by Teagan Kade
A Bad Boy Sports Romance
Teagan Kade
* * * * *
Published by Teagan Kade
Edited by Sennah Tate
Copyright © 2016 by Teagan Kade
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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Also by Teagan Kade:
AMPED
DRILLED
DIRTY BRAWLER
WRECKED
SLAMMED
STROKER
STRIKER
THROTTLE
ROYALLY WRONG
HITCHED
CHASING STORM
DEDICATION
To Graham. Thanks for taking me to the ballpark.
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
EPILOGUE
EPILOGUE II
Dirty Brawler: A Bad Boy Sports Romance
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Epilogue
CHAPTER ONE
WILLOW
I duck a flying jellybean.
The professor continues to toss them out to the class. “High-fructose candy for you, and you, and you. Death to health for all.”
I pity him. You’ve got to get creative about getting students to class when the college allows everything to be online. God forbid anyone would actually want to come, to actually learn. No, all anyone cares about here is sports, getting wasted, sports, maybe following that up with an STD or three… and more sports.
Students churn through the double doors at the bottom of the auditorium, but I hang back running through my notes. It’s looking a lot like gibberish.
The professor calls up. “Can you get the lights when you’re done, Willow?”
“Yes, Professor,” I call back.
He pauses on his way out, looking up. “You’re not going to the game?”
The Hellcats baseball team—the prize of Penbrook. They’ve won three College World Series in a row and show every sign of making it four thanks to team captain and campus man-whore Asher Slade. The guy’s got the key to the city, so to speak. He does what he wants, when he wants, completely uninhibited. And then there are his grades—mysteriously high for someone who’s either drunk or unclothed most hours of the day. I’ve seen the pictures, the size of that thing. He hardly needs a bat to hit a home run.
“Suit yourself,” says the professor, the doors closing behind him with a solid thunk.
Vacant, the auditorium takes on a completely different persona—one of quiet contemplation rather than a cattle farm. This is how I like it.
Empty, alone, my head fills.
My pen hovers over the page. I’m thinking back to the night everything changed, a new habit in my self-enforced solitude.
You’re hundreds of miles away. No one here knows, but even I can’t convince myself.
A gunshot-like crack outside causes me to jump. Frat boys with firecrackers, no doubt.
Why does everyone insist on going barn-owl crazy before a game? I wouldn’t know. I haven’t attended one yet.
I snap my workbook closed and stand.
Let them have their petty fill of entertainment.
I’ve got work to do.
*
The line for coffee is long at the Grind House, the tiny café directly across from the dormitories. Everyone wants their pre-game caffeine fix. I want to work through the night. I’ve got three assignments due and nothing less than a 4.0 GPA is going to cut it if I want to retain my scholarship. No one said pre-med was going to be easy, but I never expected it to be this hard. I’m already skating perilously close the edge, my future evaporating.
There’s one guy making coffees—one person. It’s ridiculous.
“How long does it fucking take to pour a cup, bro?” the human Hulk in front of me questions, clad head to foot in Hellcat colors.
Others up and down the line murmur in agreement. It seems I’m the only one not wearing orange and white tonight, or plastic devil horns.
Twenty minutes later I’m about to step up to the counter when something blurs in front of me, pushing me back.
“Hey?” I call, but it’s so quiet it sounds like a greeting rather than a question.
The man-giant who cut in ignores me, fist-bumping the guy behind the counter. “What the fuck’s doing, fuck-face? Can you dial me up a quick lava java before the game?”
Counter Boy smiles. “Sure thing, Asher. Coming right up.”
I check the number on the back of the jersey—sixty-nine. It’s him. It’s Asher damn-him Slade.
I’m momentarily distracted by the way his butt is tightly packaged away in those beach-white knee breeches. He’s cute, yes, but if he thinks he can just cut into the line because he’s some sort of superstar, because he’s every girl’s wet dream, he can think again.
I take a deep breath and tap him on the shoulder.
He keeps talking to the guy making the coffees.
I tap a little harder, clearing my throat for emphasis.
This time he turns. He looks curiously at his shoulder before looking down at me. “Oh, shit. I didn’t see you there.”
Didn’t see me here? What am I? An ant? My voice wavers. “You… cut in. People are waiting here.”
He laughs, pearly teeth gleaming. I bet panties drop whenever he pulls that smile, but no sir. Not here. No, my underwear is remaining firmly fixed in place.
He looks me up and down, and assesses I’m no threat. “I’ve got a game to get to.”
