Jock Blocked

by Pippa Grant

  Mackenzie misses the ball when the security guy throws it back to her.

  The main pitcher retrieves it for her and slaps her on the butt. “You got this, kid. Aim for his head.”

  “I don’t want to hit his head.”

  “Trust me.”

  Mackenzie locks eyes with me.

  I tap my noggin, then square up in my batter’s stance.

  She squeezes her eyes shut and lets the ball fly.

  “Strike two!” Cooper yells.

  Lopez mutters something in Spanish that roughly translates to, “It went into the dugout, idiot.”

  But a little more colorful.

  Cooper shrugs. “No take-backs.”

  Mackenzie jogs over to her own dugout and fishes out the ball herself, then trots back to the mound.

  She’s in stilettos.

  She’s playing baseball in work pants, a white blouse that’s dusted brown from the dirt kicking up all over the field, and stilettos.

  I’m going to marry this woman.

  “I’m going to roll this one,” she calls to me.

  “Let it fly, baby.”

  “Don’t call the opposing team baby. It’s bad luck,” Max yells from our bench.

  Cooper points at him. “Hey, hey, there’s no superstitions in park ball. You’re grounded. Jarvis, think you can pitch? Stafford, you’re at third. Elliott, right field.”

  We all stare at him.

  “Go! Go!” He flaps his arms at us. “Inning’s over. Mackenzie struck everyone out.”

  “She’s thrown two pitches, and Elliott’s our first batter.”

  “Yeah, and you saw those pitches. She’s gonna strike all of you losers out. You want me to forfeit the game, or you want to try to make up some runs from the outfield?”

  “I’m not done!”

  We all look back at the mound, where Mackenzie stomped her foot so hard, her stiletto got stuck in the ground, and she’s struggling to pull it out of the dirt.

  Cooper holds his hands up in surrender. “Okay, okay. You can embarrass us. Simmons. Get out there and help the lady before she falls.”

  Too late. I’m already on my way.

  “Quit laughing,” she says as I make her lean on me while I pluck her shoe—foot and all—out of the dirt.

  “You’re magnificent. And I can’t remember the last time I had this much fun.” I tilt my head as I straighten, making sure she’s back on solid footing. “Maybe that time I helped Rhett take down a few commandos when Eloise was in trouble, but in a different kind of way.”

  She blinks like she’s trying to decide if I’m serious or not.

  I decide she probably doesn’t want to know, and instead, distract her with something else. “Lila’s in the Spike costume. This is your only chance to show her how you really feel about this mascot contest. I know you can throw a real strike.”

  “I will not strike you out.”

  “It’s for fun, Kenz. You have to. And then tomorrow, I’m gonna whoop some San Francisco ass.”

  “I also can’t actually throw a ball at Lila. That’s mean.”

  “Yeah, and killing Fiery wasn’t mean at all.”

  Irritation lights her eyes.

  “Elliott! Get your hands off the pitcher. This isn’t flirt ball. It’s baseball!”

  We both look at Cooper, and we’re not the only two people on this field silently calling him two-faced.

  In the friendly way, of course.

  The mascot team’s real pitcher smacks her fist in her glove. “Get back to the plate, Elliott. We need to finish you off.”

  I step away from Mackenzie and nod to the other woman. “You got it, boss.”

  “And can you sign a ball for me before you go?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Ohmygod, thank you so much. My grandma is like your biggest fan. She’s gonna sleep with it.”

  “So you know,” Spike-Lila says as I square up at the plate for my third pitch, “if you hurt Mackenzie, they won’t ever find your body.”

  Considering what I know about Lila’s connections, I believe that.

  Mackenzie lifts her glove and peers over it, and for the love of all that’s holy, the sight of her in those stilettos, holding a baseball glove and peering at me with raw determination flashing in her baby blues, is going to fuel every last one of my spank bank fantasies for the rest of my life.

  Her eyes shift from me to Spike, and I see the exact moment she makes up her mind.

  She drops her glove, winds up, and lets that ball fly.

  It hits the dirt three feet in front of her and rolls slowly the rest of the way to the plate while we all watch.

  “Strike three!” Cooper crows. “Elliott, get your butt back here for remedial batting practice.”

