Playing Dirty: A Bad Boy Sports Romance

by Mickey Miller

  “Hello Jake.”

  Her voice was smooth, sweet, and feminine. And there was that slight Southern drawl that she was trying to hide. I couldn’t help but smile, just hearing her voice.

  I had no idea why she brought it out of me.

  Then I turned around and I remembered.

  Just looking at her, you could tell that she wasn’t your average pushover. Her smile had a kind of wry stylishness to it. Her weight was shifted to one side. Today she had on a white blouse and tight gray dress pants that hugged her long legs all the way up to her hips.

  I immediately thought about all the dirty things I would do with her if I got her in bed.

  This is pretty cocky of me, but most girls basically succumbed to my will in my presence. If our first meeting was any indication, she was going to be a challenge.

  Lucky for me, I loved a good challenge.

  “Well hey there, Diggs.” I set the weight back on the squat rack and turned to look at her. “Looking to get a workout in? Those pants might be a little hard to maneuver in, but I think I have some extra clothes you might be able to wear to get a good workout.”

  I liked that Andrea was tall. I’m a big guy, and it was nice to be around a woman with height so I didn’t feel like I would crush her. I took in her work outfit and wished she were in my workout clothes. Sweating beside her would be interesting.

  “I’m good, thanks.” She gave me a short smile and shifted her weight over to one of her hips so that her ass kind of stuck out to one side. She did it so innocently, I couldn’t tell if she was an old hat at positioning her body just so that men would drool over her, or if she had no idea at all what she was doing.

  “You sure? I’m really good at designing workouts. We could do our workout...together.”

  And I can think of an extremely fun workout you might like—good for the hips.

  I gave her my most charming smile, but like Don, she wasn’t buying it.

  I grabbed my towel and took a few steps toward her. The closer I got, the more her beautiful body came into focus. She had the top button of her blouse strategically unbuttoned, almost begging me to stare at her boobs.

  Luckily, checking out girls without being too blatant was one of my strong suits.

  She cocked her cute little head. “Jake, you know why I’m here. Not five minutes after I arrived to the ballpark and took my seat, you’re out in the middle of the field fighting.”

  I chuckled. “Fighting? That wasn’t a fight. If I were fighting, he’d be in the hospital. That was me being nice.”

  She rolled her eyes. “The commissioner just doled out a five-game suspension. Part of the League’s non-violent image they are trying to portray. And you shoving Newman’s head into the dirt and screaming is already a viral YouTube video with over two millions hits. Is this starting to get real for you, Napleton?”

  A five-game suspension? Our series with the Bulldogs was just starting. We had a couple more games before they finally went back to Jersey. And while not seeing Newman’s ugly face for a whole week was very appealing, I lived for the game. Winning wasn’t everything, but I didn’t mind it. More to the point, I played because there was nothing better than being on that mound and shutting out the other team. There was no bigger rush, and having that taken away from me for some bullshit reason was unacceptable.

  “There’s only a month and a half of the regular season left until the World Series. I need to keep the momentum going, stay in the dugout with the team. We have to appeal this.”

  “I would advise against that. Eight’s the standard these days, no matter how rough the fight, so you got lucky, and no fine. You take it, show the commissioner, your coaches, the public, that you knew you were wrong and that you don’t actually condone violence, and it’ll go a long way,” she said, then lowered her voice. “And while I also don’t encourage that kind of inappropriate behavior, that piece of…junk…I can admit, had it coming.”

  “Piece of junk,” I echoed, a smile returning to my face. “You really have one of the cleanest mouths of anyone who has ever stepped foot in this locker room, you know that?”

  “What can I say? I’m a small-town Tennessee girl.”

  She twirled some of her brown locks around two of her fingers, but kept her smile on the wrong side of businesslike.

  Did she know how frickin’ hot she was? The damn temptress.

  “Do small-town Tennessee girls go out to dinner with baseball players?” I asked, taking a step toward her, then another, like an involuntary reflex.

