by KB Winters
Bring The Heat
A Sports Romance
By KB Winters
Copyright © 2016 BookBoyfriends Publishing LLC
Published By: BookBoyfriends Publishing LLC
Copyright and Disclaimer
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2016 BookBoyfriends Publishing LLC
All rights reserved. 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 the copyright owner. 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 the trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Contents
Bring The Heat
Copyright and Disclaimer
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
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
More from KB Winters
Acknowledgements
About The Author
Chapter One
Chelsea
Take me out to the ballgame indeed. The song was stuck on permanent repeat inside my head, my hand was sticky from the beer that spilled from my cup when the enormous basement-dweller beside me—who apparently had something against wearing deodorant—jostled me, and if the section next to ours tried to start the wave one more time, someone was going to lose an arm.
Spending a Saturday afternoon out in the blazing Oklahoma heat was not my idea of a good time. Especially not when my seat was numbered and surrounded by thousands of loud, enthusiastic Warriors fans who were having the time of their lives singing baseball tunes, eating roasted peanuts by the truckload, and cheering on a game that I virtually knew nothing about.
A sharp elbow to my ribs snapped me out of my fuming. “Damn, Chelsea, you look like you swallowed a lemon. Try to smile! We’re having fun remember?” My best friend, Paris Daniels, smiled and waved her hands in the air.
“And you look like you’re trying to teach a water aerobics class down at the senior center,” I replied, my tone sour.
She frowned at me and dropped her arms. “You’re such a brat.”
I pushed my shades up my nose for the tenth time in the last hour. The thick layer of sunscreen that I’d smeared on before I put my foundation on was running like crazy under the blazing sun and my glasses refused to stay put. “You know I don’t like the heat.”
Paris flagged down a passing vendor. “Two cherry ices,” she called out sweetly to the scraggly looking teen. Seconds later, she pushed a red cone of shaved ice chips into my hand. “Here. Now quit your bitching.”
I snorted. “Just what I need. A nice big dose of high-fructose corn syrup.”
Paris groaned. “Give it,” she growled, reaching for the cone.
I shook my head and took a bite. “I’ll stop.”
Paris eyed me suspiciously. We’d known each other long enough that she knew once I got on a roll, it was hard to stop. I didn’t lose my shit on a regular basis, but when I did, it was well…un-pretty.
“I’m sorry, Paris. I really am. I know you’re just trying to cheer me up with a day out of the—”
“Cave?” she supplied, using her oh-so-clever name for my home office.
“Office,” I corrected, before sucking down another mouthful of the sweet ice chips.
Paris grinned and licked her ice, commanding the attention of every straight male in our section of the stadium. And she knew it. “Potato, potahtoe.”
“Not really…but okay.” I threw back the rest of my ice.
“I was starting to worry about you, that’s all,” Paris said, her tone pointed and serious. “You spend eighty hours a week in front of your computer with nothing but a tank full of fish to keep you company. It’s not natural, babe.”
“I don’t have a choice right now. If I don’t get something going soon, I’m going to literally be living in a cave.”
Paris cackled, tossing her honey colored hair back. “Oh sweetie, you know I’d never let that happen to you! You could always come and live with Robby and me. We can be roomies again! His house has a gazillion bedrooms.”
I laughed. “A gazillion?”
She nodded. “Yup. Plenty of room for you and your Finding Nemo friends.”
“For the record, none of them are named Nemo.” I pursed my lips. “My clown fish is named Lucky.”
Paris rolled her eyes. “The point is, you’re twenty-three. It’s not natural to be so stressed out about money and work and all that. You’re supposed to be out, enjoying life, traveling, figuring yourself out.”
“I’ve got myself pretty well figured, thanks. And there will be time for travel and all the rest when I’ve got my next game out there in the world. Until then, it’s long days in the cave.”
Paris laughed and shook her head. “I don’t understand you.”
The truth was that I didn’t understand her. We were roommates for a couple of years while I was finishing up at MIT and she was working her way through cosmetology school part time and partying full time. What had started as a meeting in a coffee shop after reading her add for a roommate on an online listing ended up being a three-year friendship. And counting. Over the years I found that we have more opposite traits than similarities, but I loved her dearly and wouldn’t trade her wide eyes, infectious laugh, and wicked smile for anything. She was the best friend I’ve ever had and all the shit we gave each other was purely out of love.
Paris was whip-smart and I could easily imagine her as the head of a high-end salon someday. She had an eye for detail and despite her wild nature, a bit of a perfectionist streak. But instead of pursuing her own business, she’d recently declared herself retired after getting engaged to Warriors player, Robby Brown, who was something of a b-list celebrity with local commercials, endorsement deals with a couple of national companies, and after ten years in the league, more money than he knew what to do with.
