Jock Blocked

by Pippa Grant

He gives me the innocent eyes. “I missed you.”

  His puppy barks, then says Fuck this shit, and the man of both my dreams and my nightmares and I both blink at Coco Puff.

  “Did your dog just cuss at me?” I ask.

  Coco Puff barks again. “Asshole!” he adds.

  Brooks squeezes his eyes shut, mutters, “Dammit, Eloise,” and tries to unbuckle the collar.

  Coco Puff yips and strains to get away. “Pussy-licker!” he says.

  His collar.

  He has a custom cussing collar.

  Courtesy, apparently, of Aunt Eloise.

  I choke on a laugh, and Brooks turns those gorgeous hazel eyes on me. In the reflection of the low light aimed at the stage, the frustration in his expression seems less irritated and more smoky and seductive and full of promises I know better than to let him offer.

  Not that I have any trust right now that his intentions are good. It takes more than a cussing puppy and seductively mussed brown hair to get me to put my guard down.

  Plus, he’s not flirting with me. He’s not.

  He’s irritated.

  I square my shoulders. Eye on the big picture, Mackenzie. And the big picture is that the Fireballs need to win. “Dame Delilah’s right. You’re not keeping your eye on the ball.”

  “Oh, I’ve got my eye on the ball. I’ve got my eye on the ball right now.”

  I swallow.

  He has his eye on me right now.

  My tongue doesn’t want to work again, and I’m struggling to keep up this farce that the look in his eyes is irritation.

  Dammit. “No,” I force out.

  “No? You haven’t even heard what I want yet. And you’d do anything for the team, wouldn’t you, Mackenzie?”

  “What. Do. You. Want?”

  “I came here to ask for help.”

  I blink.

  Coco Puff flips over onto his back in Brooks’s lap and stares at us upside down, begging someone for belly rubs, which Brooks handles with those long-fingered hands without looking away from me.

  “You…want help?” I ask.

  “I need to hit the ball again.”

  Coco Puff yips. “Motherfucker!”

  “And you think I can help with that?” Suspicion has me glancing around to see who’s here and close by in case this goes wrong.

  Like I wouldn’t leap in front of any of these ladies before letting them risk a nail at my expense. But I’m a little out of my league when pro baseball players come into the drag club where I grew up.

  Brooks spreads his hands. “Who else to ask about fixing superstitions than the team’s number one fan?”

  That was entirely too complimentary. “You were hell-bent on sabotaging your own career last month, and now you want my help saving it? What changed?”

  “You know anyone who likes to lose?”

  “My dad loses on purpose in Monopoly.”

  “Duh. It’s Monopoly. You lose, you don’t have to play anymore. I lose on purpose too. But that’s not why I’m here.”

  “No?”

  Coco Puff gives me a don’t use sarcasm on my daddy glare and barks. His collar calls me something I can’t repeat and makes the couple at the next table gasp.

  Brooks ignores all of it, his attention still trained on me. “I’m giving up my superstitions. Which means I’m going to get laid. And I’m going to hit the damn ball.”

  “And quit making errors at third?”

  His cheek twitches. “And you’re going to help me.”

  “Um, no, I’m not.”

  “Yep. You are.”

  “Nope.”

  “You want what’s best for the Fireballs, don’t you, Mackenzie?”

  “Yes, and what’s best is you keeping your pants zipped. Period.”

  “Or maybe what’s best is me finding some balance, and I’ve been out of balance for so long that I need to have lots. And lots. And lots of sex. All the time. Everywhere. In every position.”

  Babe Ruth help me, now I’m picturing him banging me over that motorcycle that I know he rides sometimes, and I’m getting hot everywhere. My toes. My breasts. My pussy. My cheeks.

  Brooks Elliott should be banished from saying the word sex.

  Especially around me.

  Because I cannot let him have sex, even if I’m now getting visions of everything from roses on beds to acrobatic things that shouldn’t be possible.

  “With all the women,” he adds.

  I see red.

