Forced Play for Libby (Men of Baseball #3)

by Hayley Faiman

  “Get out or I’ll call the cops,” he orders. I shake my head and pull the phone away from his desk, yanking all of the cords out of the wall and tossing the plastic across the room. My rage escalates to a place I always try so hard to keep it from going.

  “I want Libby back with me and I want her back now. In order for that to happen, I need that contract fucking gone,” I demand, making the man smirk at me.

  “She left you?” The smug bastard asks with a smile.

  “Yeah, fuck face, as if you didn’t know already. It’s all over the tabloids,” I inform him. I then watch as the color drains from his face before red creeps up his neck. I ignore his reaction.

  “I want it gone or I’ll expose the contract. I don’t give a shit. The team can fire me. I want my wife,” I continue, threateningly. He shakes his head like I’m insane.

  “You aren’t tired of that pussy after seven years? Christ, you can have whoever you want. Why do you give a shit about one snatch?”

  I can’t believe his words. He is talking about his own daughter. What kind of man discusses his daughter the way Joseph does? It disgusts me.

  The same kind of man that offers you your dream to marry her so that he can get her out of his hair.

  God, I hate this fucking asshole.

  I stand firm, my eyes never leaving his, challenging him until he sighs and rolls his eyes in annoyance.

  “Fine. You want the contract done, it’s fucking done. If the team wants to trade you, you’re gone. No more money or expensive gifts for her again, either. I’m done. She’s a liability with her dramatic antics, and you’re nothing but trash. You two deserve each other. Keep the fucking paparazzi off of her,” he states before opening his mouth again and continuing to piss me off even more. “She looks like a clown now that she’s married you, anyway. No other decent man would have her.”

  I take a step toward him and put my index finger in his soft chest, wanting nothing more than to pummel his ass into the ground.

  “I want her. She’s mine, and if you ever contact her again, I’ll fuckin’ kill you, you no good son-of-a-bitch. I could give a shit about my contract. I might be trash, but at least I have a fuckin’ heart. You’re a cold heartless bastard and a worthless piece of shit,” I growl. He smirks at me, making me want to punch him in his goddamned throat.

  “I could care less what happens from here on out. She’s not even my daughter. Her mother fucked our driver and out came that bitch,” he informs me with a cruel smile. I want to punch him in the face even more.

  My Libby is not a bitch. She’s as far from it as possible. Sure, she can be a bitch, especially to people who are assholes, but she isn’t a bitch. Libby is sweet, good, and fucking hilarious. I wonder what this driver was like. Maybe she takes after him?

  “One hour. I want confirmation it’s done in one hour,” I bark before I leave. On my way out of his office, I run right into her mother, almost plowing her down with my body.

  “Take care of her, Pete,” she murmurs. As much as I want to slap the stupid bitch, I just shake my head.

  “Always, forever,” I say, meaning it from the depths of my soul. She nods once and then reaches out to wrap her cold slim fingers around my forearm.

  “Elizabeth never knew about the contract. She loves you. I felt bad lying to her all of this time, but I knew you would be good to her. A man like you, you would feel blessed to have a true lady like my Elizabeth. You wouldn’t throw away all of her good training and take advantage of her, not like the men her father wanted for her,” she whispers, her eyes glassy and full of delusion. There are so many things wrong with that little speech, I can’t even go there. Instead, I walk away from the mansion, praying I never have to see it again.

  Fuck them.

  Rich fucking assholes.

  I would rather live in a trailer, in the middle of nowhere, with Libby at my side than take another fucking penny from those degenerates.

  I drive home, where I know Libby will not be making something delicious at the stove. I’ll be alone and the whole place will be quiet instead of loud with her music blasting, or some stupid shit reality TV show playing in the background.

  When I walk in, it is exactly as I imagined it—dead and too quiet. I feel the air leave my lungs and I collapse on the floor. My eyes water as I look at the apartment, really look around at the space. I have never paid attention before, but I see the bright turquoise pillows on the dark sofa; the rich colored coffee table above the dark turquoise area rug. The place is masculine with just touches of femininity, showing that a man lives here with a woman who is conscious of her man. All Libby.

