guys had a lot of money and didn’t need to steal.
If someone stole it, and he didn’t just misplace it in a sickness-induced haze, then someone was about to get their ass kicked.
I had no doubt in my mind that Hancock would find his glove.
Hell, he’d hire a freakin’ private detective and half the police force to find it if he had to.
Money, as I’d said, wasn’t a problem for these boys.
Which made me wonder…why?
“Maybe you should start putting a lock on your locker,” I suggested.
He grunted.
“I would…but numbers get fucked up in my head. I’m dyslexic,” he muttered, sounding completely out of it. “Nine and six are a bitch for me to work with since they flop in my head.”
He made a hand gesture to explain how they were switched around, and I felt a sweet sense of longing hit me.
“So, get one that doesn’t have numbers, but a key,” I suggested.
Hearing he was dyslexic tugged on my heartstrings.
He grunted. “I don’t know what happened,” he muttered. “But if it continues, then I’ll get a lock.”
“What if your batting gloves are taken next time…or your shoes?” I asked.
Lord knew his shoes were eight seasons old.
Well, likely they weren’t eight seasons old. But it wouldn’t surprise me if they were at least three.
He growled under his breath.
“I don’t want to think about it,” he muttered. “I’m trying not to die.”
I covered a laugh by coughing into my hand, making him peak out between his eyelid again.
“Don’t laugh at me,” he ordered tiredly.
I patted his arm and walked around the tub.
“I’m getting a drink. Do you want anything?” I paused.
“Sprite.”
I walked to the fridge I had in my office and removed my water. Then I grabbed a dollar from my wallet—which, might I add, was locked up in my freakin’ desk—and got Hancock a Sprite from the drink machine before walking back to him.
He held his hand out before I was to him, and I had to wonder how he knew I was there.
“Will you open it for me?” he asked, turning the can’s opening toward me.
I opened it without taking it from him, and wondered how, exactly, this kind of relationship between us had come to be.
Two weeks ago, when I’d started, if you’d asked me which player I would get closest to, I would not have said Hancock Peters.
I would’ve said none of them.
Why?
Because I was a social pariah.
I didn’t talk to people easily. I didn’t even talk to my own family easily.
Unless you asked me about a book, then I could talk to you like you were my best friend.
Which was how Ember had broken through my wall.
As for Hancock, I didn’t know how he did it. Especially with how rude he’d been at the very beginning.
“Why don’t you swing at the first pitch?” I asked him conversationally, taking a seat in the rolling chair and scooting closer to him.
I was worried if I didn’t keep him awake, he could very well fall asleep in the ice bath, and then I’d be responsible for him drowning.
“Superstition,” Hancock yawned, his mouth opening wide.
I resisted the urge to stick my finger inside his open mouth, and idly wondered if it’d piss him off if I did. By accident, of course.
I nodded my head as Gentry, Hancock’s friend and tonight’s starting pitcher, waved at me.
“You need a ride, big man?” he asked.
Hancock opened his eye slightly.
“No,” he grumbled. “My truck should be back by now.”
“It’s not.” He countered. “And seeing as it’s after six, I doubt it’s going to be back at all since the dealership closes at six.”
Hancock cursed and pushed out of the water.
“Dammit,” he growled.
My mouth went dry as I watched water sluice off his body in delicious waves.
Oh, my tattoo.
He had them everywhere.
I’d seen them, of course…under the water.
But since I was sitting directly next to him as he stood, I was close enough to actually feel the water dripping off his body.
And what a body it was.
So, so magnificent.
I lifted my hand and touched a tattoo on his hip of what looked to be a scratch mark of some kind. Then, where it looked like skin was ripped away, a grassy baseball diamond shown through.
“That’s so cool,” I mumbled, my eyes fascinated.
“I think she’s actively trying to kill me,” Hancock mumbled as he took the towel that Gentry offered him.
When he wrapped it around his waist, my hand got trapped in the material.
And, of course, that would be when my uncle came walking around the corner.
“Sway, do you think I could borrow you for a…” he stopped, and I yanked my hand away so fast it was more than obvious I’d been doing something inappropriate. “I thought I told you not to touch her, fool.”
“Coach Siggy,” Gentry was too busy laughing to try to conduct an understandable conversation.
I sighed.
“I wasn’t doing anything,” I promised.
“Uh-huh,” Uncle Siggy murmured. “Sure looked like you were doing nothing instead of having your hand around his tattooed cock.”
My mouth dropped open, and like always,
my curiosity got the best of me.
“You have a tattooed weenie?” I exclaimed.
Hancock started to laugh, which died in his throat as coughing took over.
“What do you need, Uncle Siggy?” I asked, standing up and removing my hand from its confines.
Hancock walked out of the training room like he had lead weights tied around his ankles, and I couldn’t help but watch as something foreign…almost like caring…filtered through my being.
“I need to borrow your phone.” My uncle held out his hand while asking.
“What for?” I held onto my boob protectively.
It wasn’t because Uncle Siggy had a code word for a boob named phone, but because that was where I held my phone while I was working.
It was stupid, I know. It was probably unsanitary, too, because of boob sweat, but that’s where I kept it.
Not that anyone could notice.
My boobs were big enough to hide a fucking iPad, so concealing an iPhone was no problem.
He snapped his fingers. “Mine died. You know how Aunt Margaret gets when I don’t call her on time.”
“You mean when she starts accusing you of cheating on her?” I raised a brow at him as I offered him my boob-sweat covered phone.
He sneered slightly when I handed it off, but otherwise didn’t comment about the fact that I’d had it stored in my bra.
“I’ll be back,” he muttered.
I rolled my eyes and started cleaning up, beginning first with the ice tub that Hancock had just exited.
Once the drain was pulled, I moved to the other tubs and wiped them down with disinfectant wipes before moving to the tables.
Once everything was clean and orderly, I snatched up my purse and keys, and headed to my uncle’s office.
“No, I’m not with anyone else,” Siggy mumbled under his breath. “Margaret. Jesus Christ. I’m at fuckin’ work.”
I rolled my eyes and walked up to Siggy, holding my hand out for the phone.
“Hold on,” he mumbled, then handed it to me with a grateful look in his eyes.
“Aunt Marge,” I interrupted the tirade I could hear coming through the phone without even having it up to my ear yet. “This is Sway. Uncle Siggy used my phone, but I have to go. I’ll have to have him call you back later.”
Without waiting for her negative response to my words, I hung up and dropped my phone into my purse.
Pitch Please Page 4
