The Player

by K. Bromberg

  And at the same time, I’m out of gas—my legs, my lungs, my everything—and so I have no choice but to stop when I’d rather keep running right on out of the stadium instead of having to face Easton.

  “Scout.”

  Keep running.

  “Scout.”

  I can’t even breathe, let alone talk.

  “Hey.”

  I can’t do it anymore. I can’t run another step, and so I stop, knowing I’m going to have to face him—right here, right now—with a mind and body so exhausted it’s going to be tough to keep my guard up.

  With my hands on my knees, sweat stinging my eyes and lungs heaving harshly, I glance over at Easton, strangely satisfied to see he’s just as winded as I am. Hands braced behind his head, elbows out, he walks around this mecca of gray concrete to cool down.

  “It’s not your time yet. Go away.” I know I’m being mean. I know he doesn’t deserve it. And yet I need to catch my breath so I can think straight.

  “I have just as much of a right to be in this stadium as you do, Kitty.” The nickname is a taunt I try to ignore. He has a way of pushing my buttons, and that damn name is just one of them.

  Especially when I remember how he was pleasing my body the last time he called me that.

  And that pisses me off more. I hate that I’m supposed to feel like I don’t care when all I want to do is care.

  “I’m not on the clock yet, so this is my time.”

  “Like hell it is.”

  If he was looking for my full attention, he just got it. And not only that, but my temper to go along with it.

  “Excuse me?” I stand to my full height and look at him for the first time. And when I do, every part of my body wants to move toward him instead of rail against him.

  “You heard me,” he says, meeting me glare for glare as he takes a few steps toward me. “I never figured you to be the love ’em and leave ’em type, but hey, you’ve already underestimated me . . . so I guess we’re even. Right?”

  There’s a bite to his tone. A defiant rejection edged with bruised ego. And all of that and more is reflected in his eyes as he takes another step closer while I glance around frantically to see if anyone is within listening distance.

  “No one’s close enough to hear me, Scout. Or to save you from having this conversation.”

  “We’re not having this conversation, so it’s a moot point.” I begin to walk away, and he sidesteps to block me. I’m forced to stop, or else I’ll end up face first in his chest, and touching him right now is not exactly the smartest thing.

  “We are having it because there’re a few things that we need to get straight. First one: I’ve had plenty of fun in my life, in and out of the sheets. But not once have I ever snuck off in the early morning and not faced what I did or didn’t do the night before. I’m a bigger man than that, and something tells me you are, too. So, you want to tell me what’s going on?”

  His dig is real. His hurt breaks through the spite in his tone. I hate that my immediate urge is to apologize and explain . . . but I can’t. I must stand my ground with him. I have no other option.

  “Like I said, I’m not on the clock.”

  “You’re damn right you’re not. But I’m not your clock, sweetheart.”

  “Leave me alone.” The comment is quick off my lips, my temper flaring and body on fire from his words. The ones that make me want to step into him and let him taste the anger on my lips.

  “What? I thought you weren’t on the clock. Remember? So, that means you don’t get to tell me what to do for about . . .” He looks at his watch then back up to me with amusement in his eyes. “Fifteen more minutes.”

  That grin of his is maddening. And sexy as hell.

  “Exactly. So, if you’ll excuse me.”

  His hand is on my arm in a flash, and now my back is against the corner of two walls, and he is directly in front of me.

  “You’re determined. I’ll give you that.” He nods and squeezes my arm ever so slightly as he steps farther into my personal space. And now when I breathe in, it’s him I smell. His shampoo. His cologne. His fabric softener. Him. “But I’m wondering where that fast-talking, loud-laughing, carefree girl I was dancing with the other night went because, while you’re still goddamn gorgeous, all the rest of her is nowhere to be seen.”

  “Everyone makes mistakes, Easton.”

