by Pippa Grant
Don’t we all want to be perfect to someone? And loved for who we are under the jerseys we wear?
“You’re going to hit the ball tomorrow.”
Her conviction is contagious, and I smile even bigger. “Yes, ma’am, I most definitely am.”
“I should really try harder to resist you.”
She slips her hands under my shirt and pushes it up my chest, then follows her hands with her tongue.
Thank fucking god.
She still wants me.
And she’s not resisting wanting me.
Mackenzie Montana is seducing me.
One kiss, one touch, one little happy noise at a time.
She doesn’t stop me as I tug her shirt off and treat her to the same pampering she’s giving me.
Nope.
She reaches between us and strokes my rock-hard dick through my shorts, and fuck, this isn’t enough.
Not nearly enough.
“Ms. Montana, are you trying to ruin me?”
“Absolutely.”
Her playful smile makes my dick strain harder than he’s ever strained before, and instinct takes over my body as I swoop her over my shoulder and carry her into her bedroom while she shrieks with laughter.
Coco Puff dances behind us, barking for playtime.
“You’re the best! You can do it!” his collar cheers, and Mackenzie and I both crack up.
“Can we get one in Fireball sayings?” I ask as I toss her onto her bed.
“I love when you talk dirty to me.”
I love shucking my pants and crawling onto the bed with her. Having her tackle me with a kiss and roll so she’s on top.
Her kisses.
Her moans.
Her heart.
She’s seen me at my worst. She’s brought me back from my worst.
She’s getting my best now, and it doesn’t matter how little experience I have.
She fits. I fit.
Nothing in my life has ever felt this right.
Pretty sure I love everything about this woman.
She pulls out of the kiss and pushes up, stroking my chest. “If baseball didn’t exist, what would you be doing right now?”
“You.”
“I wouldn’t know you if it wasn’t for baseball.” Gentle fingers thread through my hair, and that smile—god, that smile. It puts my dick on edge and ready to explode.
Good thing she’s willing to give me a lot more practice.
“I would still want you.”
She rewards me with the kiss to end all kisses. The one that’s not lips and tongues and teeth, but hopes and dreams and dancing souls.
The home run of kisses.
The grand slam of kisses.
The kiss that says this is my gift to you.
The kiss that says I’d want you too even if baseball didn’t exist.
Yeah.
I’m done for.
She’s my one.
Forever.
And I’m gonna fucking win the whole damn season for her to prove it.
37
Mackenzie
Brooks hasn’t gotten a hit in three games.
I’m pretending like I’m not freaking out about this, but the truth is, I am freaking out about this.
Sarah hands me a plate of loaded bacon cheese fries in Beck’s penthouse Friday night while the pre-game talking heads debate what’s wrong with Brooks’s bat as he returns to the stadium he called home for so many years, but how nice it is that the Fireballs still took their home series with San Francisco early this week.
“But the sex is good, right?” Sarah says.
“The man is still a god, which is ridiculously impressive, but he can’t hit a—oh my god. Oh my god.” I drop a big ol’ handful of cheesy bacon fries on the ground and dive for her left hand. “Oh my god.”
I’m suddenly crying.
I’m laughing and crying and hugging my best friend in the entire universe while she does the same, because she’s wearing the most gorgeous engagement ring I’ve ever seen, and it’s so Sarah, and so perfect, and she’s glowing.
She’s glowing so bright I can feel it.
I pull back and wipe at my eyes, and even though part of my heart is still terrified that I broke Brooks, right now, I can’t stop smiling. “When? How? Why didn’t you call me? I want to know everything.”
Beck walks in, takes one look at both of us, grins like he was appointed Best Man Ever To Exist In The Universe, and casually strolls to his kitchen like it’s no big deal.
“This morning,” she whispers quickly. “It was so sweet. And so Beck. And—”
The elevator dings, and Coco Puff flips out.
Like, flips out barking so hard I can’t hear his collar translating anything.
