Balls: The Complete Players Collection (Sports Romance Box Set)

by Teagan Kade

  Easy. “Fontanelles. What else you got?”

  “The study of tissues?”

  “Histology.”

  “You’re not kidding, are you?”

  I shake my head. “I am not. I read or see something, and it sticks. Always has.”

  “So you have superpowers?”

  “Sixteen-year-old me would have preferred X-ray vision, but I’ll take what I’ve got.”

  She’s looking at me in a new light now. The gamble’s paying off, bases loaded. “That’s incredible, so why aren’t you studying to be a rocket scientist instead of playing baseball? You could do anything.”

  “I enjoy playing baseball. Is that so wrong? I can’t have both?”

  She’s getting animated. “But why go around acting like such a, a—”

  “Dick?” I fill. “I don’t know. At first I did it to fit in, but then I kind of got addicted to it, to the attention.”

  “And now you can’t go back.”

  I nod. “That’s right. I was never accepted in high school. I was the kid who hit puberty late, who got picked on every fucking day, but not here. Here, I’m…”

  “Popular?”

  “No, it’s more than that. Here I have power, influence.”

  “Wow. This is some serious confession action right here.”

  “Yes. Yes, it is. I’m not holding anything back.”

  It’s all there now, everything open on the table. I thought I’d be terrified at the prospect of this revelation, Clark Kent on display, but I’m excited. There’s relief, too, relief in the knowledge I no longer have to keep my past to myself. I have a kindred spirit, a soul mate.

  You’re getting ahead of yourself.

  A life with Willow wouldn’t be so bad. Hell, it would be fucking perfect. I know it.

  We’ve moved closer to each other during the conversation. I lean forward, her eyes giving no protest. They’re wide and wanton. She breathes with her mouth open, lips parted in wait.

  We don’t speak, only continue to draw together, two magnets.

  I reach up and stroke the side of her cheek. It’s hot.

  I move in and kiss her.

  It’s light at first, a brush of my lips against hers, but soon it turns to more.

  The tip of her tongue finds mine and delves deeper, my hand raking into her hair and pulling her into it, the desperation rising, her chest against mine.

  This is it. This is happening, and it’s so different to any kiss I’ve experienced before that it strikes me like a fucking epiphany, that yes, this is what it should be like. This is what I’ve been missing.

  I move my free hand to her thigh, run over the gooseflesh there, feel a barrier of heat pulsing out from her core, her arousal as she grows wet for me.

  She snaps away, holding herself like she’s suddenly naked.

  She stands and has a look of such shock and confusion on her face it’s as though she’s been struck by lightning.

  “I— I—” she stammers.

  She turns and runs for the door, pulling it open. I’m on my feet, but on my way I trip on her heels and fall. “Willow,” I call, but she’s fast. She makes it down the stairs before I’ve even reached the balcony. I watch her run across the courtyard barefoot, her dress floating out behind her like an obsidian apparition.

  “Willow. Wait!” I shout, but she’s already turned around the corner of the complex, gone from sight.

  By the time I make it down there, she’s gone.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  WILLOW

  There is moving fast and there is ridiculous. It’s safe to say my date with Asher fell into the latter.

  It’s not that I didn’t want to kiss him. I did, and the kiss itself—his hot lips on my own, that fresh-from-the-field scent wrapping around us as my clit started to pulse… I mean, damn. That is what dreams are made of.

  No, the kiss did not scare me, quite the opposite, but when I started to lose myself in it, started to drift away from logic and reason, that is when I started to panic. Once it started, it snowballed, growing bigger and bigger, my stomach knotting and nothing but sheer terror at what this may mean screaming at me to leave. So I did. I ran like a gosh-darn escaped convict, headed for the hills. I actually crouched behind a bush for ten minutes, shaking there in the cold hoping he wouldn’t run after me, and why? It makes no sense.

  Nothing seems to at the moment.

  You did the right thing, I tell myself. Another few seconds of suck-face and you’d be wrapped up in his sheets, sexted the following the morning and forgotten, another notch on the ol’ Asher Slade baseball bat.