  The whole apartment proves that she considers the fact that a man lives in this space, and I have done nothing to make her feel comfortable. I ignore her and neglect her, my sweet Libby who only ever tries to make me happy. I grind the heels of my palms into my eyes, trying to rid them of the burning tears that have begun to form and fall down my face.

  My whole life, I have been nothing but shit on the bottom of somebody’s shoe. My father hit me and abused me until one day he just disappeared; then my mother started to hit me for making him leave. I was eight years old when CPS finally took me away.

  I lived in foster home after foster home. I was trouble and I so damn angry. The only thing I ever loved was baseball. When it started to take me places, I finally saw a way out of the poverty and the neglect, so I played. I played hard. I demanded perfection out of myself. Then one day, while I was playing in high school, some college scouts saw me. I took the first offer I was given, not caring where I was going. I only knew that I was finally going somewhere.

  When I met Libby, I was worried about fucking, drinking, and playing ball. But Libby sparked something inside me that I had never felt before. She was gorgeous and too good for me, but I wanted her anyway—so I took her. I knew at the time that I shouldn’t have taken her innocence; it was stupid and she deserved so much better, but I wanted her. Like usual, I was selfish. Shit, I’m still selfish. When I met her family, I knew we wouldn’t last. They were beyond rich, beyond perfect—just so far beyond everything. It was laughable.

  When her father offered up his stupid contract, all I could think about was playing ball. I would achieve my goal; I would be a pro ball player and I would have a hot wife on top of that. I liked Libby, and she was hot as fuck, so being married to her wouldn’t be any hardship.

  I hadn’t been prepared for the feelings that came on my wedding day. Suddenly, I felt trapped. I felt duped. I felt like a godamned failure, and I took all of that out on Libby. I promised myself that I would fuck her out of my system during the honeymoon and then, when we came back to the city, it would be over for us. We would be married but not be married. A marriage in name only.

  It didn’t work, though. I craved her more and more every day—I still crave her. In the beginning, I couldn’t stomach being with her, feeling more for her, so I did the next best thing. Like an idiot, I’ve been fucking girls that look like her. She hasn’t deserved an ounce of my resentment.

  Never again.

  From this moment forward, I plan on showering Libby with the love and affection I feel for her. I am taking her as my wife, holding her, cherishing her, and giving her everything she desires. I even plan on giving her a family—if that is what she really wants. I am going to make her happy. I decide to make my first steps now. I call my boys and their wives; I’ll need their help with bringing my Libby home.

  What seems like minutes later, my apartment is full of people, but they aren’t who I thought. It’s just the guys. Their wives are nowhere in sight. My boys are looking at me like I’m a worthless piece of shit and I know deep down that they must know something.

  Fucking women.

  “The fuck, man?” Jarrod speaks first. I take in a deep breath, trying to get my shit straight before I tell them everything.

  “Libby and I are married, have been for seven years but, uh, in name only,” I admit. Carlos curses in Spanish a
nd looks away from me. These three men love their wives. They probably think I’m insane.

  “First off, how in the hell do you marry someone in name only? Secondly, how in the hell do you not fuck your wife when she’s as hot as Libby?” Jarrod barks, making me glare at the bastard. “Dude, I love Amalie more than life itself, but my eyes aren’t blind and I can see that Libby is gorgeous and classy in every way,” he admits, holding his hands up defensively.

  I nod in agreement. Libby is gorgeous and classy, just like Jarrod has said. She’s also so fucking hot she makes my balls ache. Thinking about her give me the courage to come clean to the guys—my brothers. I tell them everything.

  “I thought she knew about the whole deal, but I just found out she never knew. Apparently, she’s a product of an affair her mother had and her father just wanted her gone. Everything is my fault,” I admit. “My publicist sent her a photograph of me and another woman. I told Libby I would get mine elsewhere, but I think seeing the photo sent her over the edge. She packed her clothes and left me. I have no clue where she is,” I look up into my best friends eyes and see nothing but disappointment. I am so fucking worthless.

