Sweat rolls off me as I stand, going to the counter in the weight room to retrieve my gallon jug of Gatorade. As I chug, I feel that my black tank and gym shorts are almost soaked through. How the hell long have I been in here?
A glance at the clock tells me that it’s been almost two hours, and it’s no wonder that I’m dizzy. I need to get some food, get some rest, and try to put my mind at ease. As it is, I’ll be tense as fuck when I step out onto the field on opening day. There will no doubt be fans protesting, and those sports nuts who hate the Pistons’ organization on principal now. They showed up at spring training to harass the team daily. We even need to have extra security details follow us around after one of the players was splashed with some kind of vinegar cocktail at a press junket.
Clicking my music off and throwing my stuff into my gym bag, I decide to call it a day. No one came in to train today, I’m pretty sure most of my teammates are afraid to come into the stadium facilities to practice. It means passing the swarm of media waiting outside, but I don’t mind almost running over screaming idiot reporters with my car.
The footsteps of another person echo down the large, concrete bowels of the stadium before I can see them around the rounded hallway. I steel myself, hoping it isn’t one of my coach’s or another player. I’m really not in the mood to chat, and I finished the season on a shitty note with most everyone.
After being traded from Los Angeles in mid-September, I was none too pleased. The trade seemed off; I was playing my best season I’d ever had, with a point three two batting average going into the playoffs. And then, just like that, I was scooped up by the Pistons for some reason that was shadily hidden every time I asked about it. The entire deal stunk from the get-go. It was no big shock to me when the allegations came out in October, and then Jimmy Callahan was federally charged. Sure, it’s the biggest scandal in baseball since Pete Rose’s gambling and subsequent lifetime ban. It’s probably even bigger than the steroid era suspensions.
I would come to find out, due to the testimony of the executives and owners who testified against Callahan in return for their own immunity, that he’d bribed both the general manager and owner of the Los Angeles ball club I’d called home for ten years. In return for finagling draft picks by throwing games, using players who were in on his scheme, he paid my former GM a whopping two million dollars to execute a clause in my contract that sent me packing for Pennsylvania.
None of it was above board. They’d fucked me over, sent me to a team that hadn’t made the playoffs in two years, and unfortunately, due to the ruling from the league, none of the dealings could be reversed. All the players and front office staff who were involved have been fired and banned, but unfortunately, there was no way they could reverse the trades and underhanded agreements Callahan and his goons had made.
So here I am, on a team that is not mine. Playing for a club I am ashamed to take the field for.
And standing in front of me in her enraging, fucking gorgeous, glory is Colleen Callahan, daughter of the traitor.
“O-Oh, Hayes,” she stutters before me, those damn heels coming to an abrupt stop.
I should just keep walking, pass her with no comment and no respect, but that itch of rage under my skin is still alive and well. I’m raring for a fight, and I just got the most worthy opponent.
Not that I’d ever consider going toe to toe physically with our new general manager. Though there was that one dream, right after I’d been traded and met her, when I’d woken with wetness in my boxers like some goddamn teenage boy.
What I mean is, she’s smaller than my right arm. Slim in the most feminine kind of way, Colleen Callahan has that all-American look to her. She should be someone coming right off a farm in Connecticut, or the beach in Nantucket. Her honey-brown hair is always slicked back, poised looking. Those eyes, the same color as some of the sweetest whiskey I’ve ever downed, are rimmed with thick, black lashes. Her cheekbones are impossibly high, almost fox-like, and the pink blush of her cheeks as she holds me in her gaze has my brain humming.
The curve of her suit, something out of my wildest sexy librarian fantasies, gives only the subtlest hint of the small swell of her breast and cinch of her hips. It pisses me off that her modesty has my imagination running wild, far more than it would if I took in a bikini-clad woman on a Malibu beach.
If she were a different woman and I was a different man, I would love ruffling those perfectly-laid feathers. Unfortunately, that would never be the reality. Her family is enemy number one, and I only have to survive them for one season before free agency.
