by KB Winters
Damn, his voice was even sexier than the rest of him. Velvet, deep and seductive. He towered over me, at least half a foot taller and twice as wide. He’d moved close to feed the machine the quarters and the scent of cedar and citrus mixed with sweat and fresh cut grass.
“Um—just regular,” I stammered when the machine chirped.
Justin pressed the button and the machine rattled to life, depositing a plastic Coke bottle in the entry. He leaned over, swiped the drink up, and offered it to me.
“Thank you,” I said, taking it from him.
“You’re welcome.” He rocked back on his heels and slid his large hands into his pockets. A grin tugged his lips back up. “I’ve seen you hard at work in the stats booth. Whaddaya say I take you out for a real drink?”
The invitation sent my rocket crashing back to earth and I snapped up taller, thrusting my shoulders back and down. “No thank you. I’m good with this,” I choked out, holding up the bottle. “Thanks again. I’ll pay you back tomorrow.”
Justin raised his eyebrows but only smiled wider. “Great. I’ll meet you right here, tomorrow at five.”
With that, he sauntered off and my heart sank. What had I just gotten myself into?
Chapter Two
Justin
“Calloway, you gonna hit up the pussy parade?” Nate Bailey, a second-year pitcher, called across the locker room.
Jarrod Erickson chimed in first. “Count me in! Fuck, I still jerk off to the video of the blonde I scored last year.”
Bailey grinned at him. “She let you take video?”
“Fuck yeah! These college girls are fuckin’ crazy.” Erickson glanced at me. “What about you, Calloway?”
I shook my head and finished lacing up my sneakers. “Nah. Not my thing.”
Both of them stared at me, slack-jawed. “Not your thing?” Bailey said. “What part of buck-naked, hot as fuck co-eds doesn’t appeal to you?”
I straightened and leveled both of them with a hard stare. “I like women. Not frisky college girls trying to get in my pants. Besides, if you ask me, that whole pussy parade out there is playing with fire. Two words. Turkey. Baster.”
Bailey and Erikson smirked. “Turkey baster babies are an urban legend, Calloway,” Bailey said.
I shrugged. “All I’m sayin’, you better suit up and take the fucking evidence with you when you leave.” I slapped Bailey on the shoulder. “Enjoy, gents.”
I could feel their eyes on me as I sauntered from the locker room. Let them think I was crazy and outta my damn mind. I didn’t care. I hadn’t reached my lofty perch by giving a shit what other people thought of me. If I’d let opinions weigh on me, I’d be flipping burgers at some dive bar. No one thought I was supposed to become anything special. God knows, I hadn’t been groomed for the life I found myself in.
Besides, I didn’t need the long line of barely-legal girls lined up outside the stadium, desperate to score a night with a pro ball player.
I already knew what I wanted.
The brunette from the stats booth with the booty. Beautiful, full, tan legs and the cutoff shorts that had me watching her hard when she bent over to grab that Coke bottle. I had no idea who she was. Not even a first name. It didn’t really matter. I’d find out and then I’d make her mine for the night.
***
Luckily, I didn’t have to wait long before my next encounter with the brunette. The following day at practice, she was sitting in the same place, when I took the field with my trainer. She’d pulled her shoulder-length hair back into a ponytail. My fingers flexed, knowing exactly what it would feel like to grab ahold and tug her head back and forth while she knelt before me, working my cock between those pretty little rosebud lips.
Fuck. She’d be sweet. One of those eager to please types.
My favorite. It made breaking them in so much easier.
I threw a few warm-up pitches and then craned around to make sure she was watching me. She visibly jolted and fumbled with her laptop. I grinned. It was gonna be so damn easy.
The game of cat and mouse continued for a few hours under the hot Florida sun. She tried to ignore me, but I’d catch her staring. Sure, it was her job to pay attention to me. But from the way she darted her eyes anywhere else as soon as I glanced her way, I knew she wasn’t as concerned with my pitching. No. She was thinking what I’d look like without my uniform on. Hell, maybe she’d seen my spread in ESPN and already knew. Or, was wondering what that strategically placed baseball glove had been hiding.