Paris and Robby were introduced by a mutual friend at a New Year’s Eve party and had been together ever since. He’d taken her home on the first night and two days later she put in her notice with her apartment and moved in with him. As far as I could tell, they were still deliriously happy a year and a half later. He popped the question and presented her wit
h a diamond ring that could do double duty as a door knocker and they were planning a Jamaican wedding to take place at the end of next summer.
These days, Paris spent her time shopping, lounging by the pool outside Robby’s mansion, and participating in the Warriors Wives Club, an organization that hosted events for charity and kept the player’s wives (and serious girlfriends) busy and networking. Paris loved her new life.
If the tables were turned, I would have been climbing the twelve-foot security walls around the perimeter of the Mediterranean masterpiece they shared.
“What is there to understand? I’m under a deadline, Paris,” I retorted, pushing up my glasses again.
“It just seems like an unstable way to build a life,” she said innocently. “Your happiness depends on how well a game is received. Like your world would crash and burn if your new game flops. It’s a helluva hamster wheel if you ask me.”
I gritted my teeth together and tried to swallow the anger down. “And what would you suggest?”
“Marry rich, babe.” She smiled and flashed her giant ring at me, likely blinding half of the stadium in the process. “It’s the easy button of life and I’m gonna push it all day long.”
I groaned and shoved her hand back down into her lap. “And let me guess, that’s how you got that thing in the first place?”
Paris laughed. “All day and all night. Basically, whenever Robby is home.”
I shook my head, blocking out the mental images. I’d already walked in on them getting down and dirty once. And believe me, it was enough to scar me for life. I’d been at their house for the Super Bowl party and went off in search of a box of Oreos to refill the plate. Instead, I walked to the pantry and found my best friend getting plowed from behind. I hadn’t eaten Oreos since.
“Well that’s cool. I’m happy for you. But…that’s not me. I’m not looking for a man right now. And I definitely don’t want to give up my career for one. Any guy that demanded that would get scratched right off my list.”
Paris shrugged. “To each their own. But I’ll tell ya, my life right now is pretty damn sweet.”
“Mine is too…” I said, though my tone was less than convincing. It was a good life. I was doing what I’d always wanted to. It just came in a less glamorous packaging than I originally imagined. Instead of attending posh conferences in cool, techno forward cities across the globe, discussing cutting edge technology and attending lectures by the leaders in the industry, I spent my days hunched over a keyboard with yellow tinted glasses to protect my eyes, until my fingers curled into claws from too much coding. On a good day, I’d make it out into civilization but somehow the local coffee shop crew never had much to say. At least nothing interesting.
But it was my life and I owned it. I didn’t care what Paris thought. Besides, if my new game went over well, I could take some time off to go travel to conferences. I just had to ride it out, pay my dues. Then I could hire people to do the grunt work for me.
“Well if you change your mind, just say the word. Robby obviously knows a lot of available, wealthy, successful men all in the prime of their lives and looking to party with a sweet little piece like you.” Paris winked at me and flashed a devious smile.
“I’m flattered.”
I wasn’t.
The idea of marrying for money was as distasteful to me as being auctioned off for a pile of cash. The whole thing reeked of anti-feminism sentiment and I didn’t want any part of it.
Even if the way some of the men on the field filled out their baseball pants made me twitchy.
Just a little.
“How long has it been?” Paris asked.
I glanced around as though to remind her that we weren’t camped out in our old apartment, wearing PJs and vegging out to Netflix. We were in the middle of a public place—a very public place—and it was so not the time or place to ask about my recent sexcapades.
Or lack thereof in this case…
Paris laughed at my indignation and threw back the rest of her cherry flavored ice like it was a shot of Patron. “Fine, fine. Prude.”
“I am not—” I paused, lowering my voice, “I am not a prude. But we are in a freakin’ stadium. Do you have no shame?”
I knew she didn’t. Remember the pantry thing? Yeah. Door wasn’t even shut.
“Fine, fine. But I told Robby that we’d hang out after the game. I can’t be sure that no one else is going to…you know…show up.”
“Paris!” I growled. “Three months ago I went on one of your blind dates. Remember that? Yeah. Total shit show.”
Paris winced at the memory. “Okay, that was my bad and I apologized. This will be different. I promise!”
