Baseball Lover

by Croft, Rose

“You’re an idiot.” She was grinning while her hand slipped over my cock. “Well your boy here just asked me to run away with him.”

  I frowned. “He can’t run away anywhere without me going too.”

  “You can come along.” She shrugged as she stroked.

  Oh, we were coming. “Can I marry your boobs?”

  “Sure. You better treat them right.”

  “I will. I promise.” I knelt down in front of her and massaged her clit. “Can I marry this, too?”

  “Yeeesss,” she moaned as my lips went to town on her. I kept on until I knew she was at the brink about to go over. I pulled back.

  “Why did you stop?” She had my head in a death grip.

  I stood up again. “Don’t worry Rose, I’ll take care of you. As soon as you answer my question.”

  “Is this another quiz about baseball, John, because you know by now my game is strong.”

  “I know that. This question is more important.” I didn’t plan on asking this today, but since I kind of brought it up… “Rose, will you marry me? I mean you already gave consent for some of your body parts…”

  “Are you serious?” She watched me as if I were a nut.

  “Of course, I’m serious. I wouldn’t throw out a fake marriage proposal.” I was crazy about her and knew she was it for me. Why the hell would she think I was joking? Damn.

  “Yeah, and you also said you were serious when my boobs were telepathically proposing to you.” Now, she crossed her arms over her tits. And, I guess I could see her point of view.

  Not to mention, I wasn’t being very ecologically smart either since we were standing under running water arguing about the semantics of how I proposed. I ran my hands over her shoulders. “Marry me.”

  “Okay.” I didn’t know if she intended to say more because I was crushing my mouth against hers. Now, we could get down to business.

  This book was a labor of love. I’ve always wanted to write a romantic sports comedy, and John and Rose’s book was an organic book that came together by accident. When I wrote High School Lover (Andrew and Loren’s story), I’d never had it in my mind that John and Rose would find each other. The notion of those two getting together popped up magically when I wrote the Loren/Rose bar scene in the first book (please read my first book if you haven’t yet. Shameless plug. And, I swear I’m done with the parenthesis). From there it kind of took off. I used to scoff at authors who would talk about how the characters told them what to write. Seriously? You’re the author. It’s your brain. You control the pen, or laptop. Anyhoo, not only was John in my head and living rent free, he ended up owning the place. Rose, too, was a strong personality that I just had to write about. With that being said, here are the songs that I listened to over and over as I wrote their story.

  “Love Life” by Fatboy Slim

  “Lucid Dreams” by Mat Zo

  “Teardrop” by Massive Attack

  “The Sky” by Mat Zo (feat. Linnea Schossow)

  “Sit Next to Me” by Foster the People

  “Feel It All Around” by Washed Out

  “Something About Us” by Daft Punk

  “Only For You” by Mat Zo (feat. Rachel K. Collier)

  “Must Be the Love” by Arty, Nadia Ali and BT

  “Latch” by Disclosure (feat. Sam Smith)

  “A Grand Love Theme” by Kid Loco

  “Aqueous Transmission” by Incubus

  Thank you to my family—my husband, my daughter, and my mom. You have been so patient with me throughout this journey and so supportive. Thanks for putting up with me. Okay, was it really that much of a hardship? JK, I love you all.

  A special heartwarming thanks to my beta readers who gave me the strength and encouragement to push forward: Kesley, Hayden, Ashley, Sue, and Brit. I can’t express how much your support means to me.

  A million thanks to Bex Harper Designs for designing my beautiful cover and teasers. As always your work blows me away.

  Thank you Tami at Integrity Formatting for your patience and awesome work.

  I can’t thank Samantha at Edit for Content enough for editing my manuscript in a pinch. Thank you so much for helping me out. It means the world.

  Thank you so, so much Sarah Grim Sentz aka Musings of the Modern Belle for creating gorgeous teasers. You make me look good.