I’d love to show her.
When I was drenched with sweat and my shoulder was screaming for relief, I called off my practice session and hit the showers. I couldn’t get the sweet brunette out of my mind. My cock went hard under the stream of water and I jerked one off, thinking about the peek of ass cheek I’d gotten the day before. Damn those cutoffs were sweet. Especially in my mind, where she wasn’t wearing a stitch underneath.
I toweled off and dressed just as Bailey and Erickson came in, grinning ear-to-ear and chattering like a couple of high school seniors about all the ass they’d scored the night before. I rolled my eyes as they bragged it up. Guys like that just didn’t get it. They had no idea what it was really like to be with a woman. To have the power and control. All they cared about was getting their rocks off as many times as they could, with as many women as they could. They’d never understand there was more to life than pussy.
And no, I wasn’t concerned about love, real feelings, or some bullshit soulmate theory.
No, I wasn’t after that either. That much we had in common.
I tugged a clean, white t-shirt over my head and stalked from the locker room before they could attempt to tangle me up in conversation. A wide smile cracked across my face as soon as I wound around the corridor and saw a familiar backside bending over at the Coke machine.
A creature of habit, I thought with a grin.
I approached the machine while her back was still turned. She spun around, Coke bottle in her hand, and came within inches of crashing into my chest. The way she jumped back reminded me of a cat doused with water. I grinned and leaned against the machine, boxing her in. “I’d introduce myself, but seeing as how it’s your job to know who I am, I’ll skip that part and ask you for your name instead.”
Her rosebud lips parted then clamped back together a few times. I could almost see the conflicted thoughts tangled behind her bright blue eyes.
“All right,” I said, reaching forward to take her hand. “We’ll start with me. Justin Calloway.”
“I know who you are,” she said with a frown. She tugged her hand free of the limp handshake. “What do you want?”
Damn, this one’s been put through something… I softened my approach, dialed back my cocky grin a notch, and started over. “I want to know your name.”
“Why?” She seemed genuinely puzzled by my question.
A chuckle burst from me. “Are you always this guarded? Forget having a wall, you’ve got a goddamn fortress built around you.”
She darted a glance down the hallway as though mentally mapping out an escape route.
“Come on,” I prompted. “Just your name.”
“I need to get back to work.” She started to move away, gingerly tiptoeing past me like she thought I might reach out and snag her and pull her back. I let her go but couldn’t hold back a chuckle as she walked away. “You know I can find out who you are. Even if you don’t tell me.”
She nodded and hurried off. But stopped short a few paces later. She turned and called back. “Grace. My name is Grace.”
Then, just as quickly, she was gone, swallowed up in the crowd of people flocking the concession stands that were open for spectators and media personnel.
Grace. I smiled to myself. It was perfect for her.
I had the first piece of the puzzle. Now I just needed to gather up the rest.
Chapter Three
Grace
What is wrong with me?
Half an hou
r had passed since the strange encounter with Justin and I was still replaying it through my mind, trying to figure out what in the world any of it meant. The day before, when I’d left the stadium, I’d seen first-hand the crowd of scantily-clad women who were waiting for the players to stream out. There wasn’t a doubt in my mind that the neighboring bars, clubs, and restaurants were packed all night with players, fans, and of course, the women who were chasing fame like their lives depended on it. Spring training was one of the biggest tourist booms for the area. Justin and the rest of the pitchers were traditionally the first group to arrive, and as such, had the pick of the litter.
So why was he so interested in talking to me?
And, an even better question, why did it secretly thrill me so much?
It wasn’t just that he was out of my league. No, in baseball terms, Justin Calloway was so far out of bounds that he’d bypass the parking lot and land in some random backyard one town over. I had no business thinking about him in that way. And yet, I’d tossed and turned most of the night before, thinking of the way he’d looked at me when he offered to buy me a real drink.
