by Meghan Quinn
“He’s here,” Vivian says. “Around the corner.”
Curious, I follow to where Vivian pointed, moving past the game of hot potato, and around the corner. That’s where I find Walker sitting on a giant pillow with a little girl right next to him, reading a baseball book. She’s reading to him—albeit slowly—but he’s encouraging her softly.
It’s by far the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen.
Talk about ovaries exploding—mine are shooting off like fireworks inside of me.
Undetected, I lean against the wall and watch how patient and sweet Walker is. This is the side of him I want people to see. This is the side I think a lot of fans and even executives in the front office don’t know exists. And, of course, he’s around the corner in the smaller room, where only a few of the team are playing with the kids.
Secretly, I lift my phone and take a picture of the two of them. When we do the press for this event, I’ll make sure this picture is on the very front.
I pocket my phone and clear my throat to grab his attention. He looks up, and when his gaze meets mine, his eyes darken.
It’s been a few days since we’ve seen each other, since our impromptu ice cream date, since our inappropriate texting. I haven’t spoken to him, nor have I wished him good luck on any of his games. I’ve tried to blend in, but with their upcoming road trip that I won’t join until the second half because of preparations I need to make for the Firefighters Ball, I wanted to see him in person before they left.
Stupid, I know.
But there’s no stopping my idiocy at this point.
“Times about up.”
He nods and squeezes the little girl. “Thank you for reading to me, Kayleigh, I had a lot of fun.”
“Me too,” she says in a squeaky little voice. “Thank you, Mr. Rockwell.” She turns in his embrace and gives him a big hug before taking off toward the center of the room where everyone is gathering.
Walker stands and pushes his shoulders back, stretching for a few seconds.
“How long were you standing there?”
“Not long enough.”
Jersey and jeans—it should be an illegal combination, especially when Walker wears it. Don’t get me wrong, I love baseball pants for many reasons, but when a nice, fitted jersey is paired with jeans, there’s something about it that gets my blood pumping.
“Thought you weren’t going to show today.”
I groan. “Getting into the stadium was hell today. I ended up parking at a grocery store and taking the train in the rest of the way.”
“Smart.” He nods. “But are you going to have to take the train back after the game?”
“Huh.” I chuckle. “I guess I didn’t think that far ahead.”
“It’s going to be a nightmare. I’ll take you back to your car after the game.”
“Oh, that’s not necess—”
“Don’t argue with me, Kate. I’m taking you to your car. Meet me at the players’ parking lot after the game.”
“Walker—”
He gives me a stern look and repeats, “Don’t argue.”
There doesn’t seem to be any reasoning with him when he uses that tone. Capitulating, I say, “Okay.”
Since we’re behind a wall and no one can spot us, as he walks by me, his finger trails along my arm and goosebumps spread across my skin. I make eye contact with him, confused but turned on all at the same time.
Barely above a whisper, he says, “Don’t sound too excited about it.”
“I . . . I can’t get excited.”
He glances down at my chest and then back at me. “Looks as if you already are.”
With the smallest of smirks, he joins the rest of the players in the center of the room as I let out a long, pent-up breath and lean against the wall.
Who knew?
I know Walker’s an enigma, but I truly didn’t expect that touch. That teasing. The man gives off so little to so many, and yet, now it’s as if a dam has been opened and he feels free to talk, to touch, to . . . entice me. He’s charming. He’s sweet.
He’s dangerous.
This is going to be the longest Bobbies game of my life.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
WALKER
We’re destroying the Bruins right now.
Fifteen to zero.
We’re lights-out with Abbott on the mound—our number three pitcher—and our bats are lighting up the dark night with hit after hit. It’s the seventh fucking inning and I’ve already had four hits. The new rookie pitcher the Bruins brought up from their farm system wasn’t ready.
I feel bad for the guy, because the minute he stepped on the mound, he showed his nerves and we could read him as if he were a twelve-year-old kid pitching to us, which only meant batting practice for us.
The Bruins manager finally took him out after just three innings and we’ve been lighting up their bullpen ever since. Now as Bader, their next relief pitcher, warms up, I don’t bother studying him, because I’ve faced him quite a few times. Wicked curveball that he hangs on occasion and a fastball that he places well on the outside corner. Nothing I haven’t handled before.
I love winning. I love the feeling of sitting in the dugout completely relaxed, enjoying the company of my teammates as we know a win is in our near future.
But . . .
This is the one time I wish it were a tight race, with each inning bouncing back and forth until the end, where we score a walk-off home run, celebrate, and then get the hell out of here. Quick game, over and done with.
Not this game, though. Fucking dragging on forever.
I can’t get Kate out of my head, or the opportunity to be close to her again. After our text message exchange, I’ve been a fucking madman in the halls of the stadium, trying to catch any kind of glimpse of her but coming up short.
When she didn’t show up at the event right away, I was nervous that maybe I’d taken things too far, that maybe someone caught us together and she was fired, but when she peeked around the corner, my anxiety leveled out and a sense of calm washed over me.
