by Pippa Grant
I dive for my popcorn and go back to eating it one piece at a time. It’s a close game—we’re winning by one run with our primary team playing, instead of some of the guys here at spring training on a testing rotation to see if they have what it takes—and I can’t take any chances that I quit doing what’s working.
But at the top of the ninth, Milwaukee’s freaking pitcher hits a two-run homer, and we’re not able to close the deal at the bottom of the inning, which means we lose.
Because the pitcher hit a home run.
That’s about as likely as the ghosts of the bats—the animal bats, not the baseball bats—that blessed the Fireballs all those years ago, the last time they made it to the post-season, coming back and blessing the team’s balls from the afterlife.
Baseball-balls, I mean.
The last thing we need is ghosts blessing Brooks Elliott’s testicles and giving them a mind of their own so that he goes out and bangs anything that moves, and after last night, I’m pretty sure he’s either very particular with his unique type, or else he’s not picky at all.
“Come with me tonight.” Sarah links her arm through mine while we head up to the owners’ box to gather Beck and offer our condolences on the loss to Tripp and Lila. “Even if you don’t talk, you know you’ll love the inside look at how the players live. And I don’t want to be the only woman there. Again.”
“Lila’s not going?”
“No, management’s trying to give the players space to do their team thing without pressure. There’ll be a few girlfriends or wives, but most of the guys are single.”
I give her another side eye. “You don’t want me to talk to the players to see if I’m good luck. You want me to talk to them because the Lady Fireballs are low on members and want honorary members for raising money for the Fireballs Foundation now that Lila’s got it started again.”
“I want you to get comfortable talking to the players for all the reasons, Mackenzie. It’s been almost two years since you met Cooper for the first time. Eventually you’re going to stop coming to see me at Beck’s place if you think any of the Fireballs guys will be there. And then I’ll be sad, because you’re my bestie, and while I will absolutely always make time for you, I’d miss you terribly for having to split my time between you and Beck instead of seeing you both together.”
“I’d miss you too.”
“So you’ll come?”
As if there was a question. Sarah’s the closest thing to a sister I’ve ever had—I mean, in most people’s traditional sense of the word—and even if she wasn’t, what she’s offering is basically in the team’s best interest.
Because so long as I’m there, I can make sure Brooks Elliott doesn’t get laid.
4
Brooks
Even knowing the odds were stacked against us by the universe, this afternoon’s loss is sitting on me like a pile of moldy lucky socks that didn’t do their job.
However, with the disaster of Stafford giving up the game in basically the worst way possible short of all of us lying down in the field for naps in the middle of the inning, it’s clear that me having a slump wouldn’t be the worst thing for the team.
We’re fucking cursed.
So I’m gonna do some fucking. And the more I think about it, the more it’s clear that if I’m going to induce a slump, I should do it in spring training.
Begs the question why I’ve never gotten laid in the off-season, doesn’t it?
I’m not much of a scientist, but I remember high school science from my junior year. Hypotheses. Tests. Theories.
That was the year I almost went all the way with my girlfriend. I’d barely gotten her out of her pants when my brother Jack walked into the basement and flipped on all the lights, gave us both the don’t fuck up your lives by doing this without protection lecture, and sent her running.
Like I hadn’t caught him—and our other two older brothers—making out with their girlfriends on that very couch.
But he was right.
I couldn’t hit a ball for the next four months, and it took another four months after that to get back to where I was before.
Same with my freshman year college girlfriend, though that time, we got interrupted by a contingency of my frat brothers crashing into the room, chasing a goat that had gotten into the house.
I went into a slump, and two weeks later, I broke up with her. Came back strong the next fall, but a few months later, I started dating another girl. Made out hot and heavy on the first date. She left me with the hard-on to end all hard-ons, and I couldn’t connect at the plate for months.
I wanted to blame the blue balls, but I knew that wasn’t the problem.
I knew.
Once I got to the minors, I wasn’t really into testing the theory anymore.
Didn’t want to risk it. Especially when going all the way once wouldn’t be enough. Plus, there’s no telling how long it would take to recover.
Now?
When I’m playing for the worst team in baseball?
When the job that I’ve given my all to has stabbed me in the back and told me I’ll never get the one thing I’ve been dreaming of and hoping for since I was a kid?
Hell, I don’t know if I even have dreams past winning myself a championship ring.
So yeah, now I’m definitely willing to risk a slump.
I download six different dating apps while I’m doing my fifteen minutes active recovery time on the bike after the game. I settle on inviting a woman on the fifth app to the low-key party we’re having at the compound tonight.
Yes, the compound.
Every other year I’ve been at spring training, I’ve stayed at my own house. Bought it my third season with New York, because I knew I’d retire from my home team.
Wrong.
This year, two games into training, they shipped me to the Fireballs.
Hey, good news is, you don’t have to set up housing, New York’s general manager had said on my way out the door. Not for the next month, anyway. You get bonding time with your new teammates.
And that’s exactly what the Fireballs’ new management has set up. We’re having a slumber party every night for six weeks while a small group of us brainstorm ways to break curses, and no, I can’t tell you what we did last night. Especially with the dildo.