  The thought of being wrapped up in Asher’s sheets pushes me towards a different train of thought, but I soon close the door on that.

  Do not become another statistic, Willow.

  And yes, my inner critic does sound like a road-safety commercial.

  There’s a groan from the other side of the room. “Where am I?” comes the voice of the beast.

  Amy rolls over in bed, eyes struggling to focus on me balled up against the wall.

  “The fifth circle of hell,” I reply. “Otherwise known as a hangover”.

  “What makes you think I was drinking?” she slurs.

  I point. “You’re using a beer can as a pillow. Yeah, I’d say you were drinking.”

  She takes hold of said ‘pillow,’ looks and it, and replaces it back under her head. “Where were you last night? I know you weren’t in the library, because I kind of… naked… Jacuzzi… Jello. You don’t need details.”

  I certainly don’t have to answer to anyone about my whereabouts, but I do. In a weird way I kind of want Amy ‘Mc-Do-It-All’ College Experience to know where I was. “I had a date,” I tell her, keeping information scarce.

  She lifts her head again, exhaling like she’s giving birth. Her quilt slides off. Someone’s written ‘Beavis’ on one cup of her bra with a marker and ‘Butthead’ on the other. “A date? With who? One of your beloved professors, extra credit and all that?” she winks.

  Suck this. “I was on a date with Asher Slade, actually.”

  She nods with understanding. “Ah, yes. I heard he was doing that volunteer thing with you.”

  I scream internally. “No, a date date. He cooked. There were candles.”

  Amy sits up fully and eyeballs me suspiciously. “Did you dream this date, by chance?”

  That’s it. “Did I dream him kissing me? No, I think that was quite real.”

  She buys it, albeit begrudgingly. “Okay. Say he did kiss you. Why are you here and not there? You know, checking out his morning glory?”

  Damn. She’s got me. “I wanted to take it slow.”

  Amy nods, smiling. “I see.”

  “You see what?”

  She puts her hand up. “No, no. Everything makes sense now.” She lies down and turns over. “Good night.”

  It’s eleven in the morning.

  I shake my head and grab my cell. Enough of this.

  The dormitory common room is quiet this time of morning given everyone’s nursing their hangovers and regrets.

  I sit on a strangely firm couch at the back and try not to think about what has taken place on it while I scroll through my contacts. My only thought is to find a way to get Asher as far away from me as possible. Given the way my willpower melted last night, I can’t take the chance I’ll be able to resist him again. No, I’ve been down this road before. It did not lead to a good place.

  I hover on the Dean’s number. He did say to call, but what am I going to say? Report Asher for arriving late that first day at the home? That was an eon ago now.

  I keep scrolling until I hit Karen Johnson. She’s largely responsible for the student population, a vice principal without the title. She was the one who proposed Asher help out at the home, put it forward to the Dean, plus she’s not a fan of the Hellcats given the ruckus they’re forever causing around campus. I’m surprised she wanted to let Asher off so lightly in the first place. The Dean happily
provided her number in case I couldn’t reach him.

  Do it.

  I press call. I expect to get her voice mail, but she answers in an overly jovial clip. “Hi hi, Karen speaking.”

  “Who is it?” comes a husky male voice in the background.

  She holds the phone away and shushes the mystery man. “Sorry, who’s calling?”

  “It’s Willow. Willow Grant, ma’am.”

  “From the McMahon Centre?”

  She remembered. That’s a start. “Is everything okay, Willow?”

  “I’m calling about Asher Slade.”

  Her tone changes at the mention of his name. “What’s he done now?”

  I haven’t thought this through. “Nothing specifically, but I don’t think it’s working, to be blunt—the volunteering, that is.”

  “I appreciate the honesty, Willow, but can you be a little more specific?”

  He kissed me. I ran. Now I’m too embarrassed to look him in the face. “Call it a difference of opinion.”