  I see red so hot and fast that it only belatedly registers that Evianna’s practically leaping over tables to get to us. “Mackenzie, darling! Look at your hair, sweetheart. Those curls are to die for. You need a water, baby? Tequila? Chocolate éclair?”

  Chocolate éclair is what we all call the bouncer who’s been here half my life, because the big, burly guy both loves chocolate éclairs and also is as soft and sweet as one on the inside once you get to know him. “Can I get those fried Brussels sprouts with the bacon and cheese, and a milk shake?” I reply without taking my eyes off Brooks.

  Evianna sucks in a breath. “It’s artichoke dip night.”

  I have never not ordered artichoke dip on artichoke dip night, so her shock is understandable. “I’m experimenting.”

  She touches the dragon brooch pinned to the silver sequins over her breast. I couldn’t talk the ladies here into Fiery Forever buttons, so they’re wearing dragon brooches instead. “Change happens, baby. You change your mind on Chocolate éclair, you know the sign.”

  “What kind of milk shake?” Brooks asks. “I like milk shakes.”

  Evianna lifts her nose. “It’s not on the menu tonight.”

  That’s actually true every night.

  I get milk shakes.

  No one else does.

  He breaks eye contact with me to look at her, then back to me.

  I don’t blink.

  “Iced tea?” he says.

  I shake my head. “Drinks are only for people who are staying. You’re not.”

  “What if it’s what I need to hit the ball again?”

  “Then maybe you should keep your pants zipped and do what’s always worked for you before.”

  Evianna chuckles. “Proud of you, baby girl. Back in a flash. Gotta tell Chef how important these Brussels sprouts are.”

  Brooks flashes a curious look at her as she leaves, and I don’t have to watch to know she’s going to ask Chocolate éclair to come check on me in two minutes. Brooks’s gaze settles back on me, and it occurs to me that he wasn’t using that smolder on the woman back in Florida he was trying to score with.

  My heart hiccups, and I don’t know if it’s a fear-hiccup, an excitement-hiccup, or an I fell through to an alternate dimension hiccup, which kind of makes the most sense, because I’m a disaster attempting to cock-block this man, and he knows it.

  Why would he be hitting on me?

  He pulls a dog treat out of a bag hanging on the edge of his chair and hands it to Coco Puff. “You’re pissed that I know about Meaty.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “You stole Meaty.”

  “I hate Meaty, and he’s leading the mascot standings right now because of all those videos of him enjoying his life away from the Fireballs. Your hypothesis makes zero sense.”

  “Interesting. I could say the same about your hypothesis that I need to keep my pants zipped.”

  “Mine’s proven. Yours isn’t.”

  “I’m going to have sex.” He rubs Coco Puff’s little belly, still staring at me intently. “And I’m going to start with a woman I’m very attracted to.”

  Did someone suck all of the oxygen out of this room? And also all the brain cells out of my head? That would explain my simultaneous lightheadedness coupled with rage at whoever his mystery woman is.

  She’s going to ruin my team’s chances of making the play-offs, and I’m going to cry.

  I get it. It’s not fair that he has to keep it in his pants for his team when o
ther guys can do things like wear the same socks all season or meditate while holding the ashes of their first baseball bat. “You can’t even give us one season? Just one? What’s a few more months? Besides, you don’t even know who this woman is. You’re making her up.”

  “I’m not. And I didn’t say I was happy about being insanely attracted to her. Or that I’m going to enjoy it.”

  “Then why bother?”

  “Because when you give in and let me bang you, you’re going to know it happened. And then you’re going to watch me walk onto that field the next day and hit a fucking grand slam.”

  Oh my god.

  He’s talking dirty to me. My inner baseball lover is swooning at the idea that a baseball player would need to sleep with me to hit a grand slam.

  He’ll be rounding the bases while I spontaneously orgasm in the stands at knowing I gave him a grand slam, and he’ll round third, point right at me, blow a kiss, thrust his hips in a promise to do it again, and my nipples will get so hard that they’ll fall off, but we’ll still meet in the locker room afterward and he’ll let me sniff his glove before he bangs me while wearing his dirty, sweaty game jersey.