Would that have been a date? Did I turn down a date with Justin Calloway?
Farrah would murder me.
Not that I had any intention on telling her. Hell, for all I knew, I was suffering some sort of psychotic break and had imagined the whole thing. I mean really, who asks someone on a date in front of a sticky Coke machine?
I shook my head and forced myself to get my head together. Practice was winding down for the day. I had to get back home and keep studying. Last night’s cram session had been severely hampered. Again, Justin’s fault. Or my own…if it was all imagined anyway…right?
I dragged in a deep sigh. Losing my mind at the tender young age of twenty-one. Fantastic.
Enough was enough. It was time to focus. Justin was on the field with his trainer but I shifted my attention to the half a dozen other pitchers. Another hour passed and I managed to keep up with my stats. The session was winding down when my phone buzzed in my front pocket. I tugged it out and rolled my eyes at Farrah’s message: You’re falling down on the job, bitch. I need pictures! Send me one of Justin Calloway!
I scoffed and quickly replied with a firm no.
Seconds later my phone chirped again. Come on! Even better, one with you and him together!
No! Staaaph!
You know you’d give him your v-card. What girl wouldn’t?
Any girl with self-respect. :) I didn’t even like tattoos.
Except on him…but I wasn’t going to tell her that.
God, why is this happening? I hated when girls fawned over unattainable men and made them the center of the universe. Ya know, like Brad Pitt or Chris Pine. The odds of even meeting a movie star in real life were slim to none. Getting their attention and falling madly in love was another level of illusion entirely. What was the point?
Somewhere in the back of my mind a small voice started to argue, pointing out that I’d already jumped over the first and half of the second hurdle. I met Justin Calloway, and for whatever inexplicable reason, had captured his attention.
I typed out a message to Farrah. He left the stadium with some blonde bimbo yesterday.
There. That should shut her up.
Farrah replied moments later. I doubt they’re at the this-feels-like-forever stage yet. You just need to get his attention!
I sighed. She was relentless.
Surrendering, I put the phone away and leaned back in my seat. The sun was beating down on my legs and I stretched them out to make sure the rays could reach as much of my winter skin as possible. I hadn’t had much time to get outside over the last few months and my skin tone showed it. In Florida, it was relatively easy to keep a golden tan year-round, even without the help of a fake n’ bake machine. But I’d been spending too much time inside, buried in textbooks, as I hurtled through my senior year. When I wasn’t studying, I was polishing my resume and pulling together a list of potential employers.
It had been a break-neck pace for the last three and a half years and something told me it was only going to get faster. In the next six months, I’d graduate, hopefully accept a job in my chosen field, and move to whatever city I ended up landing in. I’d have to find a place to live, move everything from Florida and my parent’s home back in Oklahoma. Definitely a grind.
My thoughts kept stirring through my mind as I glanced back up at the field. Justin was watching me and when our eyes met, my stomach lurched. He turned away and wound up. My eyes raked over the muscles in his back and shoulders, evident through his tight, sweat-soaked t-shirt. The way he moved was athletic and graceful. Then, an explosion of brute force and power as he hurtled the ball. Bam! The perfect fastball. It hit his trainer’s glove with a satisfying thump and then he looked over his shoulder, grinning at me.
Well, damn.
***
An hour after I clocked out of my shift, I was still lingering at the stadium. It wasn’t a conscious decision. At least not at first. I was on my way to my car when I caught a whiff of something delicious cooking at one of the high-end food carts parked in the far corner of the stadium lot where the media vans were parked. It was also where lowly employees, such as myself, were allowed to park. I followed my nose and ended up on a picnic table with a portabella mushroom burger in my hands with a side of sweet potato fries and an iced tea.
Across the way, a voice carried toward me and every muscle fiber cinched tight. My stomach swooped and I followed the sound to see the same backside I’d been trying to avoid staring at all afternoon at the window of the same truck I’d ordered my late lunch from.
