Jock Blocked

by Pippa Grant

  Clearly.

  “I…that…huh,” he finally says.

  “It’s a superstition thing,” I continue in a rush. “I can’t tell you how I know, but I have multiple sources that have confirmed that if he has sex, he won’t be able to hit a ball, and I need the Fireballs to win.”

  “What sources?”

  “I can’t tell you. But it’s the truth. Ask Sarah. Or Lila. They were both there.” And they were, at the cookout in Copper Valley last fall where Brooks’s sister, Parker—one of Lila’s best friends—drunkenly confessed that she was sure he was a virgin. “But don’t let them tell you how they know either.”

  More silence covered by the hum of the party music sneaking through the walls.

  I don’t know if he’s contemplating that I’m a few papayas short of a fruit basket, or if he’s realizing that this is actually life and death of our favorite team that I’m talking about.

  “You know how important it is that the Fireballs win this year.” My chest is getting tight. Too much talking to one of my idols. And Cooper is definitely idol-able on the field. Even being on the worst team in baseball, he wins awards for his glovework and his bat, and I think he might be my top competition for most loyal Fireballs fan ever.

  “Dude, yeah, I…I guess I never thought this would be the first thing you’d ever say to me. But it makes sense.”

  “He’s trying to get laid,” I add.

  “That’s understandable. I mean, thirty years with no sex…I’d be climbing the walls. Or I’d have a really big right forearm.”

  “He can’t.” Yeah, breathing is definitely getting harder. And no amount of reminding myself that Sarah’s probably right, and I need to do something different to contribute to my favorite team’s cosmic success, is helping with the impending hyperventilation. “He can’t score if he gets laid.”

  “Technically, if he gets laid, he’s scoring, but I see—whoa, hold up. Do you need a paper bag?”

  “Yes.” I gulp air. I am such a basket case. “No.”

  “Aw, Mac, I’m just a guy.”

  “Your brother told me. And your sister. But you’re Cooper Rock.”

  “I sometimes fart in the shower and blame it on Torres.”

  “I know.” And now there are black dots dancing at the edges of my vision, and my breath is coming in what should be huge gulps, but instead feels like dainty little sips of air-tea.

  Get a grip, Mackenzie. You can do this. You HAVE to do this. “Please help me. You can’t let Brooks have sex. You can’t.”

  “Shit. Here. You need to sit somewhere, and I need to go find you a paper bag.”

  He grabs my elbow and tugs, and I trot along while he leads me out of the laundry room.

  I’m in the hallway outside where all of my heroes sleep.

  Yep. Not gonna make it. “How’s my lipstick?” I pant. “Will the paramedics judge me?”

  Cooper pauses, coughs, his eyes twinkling, and then guides me into a bedroom down the hall after pausing outside the first bedroom we pass.

  Oh my god.

  Am I in Cooper Rock’s bedroom?

  “Here. Sit. Breathe. I’m texting Sarah—wait. Give me your phone. If you can’t talk to me, maybe we can be text friends.”

  I shove my phone at him. Once he’s gone, I’ll label his contact information as something like Gomer Aloysius Perdywagon, and then I’ll be able to pretend I’m not texting with Cooper Rock.

  I hope Brooks—and the whole team—appreciates the lengths I’m going to in order to save his game this year. If anyone can turn the Fireballs around, it’s Tripp and Lila and this coaching staff they’re building, and wouldn’t everyone regret it if Brooks getting laid was the one thing that kept the team from the post-season?

  “Okay. My number’s in there under Fiery the Dragon, and I texted myself from your phone so I have your number too. I’m gonna go find Sarah.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut even as a little voice whispers, you did it, Mackenzie! You talked to him! “Don’t let Brooks have sex.”

  “Look, Mac, I want to win as bad as everyone, but there’s a code, you know? You can prank a guy a few times, but you can’t cock-block a teammate repeatedly for no reason.”

  “Winning is the reason.” I am such a disaster. Normal, rational people probably don’t enlist the help of professional baseball players to interfere with a man’s sex life.

