“Don’t you worry about that, Cowboy. Now, go pitch a no-hitter.”
“Not sure that is possible. My arm feels like a wet noodle.”
“I bet your dick feels the same,” I counter.
“Actually, my dick perked up as soon as I heard that voice of yours.”
“You’re such a flirt. How many times have you used these lines?”
“Never,” he breathes. “And how about another line that makes total sense?”
“What’s that?”
“Dream about me, Gina.”
Rolling my eyes, I say, “You wish. Your cheesy lines aren’t getting you anywhere. Besides, we’re just friends. And who knows how many friends I can make while you’re out of town.”
I hang up as he tries to say something. Laughing to myself, I go to talk to Sara.
“Fine. Do your worst. But if you throw anything away, I’ll personally clutter the room with your face.”
Her jaw drops, but I walk out the door not wanting to watch. Personally, I like my chaotic mess. It makes me feel in control of my own destiny. But I couldn’t explain that to Ryder. Best to limit our conversations to naughty talk only. Whatever this is we have together won’t last. He’ll get bored and move on. I need to protect myself. However, there isn’t any harm in enjoying him while he’s interested. Or is there? And when in the hell did I let a guy rule the show? This time, Gina.
Later that night, I’m working the bar. It’s full of Cougars fans. Ryder’s game is on, and I’m trying not to keep my eyes glued to the screen. From what I’ve heard with groans from the crowd, he’s playing like shit for most of this inning. And they are going to pull him if he loads up the bases with his next pitch.
“Come on, baby.”
After the words slip off my tongue, I actually stick it out and glare at it.
“I can give you a place to put that.”
I glance up to see a sexy tourist sitting at the bar studying me. I’ve never seen him in town, so I know he’s not local. I may not know everyone, but I’ve seen everyone at least once in the twenty plus years I’ve lived here.
He has a faint accent and dark entrancing eyes. He’s the kind of once in a lifetime stranger I might have hooked up with in the past. Hadn’t Ryder been that? He’d been my annual itch of fun. That screw it fuck I do sparingly because once in a while a woman needs to be reckless. But my quota is currently filled.
“And where would that be?” The glacial stare I give him should make his balls shrivel.
“Ah, feisty. I like that.”
Damn, if his accent isn’t sexy on his tongue. It makes you want to do the Italian rumba or some kind of dance. But who cares, he looks every bit the Italian stallion. And something tells me by the way he hasn’t backed down, he can back up his flirtation.
But then the place gets quiet, and I glance up at the TV screen. The manager on the field has just left the mound. How could I have forgotten Ryder? The camera zooms in on him, and his face is a mask of concentration.
“Come on, baby,” I say again, without admonishing myself.
When he lets the ball fly, I barely see it. I let out a breath when the catcher reveals the ball in his glove.
The bar is still so quiet because apparently the game is on the line.
The camera comes back to my guy. He spits out something I don’t care to think of until the camera pans in closer still. His mouth is sin, and I have the sudden urge to want to ride it. The angle switches, and we see the manager doing some complicated rain dance to signal what pitch he wants Ryder to throw next. The screen switches back to Ryder, and he nods. He winds up and lets the ball fly. I swear I need my eyes checked because it isn’t until the instant replay on slow-mo do I see the fastball he threw.
“One more, baby,” I mumble.
I’m not even aware I’m saying it until the stranger repeats the last word. Ignoring him, I don’t take my eyes off the screen. I wait like everyone else.
The pitch leaves Ryder’s hand like he’s a magician. The ball is just there in the catcher’s glove a second before players swarm the field like ants to the mound, swallowing Ryder until I can’t see him anyone. Apparently, it’s a big deal. Normally, they don’t let the starters pitch an entire game. But he’d had a no-hitter until that last inning. Somehow he convinced the manager to let him stay in. This will up his ranking for sure.
“So, you have a boyfriend, yes?”
I glance back at the stranger and wonder why I thought him so attractive. Okay, maybe he is. But honestly, it takes one move of my legs to remember all the reasons why I don’t need a one-night stand. Still, the stranger doesn’t have it quite right.
