by Teagan Kade
I get the boys to help me down as we approach the dugout, embracing Willow.
She holds me away. She’s breathing almost as hard as I am. “That was close.”
“You’re telling me.”
I pull her in and give her ass a squeeze. “What do you say we celebrate?”
She sniffs at the air. “You could do with a shower first.”
I sniff my armpit. “What? You don’t like the smell of sweaty hometown hero?”
She stands on her tippy toes and whispers, “I like my men squeaky clean, remember?”
She kisses me on the cheek. “I’ll wait out front.”
“See you soon.”
Someone slaps my back from behind.
I pull Leon into a headlock. “Motherfucker. I guess we did it.”
He manages to squirm free, taking me around the neck, the two of walking towards the tunnel. “I guess we did.”
“Mr. Slade?”
I look sideways to find a guy standing there in a non-descript black cap and simple white tee. There’s a clipboard under his arm. He looks like he’s off to a cattle auction, not dressed for a college ballgame.
He extends his hand. “Gary.”
I shake. “Asher.”
Leon takes the hint and slaps me on the back. “I’ll see you in the showers.”
“Son,” says Gary. “I represent the interests of the New York Yankees baseball team. Have you got a moment?”
I jerk back. “For the Yankees? I’ve got all the time in the world.”
*
Showered, free from the fans, I manage to escape the rest of the throngs by using the back entrance.
Willow’s leaning up against a lamppost in a Hellcats jersey a good two sizes too big and a cap that’s not doing much to contain her copper hair. She looks so fucking adorable right now.
I put down my bag and take her around the waist, pulling her to me, breathing her in. “You look hot in that jersey. What say you leave it on tonight?”
“Just the jersey?” she questions.
I let her go. “Sorry I’m late. A recruiter from the Yankees wanted to talk.”
Willow’s eyes light up. “The Yankees want to sign you?”
“Nothing’s set in stone, but it looks promising. What do you think? Does the Big Apple take your fancy?”
“You do know I’m a Jersey girl, don’t you?”
“All the more reason. When I brought you up, the recruiter said he had some contacts at NYU he could get in touch with.”
She’s stunned. “Wow.”
“Trust me, once you’re in the Majors, it’s like a magic key. Anything’s possible.”
“What makes you think I’d follow you?”
I grind against her, letting her know I’m hard. “You’d say no to incredible sex every night and my expert cooking?”
She laughs, throwing her head back. “When you put it like that, how could a girl resist?”
EPILOGUE
WILLOW
ONE YEAR LATER
Once again I’m in the stands watching Asher on field, but this isn’t the Litterbox. This is Yankee Stadium.
A solid crack from Asher’s bat sends the ball jetting off towards the stands. The Yankees coach claps, approaching him. The response to Asher here has been great, but the real test will be when he plays his first game tomorrow. I couldn’t be prouder, though looking around at the fellow bejeweled girlfriends and wives gathered, I think it’s going to take me a while to adjust to this lifestyle.
I head down to the field just as Asher comes off, his brow sweaty, that stripy Yankees uniform hugging his body tight. He’s bound to get panties around the stadium knotting when he shows up for the game tomorrow—mine included.
And you’re the lucky one who gets to take him home.
I lean against the wall next to the players’ tunnel. “You’re new, right?”
Asher smiles, taking me by the hips and pulling me off the wall. He places his nose against my neck. “What have we here? A Major League virgin. Say, I don’t suppose you have five minutes to get better acquainted, do you?”
His cock hardens against me. “I’ve got class in twenty.”
“That’s all I need.”
“You’re forgetting we’re in New York. There’s a little something called traffic.” I adjust his collar. “Perhaps a rematch back at home?”
His lips move to my ear. “Do I get to check out your infield?”
I know people are watching, but I don’t care. Let them see what we’ve got together. “You can check out whatever you like.”
I push him away. “See you soon, Slugger. No batting before I get home, you hear?”