  But it’s the Fireballs.

  You try growing up the daughter of two drag queens, dealing with all of the crap that comes with having nontraditional parents, because kids can be total assholes no matter how much you learn about love and acceptance and the beauty of originality at home, and then tell me you wouldn’t go to extreme lengths to help a team that gave you an escape from the mocking and teasing and made you feel like a normal kid who belonged somewhere, even if that somewhere was a fandom.

  There’s nothing like the unity of the true-blue fans of a team that never wins.

  Wearing a Fireballs jersey made me feel connected to something bigger at a time when I desperately needed it. Still does. I can walk down any given street, pass someone in Fireballs gear, and there’s this instant connection, like yeah, man, I feel your pain, but we’re in this together. We’re not alone.

  In my teenage years, when I turned into that shit kid myself who decided that my dads sucked and that they were trying to ruin my life—not because I had two dads, but because doesn’t every teenager feel like that?—it was baseball that brought us all back together.

  “Please?” I say to Cooper. “Please stop him. I could quit my job to stalk him, but I only have so much in savings and only so much more in credit, and even I know that’s crazy talk to spend eight months going into debt just to cock-block a baseball player. Plus I’ll probably get arrested.”

  He sighs. “I promise I’ll look into if he’s trying to sabotage the team. You—stay. Okay? Stay here, and I’ll be back as soon as I can find Sarah.”

  He leaves me in the room, and my breathing evens out almost instantly.

  But you know what?

  I did it.

  I talked to Cooper Rock.

  High five to me.

  And if I did it once, I can do it again. And maybe that will be good luck for the home team.

  But maybe not right now.

  Right now, I’m good with continuing to hide in this bedroom, and sit on the bed where I know a baseball player sleeps, and practice not freaking out about it.

  I know I’m irrational. I know it’s nutty. I know they’re just people.

  But I want to believe in heroes.

  I don’t know how to be normal around my heroes. It’s like, I want to know they exist, but I don’t want them to see how dorky I am underneath the silent thing.

  I have issues. I know. I know.

  I hear voices in the hall, and they’re not Sarah’s voice, or Beck’s voice, or Cooper’s voice.

  Nope.

  That’s Brooks Elliott’s voice.

  “Don’t come in here,” I whisper. “Please don’t come in here.”

  The door’s wide open.

  He’ll see me if I don’t move.

  And so I do.

  All while whispering don’t come in here.

  Completely in vain.

  6

  Brooks

  I feel like a dick while I lead Ainsley to my room. She’s nice, but I have to keep mentally correcting myself from calling her Ashley.

  And I have a meatball in my conscience.

  Is she THE ONE? Are you sure? Are you really sure?

  I shake off the mental commentary and point to the picture of Duggan Field that someone hung in the hallway. “You ever been?”

  “No, but I’d love to someday.” She smiles at me, and I realize her eye makeup is uneven.

  Yep. I’m judging if I want to sleep with a woman on how even her eye makeup is.

  I’m the dick. I am definitely the dick.

  I’d kick a guy’s ass if he ever told me my sister
wasn’t good enough because her eye makeup was uneven. And given who my sister is, odds are good she’s got way worse miscoordination going on any given day than mismatched eyelid paint.

  Damn good thing her husband adores her for all of her quirks.

  Clue number seventy-five that I shouldn’t bang Ashley—Ainsley, dammit—is that I’m thinking about my sister.

  Concentrate, Elliott. Would she be sleeping with you if you weren’t a pro baseball player? You’re getting laid and she’s getting something out of it too.

  My balls perk up and give a big ol’ Hell, yeah! at my internal justification, and I slip my arm around Ainsley’s waist as I lead her into my bedroom.

  As soon as we’re inside the white-walled room hung with seascape paintings, she eyeballs the two double beds, then turns and slips her arms around my neck. “You have a roommate?”

  I don’t—I haven’t had a roommate since my rookie year, but I got last pick of rooms when I got here.