I rolled my eyes and flopped back against the seat. Three months ago she had set me up on a blind date with the brother of one of her WWC pal’s brothers. I’m not really sure how she managed to get me to agree to it. I was in a good mood, having just received funding to build my new game. Anyway, the guy had shown up for the date twenty minutes late. Strike one. He smelled of another woman’s perfume. Strike two. And before we even finished our first drink, he was groping my ass and whispering all the things he wanted to do to me in my ear. Strike three.
Now, I was far from being a baseball expert, but I do know that three strikes and you’re out.
And that’s exactly what I’d done. I threw a drink in his face when he tried to get under my dress and stormed out before I could do permanent damage to his man parts.
Paris had been banned from setting me up ever since.
Or, at least that’s what I’d told her. She was apparently playing by her own rules.
I was sitting in my seat, debating whether to grab my purse and make a run for the closest exit—Paris was wearing five inch heels and had already downed two beers, there was no way she’d catch me—when the loud speaker crackled to life.
“All right Warriors fans, let’s all give a warm welcome to our newest member of the team. Making his Major League debut, please help me welcome Cody Wright to the mound!”
The stadium erupted in cheers and I marveled at how excited people got. All around me, people were jumping to their feet, throwing their hands in the air, hollering at the top of their lungs.
“Go Cody! Make us proud!”
“Warriors! Warriors!”
Paris was on her feet like everyone else, and I pushed up from my chair to join in with a mild round of applause. It was weird to be the only one sitting, and I didn’t want to get thrown out on my ass by the zealous fans.
The man of the hour stepped out onto the field and his picture flashed up on the electronic billboard between the scoreboard and the one showing non-stop advertisements. Cody Wright was a bonafide hottie.
And damn it if he didn’t make those baseball pants look even more tempting.
Well, hello there Mr. Wright.
Chapter Two
Cody
To say the circumstances of my grand entrance into the Majors weren’t ideal would be a Texas-sized understatement.
The Oklahoma City Warriors were on a whopper of a losing streak having bombed six of the last seven games they’ve played. And apparently that’s not a streak that’s going to be broken anytime soon. I was a last round draft pick and immediately sent packing to Holdenville to the minor leagues to develop a year before rejoining the team in Oklahoma City. My year in Holdenville had taught me a lot, but mostly that I wasn’t meant to be a big fish in a small ass pond. Most of the time I was bored and off getting myself into trouble. I was halfway convinced the reason I’d finally been called back to join to Warriors was because the coaching staff was sick of me messing with shit just to have something to do.
In any case, I was a full-fledged player for the Warriors now, and marching onto the field mid-way through the ninth. I don’t know why the fuckin’ coach trotted me out like some kind of trick pony to save the team when we’re seven to one, the bases are loaded, and the Coyotes have the five-time home run champion and former league M
VP, Trey Delgado, at the plate.
No pressure or anything.
Fan-fuckin-tastic.
At least the crowd was cool. The overwhelming roar of cheers and chants was the only thing capable of getting through my piss-ass attitude.
Coach Robinson’s instructions resound in my ears as I sized the batter up. “Nothing fancy, son. Give him the heat and work the lower corners. He never swings at the first pitch and loves a high fastball. Keep it low okay?”
With the continued rumble of the crowd behind me and my lucky number on the back of my shirt, I took my place on the pitcher’s mound and met my catcher’s eye. I locked my jaw in place and gave the catcher a firm nod. Let’s rock this party.
“Play ball!”
I knew Trey Delgado wouldn’t swing at my first pitch. And I was about to show him—and the crowd—what Cody fuckin’ Wright was made of. I was carving out my place on the team, and one way to do that was a nasty fastball that would scare the shit out of Delgado so when he took his first swing—it was with a healthy dose of fear. I laughed to myself and set my feet on the mound.
Fastballs were my signature and the reason I’d been scouted for the majors in the first place. I’d rocked the hell out of it in the minors, but there was no way some stuffy MVP like Delgado would know that. He wouldn’t think I could strike him out. So that was exactly what I was going to do.
Low, fast, dirty.
My catcher, Pete Jennings gets set and I take a moment to glance at the three base runners. You SOB’s ain’t going anywhere so sit tight and watch the show.
With a crooked grin, I turned my attention back to Delgado with his cock, stick-up-his-ass stance.
“You ready to go, big shot?”
The cheers quieted down and I could feel the shift in the energy. Everyone was sitting on the edge of their seat.
This was it.
The big moment. The Warriors’ big moment.
My big moment.
I wound up the pitch and threw the ball. The release felt good. I would be shocked to see it clock anything less than 100 mph.
The crowd took a collective gasp and then I heard it.