“Why would you say that?”
His eyes cast to the right where a delivery guy stands with a vase full of peach colored roses.
“Is there a Gina Ferraro here?”
“That’s me,” I answer begrudgingly. Now the stranger knows my name.
“I have a delivery here for you.”
I bite back the duh that wants to lash out of my mouth. Signing at the bottom where indicated, I shift my focus to the gorgeous flowers for a long minute. No one has ever sent me flowers before, not even Mark. But then we dated when we were young and jobless. I’ve had guys give me grocery store bundles in offer to get in my pants. I’d turned each one of them down along with their sorry flowers. But I’ve never gotten a thought out delivery before.
The card reads simply.
Just because ~ Ryder
I feel pinpricks of tears in the back of my eyes. Fuck that. I blink that shit away. Just because no guy had ever done something so nice didn’t mean I had to get mushy about it.
“Since you don’t have a boyfriend, will you let me take you out to dinner?”
My eyes leave the roses in favor of the stranger. “It’s past dinner, and if you haven’t guessed, I’m working.”
Could he be that dense?
“I didn’t mean tonight. Tomorrow or whenever you have a free moment.”
Sexy as he is, I’m not in the mood. I want to go to the back and call my baseball player and tell him what a jerk he is for almost making me cry.
I say, “I’ll be free in like…” I tap my chin and add, “never.”
My stranger doesn’t give up. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a card. “That’s too bad. I find you rather attractive. And something tells me we would have a lot of fun together.” His eyes caress me, and I barely manage not to shiver. It isn’t like I want the man, but he oozes sex. It’s just I’m not in the market right now.
As I start to slide the card back toward him, he places his warm palm on the back of my hand.
“You’ll want that. You remind me so much of your mother.”
I snatch my hand away as if I was burned.
Cue in the heavy sigh he lets out. “You’re spitting images of each other. Though I must say, you’re far more my type.”
“You can leave now,” I order.
“Yes, she thought you might respond that way.”
Out of thin air he produces an envelope and sends it across the bar top to me. “Read this and then give me a call. I have a feeling we’ll be having dinner anyway.”
He winks, fucking winks at me. I watch him walk out in tailored pants and an expensive shirt. When I glance down at his card, I see he’s a lawyer. That only makes me curious about what’s inside the letter. I stuff it into my back pocket before getting back to work. I want to be happy about the gorgeous flowers Ryder sent. Instead, the envelope weighs on me.
I glance up in time to watch Ryder leaving the field when a zealous fan jumps down. The next thing I know her lips are on his. Before she can be hauled away, the mic zooms in as she lifts her shirt. Her blurred tits are on display as she begs Ryder to sign them.
Disgusted, I turn away to fill a drink order.
Why in the world would I ever think I could compete when women offer themselves to him all the time? Didn’t Riley say that her brother was a lover of many women?
When I finally make it upstairs to my apartment, dog tired, it feels like Ikea had a blue light special that ended up in my apartment.
Bookcases flank either side of my TV with all my trinkets and knickknacks. Everything is in a place that makes fucking sense, if I have to admit it. But the tears don’t come until I get in my room. All the clothes that had been in organized piles on the floor are gone. Panicked, I throw open the closet doors, afraid that the bitch, my stepmonster had somehow gotten in my apartment and threw away all my clothes. But there they are, all in color-coordinated fashion. The closet had a makeover, too, and I have shelves for sweaters and shoes. Everything somehow fits.
My phone rings off in the distance, but I can’t. I fall to my knees and cry like I haven’t done since I was a teenager. Everything is so pristine, yet it feels like I’ve lost all control over my life. The organization, my mom wanting to show up in my life, Ryder, and most important, how I can’t have him. And no matter how irrational it is, I can’t stop crying.