  But if the idea of getting caught turns her on, I can run with that. “He’s pre-occupied with a poker game.”

  “Strip poker?” She wiggles her brows, which makes me squint at that space where I can tell her eye shadow is uneven. Is one side a different color brown than the other?

  Dammit. I have issues.

  She presses her lower body to mine, and hallelujah, my dick doesn’t care what’s wrong with her makeup.

  I wiggle my brows back at her. “We could skip the poker part and go straight to the stripping.”

  “I like that plan.”

  Her fingers thread through my hair. One of her rings catches and she rips out a few strands, and I swallow a yelp of pain as she leans in to kiss me with cold, wet lips.

  “Mm,” I groan.

  She pulls back. “Oh my god, did I hurt you?”

  “I—no. That was—that was nice. That was my I like it noise.”

  My I like it noise?

  Fuck.

  I reach over and kill the lights, which plunges us into total darkness instead of giving us mood lighting.

  “Ah, sorry.” I flip the lights back on.

  Her brows crease like she knows this isn’t normal, and what the fuck is wrong with me?

  Screw it.

  I strip out of my shirt.

  Ashley’s—Ainsley’s eyes go to my chest. She licks her lips and rubs a rough hand over my pecs.

  What does she do? Is she a dishwasher or something? Or a doctor? Or does she need to see a doctor for whatever’s wrong with her hands?

  Shut up, Elliott, and fuck the woman.

  “You have a lot of muscles.”

  “Wanna see the biggest one?”

  “Oh, hell, yeah.”

  I reach for my belt buckle.

  And then the humming starts.

  I meet Ainsley’s eyes.

  She blinks.

  A lot.

  Dude, that’s what’s going on. She only put mascara on one eye.

  “Is that you?”

  I shake my head. Abruptly, it stops.

  But now I have “Take Me Out To The Ball Game” stuck in my head.

  She laughs awkwardly, and I think about my sister. Again. While I’m supposed to be making out with this hot chick who wants to stroke my chest and help me with my belt.

  “Is it true what they say about the size of a baseball player’s bat?” Her fingers are making nimble work of the button on my jeans now, reminding me that while I’ve never gone all the way with a woman, she obviously has.

  With a man, I mean.

  Not with a—I’m going to quit thinking now.

  Her hand is slipping into my boxers and my dick gives a startled squeak as her cold, rough fingers squeeze him. “Oh, it is true.”

  The humming starts again, this time, the national anthem.

  I jerk away from Ashley—Ainsley, dammit—and drop to the floor, checking under the beds with my semi-hard junk half-out of my boxers.

  Nothing except my luggage.

  But the closet—

  The closet holds a blond-haired, wild-eyed, hot-as-fuck chick who’s not supposed to be in the bedrooms. “Hide-and-seek!” she gasps while I make quick work of zipping my pants.

  “What?”

  “I’m playing hide-and-seek with Cooper Rock!”

  She’s flushed from the edge of that pink dress over those gorgeous breasts, up her slender neck, all the way to the tips of her ears and her hairline, and she’s panting in a way that’s making my dick harder than it was while Ashley had her hands on it.

  Her.

  Mackenzie.

  I want to bang her.

  I angle closer. “Is this a private game of hide-and-seek?”

  “Yes! No!”

  She’s an adorable ball of sexy, and I can’t help smiling at her. It’s pure instinct. So is the ugly flash of jealousy at the idea that Cooper’s using my bedroom for sex games with Mackenzie.

  Who could barely talk to him half an hour ago.

  Jesus.

  Does the asshole have no honor at all?

  “Do you want him to find you?”

  She half nods, half shakes her head, which means her face basically moves in a circle, and there I go, smiling at her again.

  I touch her arm, because I can’t help myself, and my cock strains behind my zipper. “You don’t have to play hide-and-seek with anyone you don’t want to, okay?”

  She fans her face and nods.

  That wide-eyed thing—she’s not here because she wants to be. Ah, hell.

  What has Rock talked her into?

  “You want to go find your friends?”

