by Megan Green
My eyes scan the stands as I step out of the dugout, searching for the familiar face I’ve come to seek each and every time I step up to the plate.
But all I find is an empty seat.
My face falls as I continue my trek, the drumming of my heart drowning out the deafening roar of the crowd.
It’s the bottom of the ninth. We’re down by two, and we’ve got two men on base. If I can pull this off, the Rampage will officially secure their place in the playoffs.
But my mind reels as I search the crowd, panic coursing through me at Liv’s absence.
She was there for my two-run double in the fourth. And my eyes found hers as I joined my teammates in the outfield when the visitors were at bat.
So, where is she now?
I pause just outside the batter’s box, searching for her once more before I step up to the plate.
“Brandon!” a familiar voice manages to break out above the rest.
My head snaps around, my gaze finally falling on the one person I need to see.
Lexi is holding on to Liv, ushering her toward the tunnel leading out of the stands. Liv’s face is flushed, and as she grabs on to Lexi’s hand, her face scrunching in pain, I know.
It’s time.
She nods at me, her gaze looking out into the stands over right field.
Hit one for me, she mouths before letting Lexi turn her and lead her out of my sight.
My heart is beating a million miles an hour, the prospect of finally meeting my baby causing the bat to tremble slightly in my hands.
But I won’t let my girl down.
I step up to the plate, squaring my bat and nodding toward the pitcher.
I’m ready for him. But I bet he’s not ready for me.
I see the call before he even makes it, and a split second after the ball leaves his fingers, I swing.
I don’t even bother watching it as it leaves the stands.
Sprinting around the bases as fast as I can, I dodge the cheers and greeting hands of my teammates as they swarm me at home plate. Instead, I jog straight for the terminal.
“Liv’s in labor!” I shout over my shoulder by way of explanation.
“Oh, fuck!” Tag shouts before I hear him take off at a run behind me.
I wish I could say I was sorry for not being able to stay and celebrate our playoff clinch with my team.
But there’s honestly no place I’d rather be right now than within the stark white walls of a hospital room, holding the hand of the woman I love as she brings the life we created into this world.
And, twelve hours later, when I’m holding my baby boy in my arms, I know there will never be a greater feeling than this.
“Hey there, Charlie boy,” I coo, stroking his soft face with the tip of my finger. “I’m your daddy. I can’t wait to show you the world. We’re going to have so much fun.”
THE END
Acknowledgments
Book number five! When I started this journey, it was with the intention of writing one story that I just couldn’t get out of my mind. But I fell in love and just couldn’t stop. Now, here we are, three years and five books later, and I couldn’t be more grateful to everyone who has helped me along this road.
As always, first thanks must go to my wonderfully supportive and amazing husband, Adam. There’s no way I could write these swoony men without having one of my very own at home. Thank you for everything you do for me, babe, and thank you for making all my dreams come true that day you dropped your knee and asked me to be yours forever. I love you.
To my parents and the rest of my family – thank you for your never ending support and understanding when I disappear for a while when on deadline. And thank you for always being my biggest fans.
To Nichole – Thanks for keeping me sane and listening to me when I feel like quitting. You’re the best and I’m so lucky to have you in my life. But I still get dibs on all the dogs, dammit!
To my amazing alpha readers – Dani, Megan, Jeanna, and Karin. Thank you ladies so, so much for reading such a rough version of this story and help making it better. I couldn’t have done it without you.
To Megan Gunter with Mischievous Designs – thank you for another absolutely stunning cover. You are the best of the best.
To Jovana Shirley, editor extraordinaire – thank you for taking my words and making them shine!
To Julie Deaton, the best proofreader in the biz – thank you for always fixing the disaster I make out of Jovana’s work.
To Alexandria Bishop with AB Formatting – thank you for your gorgeous work on this book!
To all my Minxes, Renegades, and the special girls in W.G.T.S – I truly cannot thank you enough for all your support over the years. You’ve talked me off many a ledge, and I couldn’t be more grateful for your friendships.
Thanks must also go to all the amazing book bloggers who take their love of books and turn it into the amazing blogs we see every day. It’s a labor of love and believe me when I say it doesn’t go unnoticed. I truly appreciate you.
And last, but most certainly not least, I must thank you, dear reader. Thank you for taking a chance on this story. Reading time is such a precious commodity, and I appreciate you spending a little of yours with my characters. Thank you for making my dreams come true!
Also by Megan Green
The Wounded Love Series
(Military Romance with heart)
Safe Distance
Soldier’s Heart
Solid Ground
The Washington Rampage Series
The Off-Season (Lexi and Ian’s story)
About the Author
Megan lives in Northern Utah with her amazing husband, Adam, and her spoiled rotten puppy, Scout. When not writing, chances are you’ll find her curled up with a book or binge watching Supernatural. Besides reading and writing, she loves movies, music, animals, chocolate, and coffee—lots and lots of coffee. She loves hearing from her readers, so please drop her a line! You can find her here:
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Email: [email protected]
To stay up to date on her current projects and daily life, join her reader group here.
