“My roommate’s running behind.” I lift my gaze from my phone and land on toned legs. He must have a religious workout routine because he’s in excellent shape. Add in his confident swagger, and the total package points to him being a senior. A competitive spark flares inside me and welcomes the challenge. “Game?”
“Sure I won’t be imposing? I don’t want to infringe on your court time.”
“I deserve that.” I press my lips together trying to suppress a smile. I fail. “Sorry, but I really need to play today.”
“I’m game if you think you can keep up.” His gaze roams along my body, and I can read his thoughts. They’re the same as everyone else’s who sizes me up.
“Don’t worry. I pack a mean punch despite my height.” I snap my goggles on and silently dare him to dispute me.
The cutest dimple appears, and I try not to get lost in those dark eyes. “All right, Cupcake. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
Stepping to the service box, I wonder where the nickname comes from and ignore the fact it’s way cuter than the one I gave him. This isn’t the time for warm tingles to invade my stomach. Nope. Too much aggression swirls in my veins and seeks release.
Mr. Perfect positions himself behind the receiving line, and I glance back. “Sure you don’t want to serve first?”
His eyes dip lower. “Nah, the view’s just fine right here.”
Every feminist bone in my body stages a protest at the chauvinistic remark, but my muscular system warms to the idea of him liking what he sees. And damn, if I don’t flirt back.
“Just fine?”
Surprise coats his features before he breaks into a wide grin. “I was being polite. Your ass is more than fine. Great even. But I didn’t think it was appropriate to list every single position my dirty little mind has pictured it in.”
Holy crap.
My jaw opens slightly. And the battle raging inside? Score one for soft tissue because every muscle burns with heat as fire spreads through my veins. This guy is clearly out of my league.
As if he reads my mind, he chuckles. “Thought so.”
Not sure what he means by that, I let the comment go. “Let’s see if your skill can match that mouth of yours.”
I drop the ball and deliver a jam shot. Darting to the right, he makes quick use of his forehand stroke, and the game begins. As I zone my opponent out, I focus on my movements. Each delivered stroke eases the sting of not being there for Mom. Each returned ball, a therapeutic dose reduces my worry over Drake’s obvious outcry for attention. Each shot lessens my body’s need to scream for the injustice which is my sister’s life. Or my life. I go in for the drop shot and score the first point.
“So, this is the tempo you want to set?” He raises an eyebrow underneath the safety goggle.
“Warned you I wasn’t a novice.” I shrug.
Amusement lines his voice. “Just serve.”
He matches me stroke for stroke, but he proves to be too strong of an athlete and pulls ahead. I finally concede.
“Break,” I say and grab my towel, each intake of breath a chore. Hardly panting, he grabs the bottom of his shirt, and I try not to stare at the cut lines and happy trail as he dabs his forehead. But, Jesus, his right flank is tattooed as well. This guy really is perfection.
“So, what’s your name?”
“Mia Gunner.”
“Well, Mia. It’s nice to meet someone who can match me on the court.”
A few moments tick by, but he doesn’t introduce himself.
“Aren’t you going to tell me your name?”
He jerks his head back as if I just asked his dick size. I’m guessing he’s somewhat popular. Makes sense. He looks like he’s in his fourth year. I already know he’s arrogant—that was obvious the second I realized he stole my court—but to assume I’d recognize him? Cessna University enrolls over twenty thousand students. I couldn’t possibly know him.
“I’m AJ.”
“Does AJ have a last name?”
“Yeah, it’s Gonzalez. AJ Gonzalez.” Amusement dances in his eyes before a sense of appreciation settles in them. He looks as if he’s trying to figure something out. “Where did you learn to play racquetball so well?”
“Back home in Vermont. Playing helped me...cope.” It used to be dancing, but I hung my ballerina slippers up a while ago. The familiar pressure in my chest resurfaces, and I swallow back the burn. I reach inside my bag for my water bottle, my breath easing back to normal. “How are you not winded?”
“I stay fit.”
Yes, you do.