“And my parents flew in,” she finishes as I lunge for the puppy, who’s lunging for the entrance, where Sarah’s parents are rushing in with their pet pig, who’s also being rushed by Sarah’s cat, whom Coco Puff usually gets along with very well, except, apparently, when there’s a teacup pig in the house.
“Cupcake!” Sarah’s mom shrieks.
“Back, foul beasts of hell,” her dad growls while he leaps between the animals.
Beck shrugs, leans over and snags Coco Puff in one hand, the cat in the other, and nods to Sarah’s parents. “’Sup?”
Sarah’s mom bursts into tears.
Happy tears, I mean.
“It’s about time,” she sobs.
And then the rest of us burst into tears again.
Which is how my dads find us. All laughing and crying and hugging and making bigger and bigger plans around Sarah and Beck for how their wedding will be, while I know full well that by the end of the night, they’ll be on a plane to some amazing location where they’ll have a simple ceremony on a beach or in the mountains, and then they’ll let Sarah’s parents throw the reception to end all receptions later.
Beck’s family shows up too—his sister, brother-in-law-slash-best-friend, his parents, and lots of his friends from the neighborhood where he grew up.
They’re not my family, but they’ve adopted Sarah as one of their own, and by extension, I feel like I belong too.
“Oh, Mackenzie, your boyfriend’s up to bat,” Dad says.
And then I remember the moments I don’t want to belong, because now, eighty million eyeballs are all on me.
Or, you know, twenty or thirty sets. It just feels like eighty million eyeballs waiting for me to explain that yes, I, Mackenzie Montana, the woman who couldn’t talk to baseball players the last time most of these people saw me, is now dating a baseball player.
“I’ll go to the bathroom!” Sarah cries. “Mom, keep Cupcake out of the fries. Beck—get the pumpkin spice candles!”
Beck’s sister twists her head and frowns at the screen. “Wait. Isn’t that the guy whose sister told us all—”
Beck reaches around and muffles her mouth. “Nope. Not that guy. Nuh-uh. Couldn’t be.”
“Not him,” someone else who was there when Parker and Knox spilled the beans at a cookout last fall agrees.
Agreement rolls through the room, and I hold my breath while I watch the screen.
Brooks is choking up on the bat too high, and his shoulders are too tight. There’s also a deep frown marring his normal placid concentration.
He looks exactly the same way I would if the Fireballs moved across the country, and I accidentally got tickets to see the new version of them play while I was traveling to Chicago or New York for work or something.
“Breathe, Mac.” Tripp’s brother, Levi, pats my shoulder. “He’s got this.”
I nod. I even lunge for my phone and type out a quick text message, knowing that even though he won’t see it until after the game, I need to put the positive vibes out into the universe.
But a You can do it! isn’t enough, so I snap a picture of Coco Puff and send that too.
And three seconds later, Brooks makes contact with the ball.
It’s a ground ba
ll headed up the middle.
“Yes!” I pump my fist. “Run, baby, run run ru—dammit!”
How the hell did that second baseman both snag that ball and make that throw? I mean, Cooper could make that throw, but I dislike the other team doing it.
“He hit the ball, Mackenzie.” Sarah jogs back into the living room. “If it was a slump, he wouldn’t be able to connect at all.”
“Preach, girl.” Papa holds up a hand, and she high-fives him.
Right.
So all I have to do is text him before every at-bat, and send him a picture of Coco Puff, and life will be absolutely perfect.
“Mackenzie,” Papa sighs.
“Leave her alone, Lou. If she wants to text him every time he’s at bat, let her text him every time he’s at bat. She’s clearly good for his chi. Love never hurts anyone.”
The screen flashes, and I gasp in recognition.
Brooks’s whole family is there.
At least, I assume that’s his parents and two other brothers sitting with Parker, Knox, Rhett, and Eloise.
They’re all in Fireballs jerseys.
And I think I just fell in love with his family too.
“Sarah,” I whisper.
She squeezes my hand. “What?”