I knew right then and there, even though it’s against team policy, I had to see her again. When she told me about her car, I saw the perfect opportunity to take advantage of the situation and get her alone. She didn’t put up much of a fight, which I fucking loved.
From the texts, I know she’s struggling just as much as I am, but also from the way her nipples were pressing against her silk shirt, hard as pebbles—she wanted time with me just as much as I want time with her.
“Walker, Ryot, Carson,” our manager calls out. “Hit the training room, take the rest of the night off.”
I was waiting for the dismissal. When we’re this far ahead, Coach Hopkins likes to give the starters a break and send them to the training room to cool down and relax, which only means I can get out of here earlier than I was planning.
I gather my glove—my catcher’s gear will be taken care of by the equipment manager—and I head for the locker room, when Coach stops me, placing his hand on my shoulder. “Rockwell, a moment.”
“Sure,” I say, stopping right below where he sits perched against the fence of the dugout. He wears a helmet now while coaching, because two years ago, he was hit in the head by a foul ball. He was told to sit lower, but he stated he couldn’t see the game like he wanted to, so now he wears a helmet. Smart man.
“Your bat is good right now, so whatever you’re doing, keep it up.”
“Thanks, Coach.”
I go to walk away when he says, “And your composure behind the plate is outstanding. Abbott told me he’s never felt more comfortable on the mound, and a lot of it has to do with you.”
I glance over at Abbott, who has his arm wrapped up in towels, his head leaning against the dugout wall. “He’s giving me too much credit, but thank you.”
Coach nods toward the hallway that leads to the training and locker rooms. “Go cool down and get the hell out of here. Good game, Rockwell.”
“Y
ou too,” I say awkwardly and confused. A compliment from my coach? I’m not quite sure what to do. I never get compliments from him, only stern looks, an occasional gruff comment, but nothing like what he just said to me. Hell . . . maybe it’s going to be a good night. I head down the hall, a little extra pep in my step.
It’s not very often we get to take off early. Day after day we’re in the training room, in the cages, in the weight room, perfecting our game only to play later that night or in the afternoon. It’s grueling and demanding, so when offered an opportunity to slip out early, we jump right on it.
Walking down the hallway, Ryot claps me on the shoulder. “Four for four. Look at you, man. Back in the number four spot and hitting like a goddamn king.”
“The poor rookie was throwing grapefruits out there and their bullpen wasn’t much better. If I didn’t go four for four I would’ve been disappointed in myself.”
“I didn’t go four for four, and neither did Ryot,” Carson says, looking offended.
“Not my problem.” I laugh and head into the abandoned locker room, where I strip down quickly and grab a towel from my locker to wrap around my waist. Before hitting the shower, I snag my phone and send a quick text to Kate.
Walker: Done early. What about you?
“I’m going to bed the minute I get home,” Ryot says, his bare, white ass facing me. “I’m fucking exhausted.”
“Can you not stick your ass in my face?”
Ryot wiggles closer to me, his butt shimmying in my direction. So, like any smart man, I snag his towel, twist it, and smack him in the ass with it, puckering his butt cheeks quickly as he yelps and clasps his behind.
“What the fuck? What are you, ten?”
“I warned you. Keep that shit out of my face.” My phone buzzes on the wood of my locker and I quickly check it.
Kate: Done with everything, was just sticking around to watch the game.
Walker: Do you still want to watch?
Kate: I mean, you’re going to win.
Walker: The proper response would’ve been “Not worth watching if you’re not playing.”
Kate: Ah, I see. But you see, you’re not my favorite Bobbie anymore.
Walker: Hold that thought. Showering, hitting up the trainer, and then I’ll be out. Text you when I’m done.
I set my phone down and turn, only to find Carson and Ryot both standing behind me, arms crossed over their chests, towels wrapped around their waists.
Thank Christ.
“What?” I ask as they stare me down.
“Who are you texting?” Carson asks, trying to glance over my shoulder.
“None of your business.” I try to move past them but they stop me.
“When you’re smiling like that, it is our business,” Ryot says. “Someone holds a key to your happiness, and we need to know who it is so we don’t have to deal with your moody ass all the time.”
“Fuck off,” I say, this time moving past them and straight to the showers. They follow closely behind.
“Is it the girl?”
“You don’t want to be asking questions,” I say, whipping off my towel and turning on a showerhead. The water warms up quickly, so I start washing my entire body, using the team-provided soap, because I could not care less what I smell like as long as it’s fresh.
“Is this the girl you shouldn’t be talking to?” Carson asks, soaping up as well.
“What did I say about asking questions?”
“You can tell us,” Ryot says, trying to lure me in.
“Can I?” I ask sarcastically. “Because last time I told you something, you let the entire team know. Penn is sniffing around and I don’t fucking like it.”
“That was an honest mistake. I can’t be held responsible for that.”
“You sure as hell can. You lost all best friend privileges.”
Carson taps me on the shoulder. “If he’s out of the best friend slot, does that mean I slide right in? And if so, can you tell me who the girl is?”
“Neither of you are getting any information.”