  “I see.” Thank god she doesn’t keep drilling. “What would you like me to do?”

  “Can he be reassigned? Something like that?”

  A deep breath. “I’ll have to see. It might take some time, and it will have to be cleared with the Dean, but if you really can’t bear it, I’ll find a way. After all, we can’t have the college clown bringing down a scholarship student, can we?”

  It’s a sincere compliment, so why do I feel so crappy about taking it? “Thank you, Ms. Johnson.”

  “Karen. Like I said, it might take a while. Can you survive a few more days?”

  Something a little more expeditious would have been welcome, but this will have to do. “Sure.”

  “Thank you for bringing it to my attention.”

  “And sorry to call you on a Saturday morning.”

  “No problem at all, Willow. Goodbye now.”

  “Goodbye.”

  The male voice sounded familiar, but I can’t place it—not that it’s any of my business what the faculty get up to.

  It doesn’t matter. Soon Asher Slade will be nothing but a memory and I can get back on with the business of clawing back my grades.

  *

  It’s a long week. Asher tries to text and call. I don’t think my cell’s ever seen so much activity, but I can’t bring myself to answer it or reply back. I even let Linda on the desk downstairs know not to let him up if he comes around the dormitory. She gives me a wry smile. “Like that, is it?”

  “Absolutely not,” I reply.

  I’m sure he could find a way up to my room if he wanted, but two days later, he remains MIA. At least he has that much sense.

  I dart in and out of classes like the Phantom, always looking behind myself waiting for him to materialize, but he never does. No, it would seem the infamous Asher Slade is rather absent on campus of late.

  Glenda sighs when I tell her I won’t be at the center this week, that I’ve come down with something—probably food poisoning.

  “You poor thing,” she coos. “I’ll let Asher know.”

  I hang up feeling incredibly guilty. Why should those poor kids suffer because I can’t adult up and face this guy?

  With my lie in place, I turn to study instead. I bury myself in work and assignments, attempting to leave precisely zero room for any intruding thoughts about Asher and his soft lips to enter my headspace. As if he wasn’t distracting enough, now I’ve got The Kiss to think about all day long. Even running through the world’s most boring subject, pharmacology, I’m thinking about his eyes, his chest, his hands—my own personal anatomy lesson.

  Four days pass and the texts disappear completely. He’s moved on, I think…

  …Until I show up from class one day to find a curious red box on my bed.

  Amy’s bopping around with her headphones on listening to what I can only deduce is an audio recording of the apocalypse. She lifts a cup off her ear when she sees me enter. “It’s not a bomb, is it?”

  I walk over and pluck a little card stuck to the top. It reads: ‘Warning: Clichés enclosed –Asher.’

  “No,” I reply, barely thinking, “I don’t think it’s a bomb.”

  I take lid off and peer in.

  He wasn’t kidding. Inside, there’s a box of chocolates, a half-dozen roses, even one of those adorable teddy bears with a ribbon around his neck. He even managed to include the heels I left at his place.

  “Well?” questions Amy, headphones around her neck.

  I place the lid back into position. “It’s nothing.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Because a giant red box full of chocolates and roses is ‘nothing.’”

  “You looked?”

  She shrugs, lifting up her headphones again. “Had to check it wasn’t a bomb.” And with that logic her headphones snap into place and she resumes her head-banging.

  As for me, I don’t know what to do. I’m torn. Asher clearly wants to make amends, so why am I being such a… I don’t know the appropriate word in this situation.

  I bet Mr. Photographic Memory could fill it in.

  Maybe.

  But do I accept this apology? And what then? Pick up where we left off? I don’t know if I’m ready to bring her back.

  Like that would be so bad.

  I can’t think. I grab my coat and head back out.

  “By the way,” calls Amy, a little too loudly. “I took a chocolate, or three. Hope you don’t mind.”

  *

  It’s mid-afternoon at Penbrook. The sun has disappeared behind a bank of cotton-ball clouds, the campus empty given this is peak class time.