  “Did you abuse Libby?” Jackson asks quietly. The look on his face sends a chill down my spine. I have no doubt that if he suspects I have harmed Libby in anyway physical, he’d beat me to a pulp.

  “Never. I neglected her and I ignored her, but I never laid a hand on her. Believe it or not, I do love Libby.” I put my head in my hands and focus on the dark turquoise rug trying not to cry like the pussy I am.

  “Neglect and infidelity can be just as harmful as fists, Pete,” Jackson says. It makes me feel even shittier because I know he’s right. I’ve seen pure ache, need, and want on Libby’s face more than once.

  “You fuck around on her a lot?” Carlos asks. My head shoots up at the question.

  I gulp and look at these men, these fiercely loyal men; they would never cheat on their wives. I am such a damn dirt bag.

  “Yeah. Yeah, I did a lot,” I admit. He murmurs something else in Spanish under his breath.

  Jackson’s nostrils flare and Jarrod looks at me with pity. I hate each of their responses, but I deserve them and so much more.

  “Maybe you should let the girls take care of her,” Carlos mentions.

  I shake my head. Libby is mine.

  “She’s my wife,” I state.

  “Do you even want her? You gonna keep sticking your dick in other women? I mean you say things are suddenly different, but forgive me if I don’t quite believe you. I’ve known you for seven years, man, and I never really knew you,” Jarrod points out. He is right. I’m not trustworthy. I want to stay away from other women, but can I? When we are out on the road and Libby is here, will I be faithful? I don’t know, not really.

  “I want her. I don’t know about the rest of it, but I love her,” I admit. Jarrod opens his mouth to speak but Carlos puts his hand up to stop him.

  “I want to believe you. I want to give you the benefit of the doubt, because you look fuckin’ sincere; but messing with Libby’s emotions isn’t something I’m just going to allow to happen. Is she fucked up from this? Where is she mentally? I know Victoria wouldn’t just leave me, she’d wait and cut my dick off first, let me bleed on the floor. Libby left, man. You need to respect her and let her work her shit out. If you still want her, then you’re gonna have to work for it and fight for her,” Carlos says. He’s right, but how can I fight for her and work for her if she’s hiding out in some hotel somewhere?

  “Do you love this girl that you got caught with?” Jackson asks. I don’t even have to think about it. The answer is fuck no. I shake my head. Michelle wasn’t anything to me, never was and never will be.

  “Never. She was just some girl I screwed because… because she looked a little like Libby.” Admitting it fucking hurts and I feel like even more of a shit bag—if that’s even possible.

  All three of them grumble but they don’t say anything for a few minutes. Suddenly, Jarrod’s mammoth sized hand claps me on the shoulder and he grins at me.

  “Let’s get your fuckin’ woman back. That is, if she’ll have your dumb ass back,” he says. I look around at the rest of them. Jarrod nods and smiles sadly, Carlos smiles but his eyes are narrowed on me, and Jackson still kind of looks like he wants to murder me. Carlos may have a hard-on for Amalie, but he loves Libby like a sister and he is going to protect her like one, too.

  “I need her like I need air. I don’t care if I sound like a pussy or not. I fucking love that girl,” I say sadly.

  “Brother, we’re all pussies for our women. We of all people fuckin’ get it,” Jarrod says. We all laugh for a minute before Jackson stands up and walks away, coming back minutes later with four beers.

  “Let’s drink a beer and watch sports or something before we all sync up. Holy fuck, I can’t handle any more talk of feelings,” he barks, making us all chuckle.

  I spend the day with my friends; my brothers on and off the field—my only family. My marriage is on the rocks, not obliterated yet but definitely teetering on the edge. I could get traded or just plain fired from playing the game; but with these guys around, I know I have the best support system I could ever need or want. I’ll get through this and I’ll get my woman back, right where she belongs.

  I won’t just get her back, though. I’ll fucking earn her back.

  Once the guys leave—later that night—after we drink too much beer and eat too much greasy pizza, I make my way toward Libby’s room. Foregoing my own bed, I strip down to my boxers before climbing beneath her sheets.