  Ultimate. Sexual. Fantasy.

  A horrified gasp flies out of my mouth. “You’re trying to trick me into staying away from you!”

  “Don’t we wish,” he murmurs.

  “We? Are you talking about yourself and your penis like you’re two separate entities?” For what his sister-in-law told me about his brother’s penis, I could believe it, because I think it’s far more likely the family’s genetically blessed than that one brother got all the penis.

  Which I am not thinking about.

  He gestures to his puppy. “I was talking about me and my dog. But if you’d like to get acquainted with my—”

  “No.” I hold my arms in front of me and cross my fingers. “We are not sleeping together. Ever.”

  “What if a psychic told you it was the only thing that would turn my game around?”

  “You can’t pay a psychic to tell you that you have to get laid. That goes against the psychic code of honor.”

  “This is happening, Mackenzie. You and me. Turns out, being attracted to crazy is genetic. You have to. You have to do this for your team. You have to do me for your team.”

  He’s bearing down on me now, those bright hazel eyes on fire, smelling like pine and leather—baseball bats, balls, and gloves—and a little like puppy breath, and oh my god, how has this man stayed a virgin for thirty years?

  How do women not fling themselves at him every time he breathes?

  “No,” I force out.

  Would I sleep with Brooks Elliott if he weren’t a baseball player?

  He’s something of a dick, but that puppy—and he’s not hard on the eyes—and I am not immune to the heat simmering in the air between us.

  It’s highly likely.

  Sleeping with him isn’t marrying him. And while I’ll sleep with a dick if he’s good enough, I won’t marry one.

  But he is a baseball player. The stands at Duggan Field were full today, which is awesome, but they have to stay that way through the end of the season, or my team will be in danger of being forcibly moved out of Copper Valley by the baseball commissioner, who has to do the hard things sometimes, even if he’s publicly stated he wants to support Tripp and Lila and all the Fireballs fans in Copper Valley.

  Which means it doesn’t matter what I’d do if he wasn’t a baseball player.

  What matters is what I have to do for the love of my team.

  I glare at him. “I’m not sleeping with you.”

  “But you want to.”

  “And this won’t work. You can’t chase me away by threatening to make me want you.”

  “Good. I also happen to like a challenge.”

  He smiles.

  Smiles.

  With his eyes crinkling a little at the edges, and that slight lopsidedness to his lips, and honest to god amusement dancing over his rugged features, and it’s like I’ve discovered the Milky Way is full of baseballs instead of stars, and I can’t stop staring.

  I’m hypnotized by a happy Brooks Elliott.

  Which is the only reason I don’t see what’s coming until his lips are brushing mine.

  An undiluted shot of adrenaline surges straight to my clit and makes my legs go numb with sheer pleasure.

  All because of one simple, easy kiss that needs to stop right the hell now.

  But I’m not stopping him, because it’s taking all of my concentration to not grab onto his polo with both fists and yank him harder against me and show him how this woman likes to be kissed.

  Must. Not. Take. His. Innocence.

  His lips taste like bubble gum, and his rough stubble is hot as hell. And don’t ask what happens to my body when he runs his tongue over the seam of my mouth.

  Let’s just say I need to change my panties.

  But somewhere in the lusty haze of oh my god, this kiss is going to break me is the distant reminder that if I think this kiss will break me, it’s nothing compared to what it’ll do to Brooks’s game.

  And the Fireballs need everything this year.

  I dig deep to channel my inner superhero and wrench myself away. “Bad. Bad baseball player,” I gasp.

  Coco Puff barks. “Eat my dick!”

  “Oh, this is going to be a problem,” I hear Papa murmur from behind us.

  A problem?

  A problem is snow on opening day.

  This?

  This is asteroids hurtling toward earth like giant gods in the sky are having batting practice.

  And yes, that might sound extreme, but I’ve been lying.

  This isn’t about the Fireballs not being forced to move out of Copper Valley if the new owners’ plans don’t work. And it’s not about simply not losing, and not being the worst.

