Inside Game

by Collette West

  And I know that the thought of it is getting to him already, especially after the terrible hitting session he had in the cage. Last night, he woke up out of a dead sleep when he caught me staring at him from his doorway. So far, he's been abiding by my rule, leaving the doors unlocked, but he must've felt the shadow I was casting across his face. When he saw me standing there, he couldn't take his eyes off me. I could've gone in, sat on the bed, and let whatever was going to happen happen, but I didn't. Instead, I walked back down the hall and crawled into bed alone, my heart racing.

  All I could think about was how I could have used my fingers to soothe him like I did when he was in the throes of withdrawal. I could have caressed the back of his head where his hairline meets his neck, a spot I quickly discovered to be a favorite of his. It was the only thing that calmed him down when he was tossing and turning in bed or had his head bent over the toilet. I bet he doesn't even remember me doing it, and maybe it's good that he doesn't.

  Touch is such a powerful motivating force, and ethically, I was probably crossing a line I had no business crossing. But seeing him in such agony and being all alone with him with nowhere to turn, I didn't know what else to do. I felt an overwhelming desire to comfort him, and I allowed myself to give in to it, knowing that it was wrong.

  But now, it's different. He's fully cognizant and trying to initiate something between us that, once started, there's no going back from. And it scares me. I can't entertain any sort of fantasy that, by giving myself to Drake, I'd be enough for him—that he wouldn't want cocaine anymore because he had me to take its place. Because addiction doesn't work like that. My touch isn't going to be enough to ease his desire for what my body can't give him. Short of coating my lips with the cursed white powder he so desperately craves, I'd never be able to give him the high he's seeking.

  And it'd break my heart.

  I didn't sleep all night, listening to the storm rage outside my window, the rain hitting hard against the glass. The sea was loud and ferocious, and I was grateful that there's a cliffside that protects this place from getting washed away. It's strange for me to be at the mercy of the elements when I'm usually worried about things like hailing a cab at rush hour or paying my Con Edison bill on time.

  This city girl has a lot to learn about island life.

  Especially when I nearly jump out of my skin when Drake wanders onto the patio with a bowl of cereal in his hand.

  "Good morning," he says mid yawn.

  I hastily run my fingers through my hair. He was fast asleep when I checked on him fifteen minutes ago. I was going to wake him soon, but I thought I'd have time to jump in the shower before he got up. I must look a mess, since so far, he's only ever seen me with my hair combed and my teeth brushed. I've never let it all hang out before, trying to maintain some semblance of professionalism around him.

  But I can't find the words to respond when I see that he's wearing nothing but a tight, white T-shirt and a pair of lounge pants, which are untied and hanging low on his hips. His hair is all messy too as he takes a seat across from me, and his eyes are half open like he didn't get much sleep either. He bends his head and starts shoveling the cereal into his mouth, making me glad that he's getting his appetite back. He was right. The fresh air and sunshine are just what he needed.

  "Did you eat already? I can run in and get you a bowl." He lifts his eyes to mine, and I'm touched that he's thinking of me and not just himself.

  "That's okay. I was just going to go in and freshen up," I say, slowly sliding away from the table. "As long as you promise not to move until I get back. I'm warning you. I'll only be gone ten minutes tops."

  "Do you have to go just yet?" he asks, a needy note to his voice. "I kind of like looking at you like this."

  "Like what?" I snort. "Like I just rolled out of bed?"

  "Exactly," he responds, the beginnings of a smirk forming on his lips.

  My heart starts to race at the prospect of waking up and rolling out of his bed. Is that what he's picturing too? Is that why he finds my messed-up hair such a turn-on? My cheeks burn at the image of all the things he could do to mess my hair up: running his hands through it, wrapping it around his fingers, tugging on it in the height of passion.

  I grip the table hard. He raises an eyebrow at me, his grin deepening, causing his dimples to stand out. And all I can think about is what it would feel like to run my tongue over them, dipping it into those two adorable grooves, making him laugh until he threw me over his shoulder and carried me back to that bed of his.

