The Catch

by K. Bromberg

  “Don’t tell him that or we’ll never get his ego to fit through the door.”

  “Ain’t that the truth. You catching his games at all?”

  “Of course.” I offer a sly smile. “You guys play out there, and I sit in here and watch him on my phone.”

  “Traitor.” This time his laugh is loud and draws more attention from the guys.

  “The same can be said for the management of this team and what they did to him.”

  “Yeah. It’s still not sitting well with the guys. Everyone’s on edge. If the front office can do that to Easton—Mr. Ace himself—then they can and will do it to anyone. It doesn’t make for good team morale.”

  “How could it?”

  “There are rumors that Cory’s on the bubble. I guess Finn finally got hold of Boseman, and he’s pissed about what Cory did with East. That he never approved the trade. The goddamn left hand doesn’t know what the right hand is doing and still someone got jacked off.”

  “So eloquent,” I say with a roll of my eyes, but I’m more intrigued than ever. Is Finn trying to cover his ass? By advising Easton to sign that addendum, he’s the one who’s ultimately responsible for letting the club have a decision to make in the first place. And the fact that he still represents Easton makes my stomach hurt.

  But that’s not why Drew is here to talk to me. I can tell there’s more and am curious what it’s about so I make small talk until he gets to it.

  “I know it’s been tough for you. The guys are being dicks, giving you constant bullshit, and strutting around naked.”

  “It’s nothing I can’t handle,” I say. “I’ll make a few quips about how small their dicks are and before you know it, the towels will stay on and it will all stop.”

  “Yeah, but you shouldn’t have to handle it at all. You’re being professional and they’re acting like sexist pigs.”

  At least he’s accurate in his description. “Let’s hope those sexist pigs don’t ever find themselves injured because I won’t be as gentle with them as I would with you.”

  But I need to get a handle on it. And soon. Or else Cory’s going to think I’m incapable of running the program.

  “I like the way you think.” He stares at me and chews his bottom lip for a moment before getting to his point. “They knew you were sleeping with East so they’ve just assumed you have a thing for baseball players. I guess they’re thinking they might get a chance with you too.”

  I snort at how ludicrous that is but then realize he’s not joking. “There’s no chance there. I’m still with Easton.”

  “Hmm.” It’s all he says. The damn sound makes my stomach drop to my toes and allows doubt to fester when it hasn’t been there once since he left.

  Sure, I miss him. Sure I hate knowing he might be out in a bar with his new teammates and a woman might be hitting on him . . . but that could happen here too. That little hum in Drew’s throat tickles at the base of my neck and tugs on insecurities lying dormant.

  “Is there something you’re not telling me?” I hate that I even ask, well aware it undermines my professionalism, and yet I hang on to the silence and wait for his answer.

  “Nah. He’s a good guy. It’s just I’ve never seen him like this over a woman.”

  “So . . . what? You wanted to feel around and see if I’d take any of the guys up on their offer? Make sure I’m true to Easton? I appreciate your loyalty to your friend, but we’ve got things between us handled just fine.”

  The ringing of my phone interrupts the conversation. I don’t mean to do anything more than to silence the ring and send it to voicemail but when I see Sally’s number on the phone, fear has me answering as quickly as possible.

  The clinical white walls feel like they’re sapping every ounce of my courage as I rush down the hallway.

  “His fingernails were blue. I should have known.” Sally wrings her hands as she keeps up beside me toward wherever we’re going in this maze of hell.

  “How could you have known?” I ask but don’t really pay attention to what I’m saying because being here has transported me back to three years ago. Back to when the doctor told me my brother, Ford, had died. How after hearing those words, I felt like every ounce of blood had been drained from my body and all of the oxygen had been sucked from the room. The sadness that was nothing short of crippling. The emptiness inside that felt like it went on without end.

  Snap out of it, Scout. This is Dad. Not Ford. And he’s going to hang on longer. He has to hang on longer than this.

  “I found tissues with blood on them. He said it was because he cut himself but . . . I should have known he’d coughed it up.” A tear slides down her cheek and I know she cares about my dad. The next-door neighbor turned best friend turned to we-never-discussed-their-relationship. Deep down I know love is involved and at this point and time, I wonder why I never pressed to ask more.

  The things you choose to think about when you don’t want to think about the now.

  “You couldn’t have known, Sally. This isn’t your fault.”

  STAT codes are called over the PA system and shoes squeak on the floor as nurses and doctors rush to save another person, another life.

  And yet I know my dad’s can’t be saved.

  “The fluid built up in his lungs. They call it a pulmonary—”

  “Edema,” I finish for her. I’ve researched this disease every which way from Sunday since he was diagnosed and know the signs, the symptoms, the ladder of demise.

  “The cardiologist changed up his blood pressure medication to help clear the fluid out. She said once it lessens, he’ll be able to head home.”

  A wail of “No, please no,” floats out of a room across the hallway and every part of my body twists in despair. I know what that helplessness feels like.

  “I shouldn’t have called you in such a state of panic. But the ambulance came and I was afraid that it was—”

  “Don’t ever apologize for calling me, Sally.” I pull her into me and we cling to each other in the middle of the hallway, trying to find comfort in one another even when we know the man we both love is losing his fight.

