by Pippa Grant
He hugs me tight, kisses me hard, and then lets me go, because he has a job to do.
And when he hits a grand slam in the bottom of the eighth, I don’t care that everyone in the entire ballpark knows he hit it for me.
I only care that he’s happy.
And that smile as he rounds third and points to me in my seat four rows up down the third-base line—yeah.
That man’s happy.
And the two of us are going to be happy forever.
We’ll have our losses. And we might steal a few mascots together along the way.
But whatever the universe throws at us, we’ll handle it. Together.
Bonus Epilogue
Mackenzie
Just when I thought my life couldn’t get any more perfect, it did.
Again.
And now, I’m standing in the hallway beneath the center field bleachers, knowing my entire family, all my friends, and the entire Fireballs organization is out on the field, waiting for me to walk out of here in my white dress, with my bouquet of Fireballs-red roses, to say I do to the man of my dreams on the field of my favorite place on earth.
No, second-favorite.
Wherever Brooks is has completely surpassed Duggan Field as my favorite place, though luckily, we both spend a lot of time here.
“I can’t believe my baby’s getting married.” Dad’s already sobbing in his handkerchief, and Papa’s not doing much better.
Neither is Sarah, who has the special kind of glow that’s making me highly suspicious about what she and Beck did on their third honeymoon last month.
Yes, third.
After eloping, they were subjected to the wedding reception to end all wedding receptions, and they needed multiple honeymoons to recover.
Me?
I’m getting an entire off-season of honeymoon.
“Who knew we’d be here now,” Sarah says as she hugs me tight.
She, Parker, Dame Delilah, and Evianna are my attendants today. Brooks has his three brothers and his dad standing up beside him today, and I’m so ready to get this show on the road.
I’m more than ready to be Mrs. Brooks Elliott. “Is everyone here? Can we start?”
Lila bustles down the hallway in heels and a loose Fireball-red dress. “You’re ready?”
“So ready.”
“Good.” She sticks her fingers in her mouth and whistles.
There’s a scurry of feet, a very familiar scurry, and a moment later, Spike the Echidna steps into view.
I gasp. “You are not.”
We’re two days past the regular season, one day before the Fireballs leave for the first round of post-season play, and all of Copper Valley is waiting with bated breath to find out who won the mascot contest.
I might still be wearing a Fiery Forever button on my dress.
My dads might be appalled.
But I refuse to give up hope.
“No, we’re not announcing the winner today. It’s not after the season yet.” She makes a come on gesture, and Glow pokes his head around the corner too. “But we are adding a few attendants to your wedding. It was in the fine print.”
Firequacker dashes in and offers me his arm.
Lila gives him a look, and he hangs his head, then steps up to escort Glow.
Meaty lumbers around the corner, and he and Spike size each other up, then also link arms.
Lila throws open the doors to the outfield, and a cool breeze wafts in from the pleasant fall afternoon.
The speaker system blasts Elton John’s “I’m Still Standing,” and I start laughing, since my dads have made the song the Fireballs’ new theme song this season.
“This is wedding goals,” Dad declares.
The two mascot pairs traipse down the makeshift aisle, and I know I should be hiding out of sight, but I can’t help peering out to watch Brooks do a double-take at the unexpected wedding guests.
His teammates all laugh and high-five each other. His family all turn their phones to snap pictures.
Except the babies, naturally.
And Brooks grins.
Of course he does.
Turns out all those grumpies he had were a result of being a little lost in his career and personal life.
It’s been my utter joy to help turn his frown upside down, and I can’t remember ever feeling more proud than I did the day the Fireballs clinched their division, and all of his teammates poured Gatorade on him first.
After getting Santiago, I mean.
The Skipper always goes first.
Parker squeezes me in a quick hug. “I’m so glad I’m getting another sister today. And thank you for ignoring what my phone said to you last night.”
I squeeze her back, and she departs to walk down the aisle with Jack.
Dame Delilah strolls down the red runner with Rhett.
Evianna follows with Brooks’s dad.
And Sarah gets in one last hug before pairing up with Gavin.
Butterflies swirl in my stomach, but not the nervous kind.
They’re the excited kind.
“You ready for this, baby girl?” Dad asks.
He and Papa are both devastatingly handsome in suits today, which they chose so as to not outshine the bride.
I don’t care how fancy they get in drag, they wouldn’t outshine me today, but if this makes them happy, then it makes me happy too.
I nod to him.
He kisses my cheek. “Then we’ll see you on the other side.”
“Wait, what?”
He and Papa link elbows, and they take off down the aisle.
Without me.
I turn to give Lila a what the hell? look, and then I freeze.
Lila’s not there.
Fiery is.
Fiery the Dragon.
All seven feet of him.
Standing there with a new white beard, and white ear hairs sticking out, in a tuxedo, leaning on a cane.
He offers me his free arm.
“You…you want to walk me down the aisle? And give me away?”