  I want to give a special thanks to the following beautiful, selfless, supportive friends I’ve met that have helped me get my name out there. Without them, I don’t know where I’d be. Oh, and follow them on Instagram and Facebook:

  Jessica Falco—Chatterbookbabe

  Kristy Marie

  Tessa Elaine

  Tre Talbot—Wondertre, A Biliophile’s World to Share

  Sue—Lager Lefse Book Blog

  Heartbooked

  Karen Sedgman—Karen_sedg68

  A.J.—ajlovestoread

  Harlow Layne

  Meredith Hale

  Erica Marselas

  Jessica Marin

  Chatterbooks Book Blog

  Daisy Edberg

  Ashley Marie Martinez

  DM Davis

  Trilina Pucci

  Jo Fergus—Reading is my Bliss

  Thanks to my friends who support me no matter what: Dee, Julie, Elizabeth, and especially my two favorite Colombians Maria and Dolly. I love you all.

  A big thanks to the readers and bloggers who have read my books. Without you, there is no me, and I never forget that. I love you so much for your support.

  Rose Croft is a wannabe poet and a writer in her own mind. She’s a wife and mom to a beautiful daughter and lives her own happily ever after. For updates on her books or if you just want to visit and chat about anything and everything, visit her at:

  Facebook

  Instagram

  Goodreads

  Amazon

  Book and Main

  Gmail

  High School Lover

  Coming Soon

  Cabezón (Mendoza Family Book 1)

  Keep reading for an excerpt from High School Lover

  Present

  “What do you mean by the word member? Are we talking about a part of a group? Or are you referring to his junk?” Rose glanced up from the laptop, pointing at the document on the screen.

  “You know what I mean. You’ve read just as many historical romances as I have. You’re an English teacher for God’s sake!”

  She pffted me. “You mean his dick. Right, Loren?”

  I exhaled and squeezed the bridge of my nose. “Yes, Rose, his dick. Should I be worried that you’re shaping the minds of teenagers?”

  “You’re writing about two people getting it on with their ‘bosoms’ and ‘member,’ sister. Who even writes like that anymore? What are you…an eighty-year-old woman from Wales?”

  “No.” I was twenty-six and apparently out of touch, according to Rose.

  “And…” She paused, appearing uncertain, probably trying not to hurt my feelings. Why at this moment did she care? It’d never stopped her before.

  “Go on. Tell me your thoughts.” I’d had this idea to write a romance novel for a long time, and Rose had been my sounding board ever since we had roomed together in college. We both shared an interest in books and writing. I’d majored in journalism and she in education with a minor in English.

  “I don’t know. The whole premise of the story sounds very dated, like one of those old-school historical romance books.”

  That was true. I was obviously inspired by those older books I had snuck out of my mom’s bedside nightstand when I was probably too young to read them. I was too young to read them. And the books were old, the pages had yellowed, and the content was not even close to being politically correct. And the authors used words like bosom, member, loins, and moist. And I read those books. Liked those books. My mother liked them. Why did she read them? I started analyzing why my perfect, Suzy Homemaker, cheerleader-for-life mother would enjoy those books. She seemed like the last person who would want to read about sex
. I cringed. My mind was swerving off topic.

  I turned my focus back to my ride-or-die friend. “So, you’re saying the basis of the story is weak?”

  Her eyebrows scrunched behind her studious-looking glasses that she always wore. “Well, it seems like the characters are somewhat one-dimensional. You know…I hate you. I love you. I hate you. You hate me? Let me stick my manhood inside you and give you something that will change your mind…Ooh, I love you again.”

  She’d just reduced the seventy-five thousand words I had written to a pile of shit. Why didn’t she go ahead and punch me in the face, too? But, if I were honest with myself, I knew deep down the story lacked depth. I needed a candid opinion if I wanted to grow as a writer, and my bestie never held back. That’s not to say she couldn’t also be annoying as hell.

  “Okay, what if I threw a couples therapist into the mix?” I deadpanned. “You know, like Dr. Phil. He could tell the heroine to kick the guy’s ass to the curb.”