  I stroll around aimlessly thinking, and thinking, running through The Kiss until I know every intimate detail.

  You were enjoying yourself, weren’t you? Admit it.

  I wasn’t hating it. That’s for sure.

  I don’t know whether it’s coincidence or not, but I find myself at the Litterbox. There’s no one at the gates, so I walk right out onto the field. I stand where Asher normally stands, his bat, lovingly named Big Red, held high ready to swing. So this is what it feels like.

  I imagine it would be quite different with a pitcher standing in front of you and thousands of fans cheering you on, mind, but I get the gist.

  I take a swing with my air bat hoping no one’s watching. It feels good, kind of liberating.

  I kick my foot back and forth on the plate, squat down pretending I’m the next Barry Bonds. It’s been years since I stepped foot onto a field. I never played at school. No, a popular girl like me would never sink to sports lest I chip a nail or mess up my hair, but I always goofed around at home with Dad in my cheap, comfy jeans and tee. There was no one watching in our backyard, no crowds, but those days were some of the best of my life. I couldn’t swing to save my life, but I don’t think Dad cared. He wasn’t big on affection, but I believe being out there on our own little diamond always made him feel closer to me, like we were bonding in some way.

  My thoughts turn to Asher again.

  That damn kiss.

  I really break it down, strip away the emotion and consider the facts. Regardless of what he may or may not have done, which is pointless fretting over, I did enjoy the kiss. When his hand fell on my thigh, I wanted him to keep going. I didn’t want to stop. In fact, I wanted to give in, to melt under his touch. Is that so wrong? These are natural feelings, aren’t they? Why am I denying myself what I would no doubt enjoy? That doesn’t make any sense.

  I take out my cell. It’s hot in my hand from sitting up against my leg all day.

  I start to walk back to the center of campus. The clock tower chimes. People start to emerge from class. Soon streams of them are passing me by in the quadrangle, a wash of humanity. They have no idea of the war going on in my head.

  Do I? Don’t I? Do I? Don’t I?

  I hold my cell, squeezing it tight.

  I unlock the screen.

  I enter my contacts.

  I wait.

  I cannot b
elieve I am about to do this.

  I have to cup my ear to hear properly in the crowd. “Hi, Karen. It’s Willow Grant again. Can we talk?”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ASHER

  I’ve been waiting under the clock tower for what seems like hours now.

  I check my cell. You’ve been waiting fifteen minutes, asshat.

  Christmas came early when I found out Willow had called Karen, told her she was okay with me continuing to volunteer at the home.

  Not much escapes me on campus. I only found out late last week Willow had asked for me to be transferred to another community-service gig. That at least explained her sudden illness.

  And then I spot her. She’s wearing a bright yellow dress, something of a departure from her usual attire, but a color that brings out her best. Unencumbered by loose sweaters and shirts, she’s striking. Every male eye in the immediate vicinity is on her.

  Back off, I want to scream. She’s mine.

  There’s an awkward beat as she stands before me, her textbooks clutched in front of her cleavage.

  “I like your dress,” I start.

  She looks down at it. “Thanks.”

  Another beat. “Should we go?”

  “Sure,” she replies.

  This isn’t going how I expected, not that I thought she’d leap into my arms, but I’m so used to girls jumping me that this quiet tension throws me completely.

  I pull her into an alcove. “I’m sorry about what happened that night. I take full responsibility. I want you to know that.”

  She chews her lip. “We’re both to blame, Asher. It takes two to… you know.”

  “Too fast?”

  “Too fast,” she nods in confirmation.

  I slide my hands into my pockets to stop them from reaching out and taking hold of her, pulling her into me and never letting her go. “What now?”

  She smiles and it’s the greatest fucking sight in the world. “We go back to work.”

  “To the home?”

  “Unless you’ve got somewhere better to be.”

  “I shake my head. There’s nowhere I’d rather be.”

  She turns and walks off.

  I stand there for a moment longer, placing my hand against the wall to collect myself. She seems okay. At least she’s not holding a grudge, right?