“Do I dare ask why?”
He steps closer, eyes darkening with want. I think. “I need to stay on top of my game. Keep my endurance up.”
“Sorry I’m late.” Sadie’s voice resonates through the room as she barges through the door. She finally looks up from her bag and comes to a halt when she notices AJ. “Oh.”
“Next time you need a partner, hit me up.” His deep voice drips with a level of intrigue that sends chills across my body, drawing a slight gasp. Maybe I imagined the double entendre and he only meant partnering in racquetball. I don’t know, but in less than thirty minutes, I’m left speechless twice.
Momentarily closing his eyes, he shakes his head and mumbles, “Too sweet.” He dips his mouth close to my ear as he brushes past me, his “Later, Cupcake” stealing my breath.
It’s a skill to make something sweet and innocent seem sexy and sinister. But as the whoosh from the door restores my breath, every inch of my body believes AJ possesses such talents.
“Oh my God, do you know who that was?” Sadie’s high-pitched squeal jars me back to reality.
“AJ Gonzalez. I think he’s a senior.”
She stares at me with her mouth agape. “Yeah, that’s his name, but do you know who he is?”
“No, but I’m guessing I should?”
“Well, yeah.” The silent “duh” hangs heavy in the air. “Don’t tell my boyfriend, but AJ’s the hottest player on the baseball team. And I don’t mean by looks alone. He’s already been scouted by the Phillies agents. Rumor has it, he’ll be one of the top draft picks.”
Any excitement over meeting him deflates faster than a child’s spirit after learning Santa Claus isn’t real. I sneak a look at the glass wall and catch his backside slipping around the corner. Figures. The first interesting guy I meet on campus goes from Mr. Perfect to Mr. Unattainable. I can’t catch a break.
I cinch my racket back on my wrist. It looks like I need to pound out more frustration. “Ready?”
“Game on.”
As Sadie slides her goggles on, I go stand behind the receiving line. It doesn’t matter who AJ is. He may have flirted, but we didn’t exchange contact information. Considering it’s January and I’m just now running into him, I doubt I’ll ever see him again. Which is a shame because the brief time we were together, he made me forget about my shitty life.
Chapter Four
MIA
Eight Years Ago
The charcoal pencil glides across the paper in swift, short strokes. The library book I sought to read sits abandoned in front of me as the surrounding bookshelves blur in the background of my mind. Nothing can deter me once the creative mode kicks in—not even the few students scattered throughout the vast space.
I put the finishing touches on the sketch and stare at the lifelike picture. My fingers squeeze the charcoal pencil as my eyes flutter shut. I steel my insides for the wave of hurt that hits like a tsunami every time my thoughts stray to him. After eight months, the pain’s still too new. Too raw.
“Cupcake?” a tentative voice asks.
My eyes spring open to the last person I expected to see standing beside me in the library.
“AJ.” I slide my sketch under the library book and force a smile. “What are you doing here?”
His gaze shifts to the table and then back at me. “I, uh, need to do some research for my term paper. The librarian said you checked out the book I need. Is�
�is everything okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.” I point to the History of Impressionism book, hoping my dismissive tone deflects any concern. “You need this?”
“I just need to get a few quotes from it. The professor is making us use a ‘real book’ for references.” His tall frame sinks into the chair beside me. “I have to fill my last humanities class.”
That struck me as odd since he’s a baseball player. Most undergraduate programs only require six credit hours to graduate. Considering he’s a senior, I would’ve thought he fulfilled that long before now. “What’s your major?”
“History.”
“History?” A laugh escapes. “You don’t look like a history major.”
“No? And why’s that?” The corner of his mouth lifts to a sexy grin as he questions my prejudices.
“Those students are boring and stuffy. The men”—I take a glance at his physique and know he doesn’t fit the stereotype—“turn into gray-bearded geezers, wearing a sweater vest and round-rimmed glasses.”
“Okay, Miss Judgmental. Quit history shaming me.” His appalled look draws my laugh. “In all seriousness, I have to write a term paper on the Impressionism movement. I was going to do Claude Monet.”