  I want my team to go all the way.

  I want them to win it all.

  And for that, they need every player fully committed.

  Which means that even though I’m pointing a finger and ordering Brooks out of my dads’ club, I’m making plans.

  It’s not enough to cock-block him.

  I have to make him believe the Fireballs can go all the way.

  13

  Brooks

  I should not have kissed Mackenzie.

  But I did, and now I have to deal with the consequences.

  First consequence?

  I should tell you it’s forcing myself to meditate on all the ways I’m going to smack the shit out of the ball today despite kissing a woman I’m insanely attracted to. Home run every at-bat. Diving grabs at third. Firing rockets to first. Being the leader in the dugout for the Fireballs that I was for New York.

  But it’s not.

  No, the first consequence is that as soon as I finish rubbing one out in the shower the next morning, I remember the feel of her lips on mine, that subtle taste of cotton candy and Cracker Jacks, the beat of the background music flowing through me, the snap and crackle in her eyes, and I’m hard as steel once more.

  I groan and fist myself again while the hot water pummels my back.

  Why is it always the crazy ones that are so damn hot? I’m starting to understand what Rhett sees in Eloise.

  Which should be a turn-off, except I’m not picturing my brother and my sister-in-law while I pump my dick.

  No, I’m picturing a blond vixen with a dragon splashed across her gorgeous breasts. And I’m not just picturing her throwing daggers with her eyes at me while I left the drag club last night, which, yes, is hot as fuck too.

  The daggers, I mean.

  Why is it so sexy when a woman’s pissed? Is it the challenge of making her un-pissed? Or is it the passion?

  Fuck.

  Passion.

  What’s harder than steel? Because that’s my dick right now as I picture Mackenzie naked, riding me, her breasts jiggling, losing all control at the feel of my cock inside her. I jerk harder, gripping myself t
o the point of pain, while my balls squeeze so tight that I can feel it in my toes. Can balls permanently cramp from getting too tight?

  I’ve never been inside a woman, but I’ve read a few romance novels. I can imagine it. And right now, I’m imagining Mackenzie’s pussy as a hot, tight, silky, wet channel wrapped around me from root to tip, gripping and stroking me with her body, and I groan out loud while a second orgasm rips through me, leaving me panting and sagging against the cool avocado green tile of my shower wall.

  How?

  How is she the one that I can’t stop thinking about?

  And why?

  What the hell’s wrong with me?

  Probably that you’ve never gotten laid, idiot.

  Whatever it is, I need to get out of this shower before I have to jack off a third time. I’ve never not taken care of my own needs with my hand, but at this rate, I really will be dealing with a lopsided forearm problem before long.

  Coco Puff prances around my ankles when I step out of the shower and dry off. The bathroom’s so steamed up, I can’t see even a hint of my reflection in the mirror.

  Not that I want to.

  It would be all self-loathing and bitter disappointment.

  I push the door open, and why does it smell like pumpkin spice and bacon in my apartment?

  Coco Puff goes nuts, yipping like Santa Claus came in March, his fucking collar spewing profanities since he won’t let me take it off, and he takes off down the hall. Maybe my puppysitter reconsidered dating. Or she got here early. Or maybe my mom’s in town.

  “Oh, sweet puppy! Look at you in your jersey! You’re all ready for the game tonight, aren’t you?”

  Coco Puff barks, and his collar screams out a good “Motherfucker, damn right!”

  I freeze.

  That voice.

  My cock leaps to attention. Again.

  And fuck the clothes.

  She wants to be here? Just as good that I’m only in a towel. Hell, I should drop it.

  I pause.

  Huh. That’s brilliant.

  Dropping this towel is the best idea I’ve ever had.

  I finger-comb my hair, fluff my junk, and stride out of the bedroom buck naked. My toes squish in the brown shag carpet, and the scents of pumpkin spice and bacon get stronger as I emerge into the kitchen, where Mackenzie’s bent over, rubbing Coco Puff’s belly.