  The bedding smells just like her and I let that soft feminine scent lull me into a deep sleep. I need to feel close to her, and right now this is all I have. I relish it for what it is, fucking pathetic, but I’ll take whatever I can get at this point.

  ONCE EVERYTHING CAME OUT ABOUT Libby and Pete, I wanted to slap that pendejo across his pierced and tatted face. I also wanted to choke Libby and shake her. She is my best friend, yet she never told me what her life was really like. I should have known. I would have held her while she cried and I would have helped her see that she was worth more than being Pete’s live-in, whateverthefuck she was—maid, chef, publicity piece? I’m not even sure what she is to him.

  I would have told her that any man on earth would love and adore her. There are thousands out there that would kill to have a chance with a woman as beautiful and sweet as she is. Maybe that is why she never told me? Maybe she knew she could do better, but was just holding out hope and didn’t want to hear the truth?

  Looking down on her as she finally passes out and sleeps, I think about the last seven years. It all makes sense.

  Libby has always been stunningly beautiful—tall and thin—but I noticed a shift in her from the time I met her to now. When we met, she and Pete were newlyweds. She was curvy and her hair was shoulder length, not long but not short either. Libby used to wear little shorts and tank tops, perfectly suitable for our age, and her body was killer. But as time went on, I watched as her once curvy body morph from a normal shape to nothing but skin and bones.

  She became obsessed with working out and being thin. Then one day, she showed up with huge breasts attached to her body. Not that I can say much about those, since I have my own, but they didn’t look like her. They were huge and in your face, literally. She even started to change her clothes. Opting out of the cute shorts and tops to more chic styles, things that you would wear to a nice restaurant, she wore them to the ball field, instead.

  It isn't her. She isn’t fake at all, and to see her change the way she did, it worried me. But I never said a word. I figured it was what she wanted and that after she had kids, she would plump back up and be normal again. Libby transformed, though. Her body staying so thin she looks fragile. She always looks beautiful. Perfect. Too perfect and classy, but she doesn’t look real. She looks like a doll version of herself.

  Now I know why, she was trying so hard to be perfect�
�for Pete. She wants to be perfect for a man who hasn’t kissed her in seven years and hasn't made love to her as her husband. Well, not since their honeymoon, anyway. She felt out of control; but she could control one thing, she could control her body and her appearance—so she did.

  “Poor Libby. What hell she’s been through,” Amalie murmurs as we shuffle out of her suite.

  “I can’t imagine,” I say as we all pile into Amalie’s car.

  “I can,” Maggie says softly. I turn to see her wiping her eyes in the backseat. Maggie does know. She knows it all too well.

  “If Sammy had decided he wanted something different from your relationship, if he had really wanted you to be together, do you think your life would have been different with him? Do you think you guys could have really been happy?” I ask.

  “I think if somebody wants something badly enough, and they’re willing to reevaluate themselves and the way they’ve been living—if they can put the other person ahead of themselves, then I think anything is possible,” Maggie says blowing me away, the way she always does when she speaks her mind.

  “She deserves better,” I pipe up, letting my anger bubble to the top. If I see Pete anytime soon, I’ll probably beat the ever loving shit out of him with a damn shoe, I’m so mad.

  “Libby deserves to be loved. I think Pete loves her, he’s just an idiot. I can see the way he looks at her when nobody is watching. There is a longing in his eyes,” Amalie says driving through the thick city traffic.

  “She doesn’t deserve to have her husband stick his dick in every whore around town.” I say the words before I realize the implications. Maggie makes a gurgling sound in the backseat and I wait to be yelled at for being insensitive, but it never comes.

  “Nobody deserves that; but in all fairness, their situation isn’t just him sticking his dick somewhere out of boredom or because he’s just a selfish prick. I think there’s a huge underlying problem there. He didn’t just screw women then come home and pretend all was well and be with her, too. He didn’t hide his unhappiness. He didn’t pretend they were something different than what they were, except in the eye of the public,” Maggie whispers, making me feel even shittier.