“Bottling it up isn’t going to be healthy,” Ryot tries to point out.
I rinse and shut off the water. I snag my towel from the hook and do a quick wipe down before wrapping it around my waist and heading out into the locker room.
Bottling it up is the only thing I can do, because we’re just friends.
That’s all it’ll ever be.
That’s what I keep telling myself, even though I’m itching to be close to her again.
Chapter Thirty
KATE
“Need a ride?” I hear the deep voice of Walker Rockwell come up from behind me.
While waiting, I was scrolling through Pinterest, pinning some crockpot recipes I thought I would try for some easy meals to take to the stadium. Something healthy so I’m not always hitting up the vendors. I have a curvy butt, but I don’t want it to get so curvy that it doesn’t fit in my pencil skirts anymore.
I stick my phone in my purse and say, “I do. Is it going to cost me anything?”
“Nothing is ever free with me,” he answers from beneath the brim of his hat, making his features pierce me with broody darkness. He nods toward his car as he unlocks it. “Get in.”
“So demanding. I’m not sure I want to get in the car with you.”
Taking my hand into his, letting his fingers tangle with mine, he brings me to his passenger side, opens the door, and growls out, “Get. In.”
Oh God, that’s hot when he lowers his voice like that and demands things.
I’m setting back women’s rights a few years by listening to this alpha of a man dictate what I do, but I can’t help it. Everything about him makes me move, makes me listen. Makes me want to throw my hard-earned women’s rights out the window to have him hold my hand just a while longer.
I want to please.
Please him.
I want him to please me.
Desperately.
I settle into the passenger seat and buckle up. I set my hands on my lap just as Walker gets in. His large frame and broad shoulders invade my side of the car, his arm grazing mine. I don’t move. Instead, I lean a little closer to him, reveling in the way the heat of his body warms me to my core.
He starts the car and then faces me, one hand on the steering wheel. “Who the fuck is your favorite player?”
I roll my eyes. Of course he wasn’t going to drop that.
“You know . . . another guy,” I say, playing with the strap of my purse, trying to act as casual as possible.
“Who?”
“I’m not comfortable saying. I really don’t want to play favorites.”
“Well, then, looks as if you won’t be getting to your car anytime soon.” Shifting his body, he leans against his door, his shirt pulling across his chest just enough that I can see the definition of his pecs. Firm, thick, and begging for my touch, I can’t help but stare, and he catches me. “Look all you want. I’m not going anywhere.”
My eyes snap up and a furious blush creeps across my cheeks, burning my face in embarrassment.
“You’re going to be shy now?” he asks when I turn away.
“No. Just . . . got my fill. Not too impressive.”
“Bullshit.” He leans over and places his fingers under my chin, rotating my head so I’m forced to look him in the eyes. “You want me.”
“Pfft, I’m good.”
“You want to know what I taste like,” he continues, his gaze penetrating my soul. “What it would feel like to have your hand wrapped around my cock, to have me hovering above you, your sweet tits sucked inside my mouth.” My breath catches in my throat as he adds, “You want to know what it’s like to be handled by me in the bedroom, to have my hands move up and down your body, controlling your every pleasure point. You want me sucking, licking, tasting every inch of you until you’re so fucking wet that you come from just the lightest touch of my finger to your aroused cunt.”
Chest heaving now, lips part
ed, mouth parched, I can’t say anything. No words come to my mind as I envision everything he said.
I can see it so vividly, his muscular frame taking charge, demanding so much, but giving with every demand. I can almost feel his hands glide down my sides, his fingers tracing my nipple in circles until he brings the nub to his mouth. I can practically feel the way his teeth scrape across my breast, the way he sucks me in so deeply that I’m forced to lift off the mattress of the bed.
I want it.
I want him.
“Do you know what I want?” he asks, not giving me a chance to answer. “I want you completely naked in front of me, legs spread just enough that I can see your sweet pussy as you move your hand down your body. I want to watch you finger yourself, your hand moving in and out as the other squeezes your perfect tits. I want to watch as you cry out in pleasure, your head rolling from side to side. But I would never touch you.”
“Wh-why not?” I ask, breathless and completely turned on from the thought of getting myself off in front of him.
“Because—the minute I touch you, I know there’s no going back from there. So instead, I just want to watch you, sear into my brain what it looks like when you come, envisioning my tongue lapping up your orgasm rather than your fingers. I want to see the look on your face when you’re about to come, and then I want to see the pure carnal captivity of your release take you over. I want to see how wet your fingers are when you’re done, when you pull them away from your sweet cunt . . . and then I want to suck them.”
I swallow hard, unsure of what to say.
I want all of that, too. Hell, at this point, with all the feelings that are dancing inside of me, I would get myself off in his car right now if he asked me to. I have zero shame in releasing this buildup I have for him, this throb that won’t go away.
Moving in closer, he places his large hand on my cheek and gently strokes my skin with his thumb while staring me deeply in the eyes. “Do you want that, Kate?”
I lick my lips, stare at his, and then lock gazes with him again. “And so much more,” I answer.