What happens at the club during curse-breaking stays at the club.
Thank god tonight’s an actual party. With women.
Including Ainsley.
According to the app, she likes playing Pokémon, lifting weights, and binge watching The Bachelor.
Who puts that on a dating app unless it’s real? Which leads me to believe that her picture—featuring a smiling brunette with dimples—is probably real too.
And if she’s half as hot as her picture, I’m putting a sock on my door and shedding my virginity like a scaly second skin tonight.
I grab dinner from the spread in the clubhouse and head back to the compound to get prepped for the party. We’re in a gated community with six houses around a central courtyard, and when the guests start arriving, there’s a fire going in the outdoor fire pit, catering manning the chicken breasts and lean steaks on the grills, music coming from the speakers Rossi set up, and light beer flowing freely from a few kegs.
Plus the women.
Apparently I’m not the only single guy wanting to get laid tonight.
When Ainsley arrives, she seems as normal—and as attractive—as her dating profile said she was, and I make up my mind in an instant.
We are definitely getting it on before curfew.
“Oh my god, you’re really Brooks Elliott,” she says with a laugh. Her voice is a little high-pitched, but that’s not going to bother me. “I thought I was being pranked.”
“You really play Pokémon?” I ask as I put a hand to the small of her back and lead her through the gardens to the courtyard.
“And Dungeons and Dragons,” she whispers conspiratorially.
“Stafford an
d Greene are D&D junkies too. I was going to introduce them to my sister-in-law, but you’re less scary than she is. They’ll like you. You should hook up.”
She gives me a funny look, and I realize that while I’ve watched dudes date for years, I’ve never seen another guy try to hand off his date in the first thirty seconds of meeting her.
Not when he’s into her, anyway.
“Your sister-in-law is scary?” Ainsley prompts before I can stutter out something about Darren being married with a baby on the way, and figure out how to make Stafford sound like a dick without sounding like a dick.
“Terrifying. She can hack your bank accounts in her sleep.” Fuck. I just said that. Hi, I’m Brooks Elliott, and I know people who can ruin your life if this goes south. “Not that she’ll do it to you. She uses her powers for good. So as long as you don’t run a sweatshop, send dick pics, or troll people online, you’re safe.”
“Um, okay.”
Shit. Shit. I’m already losing her. “You hungry? We have carrots.”
Her smile turns smoky. “Carrots, hm?”
“Yeah, and celery, and steak too. We all eat healthy during the season, but steak’s steak. I love meat.”
She blinks at me again, and I realize she probably meant carrots as a phallic reference, and hopefully I didn’t just tell her we all like meat, like man-meat.
Jesus.
I need to text my sister. She told me a while back that my flirting game is weak. Maybe she has some pointers on how to recover.
“And zucchini,” I blurt. “We have zucchini.”
“Hey, Elliott, who’s your friend?”
Saved by Cooper Rock.
Saved being a relative term, because this guy gets more action than a bobblehead in a New York taxi. So I hear.
We stop near a fountain, and I gesture to my date. “This is Ashley.”
“Ainsley,” she corrects dryly.
Rock visibly stifles a snort. “Go easy on him, Miss A. Took a ball to the head at practice before the game. But he still hit a home run. Not bad, eh? You guys meet my buddy Beck? This is Beck Ryder, his girlfriend, Sarah, and their friend Mackenzie.”
“Oh my god, Beck Ryder,” Ainsley—not Ashley, dumbass—says. “I’m wearing your underwear.”
“Me too. High five.” Beck holds out his palm, and Ainsley slaps it. I’d be disturbed, except I’m wearing Beck’s underwear too. After his boy band days, he went on to be a fashion mogul, and his underwear’s fucking comfortable.
Which I won’t be saying, because while I’d like to shed my V-card, I’d also like to keep my man card.
I nod to his girlfriend, and then turn to her friend, and whoa.
Hello.
Mackenzie’s in a short pink sundress, with legs for miles, plump breasts, and a soft blush in her cheeks under wide blue eyes made up enough to be striking without being overdone. Her blond hair is flowing in waves about her shoulders, hanging down to her collarbones and the top of her Fiery Forever button pinned to the strap of her dress, which is fucking adorable. Her lips are like cotton candy, and more color is creeping into her cheeks the longer I stare.
I jerk my gaze back to Ryder’s girlfriend. “Sarah, was it?”
She smiles, all warmth and happiness, and extends a hand. “Yes. So nice to meet you. Mackenzie and I spent some time with your sister while she was visiting Lila a few months ago.”
My sister. Common ground. “You met Parker. Did you meet her phone?”
Sarah laughs. “Not personally, but Lila’s shared a few pretty epic text messages. How does a person get autocorrected that badly?”
“Raw talent.” I turn my hand to Mackenzie and force it not to tremor. “Mackenzie. Nice to meet you too.”
She makes an odd squeaking noise, looks at my outstretched hand, and then jumps when Sarah nudges her.
She thrusts her hand into mine and stutters, “You too.”
An electric force shoots up my arm and explodes fireworks out of my nose while her voice niggles at the back of my memory. “Have we met?”