I almost can’t get the words out, and I’m using every trick my dads ever taught me to not cry as he nods gravely.
I touch his beard. “They’re not going to let you come back, are they?”
He shakes his head.
Then he wraps his arms around me and hugs me tight.
I hug him back, hard, knowing full well there’s a grown person inside this suit who has to think I’m a nutcase for sobbing all over him on my wedding day, but I don’t care.
This is both the best and worst wedding present I could’ve ever gotten.
He pats my back, and I realize we’re not alone.
“Okay, Kenz?” Brooks asks softly.
I nod. Shake my head. Nod again.
He chuckles softly. “I figured.”
People are stirring out in the outfield, probably wondering if I’m going to bolt.
As if.
I sniffle and straighten, then look at my soon-to-be-husband. “Thank you.”
His easy grin comes back, and there go my panties, melting themselves off.
Or, I should say, my Fiery thong.
Wow.
This just got awkward.
“How about we share the privilege, Fiery?” Brooks says to the dragon.
Fiery nods.
He offers an elbow. Brooks does too.
And for his last act ever as the Fireballs mascot, Fiery escorts us to our happily ever after.
Thanks for reading! Want some bonus epilogues, including more of Mackenzie’s dads and a sexy mishap after-hours at the ballpark? Click here to register for the Pipster Report, and I’ll send you three! If you’re already a subscriber, check your last issue - the link is always at the bottom of every email from me!
If you’re the awesome type of person who likes to leave reviews, here are quick linkies for you to Amazon and Goodreads. And keep reading for a sneak peek at the next Fireballs romantic comedy, plus an extended snippet of MASTER BAKER, star
ring Cooper Rock’s brother, Grady!
Hugs and cookie kisses!!
Pippa
For a complete, most up-to-date book list, CLICK HERE
Pippaverse books related to JOCK BLOCKED:
Stud in the Stacks
(Brooks’s sister Parker’s story, with way more autocorrect fun)
The Hero and the Hacktivist
(Brooks’s brother Rhett’s story, complete with Eloise, who nearly killed me while I was writing her because she’s so funny.)
Flirting with the Frenemy
(Bro Code #1) – The very first appearance of Cooper Rock, listed before the next book only because they’re related in a series.
America’s Geekheart
(Bro Code #2) - Meet Mackenzie for the first time!
Liar, Liar, Hearts on Fire
(Bro Code #) - Get all the dirt on the Fireballs’ change in ownership, plus find out the backstory for the mascot contest!
Master Baker
(Featuring Cooper Rock’s brother, so, naturally, more Cooper Rock is in this one.)
And those hockey guys who help Mackenzie out? They have their own stories too!
The Pilot and the Puck-Up
Royally Pucked
Beauty and the Beefcake
Charming as Puck
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Sneak Peek at Fireballs #2!
Oooh, yes, more Fireballs are coming!
Click HERE to add it to your Goodreads shelf, and read on for a teeny tiny (unedited) teaser!
Of all the injustices in the world, being allergic to alcohol has to be the biggest.
Hey, bride-lady, you’ve just been left at the altar again! What are you going to do to drown your misery at knowing you’re just not the marrying kind?
Well, Bob, maybe I’ll do three shots of vodka and just end it all right here!
Except I can’t.
My cat needs me. My readers need me. And possibly I need me, but since I can’t get drunk, I don’t actually know if I’d reach a point of enlightenment where I’d begin to understand why I continually do this to myself.
I shove another handful of my wedding cake into my mouth on the bank of Harmony Lake behind the country club where I was supposed to be dancing at my reception right now.
“Got any weed?” I ask the baseball player-slash-supposed-to-be-wedding-guest who’s appointed himself my broken heart guard.
It’s like a bodyguard, except he’s protecting me from seeing people like my parents—Oh, Henrietta, AGAIN?—and my bridesmaids—I mean, she should’ve seen this coming. We TOLD her to get dresses that we could wear to the club this time, but did she listen? No. She’s bought FORTY BRIDESMAID DRESSES that will never be used again.
He’s also protecting me from my perfect sister with her perfect husband and her perfect four children—that’s the three she’s given birth to, and the two she’s currently incubating, who each count as a half until they’re born and they become a family of nine, since they have the perfect dog and the perfect cat as well.
Wait. Ten.
I forgot about the bird.
Mr. Baseball’s peering at me with she’s gone mad written in his eyes. “She sounds annoying.”
I shove another handful of cake into my mouth as I realize I was actually muttering all of that out loud.
Hazard of the job.
Oh. My. God.
How am I going to do my job now?
“She even got the better name. Elsa. She’s freaking Elsa. How is that fair?”
“You didn’t have to date a guy named Jerry Butts if you wanted a good name.”
Coming this fall! Add it to your Goodreads shelves today!
Sneak Peek at Master Baker!