RYDER
Gina’s not answering her phone, which is weird. I called Cassie to make sure everything was fine with her because I was beginning to worry, but she assures it is. After Monday night’s game, I was so stoked, I needed to hear her voice, yet no answer. I figured maybe she was at work and couldn’t talk, but I called two more times, well past closing when she should’ve been home, and still nothing. Was she with someone else? We’re not committed, but what we shared over the weekend, I find it hard to believe she would want to be with another man so soon.
Tuesday morning, I wake up in a grumpy ass mood. I want to talk to my girl. Wait. What’s this my girl shit? Slow down, junior. She won’t even answer her fucking phone and I’m calling her mine. That isn’t right.
When I get into the kitchen, I slam things around in my effort to get some breakfast in me. We have another game tonight and getting my head on straight is top priority. Another glance at my phone yields zip. So being the pussy ass that I am, I text her.
Hey, just checking in. I called last night, but must’ve missed you. Call when you can. Hope you got my—just because. ☺ R
There. That sounds generic enough. I hit send before I chicken out. And then I overthink things, as usual. That smiley face was over the top. And I shouldn’t have mentioned the flowers. What the fuck was I thinking?
The coffee is close, so I grab the pot and pour. But, of course, it comes streaming out onto my hand and burns the shit out of me.
“Goddamn motherfuckingsonofabitch.” I turn on the cold water and put my hand under it.
“Will you stop making all this racket? I didn’t get in until six and have only slept a couple of hours.” My sister emerges from her room upstairs and stomps into the kitchen full of fire.
“Hmph.”
“Is that your explanation? Hmph? What crawled up your ass and died?” I’d like to say Gina’s finger, but I keep my mouth shut. “Well?”
Taking my chances, I look up at her and almost laugh. Her eyes are smeared with mascara, her hair looks like a live critter has taken up residence there, and she’s wearing a robe with Snoopy and Charlie Brown all over it.
“Jesus, you look like shit.”
“Fuck you, Ryder. I’ve been playing in a tournament all week, which by the way, I came in third. Fuck you very much. And thanks for the supportive phone calls and texts.”
Oh, God, I’m the biggest douche of a brother.
“Oh, Ri, that’s fabulous. I really mean it. And I’m sorry. I was bu—”
“Busy, I know. You’re always busy, Ryder.” Then she pokes her index finger into my chest. And there’s one thing about golfers. They have strong hands. “Let me tell you something, buster. You’re not the only one in the universe with a busy life.”
“Right. Gotcha. Pro golfers are busy, too.”
“Damn straight we are. I spend all day on the course, playing a minimum of thirty-six holes, and that doesn’t count the driving range or the putting green. I also work out in the gym every day, so stick that in your pipe and smoke it.”
“I don’t smoke. Remember?” As soon as I say the words, I regret them. She’s not in the mood for banter. Riley has this thing about me not respecting her sport, but she’s dead wrong. I am in awe of my sister. Out of the two of us, she is hands down the better athlete, and had she been born a male, I hate to say it, but she would’ve kicked my ass in every sport I played, including baseball. Her hand-eye coordination is brilliant, and her accuracy is dead-on. She can nail a ball, and I’m not just talking with a golf club. Put a bat, tennis racket, Ping-Pong paddle, just about anything in her hands, and she kills her opponent. And competitive—her picture should be next to the word in Merriam-Webster’s.
“It was a weak joke, Riley. You know I think you’re the best, but I don’t tell you enough. I’m sorry. And congratulations.” I pull her in my arms and give her a hug. “Nice robe, by the way.”
“Shut up, Ryder.” Her crooked grin tells me her anger has dissipated.
“Sorry my foul temper woke you up. I didn’t know you took the red-eye. And I didn’t think I was that loud.”
“Last minute thing. And, yeah, I could’ve heard you the next block over. Why are you such a grouch this morning?”
I shrug, not wanting to get into the Gina discussion.
“Come on. Tell your big sissy.”
I have to laugh at her when she says that. Older by two minutes, she’s my big sister all right. “It’s nothing.”
“Clearly, it is. You won last night in an amazing finale, and here you are, the morning after, acting like you gave the game away.”