He goes to turn away, but I take hold of his shoulder. It’s like gripping a chunk of marble. “That’s not fair,” I add, voice breaking. Can you even hear how stupid you s
ound right now?
Others have started to pay attention. Now he has an audience. I sense Asher preparing to perform.
He removes my hand gently, his fingers hot around my wrist, and turns to face me full frontal. His eyes run down to the crotch of my jeans. “All you had to do was ask if you wanted to get hands-on.” He licks his lower lip. It’s full and inviting, a soft contrast to the definition in his jaw. “Nothing like a pre-game workout.”
What an asshole. I press my legs together like he’s got X-ray vision, taking a little step back until my senses come to me again, the fire inside me rising at the gall, the utter arrogance of this creature. “Who do you think you are?”
That smile again. “I’m Asher fucking Slade, captain of three-time CWS champs the Hellcats and all-around great guy. Question is, who the fuck are you?”
There’s applause, whooping. My cheeks burn with embarrassment.
“Willow,” I reply, weak.
Why the hell are you telling him your name?!
I realize I’m staring at his chest. Get it together, woman!
“I— I—” but I’ve lost my train of thought.
A coffee slides onto the counter. Asher reaches behind him and swipes it without looking, without breaking eye contact with me. “Let me know when you’re ready for the Asher experience.” He reaches down and grabs his dick. “Doesn’t seem like that mouth of yours is good for anything else.”
Said mouth drops to the floor as he winks and walks off smiling.
I cannot believe that just happened. I’m frozen.
“Your order?”
I bring my attention back to Coffee Guy. “Um, mocha, skim.”
He writes my order down while shaking his head and smiling. “Man, Asher Slade. What a guy, right?”
I look outside where Asher ‘World’s Biggest Dick’ Slade is happily walking across the quadrangle, fist-bumping and high-fiving people as he goes, not a care in the world, hot coffee in his hand—what should have been my coffee, bringing it to those perfect lips of his.
I’m so angry I can barely summon rational thought. And to think he had the audacity to ask me to sleep with him, just like that, as if every girl he meets drops to her knees before him.
I continue to shake my head, my foot tapping on the floor in staccato.
One day, Sir Slade, you’ll get what you deserve. Mark my words.
*
Like the auditorium, the dorm is a ghost town. Everyone’s either at the game or the bar. No one in their right mind would be studying right now, but then again, many would argue I’m not quite together in the head department to begin with.
But I’m not going to let Mom down, again, and I’m sure as hell not going to let myself down. Penbrook doesn’t hand out scholarships like Halloween candy. I’m one of the lucky ones. I wouldn’t have a hope in hell of attending a college like this without it.
Provided you can keep it.
My roommate Amy is out, her colorful, K-Pop-clad side of the room is the complete antithesis to my spartan, minimalist existence. But that’s the way I like it—no distractions. No boys. No drugs. No nothing that could interfere with my one goal of getting though pre-med and into the kind of career I’ve been dreaming of my whole life, actually helping people and making a difference in the world. What’s that knucklehead Asher going to do with that big ol’ bat of his? Play Major League? Hang out at the Playboy Mansion, father a couple of illegitimate children?
Why are you thinking about him?
I place down the books I picked up at the library, trying to cradle my coffee at the same time. The tiny desk groans with dissatisfaction. “Behold, the weight of the written word,” I announce, seating myself and pulling the first book across. So I don’t have a hot guy to keep me company tonight. So what? I’ve got something better. I’ve got organic chemistry and neuroscience… hundreds of pages of it.
Yay.
I switch on the small TV on the side of the desk. I can’t study in silence. I need background noise, always have. Even as a baby I couldn’t sleep unless the TV was blaring.
“Oh, come on.” It’s the game. I mean, what kind of college televises its own freakin’ baseball games? I’m about to switch it off when I see Asher step up to the plate. He swings the bat through the air, that bucky, world-at-my-feet smile still plastered over his impossibly perfect features, not a strand of inky hair out of place.
I should change the channel, but something fixes me to the screen.
Leave it, I tell myself. It’s not like you’re going to watch it anyhow.
So I do, returning to my notes, but from the first crack of ball on bat my eyes snap back to the screen to see Asher tossing the bat aside and pumping his way around the bases. It takes the opposition forever to get the ball back down to the diamond, by which time Asher’s already slid home. The crowd goes wild, one of his fellow team members slapping him on the ass on the way through. What I wouldn’t give to deliver him a solid spanking of my own, teach him a lesson. Hell, I doubt anyone has ever stood up to him.