  But then he surprises me, suddenly turning serious. "Eva, why did you run away from me last night?"

  I lean forward and cross my ankles together, not sure how to answer him. "I didn't run… I just wanted to check on you. The storm woke me up, and I wanted to make sure you were okay." I wince. "You probably think I'm suffocating you."

  "I don't think that," he says softly. "I kind of like it. It's what I need."

  "I thought you said you didn't need a babysitter."

  He smiles. "I always perform better for the managers and coaches who ride my ass." He takes another spoonful of cereal, munching on it before continuing. "The ones who don't let me get away with anything or make excuses for me. I need a firm hand. Discipline is what I thrive under. It's what keeps me in line."

  I swallow my fear, giving voice to my biggest concern. Even if he's not ready to think about it yet, it's something we have to discuss.

  "But what happens when I'm no longer around to lean on?"

  "You'll be there." He winks at me before drinking the remaining milk straight from the bowl.

  "And how do you know that?" I purse my lips, amused when a few drops trickle down his chin.

  He immediately wipes them away with the back of his hand. "Because you're not in it for the paycheck. You're the real deal." He gets up from the table and saunters toward the kitchen, shifting sideways so his broad shoulders can fit through the door. He turns around when I don't respond. "Now, don't look so panic-stricken." He laughs. "I'll be right back. Now that we're finally done with all that green tea crap, I need my morning cup of coffee. You're not taking caffeine away from me too." He wiggles his eyebrows at me. "Then I promise I'll sit my ass down so you can take a shower. You can even tie my legs to the table if you want."

  I hold my breath and let it out slowly. He thinks this is going to continue after his suspension is over because he knows I'm the type who gets personally invested in my clients. I can't just cross my fingers and let them go, hoping they'll be able to make it on their own. But it's like he's also hinting that he wants something more as well. Like what we have is important to him and he wants to see where it can possibly lead when he's sober and back playing the game.

  But I don't know if I'm up for that. How does being a part of his life even work for someone like me? He's shared things with me he's only ever told his wife. She might have been okay with it, or more likely helpless to stop it, but it doesn't mean I am.

  Because I can't be with a drug dealer, no matter how much I find myself coming to care about him.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Drake

  I took her fishing with me this afternoon and ended up catching our dinner. It seems like all I've been doing the month and a half we've been here is eat, like she's trying to fatten me up or something. But I don't mind. It shows how much she cares about getting me back into competitive form.

  I stare at her out of the corner of my eye as we watch the Kings game on my satellite TV. She thought it'd be good for me to see how the guys are doing, being that I haven't been following the standings or heard from a single one of them. I guess it's to be expected. I'm not exactly known for being a team player.

  "Sanders is on fire, isn't he?" she asks innocently enough, gesturing at the screen with the bottle of water in her hand.

  My rookie replacement is doing a little too well while filling in for me at third. Since I left, he's been hitting over .320, with five homers and twenty RBIs. The
kid's on a tear, and he's been killing it with his glove too, making my limited range look even more pathetic in comparison. My reflexes have slowed down, but I was never meant to be a third baseman. I was always a shortstop until I came over to the Kings. I had to change positions because Chase was a permanent fixture at that spot. No one was going to move him—not even me.

  But I know that the real reason Sanders is doing so well because I hooked him up with PEDs—but I'm not about to tell Eva that. My admission of supplying other players already created sort of a no-go zone between us. It was a dumb move on my part. I didn't have to let her in on that little secret. Her eyes have been full of doubt ever since I told her. But it doesn't seem like she's doubting me—more like she's doubting her ability to help me—and that's what killing me the most.

  Besides, Sanders probably isn't doping now that his supply's been cut off.