“Isn’t that Mr. Swindell to you? Now that you’re the head honcho, I’d expect that formality. Or, since I’m not technically here under legal means, does that mean you don’t have to pay me that respect?”
It’s a low blow, mentioning her father’s scandal right out of the gate, but I’m fucking pissed. We all are. Most of the players here don’t even want to go out and represent the team this year, but that would mean giving up the thing we love even more than we hate the Callahans; the game of baseball. And for me, someone who only has a few good seasons left, I’m not willing to sacrifice one.
Colleen’s eyes narrow, and that button nose scrunches slightly, but aside from that, she gives no other reaction.
“Of course not, all the players and staff here garner every ounce of my respect. If you’d prefer I address you by a formal title, I will be more than obliged to do so. Just let me know. I’m actually glad I caught you, because I’ve been meaning to contact you or your assistant. I’d love to have a sit down with you. As a veteran player in the league, I’d love to talk over some strategies for rallying the locker room. I know this season won’t be easy—”
There is so much rage in the hand I hold up, inches from her face, to stop her from speaking, that I’m shaking.
“I’ll play my damn heart out, because this is my team now, and I’m never the guy to abandon my men on the field. But don’t for one second think that I want to be here. Don’t even dare speak my name in your press conferences, or attempt to make me this club’s poster child for rebuilding its image. The minute my contract is up, I’m done with the lot of you crooks. Your family is a stain on the name of major league baseball, and I don’t want mine associated with it in any way.”
I see it when it happens. That one millisecond of pain, of shock, that flits across her expression. But in the next breath, she’s locking it down, squaring her shoulders.
This woman is unflappable. I’m kind of glad about that, because she’s going to need it. This season is going to be a shit-storm for her, both personally and professionally.
“Understood. I wish you the best of luck in your season here, Mr. Swindell. From what I’ve seen, you’re a grade A player with both talent and hard work behind you.”
On the other hand, it makes me livid that she can be so cool in her response, that I didn’t make her want to swing back at me. Makes me wonder who did a number on this woman to make her so robotic.
As she nods her goodbye and walks away with careful and measured steps, my ire burns even brighter, deep in my gut. How that woman can occupy her father’s office, how the Callahan family can expect anyone to respect their involvement in the sport moving forward, is beyond me.
Luckily, I only have to make it one season with these crooks. One calendar year of baseball, and I’m a free agent.
And then I’m out of Packton, Pennsylvania for good.
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Also by Carrie Aarons
Standalones:
Love at First Fight
Nerdy Little Secret
That’s the Way I Loved You
Fool Me Twice
Hometown Heartless
The Tenth Girl
You’re the One I Don’t Want
Privileged
Elite
Red Card
Down We’ll Come, Baby
As Long As You Hate Me
All the Frogs in Manhattan
Save the Date
Melt
When Stars Burn Out
Ghost in His Eyes
On Thin Ice
Kissed by Reality
The Callahan Family Series:
Warning Track
Stealing Home
Check Swing
The Rogue Academy Series:
The Second Coming
The Lion Heart
The Mighty Anchor
The Nash Brothers Series:
Fleeting
Forgiven
Flutter
Falter
The Flipped Series:
Blind Landing
Grasping Air
The Captive Heart Duet:
Lost
Found
The Over the Fence Series:
Pitching to Win
Hitting to Win
Catching to Win
Box Sets:
The Complete Captive Heart Duet
The Over the Fence Box Set
About the Author
Author of romance novels such as The Tenth Girl and Privileged, Carrie Aarons writes books that are just as swoon-worthy as they are sarcastic. A former journalist, she prefers the love stories of her imagination, and the athleisure dress code, much better.
When she isn't writing, Carrie is busy binging reality TV, having a love/hate relationship with cardio, and trying not to burn dinner. She’s a Jersey girl living in Texas with her husband, daughter, son and Great Dane/Lab rescue.
Please join her readers group, Carrie’s Charmers, to get the latest on new books, as well as talk about reality TV, wine and home decor.
You can also find Carrie at these places:
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Goodreads
Nash Brothers Box Set Page 78