He grabs his crotch. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
*
I’m enjoying NYU. It’s certainly a step up from Penbrook, but I haven’t gotten used to the city hustle and bustle again yet, or living so close to Mom.
“Anyone home?” I call, the sound of Bailey’s scrambling paws growing louder as she leaps into the hallway and bolts for me.
I crouch down and she almost bowls me over she’s so excited. She’s not a puppy any more, that’s for sure.
I rub her behind the ears. “Who’s a pretty girl?”
If her tail was wagging any harder, she’d take flight.
She starts to tug at my leg.
“What is it, girl?”
“Asher?” I call.
No answer.
I look back down at Bailey. “Okay. Where do you want me to go?”
I let Bailey lead me down the hall to the deck out back overlooking the Hudson.
At first, the Yankees wanted to set us up in a grand apartment near the stadium, but we wanted room for Bailey to play. Picturing her cooped up in an apartment all day, no matter how spacious, was stressing me out. We take her to see Coach Harris when we can, but he’s still in and out of the hospital more than he’d like.
So, we found a cute little house on River Palm Terrace with water views and something of a backyard. The Yankees were happily to oblige given they’d be saving who knows how much per month, plus we prefer being away from the city and its perpetual madness. We like a bit of privacy.
The place needs renovating, but that’s proving kind of fun—not that Asher has a renovating bone in his body. He’s a lot better with a bat in his hand than a brush.
The sun’s setting behind Manhattan, the skyscrapers splitting the light into columns that fall and distort on the water’s surface.
Here we go.
I see the table on the deck’s been set up with flowers. There are candles. I can’t help but think back to our first date at Asher’s place. It seems like so long ago now.
Asher’s standing beside the table with his hands behind his back. He’s wearing the same tux he wore to the Players’ Ball last week and he looks impossibly handsome standing there.
I look like last week’s trash in my lab clothes. “Sorry, I didn’t know we were dressing up tonight.”
He gives me the famous Slade smile, Bailey looping through his legs with glee. “You know I think you’re hot as fuck in your lab clothes.”
I roll my eyes. “You’d think I was ‘hot as fuck’ wearing curtains.”
“I would.” He pulls out a chair. “Would madam like a seat?”
I move forward and sit down. “Madam would.”
I notice Mr. Slimey is also seated, wearing a tiny tux and matching bowtie. “Did you make the suit yourself, too?”
Asher pats Mr. Slimey on the head. “The suit only cost three figures. I’d call that a bargain.”
Asher sits opposite me and takes the lid off a silver dish in the middle of a table.
I sniff at the air. “Carbonara. Just like our first date.”
“Correct you are, but homemade this time.”
“No roast?” I joke.
He cups his ear. “Can’t say I hear the fire brigade.”
I lean back, eyeing him suspiciously. “Why the trip down memory lane?”
> He starts to dish up. “Oh, I don’t know. I thought you might like to be reminded of where we started… and how far we’ve come.”
He’s not wrong there. I look at Asher now and that college party boy is long gone, the arrogant and all-assuming womanizer a thing of the past. He only has eyes for one woman now—two if I include Bailey. But I see more than a changed man. I see a future husband and father, a man who will be committed to me and our future children no matter what. I couldn’t ask for more.
And then there’s the sex… I thought we were pretty adventurous in college, but something about the Big Apple’s brought out a seriously kinky side in the both of us. I truly pity our neighbors at times. Stamina’s always been one of Asher’s strong suits on the field, but he’s got endless endurance in the bedroom as well.
The main course is followed by a lemon tart Asher assures me he has also made himself from his great-great-grandmother’s famous recipe. It looks a little rustic, but it tastes great.
Completely full, I wipe my mouth with a napkin. “If you’re trying to fatten me up, you’re going the right way about it.”
“Fatten you up?” he laughs. “I suppose you could do with a few more curves.”
I throw my napkin at him. “Ass.”
He dabs at the corner of his mouth with it. “You know you’ll always be perfect in my eyes, babe.”