Preview of The Off-Season
Want to see where Lexi and Ian got their start? Read on for a look at chapter one of The Off-Season!
Chapter 1
TAG
I’ll never forget where I was the day my world came crashing down around me.
I wish I had a better story. Something like, I was volunteering at a hospital, visiting sick children, when the news first hit. Or, I had just finished saving an old woman and her forty-two cats from a burning building when my agent called.
But no. I was sitting in the fucking drive-through at McDonald’s, waiting for my daily fix of salty goodness, when the radio newscaster interrupted coverage of the Seahawks game to drop what would turn out to be the most defining moment of my life thus far.
“Charges have been filed against MLB star Ian Taggart, better known as Tag Taggart, of the Washington Rampage. Our sources say a young woman has come forward with allegations that Taggart sexually assaulted her after their division win last season.”
I didn’t hear what he said after that, my Bluetooth kicking on in my truck as I answered the call from Ray, my agent.
What had started as a simple stop through a pick-up window ended up being the catalyst to the worst period of my entire life. And, now, six months and hours and hours of turmoil, frustration, and a hell of a lot of anger later, it all comes down to this moment.
My career.
My life.
My future.
Coach Peters is sitting across from me with Nathan Shelton, the Rampage’s GM, to his left.
Lucky for me, Mr. Lane couldn’t be here today. As the owner of the team, he generally tries to stay abreast of anything involving his players. He’s a little too involved, if you ask me. I’ve had far more meetings with the man in the past few
months than I ever cared to have in my life. Add in the fact that he’s a class-A douche canoe, and…well, let’s just say, there are times when I’ve had to wonder if this is my punishment for the crime I didn’t even commit. Having to deal with Tyler Lane on the regular has to be worse than any prison cell could ever be.
And that’s right; you heard me correctly. I know that’s the standard answer all assholes give when they’re hit with a rape charge. And I know, ninety percent of the time, they’re lying through their teeth. Being a professional athlete seems to make some guys think they’re untouchable—a fact I can attest to from the hundreds, if not thousands, of times I’ve witnessed unwanted advances, unpaid tabs, drugs, and dozens of other less than savory activities. But I digress.
The fact is, I am not that guy. I love women. I respect women. Fuck, if I could build a shrine to women and worship at the altar of femininity, I would. Because, if there’s one thing in this world I love more than baseball, it’s the female body. But I would never touch a woman in any way that was unwanted or untoward.
The night I met Angela Hancock was the best night of my life.
We’d just won our division championship—a first in my seven years with the Rampage—and I was riding high. And I could think of no better way to celebrate than a night out with my teammates, a few bottles of Jack split between us, and a couple of willing females to keep us company.
I set my sights on Angela the moment I spotted her on the dance floor, her short black skirt and low-cut red top too mouthwatering to resist. When she took a break from her friends and headed to the bar to refresh her drink, I made my move.
Now, I’m not going to lie and say I had to work to get her attention. To be totally honest, I’ve never had any trouble finding a woman to warm my bed. With my muscular build, tan skin, and fucking adorable smile—you try to tell me dimples aren’t cute—I know I fit the mold of what women consider hot. And, before you start to think I’m a cocky asshole, let me stop you right there. There’s a difference between conceit and confidence. My teammate, Simon Weaver, is an arrogant fuckwit. Me, on the other hand? I radiate a smooth assurance women can’t help but be attracted to.
To say getting Angela back to my room was easy would be an understatement. After one quick dance—if you could even call it that—we basically just dry-humped the shit out of each other for three minutes and another shot of Jack for the road, we were on our way.
I might have had a few drinks, but I wasn’t drunk. And I can say with absolute certainty that everything that happened that night was completely consensual.
Angela slammed the door behind us and had my shirt off and her hand down my pants faster than you could say, Do you have a condom? I’ve always been a sucker for a girl who knows what she wants and isn’t afraid to take control.
But, even in my lust-fueled state, I wasn’t too far gone to stop for protection and to make sure she understood what this was.
“This is only for tonight. You got that, right?”
Not exactly the most romantic thing in the world to hear two seconds before some dude shoves his cock inside you, but as I said, I like to make sure a woman knows exactly what she’s getting with me.
She made no bones about my declaration, and the next few hours were pretty fucking amazing, if I do say so myself.
We parted the next morning with a quick hug and a, “Thanks for the fun night.” No awkward lingering or pretending like one of us was going to call when we both knew it would never happen.
Angela seemed like a really cool chick, and I had a brief pang of regret that it was the last time I’d ever see her.
Or so I thought. Just over six months after the night I walked out of that hotel room, Angela came back with a vengeance.
My life has been hell since that fucktastic day. Because, regardless of how many times I say I didn’t do it and despite the fact that Angela has zero evidence against me, just the implication has been enough to almost ruin my career. I lost several of my sponsors the same day the news broke, a few others following suit shortly thereafter. Reporters have been watching my every move, thrusting cameras and microphones in my face the second I step outside the stadium or my home.