  She laughed. “Is he going to time travel back to the nineteenth century and tell the main characters to get real?” After some ridiculous banter back and forth involving Dr. Phil, a pirate, and the young delicate virgin the rakish pirate was trying to deflower, there was a heavy bout of obnoxious laughter because we were goofy like that. And, yes, I could admit this story sounded ludicrous.

  When the final giggles subsided, Rose laid her hand on my shoulder. “Loren, you’ve always been a good writer. You used to make me so jealous because the papers that we had to write in college seemed to be so easy for you. Why don’t you look at some of the current books in this genre? And think about what truly inspires you.”

  I was suddenly taken back to a time several years ago when I wrote poetry and another dear friend, Andrew, had asked me to think about where I drew my inspiration from. He, too, had encouraged my writing. Where Rose was more tough love and to the point about my work, he was more positive in his criticism, which was funny because he could also be the most sarcastic person ever. But never when he read my work. He made me believe I could attain my dreams of being a writer. I thought we would always collaborate together, be together, but I had let outside influences, specifically my parents, steer me in another direction. More like force me in another direction at gunpoint. I’d never forgotten about that. What they did. Why I allowed it.

  I exhaled slowly, frustrated that I was going to have to chuck this story and start over. But I wasn’t going to be discouraged this time. It was about damn time I did something I enjoyed. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

  Rose stood up and slid her purse over her shoulder. “I know I’m right.” Cue eyeroll from me because, in her mind, she always knew best.

  I walked her to the door. She squared her shoulders, facing me as though she were about to give a presentation. “You can do this, Lolo. Don’t get frustrated and give up. Chasing your dreams is not always easy, but if you work hard and stay committed, you can achieve your goals. Perseverance is key.” She jabbed her finger into my chest. “I know you have a great story in there just waiting to come out.” She pierced me with her cocoa eyes, behind clear lenses. “Just let that story come out.” She jutted her chin to punctuate her point. “That’s right, let it out, chica. It’s frantically beating on the door, trapped.” She leaned into my chest, cupping her ear. “I hear it. I hear him desperately pulling the door handle, rattling the door.” She raised her head, pausing dramatically to let the words sink in. “It’s time, Loren. Unlock that door.” She ended on a whisper.

  She sounded like a walking motivational meme, spewing the most inane crap I’d ever heard. How did she do that with a straight face? How did I not lose it, either—because I laughed at everything. Maybe I took her words to heart. I hugged my personal cheerleader, thankful that I had her support. “Thanks for the pep talk, Rosie.”

  After she left, I began doing some more research online about what subgenre of romance books people liked to read. It was glaringly obvious that I’d been living in a flipping time capsule. Was I Amish and just recently discovered the Internet, and the possibility of reading books online? Okay, I knew you could, but I never did it.

  I checked out the top sellers on Amazon, and most of them were contemporary books. I clicked and read blurbs, read the first few chapters of some of them. I smiled like a kid who’d tried chocolate for the first time. Eager because I’d actually found new authors I wanted to read. I clicked and clicked and clicked for hours as though my index finger had OCD. I was buying books like I had all the money in the world, which I didn’t. Wait, back up. I downloaded the Kindle app on my computer first. Because I’m tech-savvy like that. Then I bought, bought, and bought.

  As I perused, I saw links to other books. One title stuck out as though calling my name—Three the Hard Way (Risky Business, Book 1). Risky Business, hmmm…sounds like the characters might be shady. Please let it be a drug dealer/mafia romance. That mantra repeated in my head as I read the blurb. My lips curled up in satisfaction. I knew I’d hit the mother lode. It was a flipping drug dealer/mafia romance. It was about two drug dealers and the sheltered daughter of a mafia kingpin, whom both men had fallen for. Holy shizz! Drug dealers…check. Mafia…check. Romance. Fighting over a girl. Check, check, check to infinity. I was all over this like a great white on a seal. Click.