That’s the problem with America’s sport obsession. We celebrate these juiced-up Neanderthals for what? Hitting a little leather ball? We treat them like national heroes. They get all the fame and funding while the real heroes—those who actually contribute to society—go unrewarded. But that’s life, isn’t it? Far from fair. Just one big coffee line.
It’s enough to get my head back into the real game—my studies.
The game shifts into white noise as I work through my assignments, endless charts of anatomy and alien Latin. An hour from midnight, I finish up far sooner than expected. It feels good, almost orgasmic—not that I’ve experienced one in a while, but I still understand the anatomy of it, the theory.
Story of your life, huh?
I close my workbook and relax back in my chair. My eyes turn to the TV. Oddly, I make no attempt to stop them. It’s the ninth inning and the Hellcats are down. Asher steps up to the plate again with the same perpetual grin on his face like he just knows he’s got this, confidence incarnate.
Dad was a huge baseball fan. He never missed a Yankees game, even when they underperformed. He was teaching me the ins and out of ‘God’s sport’ before I could walk, which is why I know the Hellcats need a home run to take the win.
Asher takes his stance, butt out and hands high. It looks like he’s chewing on something. His inflated ego, most likely.
Anatomically, there is something to be admired about the man. In a purely scientific way. Six-one and broad through the shoulders, thighs like concrete columns. And those eyes… It’s like they’ve been injected with glacial ice. Incredible, really.
Shame his brain’s the size of a pea.
Not like the size of his…
I stop myself, my spread legs coming back together, the heated pull between them easing. Asher Slade doesn’t hide much. There are enough naked selfies of him floating around campus to fill a swimming pool. Have I looked? Of course, though not by choice. One day I walked in to find one filling Amy’s laptop screen. I’m talking edge to edge with penis. I thought she was studying anacondas until I came closer.
The problem is that being team captain means Asher gets whatever he wants, when he wants it—girls, grades, you name it. Only a week ago he and a few of his baseball butt buddies overturned a car down near Greek row. Some poor Honda owner woke to find his beloved Civic shiny side up on the front lawn. And what grand punishment did the mighty Asher Slade receive? Zip. Nothing. Nadda. No pending discipline until after the game tonight, like that’s fair. How the college managed to stop charges being laid is beyond me. There’s footage of the act everywhere. But that’s Asher for you—untouchable.
The pitcher throws. It’s a fastball, sweeping high. Asher swings. The bat collects, the camera switches to show the ball soaring into the stands. A homer.
Asher places the bat down and leisurely strolls around the bases, continuing to grab at his crotch and whip the crowd into a frenzy. They love him for it, eve
ryone on their feet—everyone except me. I’m staying seated, thank you very much.
He steps onto the last base before he’s engulfed by his team. They lift him onto their shoulders, tossing him in the air.
I can’t take any more. I switch the TV off and change into my PJs, sliding into bed and facing the wall praying Amy won’t spend tonight screwing some guy five feet away.
CHAPTER TWO
ASHER
“Need some company later?” A leggy blonde hands me down a strip of paper just as I’m about to walk into the tunnel. She looks familiar, but then again, they all do. It’s far too easy to hit and run these days. There’s no challenge in it, no sport.
I take the slip and toss it as soon as I’m out of sight. I’ll have company tonight, but I want to be drunk enough to forget it the following morning.
“You fucking dog.” Leon, our pitcher, pulls me into a headlock. “I thought you were going to screw us over at the end there, you waited so long to swing.”
I push him away playfully. “Jersey boy. I hit the fucking homer, didn’t I? What more do you want? I can’t clone myself.”
He laughs, letting me go. “Thank god for that. What are we doing later? The Quagmire?”
He’s referring to the campus bar, our usual celebratory go-to.
“There’s this hot little thing I met coming out of pre-law,” he continues. “I’m talking Esmerelda tits, defying fucking gravity.”
I keep walking. “And I suppose you’ve road-tested her already?”
He smiles. “Of course. You know I have to sort the wheat from the chaff for you, bro.”
“I suppose I should thank you for your service then.”
“I’ll let you buy the first round. No biggie.”
I nod. “No biggie.”
Leon’s harmless enough, if a little competitive. He was pissed when I was made captain, but so be it. I’m the better player. Besides, we’ve been through enough together to avoid a petty thing like that getting in the way of brotherhood.
I see Coach waiting ahead.
“Shit,” says Leon, peeling off. “He’s all yours, Slugger.”