  Day by day.

  Hour by hour.

  Bit by bit.

  And when we release each other, both with eyes filled with tears, I turn to find we’re where we need to be, room 412. Fear, hope, desperation, guilt—all four run a tyrannical rant inside me as I prepare myself to see him. To apologize in person for the angry words I said to him last week.

  When I gather the courage, I enter the room with Sally’s hand on my shoulder in support, and my heart lodged in my throat. My dad’s lying in the bed, leads are attached all over his chest and he looks like he’s hooked up to an army of machines. His face is pale and eyes are closed. I notice how scraggly his hair looks—longer, unkempt—and I’m immediately brought back to when I was younger and he would wear his hair longer as was the style.

  When he was healthy. Invincible.

  Not wanting to disturb him, I walk forward and sit in the chair beside him as Sally steps out and gives me some privacy. I lay my hand over his, study the still slightly blue nail beds, and revel in the fact his skin is still warm, not cold like the last time I held Ford’s hand. I stare at him then, memorize the new lines etched in his face and wonder if this is how it will end for him. In a hospital with unfamiliar surroundings. Or will it be at home in his sleep overlooking the field he loves full of the memories we made together?

  The tears come at the thought. Of the sadness wrapped in bittersweet.

  His hand moves beneath mine, and I whip my eyes up to meet his weary ones.

  “Hi.”

  He nods his head ever so slightly and closes his eyes for a very slow blink before opening them and looking back at me. “No crying,” he demands in a quiet rasp.

  Unbelievable. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

  “You’re going to have to leave if you cry.”

  I chuckle, astounded when I shouldn’t be. He’ll never
change, even when he’s like this. “You’re in no state to tell me what to do so you need to just lie there and rest, while I sit here and worry. Or cry. That’s how it’s going to be, Dad, whether you like it or not. Got it?”

  He stares at me for a moment, eyes hardened steel, but he doesn’t have enough strength to keep them that way for long. They begin to soften as the disease saps his strength and causes him to relent.

  He nods softly and closes his eyes. “Thank you for coming, Scouty-girl.”

  And with those words, I know we’re okay. He’s forgiven me for the things I said to him.

  I squeeze his hand gently. “I’ll always be here, Dad. Get some rest.”

  “You okay? I haven’t been able to reach you all day.” I want to sink into the sound of his voice and pretend it’s his arms wrapping around me. And knowing he’s there has the tears that have been burning all day threaten to return.

  “Yeah.” It’s all I can manage to nod my head without giving away how much I need him right now.

  His brown eyes narrow and fill with concern across the FaceTime connection. “Scout?”

  “Just a rough day all around.” I muster a smile and clear my throat. “My dad was taken to the hospital so I spent the better part of the day there just sitting with him and watching him while he slept . . .” I go on to explain everything.

  “I’m sorry I can’t be there with you.” His smile is soft and sincere and I miss everything about those lips. “But he’s going to be okay? I mean . . . for now.”

  “Yeah. He’ll get to go home in a day or two. Once his lungs clear a little . . . but the doctor says it will most likely happen again. And then again. Each time it will be worse until . . .”

  He just nods to let me know he understands. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay. It’s just been a day.”

  He stares at me across the silence of the connection, looking as tired as I feel but unknowingly giving me everything I need right now. Him. Only him. That’s all I seem to need these days.

  “Oh my God,” I say with a shake of my head as I snap out of my funk. “You hit another homerun tonight. You’re on such an incredible roll.”

  “Shh,” he says quickly like a little kid, eyes flashing a warning that makes me laugh more than I should.

  I hold my hands up in surrender. “My apologies. How could I forget baseball superstitions? If you talk about it, you jinx it.”

  “Something like that.” His grin is infectious.

  I miss the feel of it against my lips.

  I miss the chafe of his stubble against my skin.

  I miss him.

  “You watched the game?”

  “Of course. I’ve watched every game. This one I watched with my dad though. Against nurse’s orders, I climbed in beside him in his bed, and we watched it. He critiqued everything about you, you know.”

  “Of course he did.” He laughs. “How did I fare on the Dalton barometer?”

  “He thinks you look good. The rotation of your arm. The strength in your throws. Everything. I mean, how can he not when you threw out Jenkins trying to steal—”

  “Come visit me this weekend.” The way he says it stops all train of thought.

  “But I thought the plan was—”

  “Plans change. And I miss you.” Be still, my beating heart. “I’ll be in New York. The Aces have a two-day break and their next stop is New York, so you’ll just come early. Spend the weekend with me. I need to see you.”

  My heart soars and my reply is automatic.

  “Yes.”

  His chuckle is sleep-drugged. “Better bring those brownie points with you.”

  I laugh for what feels like the first time all day. “You’ve earned so many, Wylder, you might need to start calling me Betty Crocker.”

  Better yet, Betty Cocker.

  Damn.

  Is it fucking pathetic that the minute she walks into the lobby of the hotel every part of me stirs to life? My heart. My dick. My fucking breath.