  His chuckle is a low rumble that fills my ears and echoes in my head as he moves so that our bodies are merely a whisper away. Heat. Want. Need. All three dance a troublesome tango inside of me as he leans in so his lips are by my ear when he whispers, “It wasn’t a mistake. You know what I think? I think I got to you. I think when you close your eyes, you think about me. I think you don’t want to, but you do, because God knows I think about you, Scout. About what we did. About how I want more of it. With you. And you can give me the company line all you want, about how you are under contract and so we can’t pursue this, but fuck that. I don’t like to play by the rules. A contract is business, Scout. But this? You. Me? This is pleasure.”

  His words ignite every ember of desire within me. “You don’t understand.”

  “Then try me.” The honesty in his words combats the promises I’ve made outside of this. When I refuse to meet his eyes, he provokes me. “I never figured you for a coward, Scout.”

  “You know what? You’re right,” I state with an enthusiastic nod and a shrug of my shoulders. A ruse to mask the truth. “The other night was fun. Incredible. The best sex I’ve had in a while, but that’s all it was—sex. A little fun to let off some steam, and now that we’ve got each other out of our systems, we can forget about it. As you can tell by the way I left, I don’t do commitment. I don’t do more than what we did. So, thanks for the good time. Now let’s get to work.”

  I try to dart past him, and end up with his hand back on my upper arm, refusing to let me run again.

  “Thanks for the good time?”

  “Yep. Thanks.”

  His hazel eyes narrow, the edges tinged with green today as he squeezes my arm. “You’re scared.” And he makes the statement so matter-of-factly that my denial is automatic.

  “No.”

  “How did I not see it before? Why do I scare you?”

  Mayday. Mayday. I avert my eyes. Shift my feet. “That’s such bullshit. Make sure to flatter yourself while you’re at it.”

  “It’s not flattery if it’s the truth,” he quips, trying to get a smile out of me, but it’s kind of hard to smile when your heart feels like it’s beating out of your chest and your first instinct is to sprint but your feet refuse to move. “Besides, there was no need for you to run unless you were spooked.”

  “What, so now a woman can’t have a one-night stand without a reason?”

  “Nice play, but no dice. You knew this wasn’t a one-night stand, Scout. You knew we were going to have to see each other for the next few weeks. So you can try to convince yourself, but I’m not buying it.”

  My thoughts fly out of control, and none of them manifest into words, so I just stand there looking at him, mouth opening and closing, like more of an idiot than I already feel.

  “Then why push the issue? If you don’t believe what I’m saying, then why don’t you walk away?” There. I said something.

  And yet I feel everything.

  He chuckles, but it is anything but amused. “Because talk is cheap, Scout. Your lips are saying one thing, but your body and eyes are telling me something completely different. Did you already forget how incredible the other night was? How good I made you feel?” His eyes pin me motionless with a dare to refute him. “So go ahead and lie to yourself—stand by your one-night stand excuse—but just know I don’t buy it for one minute. I was there. I know the truth.”

  “Maybe I’m just a girl who likes to see how many major leaguer notches I can add to my belt.” Deflect. Divert. Distract.

  “You’re full of funny today, aren’t you? Do you think the other night would have happene
d if I thought that you were a baseball betty trying to charm me into the diamond between your thighs?”

  “Then why did it happen?” The question is out before I can stop it, and I know it’s surprised him because I can feel his fingers stiffen on my arm. I immediately want to know and don’t want to know the answer.

  “Because you’re incredible? Is that a good enough answer?” He angles his head and just stares at me for a beat in a way that has heat spreading from my center out to my toes and back in. “Because we had a day.”

  “A day?”

  “Yes. It wasn’t good. It wasn’t bad. It was just a day filled with a little bit of everything, and you don’t share a day with someone you don’t like.” His reasoning is simple enough, and sounds so sweet coming from this gruff baseball player who is a mixture of so many things. “And because we danced. We drank. We sulked. You stood in my apartment and looked at a symbol representing my whole life and summed up how I feel but can never put into words. You got me. And then you seduced me.”

  “I what?” I cough the words out as that soft smile of his turns big and bright.