I tsk.
“What? He’s well known.”
“That’s the problem. Everyone covers either him or Van Gogh. Can you imagine how many research papers the professor has read about them?” I shudder. “You should focus on a different artist. That way, when you present, it’ll be fresh.”
“Good point. Anyone in mind?”
“I don’t know. You can choose either Eugène Delacroix or Alfred Sisley. Personally, I’d prefer Sisley. He’s best known for landscapes, which are the paintings I prefer.”
“I’ll look him up. Do you mind?”
“No, of course not.”
He grabs the book, and his gaze lands on my drawing. His eyes flash with a sense of awe. “Wow, looks like you’re just as talented. More even. Van Gogh’s paintings are blurry, this is—”
“Blurry?” I interrupt, hoping to shift his focus. “That’s just…wrong.”
“What? You know it’s true.” He chuckles, and the shiver, racing through my body, is in no way associated with it. “Seriously though, the grouping of cattails, the guy, it’s all so lifelike.”
“Thanks.”
“Is this someone you know?”
“My dad.” My voice sounds sadder than I intend. I pull my gaze away from the drawing, and AJ’s expression causes me to pause. His eyes darken for a second as either a memory or a thought fleets through his mind. It’s brief, and I almost miss it, but there’s no mistaking that disturbed look.
“The memory must be a good one,” he finally says.
“It was. Dad worked a lot.” I glance back at Dad’s profile and bite back a sigh. “He missed out on several things, but every so often, he’d do something fun like take us fishing.”
“You’re good. An art major, huh?” His voice holds a question but not the condescending tone that most people have when they find out my major.
“Along those lines.”
“Do you also paint?”
“I dabble.” That’s putting it mildly, but I don’t like to brag. “I mainly paint landscapes. That’s why I like living here—besides the warm weather—there’s so much beauty. Not that Vermont isn’t.”
“The winters are definitely warmer here.”
There’s familiarity in his statement which makes me wonder where he calls home. “Are you from Vermont?”
“No, but close enough. Pennsylvania raised.”
“Oh, I bet you’re thrilled at the chance to be playing for your home team.”
“Sadie told you who I was, huh?” His voice reflects a bit of disappointment as if he doesn’t want me knowing he plays baseball. I can’t imagine why though.
“Yep, but I didn’t know the Phillies were your hometown team.”
His stoic features crack, and he breaks into the cutest boyish grin. “Yeah, it’s a little surreal being scouted by the team you rooted for your whole life.”
“Every kid’s dream.” I know it’s my brother’s dream to play for the Boston Red Sox, and who knows? He just may someday. There’s a good chance he’ll be playing college ball if he doesn’t derail himself first.
“Sure is. I have to be drafted to the minors first though. Hopefully, that happens, and I’ll get called up.”
“I’m sure you will.” Our gazes connect, and I don’t miss his appreciative glance.
“When can I see these paintings of yours?”
“Never.”
“Why not? You surely don’t suck when you’ve mastered the charcoal pencils. I want to see some.”
“They’re not tucked away in my dorm.” Which is a lie. I have a few beach scenes I’ve done, but he doesn’t need to know that.
“Don’t you have pictures on your phone?”
I hesitate. Before the paint dries, I snap a picture. My phone is like my personal portfolio, but that’s just it, emphasis on the word personal. The downsized version my crappy camera phone takes doesn’t do the paintings any justice. No way will I show him those.
“No.”
He eyes me like I’m lying but doesn’t call me out on it. “Then you’ll have to paint me one. Or maybe I should paint you. Channel my inner William Etty.”
Heat flames my cheeks. I think I’ve been played. “You only knew Monet from the Impressionism era, but you’re familiar with Britain’s first significant painter of nudes?”
“What can I say? I have an appreciation of his style of art.”
“I think a line drive hit you in the head.”
He smiles the widest smile, his white teeth glowing against his bronze skin. Damn, he’s gorgeous. “Foul tip, actually.”