“What about when I’m pregnant, puffed up like the Goodyear Blimp?”
Not a hint of doubt. “I can’t wait.”
Asher reaches down and pats Bailey’s belly. “Go get, girl.”
Bailey darts off inside.
“Where’s she going?” I ask.
Asher’s still smiling. “Wait and see.”
Something taps at my leg.
It’s Bailey. She’s got something in her mouth, a box, her beady eyes wide with excitement.
I look to Asher, but he’s not giving anything away.
I reach down and take hold of the box, my heart racing.
You’re going to be damn disappointed when you find earrings inside.
The lights of Manhattan twinkle ahead as I open it.
My mouth drops.
I look up to find Asher kneeling beside me.
He takes my hand. “Willow Grant,” he begins.
“Yes,” I squeak, my usual voice replaced by that of a small piglet. My eyes well up. I never thought I’d be emotional in this moment, but it’s happening. It’s happening. I’m turning into a soggy, sappy mess at the sight of this man, my everything.
There’s no flowery language, no cute catchphrase. He simply says, “Will you marry me?” His own eyes are wet and glassy, his intentions true.
Fat tears flow. I can’t do anything to stop them. “Yes,” I reply, nodding fiercely.
A split second later I’m in his arms, kneeling there on the deck with him, Bailey barking away beside us as if trying to announce this happy occasion to the world.
We kiss. It’s deep and long, a kiss of commitment.
Asher pulls back and takes the ring, a beautiful rose-colored diamond set in a swirl of pave-set stones.
“Asher…”
He places a finger on my lips. “There are no words to express the depth of my love for you, Willow. I want you to know that. I want you to know that whatever happens, I want to face it together, forever—you and me, two silly kids who somehow found each other in this crazy world.”
“And all because you flipped a Honda,” I laugh, tears dripping from my chin, doing my best to sniff back more and turning into a total mess in the process.
“See?” he says. “I told you it was a good idea.”
I wipe the tears away. “You know what else would be a good idea?”
He straightens. “Do tell.”
I bring my lips to his ear. “A double play.”
I can sense him smiling, picture his cock getting hard at my words. “How about a grand slam?”
“Only if you don’t hit and run. Then again, maybe we shouldn’t. You’ve got a game tomorrow.”
“It doesn’t matter,” he says.
“What do you mean?”
He looks at me, blue eyes infinite. “Game or no game, I’ve already won.”
EPILOGUE II
FIVE YEARS ON
“You’re the woo-ser, Momma!”
Our three-year-old, Ruth, is riding Bailey like a horse, one hand holding her under the throat, the other oscillating wildly.
“Yep, Mommy’s the loser,” I repeat, spinning my finger in the air, sprawled out on our bed.
I’ve just arrived home from a twelve-hour shift. I don’t have the energy to stand, let alone chase after Ms. Mischief here, adorable as she is.
Asher jumps into the room, crouching and sweeping Ruth up into his arms. “What’s going on in here, huh?”
He tosses Ruth into the pillows and lies beside me, hand on my thigh.
I pinch my scrubs together. “Not exactly sexy, I know.”
His hand moves higher. “I beg to differ. How was work?”
“Hectic,” I reply, and it’s true. I had no idea when I started my residency at Lower Manhattan Hospital what this job would entail, or how long I would last in the pressure-cooker environment of the ER. But two years later, I’m still going strong. It was a bus crash today. It might be a factory accident tomorrow, a brawl, a shooting—it sounds morbid, but it’s exciting not knowing what you’re going to show up to, and I’m helping people. I’m on the front line.
Ruth’s jumping on the bed, giggling in that pure, life-affirming way only toddlers know how. I used to think Asher and I made the most beautiful sounds in the world.
I was wrong.
That’s the thing. Being parents has changed our entire world. There’s an extra human we have to care for, one who’s just as wild and whimsical as we are. Asher could be celebrating with the other Yankees in the Bahamas. After all, this is their first World Championship win since ’09 , but no, he’s here, and he wants to be. He wants to be with us.