  “You seduced me. A beautiful woman with a sharp tongue, a sharper mind, and a look in her eye that said she was scared and confident, haloed by the light of a baseball stadium . . . I mean, a man only has so much restraint when it comes to that kind of perfection.”

  And I’m a puddle. A big, messy puddle of feelings that are so foreign I’m not sure what to do or say or how to act other than to reject the words. But for some reason nothing comes from my lips because . . . because, look at him. Complete virility mixed with sincerity. Everything a normal woman would fall into the arms of when all I can think of is running away.

  But my feet don’t move. They don’t listen to my head because they are too busy listening to Easton. They are too busy letting his words break them down and give them an ounce of hope when hope was supposed to be lost.

  All I can do is stare at him—wage a war with everything I’ve conditioned myself to believe—and try to trust what he’s saying.

  “Or maybe you were just using me so you could see my private baseball field.” He delivers the joke with a soft smile, but his eyes tell me he knows I’m freaking out inside and is trying to add some levity to calm me.

  “Perhaps.” I give him an inch and secretly wonder if I do so because I want him to take the mile.

  “See?” He shakes his finger at me as his smile grows. “You forget I can read you. And you like me, Scout Dalton. So, pretend all you want that you don’t. Tell me the other night was a mistake. But I’ll be over here chipping away at whatever is preventing you from admitting it, because that night was incredible. And not just the sex. That was phenomenal, too. But you . . . . You get me. In a world of people wanting the throwback baller they see on the field, you understand there is more to me than just him. For some reason you seem to understand the things no one else does, the parts of me I’m not sure I even get, and yet you’re able to put words to it. So, yeah . . . the sex was great. You can stick to your guns, tell me it wasn’t, tell me it was a mistake, tell me you don’t feel a damn thing when we touch . . . but I do. And I want to go out again.”

  He leans forward and kisses me. I’d like to say it’s against my will, but I’m all in, despite trying not to show it. Because we’re here. At the stadium. And I can’t kiss him.

  But I do. With lips and tongue and heart, while his hands hold my shoulders still and my body motionless.

  I missed him.

  The single thought runs wild in my head over the few seconds I allow myself to be kissed senseless and reminded of how incredible he tastes.

  And how amazing our chemistry is.

  I want. And don’t want.

  I know we should stop. But I can’t make myself step back.

  Sensing my sudden hesitation, he does it for me. He tears his lips from mine and stares at me with a vigor I’ve not seen from him before.

  “Easton—”

  “You can refuse me all you want . . .” He laughs, stopping the rebuff on my lips. “But I should warn you, I’m a determined man. I’ll win, Scout. I’m a gamer, remember? So I’ll get that date. That next kiss. Earn them from you, including the halo of stadium light in your hair. And I’ll wear you down until you figure out there’s no need to be scared of me.”

  He lets go of my arms and steps back as the arrogance returns to his grin. “It’s going to be a bitch, isn’t it? To have to stretch me. Body to body. To have your hands on me. To have to watch me get hot and sweaty. To hear me groan when I lift weights and not remember that’s the same sound I made when I came. To rub me out—nice and slow. To be around me so much you’re sick of me, all the while denying there’s something here worth figuring out.” He takes another step back, adjusts his baseball hat and lowers the sunglasses resting on its bill to his eyes. “Have fun with that. I know I will. You’ve got five minutes before I’m on your clock. Tick. Tock.”

  And with one last flash of a grin, Easton turns on his heel and jogs down the corridor like we didn’t just run a race.

  Or he didn’t kiss me senseless and then leave me speechless.

  I’m breathless.

  I’m stunned.

  God, I’m fucked.

  “Hey, Scout?”

  “Hmm?” I murmur as I busy myself pulling my glove out of my bag, anything to keep my distance from him.

  “I need to be stretched.” His sing-song tone, laced with the promise of his words from the corridor, floats from where he’s sitting on the right field turf and hits me squarely in the gut.

  “Start your warm-up.”