  “That depends, is this work or pleasure?” she asked, biting her lower lip and still doing that hair twirling thing that had me completely hypnotized.

  While Andrea had a nice body and stellar legs, I couldn’t stop looking at her blue eyes, which were almost the color of the sea. “For me, definitely pleasure…”

  “Jake.” She suddenly went serious, dropping her hand to her hip and glaring at me. I realized that she was totally playing me. Damn if I wasn’t a little impressed. “We’re talking business, not pleasure. I said it the other night, and I’ll say it again: I don’t date players. That question was a test, and you failed. Again.”

  “Well I’m suspended. So for a few days, I’m technically not a player.” I grinned at my own impeccable logic. At least I’d found a silver lining and a distraction for a few days, because watching the games without being in the dugout was going to be painful.

  She, on the other hand, rolled her eyes, but I knew she was about to give in. They always did.

  “If dinner is the only way I can consult you, fine.”

  “So I’ll pick you up tonight at eight?” I grinned, victorious.

  “Ha-ha. I’ll meet you there. Give me the place.”

  I thought about it for a second. Women were impressed with fancy, pretentious places, right? Andrea was likely no different. Small-town girl like her in the big city, I’d get her in bed in no time flat. “How about the Marseille Club?”

  She raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “The Marseille Club? For our casual client dinner, you’re taking us to the most expensive restaurant in the city?”

  Shit. Her frown was not encouraging. So I smiled broadly. “Don’t worry, it’s on me. I won’t make you blow up your expense account.”

  Andrea looked down at her phone she’d had tucked in her pants and was on it. Penciling me in? “Fine. I still don’t understand why you are so resistant. I’m here to help you. I’m not your enemy,” she said, very seriously. She crossed her arms under her breasts. Eyes on her face, man, pretend you care about talking business.

  “Right, sure, okay,” I said.

  Another sigh and shake of her head. “If you don’t step up your reputation, you’re effed.”

  I stared at her, fighting back a grin. “Effed? Do you mean I’m fucked?” I rephrased.

  “Like I said, you’re effed.”

  I did smile then. “Fucked. You can’t say it, can you?”

  Her eyes narrowed on me. “What?”

  Two could play at this. “One of these days, I’m going to get you to say the word.” I winked at her. “Preferably in a very specific context.”

  Andrea smiled flatly at me. “See you tomorrow then.” She turned and walked out of the weight room. At the door, before she left, eyes cutting right to me, she added, “And don’t be late, Napleton.”

  The door shut, and I laughed to myself. I would definitely get her to say the full F-word.

  Ideally, when she was underneath me.

  Or against the wall. Yes, against the wall did have a nice feel to it.

  I took an Uber early to Marseille Club for my professional dinner. The restaurant sat along the Chicago River in the downtown area, on Chicago’s historic Hubbard Street, which was home to many of the best restaurants in the Midwest. I had given Steve the heads-up that I was going to be meeting with Jake, and he even gave me the company card.

  For the professional dinner (as I kept emphasizing to myself). I finally said, eff
it, and wore the three-inch heels that I had been staring at in my closet since I got to Chicago. Wearing them put me in the six-foot-three range, which gave me the interesting experience of feeling like somewhat of an ogre towering over most of the people I walked past on the sidewalk. Eff it, because if I couldn’t wear them to a non-date with a six-foot-six baseball player, when would I ever wear them?

  Plus, the heels went really well with my sleeveless cobalt sheath dress.

  Amy was right. What was my problem? Why couldn’t I just enjoy the fact that a very entertaining, charming, and yes, sexy man was trying to take me out to dinner? I took a deep breath before heading inside and reminded myself of the new mantra I had adopted, thanks to Amy.

  It’s about the journey, not the destination.

  I went through the revolving door, past the coat check, to the host stand.

  “Good evening, miss. What’s the name?”

  “It should be under Napleton,” I said with a businesslike smile. I tried not to fidget with the strap of my purse.

  The host, who was in a white suit coat and black tie, straightened his posture noticeably at hearing Jake’s last name.