He really stepped up to the plate during my pregnancy—even when, 10cm dilated, I told the midwife my ‘factory was closed,’ that I was going home. He stayed by my side through it all, cheering me on like the whole thing was a ballgame. I told him he should try pooping out a giant baseball some time, see how he’d cheer then.
But he is everything to me, my Asher. I thought the love we had was enough, but Ruth’s arrival proves it is limitless. We both changed once, and we’ve both changed again to adapt to this new chapter of our lives, but the commitment we made stands: we can face anything together.
Coach Harris’s death hit Asher hard, as did the news of Leon’s arrest, but we got through it. Our love is a rarity. Ruth is a shining example of that. Every day I think I can’t possibly love her more, love him more, but I surprise myself.
I hope I always do.
Asher’s the father I knew he would be. I think deep down he’s trying to atone for his own father’s shortcomings, but he has nothing to worry about. He proved how much he loved kids when we worked at the home, even sent the center a million-dollar donation last fall. But you don’t love any child as much as your own. Seeing them together, tumbling and laughing, makes my heart skip a beat every time.
Ruth collapses on top of me, snuggling into my chest. “I wub you, Momma.”
“You too, baby girl,” I reply, kissing her on the cheek.
I look sideways at Asher. “What do you think about doing this all again?”
He lifts himself onto one elbow, beaming. “Batter up.”
TROUSER SNAKE
* * * * *
Published by Teagan Kade
Edited by Sennah Tate
Copyright © 2019 by Teagan Kade
CHAPTER ONE
SCOTT
I slid the whistle between my lips and gave two short blasts of air. The sound echoed around the rink as the guys seamlessly switched to the next drill. I had made a few last-minute changes to the roster since preseason training beg
an and I wanted to see how well they skated together. Read: not like a pack of pubescent high-schoolers concerned more with scoring pussy than goals.
The twenty-three men soared through the drill rotation. The cold snap of metal blades cutting up the ice-filled rink.
Music to my ears.
“They’re looking good, no?” my assistant coach Jamie mentioned. He ran a hand over his head, acting as though he was smoothing it out, but the fiery orange strands had long begun to disappear. His finger merely grazed his scalp.
I patted his shoulder as I nodded my agreement. They certainly were, which was to be expected. I had hand-picked each and every one of them. Since the Seattle Krakens were a brand-new franchise, the owners had turned to me to fill the roster. I was not about to disappoint.
“Do you think we have a shot at the Cup, or is it too early to tell?”
I mulled it over. “Well, we’re a completely new team from suits to skates. There will be growing pains, sure, but if we can train like this every day, we could very well be sipping a few beers from that silver beauty come June.”
Yeah, it was my first year as a coach, but I was determined to make that damn cup mine by the end of playoffs. I knew what it took to take home the Stanley Cup; I’d done it three times before when I was flying around the rink as a winger for the Blackhawks. Watching my men on the ice, I knew they had it in them to win the Big One. We were all willing to do anything to have our team’s name engraved onto its lustrous silver side.
Nothing tastes better than success, I thought to myself, my mind casually wandering off the ice. Well, almost nothing…
I blew three blasts into the whistle, the sound shutting out all else.
“Have you found someone to replace Malone yet?” Jamie glanced down at his clipboard, avoiding my eyes. It was a touchy subject.
My team was missing its starting goaltender. Malone, the dumbass, had gone bungee jumping at some bargain outfit while on vacation in Costa Rica and, what do you know, the cord snapped. I knew better than to think ill of the dead, but it was hard not to when he’d been an example of evolution in action.
The Seattle Kraken had two subs on the roster when the incident occurred — one of them got bought out from under me as I was scribbling my signature on the employment contract, leaving us with our third string. He wasn’t bad, but he was young and sorely lacking in experience. Not ideal for the team’s bid for the Cup.