  “I already warmed up,” he says, prompting me to turn his way and see his grin in full effect and aimed whole-heartedly at me.

  “Lovely,” I mutter as I make my way over to him, more than aware of the trio of players working out in left field with their conditioning coach. No rest for the weary, even on an off-day in their insane schedule.

  “What was that?” he asks, cheer infused into his voice because I know he’s pushing those buttons he mentioned upstairs.

  “Nothing.” I put my hands on my hips and stare down at him where he sits on the turf. He’s changed into his baseball pants, cleats, team T-shirt, and a new baseball hat. Add to the mix that grin on his face and he’s irresistible, but hell if I’m going to let him know I think that.

  “How do you want me?” he asks, and I know he’s trying to pull me back to that first time we met. We’re around each other so much it feels like that was months ago, but in reality, it has only been weeks.

  I don’t give him the satisfaction of an answer, but rather motion for him to stand up. Stepping behind him, I begin our routine—stretching, working through the stiffness, and feeling for any click in his shoulder.

  I work in silence, trying to listen to his body and ignore it all at the same time. His taunts from earlier replay in my mind, challenging me to disregard them, despite the ripple of his muscles and heat of his skin beneath my fingertips that only validate them. Because with each touch of his arm, each rotation of his shoulder, all I can think of is what his biceps looked like when he braced his body over me. When he sunk into me. When he made me come.

  “Can you do that one again?” he asks softly.

  So focused on his shoulder, I repeat the stretch without skipping a beat. And when I press his arm up, I’m met with Easton’s waiting eyes and knowing smile.

  “Seriously?” I say, dropping his arm instantly, pissed that I just willingly walked right into his extra stretch so he could maneuver me closer to him without questioning it or him.

  He blinks his eyes a few times and feigns innocence. “It’s gonna be a bitch, isn’t it?”

  “You’re a pain in my ass.” I laugh, wanting to maintain a hard line but unable to because I know he’s right. I step into him, jab my finger into his chest, and try to discipline myself anyway. “If this is contract, and that is pleasure, then let’s keep it that way. Don’t bring it on th
e field. This is my job. You’re my job. So, suck it up, Hot Shot, get your gear on, and meet me behind home plate,” I say the words that I know will stop him from saying anything else.

  “What?” His excitement is heartwarming.

  “You’re throwing down.”

  “What did you just say?” I can hear the hope in his voice as he jogs up beside me, and it tugs on every heartstring that he hasn’t already tugged on.

  “You heard me.”

  “I know you didn’t just say that to distract me from the conversation and not plan on following through.”

  “I wouldn’t do that. Not when it comes to your arm. This is contract, remember?”

  “Then say it again.” His grin is contagious, and I smile at his reaction, my bipolar emotions on overdrive.

  “Please don’t tell me you forgot what throwing down is.” I toy with him, speaking to him like a teacher does to a child, fingers pointing to each location as I explain. “I know it’s been a few months, so I’ll explain. Throwing down is when the catcher, that’s you, sits behind home plate—that’s the white thing over there behind the batter’s box. And when the pitcher—that’s the person on the mound—throws the ball to you, you throw the ball down to second base—that white square way out there—to try and get the runner out who’s trying to steal.”

  “Thanks,” he says drolly as he gestures to the glove in my hand and then stops when he notices his gear already laid out in the dugout. Thankfully Manny was around and helped me get that part done. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  “As a heart attack.”

  The look on his face will forever be etched in my mind as one of those times my job is incredible. Reverence. Awe. Gratitude. Relief. All of them are reflected as he slides on his armor. The barely visible inscription Thou shall not steal written in black sharpie around the edge of his chest protector makes me smile.

  I’m reminded of the times I’ve watched a game on TV, stared at his inscription, and wondered what kind of cocky asshole would taunt a runner by wearing that. But then within a few pitches he’d pick the runner off the base with such ease, I’d know that if anyone could pull off wearing that chest protector, Easton Wylder could.