The only people who have stood by me through the whole ordeal are my teammates. No matter how hard my name has gotten raked through the mud, they know it’s all a load of bullshit. Without those men, Coach Peters, and Ray, I’m not sure I could have survived the whole ordeal. I sure as hell wouldn’t be sane; I can tell you that much.
As if he can sense I’m thinking about him, Ray reaches over and gives me a pat on the back. He’s been by my side every step of the way—both literally and figuratively. So, it only makes sense to have him next to me as we wait for the call that will either make or break my future.
My lawyer met with Angela’s today in one last-ditch effort to keep this out of the courtroom. If it goes to trial, even if I’m found not guilty, it will be the final nail in the coffin for me. I’d be finished in the MLB, and I probably wouldn’t even be able to get a job coaching little league to underprivileged kids in the projects.
I’ve worked too damn hard to let that happen.
Leaning forward, I prop my elbows on my knees and start gnawing on my thumbnail, my eyes never leaving the phone on Coach’s desk, as if I can somehow will it into ringing. Coach, Ray, Shelton, and I are silent, none of us wanting to be the one to break the tension filling the room. I have a feeling that, once broken, it might be impossible to repair.
At that thought, a harsh ring shrills through the air, the sound causing a deep tremble to rattle my bones. Coach looks at me, and I give him a stiff nod. The four of us decided earlier he would be the one to take the call.
“Peters,” he answers, his voice gruff and his tone clipped.
His eyes dart to mine after only a few seconds, but I’m unable to read them. There’s concern there, but also something else. Relief maybe? Or is that just wishful thinking on my part?
He grunts out a few responses, never giving any indication as to which way the call is going. By the time he ends the call, I’m ready to rip the damn phone out of his hand and chuck it at the fucking wall.
After setting the handset back on the base, he leans back in his chair and lets out a long, slow breath. “She’s dropped the charges.”
The relief that rushes through me is palpable. It’s as if, to use the most cliché expression on earth, the weight of the world has been lifted off my shoulders. But that’s exactly how I felt over the last six months. A soul-crushing heaviness had settled over me since the day I was first hit with the charges. And, for the first time in what feels like forever, I can finally breathe.
Ray gets up and gives me a hug, Coach and Shelton both throwing in their relieved congratulations. It’s then that the door to Coach’s office flies open, and Brandon Jeffers—my best friend and teammate—bolts into the room.
“For fuck’s sake, can someone please let a guy know what’s going on? I’ve been dying out there.”
I had no problem with Brandon being in the room when the call came, but Coach and Shelton insisted that, since the matter didn’t directly involve him, he didn’t need to be here. B wasn’t even supposed to be in the building at all, but he’s never let a little thing like rules stand in his way.
Coach shakes his head. “Should’ve known you wouldn’t stay away, Jeffers. Don’t know why I even bothered trying.”
Brandon plops his ass down on the corner of Coach’s desk, picking up a stapler and tossing it in the air. Had it been anybody else, Coach would’ve reamed their ass for touching his shit. But, like I said, Brandon’s never been one for following orders. I think Coach has pretty much written him off as a lost cause at this point. Good thing he’s a damn good player; otherwise, the dumb fuck might be out on his ass.
The good mood continues though, Coach letting B join in on the celebration of my newfound freedom and even goes so far as to pop open a bottle of champagne he had stowed in the bottom drawer
of his desk. This is a locker room though, so we have to make do with paper cups instead of crystal stemware.
Ray is the first to break up the party. “Not to be a downer—I’m truly happy she dropped the charges, Tag; I am—but we’re far from out of the woods here. She took the cash, which, to a lot of people, will make her look like a money-hungry fame-seeker. Three mil isn’t exactly chump change. But, to others, well, they’re going to wonder why you felt the need to pay her off in the first place. If you had nothing to hide, why not let the case run its course, you know?”
My mouth drops open. “But you’re the one who suggested we pay her off in the first place!”
“I know, I know,” he replies, his tone even, almost placating. “And I still think it was the best possible solution. Now, she’s gone, and we can work on getting you back to where you were before all this broke loose—the golden boy of the MLB.”
I scoff. “You know I don’t give a shit about that. I just want my good name back.”
“And that’s precisely what I’m talking about, Tag. We need to work on tamping down these rumors that are sure to start flying as soon as the story hits the press. And, as crazy as this might sound, I think it might be best if you weren’t there in the spotlight for it all.”
My brows furrow in confusion. “What the hell does that mean?”
“It means, I think you should lay low for a while. Take a vacation. God knows you’ve earned it after the last six months. Take a break. Relax. Let us do the talking. We’ll tell everyone you’re on sabbatical in order to find yourself after this whole ordeal.”
“I’m not a fucking professor. I’m pretty sure baseball players don’t go on sabbaticals. Besides, I need to be here, getting ready for next season. Tell him, Coach. Tell him what a stupid idea this is.”