There has to be a way to get her off this topic, so I examine my hand, pretending it hurts, even though it’s fine.
She doesn’t buy it. Grabbing my hand, she says, “Hey, I’m here. Talk to me.”
“Okay. Fine. It’s Gina.”
“Gina? What happened? Did you do something?”
“Yeah, I sent her flowers, and now I haven’t heard from her.”
“When did you send them?”
“Yesterday.”
She busts out laughing. “Oh my God. It’s been a day, dude. Calm your testicles down.”
“And this is why I didn’t want to tell you.”
“Damn, you’re serious, yeah?”
Since I am, I don’t answer.
“So tell me everything.”
Like hell. There is no way that shit will pass through my lips. “Not much to say. I saw her last weekend. We had fun. I sent flowers.”
“And you’re this trippy over her. Huh-uh. There’s more to it, Ryder Wilde.”
“And if there is, it’s none of your business, Riley. You may be my sister, but that doesn’t entitle you to everything in my personal life.”
“Well, I’ll be. You like her. More than you usually like a woman.”
“Again, my business.”
“Just remember, bro, she’s my friend, too, so don’t put me in the middle of anything.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“My advice, send her a spa gift certificate. There’s not a woman alive who wouldn’t love one of those.”
A spa gift certificate. If I were a betting man, I’d wager Gina has never received one of those from any of her previous boyfriends … no, that’s not exactly right. She claims not to have those. Or whatever she would refer to them as.
“Nice idea, sis. I think I’ll do that.”
“Asheville. The Grove Park Inn Spa. Very chic. Fletcher’s mom always goes on and on about it.”
“Thanks.” I hug her and go do the order up. There are all sorts of things, but I go all out and get her the day package. She will be pampered like she’s never been—or that’s my hope anyway.
The rest of the day is consumed with me obsessively checking my phone like a girl to see if I got a text from Gina and then heading to the stadium to prepare for the game.
The team is jacked up with adrenaline when I walk in. Cheers nearly crack m
y eardrum, but it’s an awesome feeling. One thing I’ll never do is take credit for a win, so I shout out, “You guys did an unbelievable job last night!”
Guys bang the inside of lockers with fists and kick their feet against them, too. The noise level is stupid crazy.
“Are we gonna do a repeat tonight?” I yell.
That question brings down the house. Coach Martin walks in with Ms. Whitestone, the owner of the team, and they both congratulate the team on our bang up job last night. Then Ms. Whitestone goes on to give us her little talk. She comes in once a week or so, and a lot of the guys ogle her. They all talk about what a MILF she is. She is an attractive older woman, maybe mid-forties, with black hair, but I’m into women my own age.
After she leaves, the rest of the players dress for the game. I head to the trainers’ office to get therapy on my arm because it’s dead after last night. Gina enters my thoughts, but I shove her out because I need to be laser-focused right now.
Down the hall, I run into my pitching coach.
“Are you going to be ready in a few days, Wilde? They’re gonna be wanting revenge after those final pitches you threw last night.”
“Got it covered, Coach.”
He pats me on the back, saying, “I know you do. Just making sure. Old lady Whitestone is anxious.”
“Aren’t we all being this close to the playoffs? I don’t need reminding.”
After therapy, I watch the start of the game from the monitor in the dugout. The first four innings are in the bag for us. Four no-hitters and we’re up three zip. But then there’s a turn around. As the pitcher throws the ball, his grip eases too soon, and the ball doesn’t do exactly as he’d planned. The batter takes a swing and ends up with a double. The tough thing is, it happens again, and this time they score with a slide into home plate on an error in the outfield. Fuck. He strikes the next batter out, and they head to the dugout.
“What the hell was that?” our pitching coach asks him when they get in the dugout.
“Ball got loose.”
“Twice? In a row?”
Our manager gives Coach a scathing look. Coach just shakes his head, and he catches my eye. I know he wishes my arm were rested. And so do I. I’d love nothing more than to get in the game. But now my hand stings, so I shake it out.
Fastball (Wilde Players Dirty Romance) Page 6