  “You’re with Jake Napleton?” he repeated, very slowly, as though he were having a hard time processing it.

  “Yes,” I said flatly, staring back at him.

  He arched an eyebrow at me, still not convinced. “The pitcher for the Chicago Jaguars.”

  I tossed my long hair back, shot the man a Tennessee smile, and mustered my best Southern twang. “Only Jake Napleton I’ve ever met!”

  He shook his head and touched his finger to the tablet he was holding. “Mr. Napleton has not checked in yet. You may wait in the lobby until he arrives. Thank you Miss, uhh...”

  “Diggers. Andrea Diggers.” I sighed. Before I headed toward the lobby, I peered into the main dining room. The interior decoration was impeccable. Overhead was a glass roof that let in a fair amount of evening light. On the far side of the room there was a row of five booths that were slightly raised from the rest of the dining room. All of those raised booths were occupied, except for the booth in the middle. A giant kitschy-looking white-and-blue sign above the empty booth said YES, and nothing else.

  My mind started to wander, wondering if the YES sign was some sort of subconscious marketing strategy to get diners to order more. I was about to dig into my purse for my phone and check the time when I felt a hand on my bare shoulder.

  Must be Jake.

  I turned around, and my heart nearly crawled up my throat when I saw the face of my ex-boyfriend—and the main reason I no longer dated baseball players—Grant Newman.

  “Grant,” I said, feigning a smile. “Wow.”

  “Not who you were expecting?” He flashed a grin at me and came in for a hug. “So good to see you!”

  I angled my hips away from him and gave him a quick side hug. I felt so fake, going through the motions of politeness. I wanted to slap him and call him an asshole, but confrontation had never been my style.

  “Really good to see you. How have you been?” he droned on.

  I was an inch taller than Grant in my heels, and it felt so good, because he’d always been self-conscious about his height. Oh, how many days I’d daydreamed about what I would do and say when I saw him again. He’d been a senior and I’d been a junior when he’d crossed the line, forcing me to break up with him.

  It wasn’t an easy decision, but in hindsight, I knew the breakup was for the best. He was controlling, possessive, and didn’t like anyone telling him no. I’d learned the hard way what that meant to a man like Grant. There came a point when I knew I had to stop making excuses for him, but sometimes, I’d remember the good times and forget how scary he could get when I’d defied him.

  But this was that moment I’d been dreaming of. He had a stupid smug look on his face. A tiny platinum blonde stood behind him, her boobs literally bigger than her head. I’d known he was in town for the four-day series with the Jaguars, and since then, I couldn’t forget the picture etched into my head—of him with a big smile on his face as he held up his Bulldogs jersey on draft day.

  And it was hard to miss his face being rubbed into the dirt by my new client yesterday; I had taken a screenshot in my mind and saved the mental image for my own personal archives.

  Jake was actually pulling on my heartstrings with his asshole-ish behavior. It was hard for me to admit, but seeing Grant get a taste of his own medicine had been so satisfying.

  Though now, quietly, I was seething that he had the audacity—the effing nerve!—to ask me casually how I’ve been. After everything he’d done, he still acted like he was an angel. With his good looks, he got away with a lot. Knowing I was better off without him gave me confidence.

  “Actually, I’m doing great, thanks,” I said, lifting my chin and batting my eyes. I gave his body a quick one-sweep. Was he always this short? Then again, I realized I was wearing three-inch heels. And I had Jake on my mind, so maybe that gave me a distorted sense of a normal person’s height.

  “I’d really like to get together with you soon,” Grant said, on his best behavior.

  I couldn’t believe how I pined after him for months, pathetically watching his Instagram updates with him and a new model every week. Seeing him in the flesh, ironically, was reaffirming that I had made the right choice.

  “Are you sure your girlfriend here would be okay with that?” I motioned to the tiny blonde who was playing on her phone. I wondered if she had even heard what I said.

  Grant’s face turned red. He was obviously shocked. “Oh come on, Andrea. You know we’re meant to get back together. Admit it.”