  Finally, I gave my finger a break because it’d worked so hard, already developing a little muscle. I immediately opened up Kindle to read my badass drug dealer/mafia romance. Yes, there was action, love…and threesomes. Threesomes? Because the two rival dealers who fought over this girl in the beginning decided to form a business alliance and then got down to business with her, together. I’d never read anything like this before. Did I not tell you I’d been living under a rock? Just needed to clarify for those sitting in the back row.

  Anyway, the story was exquisite, heart-wrenching—the prose was exceptional. I wanted to slow clap after reading it, smoke a cigarette, and speak French. I gazed at my hand and said, “How you doin’?” in my best Joey-from-Friends voice because not only was I moved by the author’s words, I was moved to go take care of my own business.

  Several hours after reading the book, I still thought about the characters. Twenty-four hours later, the story continually lingered in my mind as though the characters were real, close friends who kept me up-to-date on their lives. This book was like a heady dose of ecstasy, and I wanted more. When I got home after work, I clicked on all the other books by the same author and read voraciously as though the apocalypse were coming in the next few days.

  As I read, I knew. I knew what I wanted to write.

  Adam took my hand as he kissed my flushed cheek. “Veronica, you’re very special, and I want to be the man to fulfill your desires. All of them. You wanted to be with my brother Shane and me together, and I granted you that. So, scratch this off your list because it’ll never happen again. I don’t like to share.”

  Holy shitballs, Batman, I just wrote my first ménage. I wanted to call Rose and tell her. I’d kept her posted the past several weeks about my writing. At first, I was hesitant to tell her, but Rose was never judgmental. She may have called me “Slutessa Cunnilingus” when I told her the story, but coming from her it sounded more like an endearment.

  Rather than call Rose, I clicked on Facebook to see what was happening—my daily distraction. I continued scrolling through several political posts and family pictures from friends. Sometimes it seemed like I was staring at the cyber badlands, where everyone was his or her own hero in this imaginary world.

  I continued to browse nonetheless and noticed a link on the Briarhill Falcons group page, my old high school, that led me to an obituary. I clicked on the link and my body shook as I saw the picture of a familiar face. “Michael Dodd, 25, found dead in his home.” The article didn’t give any details about his death, just a bio and funeral information. However, in the comments, among the condolences from former classmates, there were a few messages that hinted at Mike’s using heroin.<
br />
  Oh, my God! Heroin??? The last time I had seen him, which was probably eight years before, he’d never so much as taken a sip of alcohol because he was such a huge dork who loved basketball. He made the varsity team his senior year, but usually rode the bench. He was only five foot ten, and in the basketball world that was short. However, that didn’t stop him from dedicating himself to getting better. He constantly worked out, practiced his shots, and ran himself into the ground to improve.

  I knew this because I played on the girls’ team and we would occasionally get together and have shootarounds. When we weren’t practicing, we were watching NBA or college basketball games together. Mike could tell you any stat about any player—college or pro. I was impressed with his never-ending self-motivation because he had virtually no support from his family. Back then, his parents were heavy into drugs, and he was ashamed and vowed to never be like them. He was by far the kindest person in the world.

  Jesus, what the hell had happened to him? My mind was racing as my heart constricted, wondering when everything went wrong. I hadn’t seen him since the day after graduation when he came over. We were shooting the basketball around in my parents’ driveway, and I’ll never forget our final conversation.

  “You excited about going to Houston in the fall?” Mike asked as he dribbled slowly before hiking one leg and firing off a fadeaway shot. Swish. I’d received a partial scholarship to Rice University.

  I rebounded the ball, gripping it close to my chest. “Yeah, I’m ready for a change of scenery. I’m a little nervous about being in a big city and meeting new friends. You know I’m not the most outgoing person in the world.” I wasn’t the type to go out of my way to talk to people unless I knew them. I seemed to be drawn to extroverts, like Mike, who could meet ten people in a day, and they’d all be close friends by sundown.

  He walked over and gave me a few friendly pats on the back. “I know it’s hard for you to put yourself out there and strike up a conversation with a stranger, but you’ll be fine.” He stared down at his feet and scraped some gravel around. “Have you talked to Andrew?”