Love dirty-talking bakers, small town rivalries, and falling back in love with the one who got away? Read on for a sample of Master Baker!
Grady Rock, aka a master baker who’s man enough to handle any jokes about his nickname, but still unprepared for today’s gossip hour
“That’s right, baby,” I whisper as I ease deeper inside into her creamy depths. She’s tight. So full already. “Oh, yeah, just like that. You feel that? Is that good for you too?”
The donut doesn’t answer, but she does grunt under the strain of all the pudding I’m stuffing inside her.
Or possibly that was my pastry bag burping.
“You can take a little more,” I murmur while my kitchen door opens. “I know you can. And then I’m going to eat you so good—”
“Ugh, you are so disgusting,” my sister announces as she breezes in.
I smile at the donut. “Don’t listen to her. You’re beautiful.”
“You realize if you ever bothered to talk to a woman like that, Pop wouldn’t be trying so hard to set you up with every single woman in Virginia.”
“Don’t forget about the northern half of North Carolina too.” I brush a thumb over the top of the donut—smooth and firm, just like she should be—and move on to filling the next donut. “You ever seen a batch of donuts so beautiful?”
“You say that every morning.”
“The trick to life is getting better every day. You should try it sometime.”
Tillie Jean angles into my lair and makes herself comfortable on the spare stool across the metal worktable in my bakery kitchen.
My rolling racks are half full of all of the deliciousness I’ll sell out of before the day’s over. My ovens are baking muffins and scones. My mixing bowl is waiting for tomorrow’s donut dough. And my sink is overflowing with dirty dishes.
Just the way I like it.
If my bottom line would just start reflecting what my kitchen does—prosperity and productivity—life would be perfect.
I’m selling out almost every day. Hired an extra baker. Has to happen soon.
Or maybe never, because no matter how good I feel about what I’m selling every week, as soon as I sit down to trudge through my books on the weekends, I realize I’m still just barely breaking even.
Not like I can increase my clientele in a small town like this.
“You see Pop yet today?” Tillie Jean asks.
“It’s five AM.”
“Yep.”
“On a Tuesday.”
“Uh-huh.”
“That’s sex in the shower day. We won’t see Pop or Nana for at least another four hours.”
She doesn’t answer. Not to tell me I’m disgusting again, or to sigh and hope out loud that when she’s eighty, she’ll be married to someone who still wants to do her in the shower.
Suspicious.
Especially since she’s never out of bed before five AM either.
I finish the last of the donut filling and glance up at her.
She has this pensive look tightening her eyes and pursing her lips that I don’t see often, but that always manages to inch my pulse up and make me want to stick my head in the sand.
Or maybe whip up a batch of macarons, because those take time and concentration and are an excellent distraction.
Not to mention delicious, and they particularly like it when I compliment their smooth, perfect mounds.
None of which Tillie Jean seems to be thinking about.
“What?” I ask while I reach back to grab the donut glaze.
She blinks and shakes her head. “What flavor today?”
“Mascarpone and Nutella. Why do you look like you’re about to tell me my goat died?”
“Like you’d be sad if Sue died.”
“Avoiding the question, Tillie Jean. What’s got you in here before the sun on a Tuesday talking about Pop?”
Her lids close over her blue eyes, and I can see her fighting t
o keep from just blurting out whatever’s eating at her when the back door opens again, this time with a slam.
Georgia Mayberry, my second-in-command, marches in with a flier in hand and outrage in her brown eyes. She’s so mad that the braids at the ends of her cornrows are standing up and hissing too.
“Did you see this?” she demands indignantly, flapping the paper around.
Tillie Jean leaps up and grabs it from her. “No, he has not,” she says on a high-pitched whisper, “and we’re going to ease him into it, okay?”
“Ease me into what?”
“Freaking Duh-Nuts advertising all over Shipwreck!” Georgia announces. She snorts and marches to the fridge, where she starts yanking out butter and eggs. “Couldn’t keep it in Sarcasm like they should’ve. Oh, no. They have to come over here to Shipwreck and try to steal our customers. The nerve of those—those—those donut holes.”
“The nerve,” I agree, because agreeing with Georgia keeps her happy, and keeping Georgia happy keeps her employed here without asking for a raise, and her blueberry muffins are better than mine, which is saying something.
Am I worried?
Of course not. Duh-Nuts has already gone out of business once since I bought Crow’s Nest. They’ll go out of business again.
But my blood pressure still spikes.
Logically, I know the vast majority of my limited customer base would never voluntarily set foot in Sarcasm—and yes, that’s really what they call their town down the road. But it’s still competition, and my profits aren’t where I want them to be.
Not even close.
Plus, she said Sarcasm.
I used to know someone from Sarcasm. A long time ago.
Tillie Jean’s bedhead swivels back in my direction, and—huh.
She’s still in her pajamas. Are those—they are. They’re dancing lips with little stick arms and feet. Cute.