I tugged my ball cap down over my eyes and tried to hurry through my burger—which was a real shame because it was mouth-watering and deserved savoring.
The picnic table rocked slightly and I didn’t have to look up to know who’d joined me without an invitation.
“Come here often?”
I rolled my eyes and peeked up. Sure enough, Justin was sitting there, his long fingers wrapped around his own burger, wearing a wide grin. “How did you know I was out here?”
He hitched one shoulder. “I didn’t.” He took a big bite, offering no further explanation.
I dragged a fry through the siracha laced ketchup and popped it into my mouth. “Somehow I doubt they make the players park way out here in the boondocks with us lowly commoners.”
Justin laughed and for a moment I was paralyzed. His eyes sparked with amusement, making them all the more mesmerizing. There wasn’t one thing about the man that was halfway. He was full-blown perfection, down to every fleck of gold in his hazel eyes.
“I wanted something to eat besides congealed cheese nachos or a slice of greasy pizza,” he explained and I believed him. “One of the guys told me this was out here so I figured I’d give it a shot. Finding a drop-dead sexy companion is just a perk.”
My eyes widened at his unabashed words. No one had ever called me sexy before. Certainly not drop-dead sexy.
Justin grinned and leaned in closer. “Grace.”
My name rolled off his tongue like it was some kind of secret musical note. No one had ever said my name that way before. It wrapped around me and squeezed. Looking into his eyes, I wondered what other firsts he could give me.
No. That is so not an option.
I shook my head and Justin leaned back and took another bite as if nothing out of the ordinary had just happened. “This your first year running stats?” he asked casually.
“Um, no. Third actually.”
His eyebrows lifted. “Really? How old are you?”
I frowned. “Old enough.”
He raised an eyebrow. Smolder much? “I’ll bet.”
My stomach churned. No, no, no. That wasn’t what I meant!
“I’m twenty-one and I’m a statistician major over at Eastern. I’ve been running baseball stats for a long time, mostly for college games starting back when I was in high school and the last
three spring training’s I’ve been here.”
Justin nodded. “I’m impressed.”
I hated to admit it, but warmth bloomed in my chest at his words. Something told me Justin Calloway wasn’t impressed easily.
“Are you doing this gig full time once you graduate?” he asked after swallowing another bite of his burger.
“No.”
He tilted his head. “No? What’s the plan?”
“Why do you wanna know?” I asked, reaching for another fry. “You’ve sure got a lot of questions.”
He propped his elbows on the table and leaned in as though he was ready to share a deep secret. “The truth?”
“Always preferable in my book.”
“Noted.” He grinned. “Truth is I spend all day with a bunch of sweat-stained dudes who want to talk about craft beer and chasing pussy all fucking day. I’m dying for some intelligent conversation.”
A surprised laugh burst from my lips. “Really?”
“Would I lie to you?”
I smiled. “I don’t really know.”
His face shifted, suddenly serious. “I wouldn’t.”
“Okay…” My heart beat faster at the charged intensity infused between us, as though we were sitting on a sofa somewhere instead of at a flimsy picnic table in the outer skirts of a baseball stadium parking lot. I nodded. “What do you like to talk about?”
“Books, movies, current events. Take your pick.”
“Books?” I tilted my head.
He reared back, feigning shock. “Are you implying that a baseball player couldn’t possibly be interested in discussing books?”
Heat scorched my cheeks. “I didn’t mean it—”
Justin interrupted my excuse with a good-natured chuckle. “It’s all right, Grace. I get it. It’s the tattoos. Makes everyone assume my IQ is twenty points lower or something.”
I shook my head. “No-not at all. I just—” I stopped, cringing. “I’m sorry.”
“No sweat, baby.”
He sat back and went back to work on his meal. We ate in silence for a few moments. I considered him from over the rim of my glass as I washed down the last bite with a swig of iced tea. He was different than I expected. Softer and yet, somehow, harder. Blunt and direct but he remained a mystery. It was a perplexing mix that had me questioning all of my preconceptions.