  Most, if not all, players are willing to do whatever it takes to improve their muscle size and strength, even if there's no clear-cut research out there that indicates that PEDs actually work. It's just how the baseball culture operates. If one guy is rumored to be taking something and his offensive output skyrockets, then everyone jumps on the bandwagon whether the results can be scientifically proven or not. Guys are willing to take anything in order to gain a competitive edge, no matter how small, even if the side effects start at embarrassing, from man boobs to shrunken testicles, to more dangerous complications, like liver damage and cancer. Plus, the likelihood of developing injuries goes through the roof since PEDs tend to weaken the connective tissue and ligaments that lead to nasty tears, strains, and all kinds of muscle pulls.

  So why would any player ever want to take them?

  Ego.

  Every single one of us wants to be the best.

  Sanders was sent down to the minors for the latter half of last year, so he was willing to do anything to stick around this season. It wasn't hard to convince him to give HGH a try. It was almost too easy, like handing candy to a baby.

  Sanders's using during the offseason and throughout spring training is all the proof I need. His mistake is my ticket back onto the team, and there's no chance in hell I'm giving that up. Not even for Eva.

  I let my gaze rake over her. I like seeing her legs in shorts, but that's as casual as it gets. No bikini tops and skimpy cut-offs for her. And definitely no sun bathing. She's all business all the time.

  We're sitting at the bar area in the kitchen, looking out at the water. Our empty plates are before us since we're both too stuffed to move. I bump my water bottle against hers to get her to look at me.

  "How about a beer so we can kick back and relax while we watch the rest of the game?" I smile at her, pretending it's nothing but a simple request, but it's more than that.

  I'm on edge after having heard Andy Rader, the Kings' TV announcer—who also just happens to be the husband of GM Gayle Rader—praise Sanders to the hilt. No one's coming right out and saying that they don't want me back, but the implication is clear. Why rock the boat when a rookie who's making a fraction of my salary is doing a better job than I was?

  "Beer? I don't think so." She shoots me down, eyeing me warily.

  And since Andy Rader's not here, I vent my pent-up anger at her instead of him. "This healthy lifestyle you have me living isn't going to last, no matter how much you try to kid yourself."

  Even though I've been faithfully abiding by it ever since we started living together—going to bed early, eating right, working out—and I can definitely feel my strength returning.

  She looks at me thoughtfully, not rising to the bait. "Quit being jealous of a young guy who's finally getting a break. By playing well, Sanders is taking the pressure off your back so no one's rushing your return."

  "But how am I supposed to compete with him?" I grumble to her. "I lost twenty pounds, all of it muscle."

  "The detox took a toll on your body. There's no denying that, but you'll get it back. You've been active every single second since we've been on the island."

  "Yeah, but my bones have been aching. I feel like a crippled, old man." I let out my breath in a huff, laying all of my insecurities bare.

  I don't feel so confident about my body right now. It's why I've been keeping my shirt on whenever I'm around her now. I'm flabby. I'm not as tight and toned as I was when I let her get a good look at me during our first night together back at the Roosevelt Building.

  But I don't say that to her. Instead, I say, "I haven't been bench-pressing as much as I usually do. The weights I've been lifting aren't going to cut it. I had a hard time pulling the boat to the dock this afternoon. I felt weak. Lightheaded, even."

  "That's to be expected," she responds, resting her hand atop mine. "You've been pushing yourself hard, working out like a maniac, but it's going to take time."

  "Time I don't have." I scowl, pointing at the screen as the Kings' network replays the shot of Sanders hitting another one out of the park.

  "You're just bored." She throws me a sidelong glance. "Listen…why don't we take a day trip tomorrow?"

  "Day trip, huh? Do I get to pick where we go?" I watch her beneath hooded lids.

  "Yes. Within reason," she laughs. "I don't want you flying us to Paris for dinner or anything."

  "Now that you mention it…" I tap my finger against the counter.

  "Don't even think about it," she chuckles, sliding off the stool.

  She strides over to the TV and turns it off, probably for my benefit, and I can't take my eyes off her as she starts clearing off the plates before positioning herself behind the sink.

  "I do have a dishwasher, you know," I tease her, getting a good view of her backside as she sashays back and forth.