“Huh?”
“Foul tip. I’m a catcher.”
“Oh.” My gaze dips to his hands—his rather large, beefy hands—and drop farther to his feet. Yep, matching size. I force myself to meet his stare and clear my head of certain naughty comparisons.
“Since you’re not volunteering to be the model, I guess you’ll be the one painting.” He looks down at my art supplies. “Do you keep paint supplies here at school?”
“Yeah, but the easel and canvases are kept in my car.”
“You have a car here?”
“Yep, it’s parked in a garage off campus.”
“AJ, are you coming or what?” a tall, lanky guy yells a few rows away.
AJ tells him he’ll be down in a few minutes and then turns his attention back to me. “Since you refuse to paint for me, how about something simpler? After Tuesday’s home game, go out with me.”
Every muscle screams for me to say yes, but he’s the type of guy I need to stay away from. The kind that can’t offer a future. There’s really no point. I mean, why date at all if it’s doomed from the beginning?
AJ raises his eyebrows, patiently waiting for an answer. So, I give it.
“No.”
Chapter Five
AJ
Current Day
My feet slap against the rain-soaked sidewalks, the sloshing of each downward stroke competing with horns and revving of engines. Philadelphia’s alive and full of energy tonight—unlike me. With my throat as thick as this unusually humid November air, I continue walking the worn path from my apartment to Arti’s, our team’s local hangout. It’s a desperate attempt on my part to shake loose the discontentment taking hold.
I approach the street corner, and a cloud of cherry sweetness hangs in the air like a blanketed warning. I dip my chin and flip the jacket collar up before rounding the brick building. In too somber of a mood for small talk, the last thing I want is to be recognized. I curse to myself as I pass the group of hipster wannabes vaping away on their e-cigs. Going out tonight is a bad idea. I know this, but staying home isn’t an option either—not with Jocelyn spending the night. And if I stayed at Zach’s house any longer, I was going to die a slo
w death.
Upon entering Arti’s, a sharp pang of remorse settles in my stomach. Zach’s MVP party for Jax was great, and I’m excited that he won. No one deserves the National League title more than him, especially after the two-vote loss suffered last year. There wasn’t anywhere else I’d rather be when they announced the winner than with my roommate. Jax didn’t want a big production, so the only teammates present were us three. After the excitement died down, I had to get the hell out of there. Watching their families interact with each other felt like a Goddamn Beaver Cleaver reunion—a picture-perfect ball of family coziness. I had to leave before regret and years of worthlessness seized my balls.
Still, I refuse to choke on self-pity. My fate was determined a long time ago. I don’t begrudge their happiness, nor am I jealous. They deserve those warm, feel-good feelings. Lord knows, it didn’t come easy, but I was drowning witnessing it. Trust me, the only drowning I want to be a part of is the female variety kind.
Tonight’s agenda is to find a girl and get laid.
Maybe then I can purge Mia from my mind. Ever since the sweet little cupcake sprung out of nowhere, a clusterfuck of thoughts has taken over.
A quick scan of the bar reveals Rodriguez and Drake in the far booth. Great. Rodriguez, I like. Drake? Not so much. I detour to the bar and order a Guinness Blonde American Lager.
“Hey, AJ.” The seductive drawl from a familiar brunette raises the hairs on my neck and not in a good way. My reaction shocks the hell out of me. Isn’t she exactly what the doctor ordered?
“Bonnie.” My gaze rakes along her low-cut sequin top. Yep, exactly the medication I need. But I detect a problem.
“You here alone?” Her suggestive tone isn’t leaving much to the imagination. I’m not complaining. I like a woman who knows exactly what she wants and, Lord knows, Bonnie can deliver, but that problem I spoke of? Everything south of my beltline has decided to stage a sit-in protest. In other words, no action going on down there. Not even a rise.
The bartender hands over my long neck, and I slip him the cash. “I’m just meeting my buddies. You here alone?”
Bottom Of The Ninth: Bad Boys Redemption: Book Three Page 3