  More rapid nodding. Faster fanning.

  “Hot flash,” she squeaks.

  “Yeah, let’s go find your friends.”

  “If you’re leaving, do you care if I go talk to Darren Greene?” Ashley asks.

  Fuck.

  Fuck.

  I’m here with a date.

  I fling a glance back at the woman I was about to have sex with before I completely forgot she was here. Ainsley. Her name’s Ainsley. And she’s giving me dagger-eyes.

  Pretty sure I deserve that. Probably a lot worse.

  You’re better than this, idiot.

  I pinch my eyes shut. “Greene’s married and his wife is pregnant. I’ll be right back.” I pause. Realize I’m leaving a woman in my bedroom with all of my valuables. Wonder what my two brothers who were once in the military would say about that. Then wonder what every baseball player I’ve ever known would say about me being dumb enough to leave a woman in my room. “Actually, here. You want to meet Luca Rossi?”

  She looks longingly at my bed, then follows us out.

  “I secretly love you,” Mackenzie whispers.

  Ainsley gives her the same you’re such a weirdo eyeball that I’ve seen assholes give my sister one too many times. “You have issues.”

  And suddenly I’m seeing red.

  And not because I’ve gotten cock-blocked two nights in a row.

  Clearly, we all have issues.

  And mine is apparently more than the fact that I’m baseball’s oldest virgin. Possibly only virgin.

  The damn meatball was right.

  I have zero taste in women.

  And even if I did, I don’t currently deserve any of them.

  7

  Mackenzie

  Brooks Elliott smells like the ocean, and it’s making me want to go dance on the beach under the moonlight.

  With him.

  Except not with him, because I can still barely talk.

  But you did talk! my inner cheerleader reminds me.

  As soon as we exit the house, his date veers off to talk to Luca. The look she’s giving Brooks suggests she’s not going to be heading back to the bedroom with him anytime soon.

  Totally worth all the humming. Another high five for me.

  “Fireballs’ biggest fan, eh?” Brooks nods to my breasts, and I realize he’s actually looking at my Fiery Forever button—isn’t he?


  Or is he?

  Is he checking out my breasts and pretending he’s looking at the button?

  After I cock-blocked him?

  No.

  Definitely not. He wouldn’t do that.

  He would not hit on me, because first of all, he was just trying to score with another woman, and second of all, the universe would basically implode if a baseball player truly hit on me, because I am the biggest dork in all of existence when I’m around my idols.

  Yet, even though we’re surrounded by players and their girlfriends and wives and dogs and wanna-be flings, I feel like we’re entirely alone.

  And the weirdest thing is happening.

  I’m breathing okay. And I can almost talk like a normal human being. “Number one.” I tap my button. “Always number one.”

  Maybe Sarah was right.

  I need to get over myself and do this.

  It’s not like the team can get any worse than last year.

  Oh, shit. Oh, hell. I need to knock on wood.

  Dozens of freaking baseball players, and not a single wooden bat in sight.

  “You know Tripp and Lila?” he asks.

  “Through Sarah.” Need some wood. Need some wood.

  And I’m not talking about the wood in Brooks’s pants. Which no one will be knocking on under my watch.

  Maybe him hitting on me would be a good thing? Because I definitely won’t sleep with him.

  Ever.

  My team needs that much from me.

  He tightens his grip on my arm as he pulls me out of the way of a cluster of women leaping back from a spilled drink near the firepit. “You have strong feelings about the new mascot costume?”

  Double-triple dammit, does he know that was me last night? “Anyone who cares about the Fireballs has strong feelings.”

  “Wait. Are you the one leading the charge on social media to bring back the dragon?”

  “Fiery. For. Ever.”

  He pauses and studies me like he’s trying to decide what I’d do in the name of my favorite mascot, then smiles, and oh, god, he has the cutest smile. With one side of his mouth hitched a little higher than the other, eyes beginning to crinkle in the corners like he’s spent thirty years on this earth doing nothing but smiling, and his light brown hair mussed, though I refuse to think about why.