  "Sometimes it's good to get your hands dirty in order to clean something up." She looks at me over her shoulder, her raven curls cascading down her back. "You should try it sometime."

  I'm worried about the danger I'm putting her in. I know Mama's boys are coming for me for dumping all that HGH, and I'd do anything to keep her safe. I'm scared because I don't know how many more nights like this I have left with her. I need to seize the moment. I need to feel her in my arms.

  I get to my feet, drawn to her. I have to hold her. Nothing else will do.

  I don't know what comes over me, but I'm behind her in two seconds flat, wrapping my arms around her. She flinches at the unexpectedness of my touch. Her hands are immersed in the sudsy water, and I hold on to her wrists to keep them there. I don't know what I'm doing or why I feel such an intense desire to hold her like this, but I don't want her to decide where this is going. I want to be the one in control, choosing how far I want to take things.

  I shift my hips and line myself up against her luscious backside. She goes completely still, so I spread my legs farther apart, sliding her between them. Lowering my forehead onto her shoulder, I breathe in the clean, welcoming scent of her shampoo, and I can't resist nuzzling her hair. I move my hands to her waist, drawing her closer until my hard-on is hitting her right between her legs.

  She rests her hands on top of the sink, dropping her head. Her rib cage expands against my hands, and her breathing becomes strained. I lean into her again, moving her hair aside. She groans when I lay a delicate kiss on her neck, breathlessly moaning my name in warning but not telling me to stop.

  But I know I should. Just because my body's coming alive again doesn't give me the right to jump all over her—even though she feels so good, just like I knew she would. If I'm going to do anything with her, I intend for it to be long term. I'm not going to fuck her and leave her. She deserves better than that.

  And right now, that's all it would be—a hot, passionate fuck we'd both regret in the morning. Because, while she cares about me as a client, I don't know if she wants me the same way I want her. She's holding a piece of herself back. I can feel it. And I don't only want a part of her. I want all of her. And I'm scared of losing her—because I'll never be the kind of guy she needs.

  I ste
p back and roughly run my hands through my hair. "I'm sorry," I whisper, but she doesn't turn around. "I'll… I'll see you in the morning."

  Her shoulders rise up and down as she braces herself against the sink. I wonder what she's thinking at this very moment. Would she turn me down if I kept going? Or would she give in, letting me show her a night of passion she'd never forget? I nearly lose it when she bends her head and utters the tiniest of whimpers when she believes I'm no longer watching her.

  I'm two steps away from saying to hell with being good…and noble…and decent. There's nothing I'd like more than to pick her up and carry her back to my bedroom with me. But I can't.

  Maybe someday, but not tonight.

  I walk backwards, soaking in every last glimpse of her all hot and aroused before falling back against my bedroom door.

  And leaving it unlocked.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Drake

  "An airboat? Really?" She raises her hand to her eyes, shaking her head in amusement. "You're obsessed with anything with an engine, aren't you?"

  "Movement means freedom. That's what life's all about."

  I lower the brim of my old, beat-up San Diego baseball cap over my eyes, the one I've kept on a hook in the shed down here forever. It's so worn out that the logo has even faded away. It's the very first cap I ever wore in the majors, my one-way ticket out of the backwoods of Kentucky.

  "So, where are we going today?" she asks, standing on the dock, her ponytail whipping around her, some strands getting delightfully tangled in her mouth.

  Last night, I got an intoxicating tease of what her hair feels like brushing up against my lips, and it's all I've been able to think about since. She's been playing it cool, acting like nothing happened between us last night—except when I catch her looking at me whenever she thinks I'm not watching her.

  It's like all the times I'd stare at her at the stadium when she'd turn to say something to her father or bend down to take a sip of her drink. I'd usually pick my moments when I knew she wasn't looking so that I could let my eyes linger on her until the next pitch. For years, I always looked forward to Friday nights, knowing she'd be in the crowd. I didn't care if anyone else was there to watch me play. She was the only one who mattered.