She shakes her head.
Violently.
“Mackenzie’s a little shy,” Sarah says quickly.
I’m still shaking her hand.
“Mac might be shy, but she’s also the biggest Fireballs fan ever born,” Cooper interjects. “Right, Mac?”
She nods.
If her eyes get any wider, they’re going to pop out of her head.
Awkward happens. Ask me sometime about how my brother met his wife, and then about how my sister met her husband. Then ask me about how many hours I’ve spent in children’s hospitals talking to patients and their families who’ve also gone mute when I walked in the door, or told me embarrassing stories, or asked me inappropriate questions.
Hell, I did the same thing to Hugo Bertelloni—my favorite baseball player ever—when I got to meet him at baseball camp when I was twelve.
So it’s second nature to try to put everyone around me at ease.
I squeeze Mackenzie’s hand gently. “Glad to be part of your team this year.”
She makes another noise and snatches her hand back. “Yep.”
“Brooks, can I get a drink?” Ainsley says, and I realize she hasn’t been talking to Cooper and Beck like I thought.
She’s been watching me watch another woman.
I jerk my attention back to her. “Yeah. Yeah, let’s go see what’s in the kitchen.”
“Sarah, I can’t do this,” Mackenzie whispers as we turn away, and that voice.
If I haven’t met her, I’m supposed to.
I know her voice. Swear I do.
The crowd of my teammates and their dates has swallowed her and Sarah when I glance back.
Ainsley’s tugging my hand.
Right.
I’m here with a date.
To get laid.
I squeeze her hand back, feeling like a bit of a tool for using the same motion on my date that I used on Mackenzie, who I’d really like to talk to a little more.
Or a lot more.
Or possibly strip naked, lick from head to toe, and—
And one woman at a time, jackass.
I have a date.
A date who can talk to me without freaking out, which should be number one on the list of requirements to make it into my bed.
Speaking of my bed—time for my A game.
I smile at Ashley—shit. I mean Ainsley. “Beer, wine, margarita, or sex on the beach?”
She smiles back and settles her hand on my chest. “Definitely sex on the beach.”
Oh, hell, yeah.
This is happening.
Tonight.
5
Mackenzie
He has a date.
Brooks has a date.
And when Sarah off-handedly says Ainsley seems nice, I realize the Fireballs are about to lose their brand-new power slugging third baseman, because I’m positive he’s planning on sleeping with her.
He has to be, doesn’t he?
And it’s not like I can be around all the time to stop him.
Which means I need to talk to someone.
I need to talk to a very specific someone right now.
“Do you know where the bathroom is?” I ask Sarah.
Beck points me toward the nearest mansion. “Through the kitchen and around the corner, past the mascot posters.”
Ugh. Damn mascot pictures. I hate the new mascot options.
Sarah frowns at me. “You okay on your own?”
“It’s only the bathroom.” And I’m sweating like I’m exercising with ski gear on in hundred-degree heat.
I force a smile and head off, weaving through players that would normally leave me consciously in a coma—swear it’s a thing—and looking for a familiar face.
Lucky for me, he hasn’t gone far, and he’s not surrounded by other players. Just a bunch of women.
Women.
How can he be thinking about women at a time like this?
I grab his arm,
and his brows shoot up over his bright blue eyes. “Hey, Mac. What’s up?”
“I need to talk to you,” I whisper.
Brooks is over near the fire, laughing at something his date said, and I don’t want him to see me.
First, because shaking his hand did weird things to my insides, and while he’s a virgin, I’m not, and I know exactly what those things are. And second, because I’m mildly terrified that he’ll recognize me from last night.
Cooper, thank god, jumps right into action. “You bet. Here. The laundry room in my building’s quiet. Is that okay? I mean, if you can’t talk there—”
I grip his solid arm tighter and tug. “Where?”
Yep.
Turns out I can talk to anyone if I’m properly motivated, though now that Cooper’s leading me into a house, up the stairs, past bedrooms where the baseball players sleep, and closing the door to the laundry room, blocking out the noise of the party and leaving us in a very, very small confined space, I’m noticing that my deodorant has failed and my boobs are sweating and these heels were only a good idea in that I’ll look like a million bucks when the EMTs find me.
My dads will be so proud.
“What’s up?” Cooper asks.
Babe Ruth bless him for being so good about this after I’ve been a total spaz around him for almost two years now. “Hold on. I don’t think I can say this if I’m looking at you.”
“Okay.” He turns his back, and now I have a view of Cooper Rock’s ass, and anyone who tells you all baseball players don’t have the best asses has zero taste.
“Gah. No, I have to turn around.”
“Should we both stay turned around?”
I spin, stare at a shelf of laundry detergent with four different brands and types of detergent over the dryer, which is blinking that a load is done, which means I’m standing basically next to a baseball player’s underwear, and I blurt it all out. “Brooks Elliott is a virgin.”
Yeah.
I said that.
Cooper chokes on air. Pretty sure he’s laughing. Or trying not to, since silence settles heavy and thick almost immediately. It smells like dryer sheets in here.
Maybe I can rub my armpits with dryer sheets. That would be more effective than my deodorant.