“I’d rather have Brooks than see the Fireballs win a championship. Does that make me a bad fan?”
“No. It means you’re putting the man before the baseball player, and that’s the best thing you can do to support the people you love, and, by extension, the team. And you know that.”
“But why would he love me?”
She clears her throat and points to the screen, where Parker’s spilled a giant soda all over herself on national television.
I start giggling.
“Mackenzie Renee.” Papa glares at me.
I suck my lips in, but I can’t stop laughing. Sarah’s snickering beside me too.
Beck shakes his head at my dads, both of whom are glaring at me now. “Dudes. Let the ladies bask in their solidarity however they need to. It’s like me laughing when someone gets tasered. They’ve been there, you know? Cheesecake?”
I hug Sarah. “I’m so glad you two are getting married.”
Her smile overtakes the entire city. “Me too. Now, let’s go cheer on some Fireballs.”
38
Brooks
I am the biggest loser in the history of losers.
It’s been five days since Mackenzie rocked my world in the back of my truck, and five days since I’ve gotten a base hit.
“It’s over,” I tell my beer.
“Yeah, you’re a loser,” my beer agrees.
My beer sounds a lot like Rhett.
I squint at the foam at the edges of the amber liquid, then up at the three Rhetts across the two tables from me.
Dude is good. Like, he might be retired from being a dolphin, or a sea otter, or a—a SEAL, that’s what he was—but he can still make himself be three people and two tables at once.
I hiccup.
“Nice, dude,” the beer says.
We fist-bump, and it spills itself all over my pants.
Fuck.
Am I wearing pants?
I squint at my legs.
Shorts.
Right.
I’m wearing shorts. And my broken Fireball Man thong.
That’s what’s weird about my junk.
Feels different without the cup on. And when my junk is rolling over and playing dead.
Like Coco Puff. The playing part, I mean. Coco Puff isn’t dead, because the universe isn’t that cruel.
Though I’m probably dead to Coco Puff for how awful I’ve played this week.
“Wipe yourself up, doofus.” Parker shoves napkins at me, and when I don’t take them right away, Rhett, Jack, and Gavin—all eleven of them—tackle my legs and tickle the ever-loving fuck out of me.
The beer tells me I’m on my own, so I do the second-best thing I can do to fighting back.
I praise the baseball gods that I’m not as ticklish as Rhett is, and I start singing.
I don’t even know what this song is, I just know I need to sing it right now while I’m flopping around on the ground avoiding the tickles.
“Beeeeer, beer beer beer WHISSSSSSSSSKEY. Whiskey and PIIISSSSSSSSSSKEY. They rhyme on a MIIIIIIIIIIME.”
Jack breaks first, crowing and clapping his hands over his ears as he leaps back.
I sing awesome.
Great self-defense.
“I got your back, Jack,” Eloise yells, and she leaps on me too, going for that spot under my arms like I actually showered after the game, which I might not’ve.
I’m in a piss-poor mood.
A weirdly happy piss-poor mood.
I like it, but I don’t want to.
Definitely need more singing. “Rum in a blaaaaaaaanket, shoooooooooes in the mooooooooorning.”
“Dammit, asshole, I hate that song.” Gavin shoves a tortilla in my mouth, because there are always tacos when Parker’s around.
I love tacos.
I don’t deserve tacos.
Rhett and Eloise are still trying to tickle me, but Rhett suddenly yelps, and then Eloise leaps to her feet.
She’s fast for a pregnant chipmunk. Might lose the babies out her pouch if she’s not careful.
Are we at the zoo?
When did chipmunks get tattoos?
I don’t ask why Mackenzie’s ghost is threatening to rip the ultrasound picture that Rhett and Eloise brought here to—Parker’s apartment.
Dude.
I’m in my sister’s apartment. That’s why there are zebra stripes and leopard prints all over.
And unicorns.
What’s a leopard unicorn? A leopracorn? A unipard?