  The skirt and cowboy boots she’s wearing only encourage every fantasy I’ve ever had of her. The ones that have been on repeat in my spank bank since I left home.

  It’s been ten long days. Ones filled with the high of returning to this game in peak form and the lows of sleeping in an empty bed every night.

  Looking around, she adjusts her carry-on bag on her shoulder. A man walks by and turns his head to get a second look.

  Move along, prick. She’s mine.

  I pick up my phone and type: Hey Betty Crocker, turn to your right. I’m in the back booth.

  She smiles when the text hits her cell before making her way toward the swanky bar. It takes a second for her eyes to adjust to the darkened atmosphere but the moment she spots me, her lips curl up in that shy smile of hers before heading my direction.

  I watch her hips sway. The shape of her legs. The bounce of her tits. And every part of me demands I get up and waste no time taking advantage of all those and more, but hell if I don’t want to savor her too.

  “Is this seat taken?” she asks, eyes devouring me despite the coy smile on her lips.

  So that’s how she wants to play this? Bring it, Kitty.

  “It depends. Is it?” My eyes run up and down the length of her body and my dick hardens at the knowledge of just how addictive everything is underneath.

  She angles her head to the side and stares at me for a beat. Grey eyes telling me so much more than her lips are saying. “That depends on what you have in mind.”

  My laugh is rich but strained. “Oh, I’ve got a lot of things in mind, sweetheart, but I’m a man of action. I prefer to do things instead of simply talk about them.”

  “And what type of things do you . . . like to do?” Her voice is breathless. Her nipples hardened against the fabric of her shirt.

  “Why don’t you take a seat and find out?”

  She looks at where I pat on the seat beside me and then back to me. “My daddy taught me to never talk to strangers.”

  I chuckle as I lift my brandy to my lips, eyes locked on hers over the rim of the glass. “And mine always told me how important it was to make new friends.”

  She breaks character for a moment—smile widening, head shaking—before she holds out her hand and carries on the charade. “Kitty. Nice to meet you.”

  “Easton. Believe me, Kitty, the pleasure is all mine.”

  She slides into the booth next to me and we stare at each other for a few seconds, eyes saying what our bodies are begging for.

  “Hi,” she finally says.

  “Hi.”

  “What brings you to town?”

  “I play baseball.”

  “Like big bats and balls, type of baseball?” She feigns innocence and fuck if she’s not adorable.

  “Something like that.” I chew the side of my cheek enjoying this game.

  “Do you always drink before you have a game?” She nods to my tumbler.

  “Only when I’m celebrating.”

  “And what exactly are you celebrating, Easton?”

  I swear to God, the breathless tone to her voice is like fingernails scratching ever so slightly over my balls. It’s so damn sexy. “We’ll get to that in a moment,” I murmur propping my elbow on the back of the booth. I run my finger over my bottom lip. I need something to occupy my hands since all they want to do is touch her. “What about you? What brings you to town?”

  “I’m a baker.”

  My laugh is loud but she keeps character. “What is it you bake, Kitty?”

  “Brownies.”

  “Brownies?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Did you know I happen to love brownies?” I say as I give in to the temptation and touch her. My hand to her thigh, and hell if touching her doesn’t make me want to speed this game up despite the promise to myself to take it slow.

  “You do? What is it exactly that you love about them?” I stare at her lips as she speaks and imagine them wrapped around my cock. The red lipstick
leaving its ring as a mark.

  “I like the batter,” I say and glance around the restaurant to make sure we’re out of sight range, because I can’t hold back anymore. She’s here, beside me, playing this coy little vixen and damn if I’m not going to act on it.

  What man wouldn’t?

  “The batter?” She shifts a little, much like she does in the cab of my truck with her knee bent on the seat and her body angled my way.

  And of course I look down. Have to. Tanned, toned thighs greet me. My mouth waters. My dick hardens. My control tested.

  “Mm-hmm,” I murmur as I place my hand right where I want to run my tongue—up the inside of her thigh—and slide it up, her skirt bunching with it as I go.

  Her body tenses, and I love that she wants me as badly as I want her. Skype sex is fun. Getting off watching her get off is hot. But it’s not the same. It’s not this. The touch. The scent. The reaction. Not in the least.

  “I like to dip my finger in it.” Fuck. Me. My fingertips rub ever so softly over the seam of her pussy and all I feel is the heat of her skin. She’s not wearing any panties. Her breath catches. Her fingers tighten on the tablecloth. Her legs part a little wider. “Then work it around the edges of the bowl so it’s covered in the batter.” I slide my finger between her lips and groan when I find her wet. Her mouth parts. Her thighs tighten as I dip my finger into her. “And then I like to put it in my mouth. Suck it all off.” I run my finger up again so it hits her clit. Her hands fist now. Her hips lift ever so slightly so her thighs hit the underside of the table and beg for more as I do exactly what I said. Pull my hand away and put my finger in my mouth.

  Fucking hell.

  Her taste. It’s enough to drive a sane man crazy. Add to that the look on her face—pure sex—and I know our charade is over.

  I lean forward and press my lips to hers. A teasing taunt of a kiss that gives me a hint of what I’ve been missing and reaffirms that I need the rest. Right now.