  I stared at him, speechless. When Grant said things like this—in texts or through one of my social media accounts—it scared me, and I didn’t know how to respond. So I usually said nothing. I should block him and get a new phone number, but he wasn’t harassing about it. He always seemed to stay just on the outer edge, and I’d forget until he started up again. Like now.

  He’d had a rough upbringing, and he was somewhat delusional at times, that was for sure. It was true that he did have a hold on me for a long time, but not anymore. Just being around him put me in a stressful state. I could feel my heart rate elevating in his presence, like I needed to be on guard. My earlier confidence was gone. I needed an easy out to remove myself from the conversation, but there was nowhere to go in the small lobby where we waited. The air hung between us uncomfortably as his little blonde thing played on her phone, seemingly oblivious to what was going on. Either she didn’t notice, or didn’t care. If Grant was willing to flirt so openly with me in front of her, my guess was that she was only his arm candy for the night.

  Thankfully, I noticed Jake enter through the revolving doors. Somehow, all my anxiety and tension seemed to level out. Grant couldn’t see him because he had his back to the door, but I did. Seeing Jake made me feel better. But I did a double take, thinking this might not actually be Jake Napleton, but instead, a model for one of those men’s razor blade commercials.

  Up until that moment, I had only seen Jake in workout clothes or in his baseball uniform: sweaty, gritty-looking, and manly—a bastion of raw masculinity.

  Tonight, on the other hand, I was shocked at the role change. He wore a light-blue chambray shirt with a tan vest and a dark chestnut suit coat. Below that, he had on white dress pants and brown loafers. The look suited him well, and made him appear to be half California beach boy, half New York businessman. I didn’t hate it.

  His eyes roamed the room, and he ran his hand over his smooth face—the first time I’d seen him clean shaven—as he glanced around the room. I was pretty sure every single person in the lobby was watching him walk in, which was understandable. At six feet six inches tall, The Big Unit definitely stuck out.

  Jake’s eyes found mine, and instantly he grinned from ear to ear. In fact, his whole face seemed to light up at seeing me.

  A chill went through me involuntarily, from my toes a
ll the way to the hairs on the top of my head. Was he smiling like that because he was looking at me? Or did he have some secret that he hadn’t let me in on? Jake, I was sensing, was going to be full of surprises.

  He strode toward me with long, confident strides, not even noticing Grant. But my ex noticed Jake, and he did not like it. That much was clear by the hard expression on his face.

  “Hey, sorry I’m a few minutes late. God, you look amazing,” he said as he touched my shoulder and kissed me on the cheek. He brushed into Grant in the process. “I—”

  He stopped speaking mid-sentence when he registered that Grant Newman was standing next to me. His eyes narrowed, and the smile disappeared for a moment. Then his grin returned, this time slightly sinister, as opposed to the pure joy he expressed when he had seen me.

  Neither man extended a hand to the other.

  “Grant,” he said in a low growl.

  “Jake,” Grant returned, jaw tightening.

  “I see you finally got the dirt off your face.” Jake smirked, relaxing his body. “Did your mommy wash it off for you? Because I hear you still live with her.”

  I coughed, trying not to laugh, since I knew it was actually true that Grant hadn’t moved out on his own yet. He lived from hotel to hotel on the road. The platinum blonde was analyzing her nails, apparently bored while I was being thoroughly entertained.

  “That was a cheap shot and you know it,” Grant said hotly, ignoring Jake’s dig.

  I glanced down, seeing his hands fisted so tight, the knuckles had turned white. Now, things were getting serious, because Grant knew how to use his fists, and he tended to lash out quickly.

  “Ha. You have the nerve to charge me on the mound and say that I’m the one throwing cheap shots? We both know you were the one who should have gotten the suspension, not me.”

  The tension in the air was so thick, I wanted to request that the chef come out here with his steak knife and cut it. Their “discussion” was also drawing the attention of people around us. People with phone cameras pointed our way. Great.

  I touched Jake’s hand, and he blinked at me. “We should get to our table…” I said, signaling for him to end it and move on.