“Apologize,” Mackenzie’s ghost orders.
Fuck it. “I’m sooooooorry I can’t hiiiiiiiiiit a balllllllllll,” I sing.
If you can call it that.
I’m losing the tune I never had in the first place.
Knox falls off his chair laughing.
I forgot he was here.
Huh. He lives here.
He lives here, with my sister, because they’re married, and they’re in love, and they’re normal—for Parker being an Elliott by birth—and they don’t have to worry about how having sex ruins their careers.
Fuck, sometimes they have sex at Parker’s office.
I reach for the closest thing I can find and throw it at him.
And because I’m a loser, it goes right through him and bounces off Mackenzie’s ghost.
Rhett punches me in the arm. “Bro, don’t throw unicorn sex toys at your girlfriend.”
If he’s gonna be an idiot, I’mma keep on singing. “Knooooox ain’t my giiiiiiiiiirlfrriiieeeend.”
“Is he drunk?” the angel ghost asks.
I stare at her, because fuck, I miss her, and I really, really want to touch her, but since I can’t, and she hates me—even if she says she doesn’t when Coco Puff calls—I’m gonna sit here, in a puddle of beer, and watch her until she fades away.
“I think he got into the special brownies Nana brought over yesterday,” Knox whispers.
“Oh my god.”
Wow.
Hologram Mackenzie sounds exactly like regular Mackenzie would. There’s no static or anything.
“Brooks, how many brownies did you eat?”
“Seventy-four.”
Parker contradicts me with some number that makes it sound like I’m on a diet, so I flip her off.
I think.
With my toes, maybe? My fingers aren’t moving right.
Dude.
I can make the Star Trek sign. What is that saying that goes with it? Drink long and stop her?
No, that’s not it.
Drink—live—prosper—froghopper.
I giggle.
“Brooks.”
Ghost-hologram Mackenzie touches my arm, and poof!
That part of my body sobers up.
&nb
sp; “You have fingers.”
She briefly pinches her eyes shut, but she’s also pinching her smiling lips shut like ghost-hologram-angel Mackenzie doesn’t want to mock me.
She’s so sweet.
An angel.
I said that already.
“You’re damn lucky weed’s legal in baseball now.”
“I’m dry.”
“You’re drunk and high, crazy-ass,” Parker says.
I grin. “I know. Drunk-high. Dry. Heh.” They need to be serenaded. “I’m soooooooo awesoooooooome.”
The ceiling has glitter on it. And it’s moving.
Knox leans into my field of view, frowning. “I think Nana needs to tweak her recipe, and I need to throw those brownies out.”
“Fucking pregnancy,” Eloise mutters. “I want a brownie.”
I grab ghost-angel-with-a-body Mackenzie. “Don’t tell real Mackenzie I suck.”
“Real Mackenzie?”
“The real Mackenzie. The one I love. The one back home, that I’m disappointing because I broke her team.”
Shit. I’m making angel Mackenzie cry.
I’m going to hell. Baseball hell. Where I’ll never hit a ball again, and my team will always lose because I’m a loser.
“You love me?” she whispers.
“Shh. Don’t tell real Mackenzie. I have to win for her first.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Glow said so.”
“I’m going to punch Glow in that big-ass glowing butt.” She swipes at her eyes, then bends over and kisses me, and huh.
I can touch her. And smell Cracker Jacks. And taste heaven.
“You’re real Mackenzie.” Shit. Did I say something stupid about duck porn? Or did I just think that?
Doesn’t matter.
She’s laughing and kissing my face and straddling my stomach, and one of my brothers tells us to get a broom.
And he thinks I’m the drunk one?
“I don’t need a broom,” I tell Mackenzie.
She buries her face in my neck and shakes with laughter, and maybe it’s the beer, or maybe it’s the weed, or maybe it’s my dick, but something tells me that I still have a shot at scoring tonight.
Either miracles really do happen, or I’m gonna need a lot more of those brownies before this season’s over.
39
Mackenzie