  “Nice pitching, Ms. Cy Young,” I call as I head back to the dugout, kicking the dirt for extra effect.

  “I expect my trophy delivered by tomorrow,” she calls back.

  Everyone in a six-block radius cracks up, and she curtsies before handing the ball back to the pitcher.

  Cooper slaps me on the shoulder as I make my way past. “Hurt her and die, dude.”

  Luca shakes his head. “Dying’s too good for him. Plucking his toenails out and permanently tattooing hearts on his face first.”

  “Doesn’t anybody care that they’re both smiling for the first time in forever?” Robinson asks.

  I fist-bump him.

  “Ah, to be young and idealistic,” Cooper sighs.

  Fuck, I love these guys. “Don’t you have a goat to torture?”

  “No, the goat and I are planning a bachelor party. Big difference. Get your glove. Darren and Francisco are about to strike out too. And I meant it. Right field for you. You can pitch in the fifth.”

  An hour later, the mascots have whomped us seventeen to nine, and my face hurts from laughing so much. We all sign autographs—including Mackenzie and the pitcher—until Tripp and Lila and security order us all to get out of the park.

  The local news picked up the story, and the crowds are getting a little too big.

  I snag Mackenzie and drag her and Coco Puff back to my SUV. “You need to go back to work?”

  She frowns at me. “I struck you out.”

  “That was rigged. My game is fine. Better than fine. The best.” I kiss her nose, because I can. “Keep the belief, Kenz. Keep the belief.”

  33

  Mackenzie

  I believe.

  I believe.

  I believe.

  And I believe that if Brooks doesn’t take his ass back to his apartment to see what we’ve done to it in the next five minutes, I’m going to break and tell him everything.

  He pulls out of the parking lot with a few disappointed fans dashing behind the Land Rover, which I swear smells like our naked bodies, and which I would like so much more if he’d gotten a hit in our pick-up baseball game today.

  I shift in my seat to look at him, and I can’t resist settling a hand on his thigh, because first of all, it’s a very nice thigh, and second of all, I need to touch it while I still can. “Can we go to your place?”

  He starts to wince, and I blurt, “It’s closer,” and tug my shirt low while I push my breasts up.

  The Land Rover swerves, and his shorts tent. “Yes.”

  I don’t remember getting to his parking garage. Or getting in the elevator.

  But now that we’re here, I’m very much enjoying having his hands up my shirt while he backs me against the mirror and kisses me like nothing in the world exists except the two of us.

  We might accidentally ride the elevator all the way to the top of the building, which is several floors above Brooks’s apartment, and where an old lady joins us.

  “Give her breathing room, sonny,” she snaps.

  We leap apart.

  She punches the button for the ground floor.

  Brooks rubs the back of his neck and angles his body away from her—presumably so she doesn’t see the pole in his shorts—whi
le I push the button for his floor.

  She harumphs at both of us, and I get the feeling she’ll bop us both with her cane if we try anything in the meantime.

  I meet Brooks’s eye.

  He coughs, lips twitching, and I struggle so hard to suppress a giggle that I end up hiccupping.

  Coco Puff barks.

  “The world is better because you’re in it!” his collar announces.

  And even the old lady giving us the stink-eye smiles at the puppy.

  We tumble out of the elevator on Brooks’s floor after what feels like seventy-five million years trapped with the old lady, who’s starting to smell like roses and microwaved fish. Even Coco Puff snorts out a sneeze of relief when we get to fresher air.

  Brooks fumbles with his keys, then fumbles with jiggling the right key in the lock, his ears turning brighter and brighter red the whole time. When it finally clicks open, he turns to block my view without a single glance inside. “I told Rhett to find me a shithole.”

  My brows shoot up, and he keeps talking. “I knew, without a doubt, that I wasn’t really coming here to stay, that New York would want me back once I was gone, and that this would be temporary. I knew they wouldn’t betray me like that.”

  “Brooks,” I whisper, because my heart hurts like someone’s taken the Fireballs from me.

  I don’t know how that would feel. I don’t want to know.

  But he knows.

  He knows, because he’s lived it.

  He shakes his head. “You were right. I forgot what it meant to be a baseball player. I forgot what it meant to be someone that little kids all over the country look up to. I forgot why I visit children’s hospitals. I forgot why I donate to everyone else’s foundations. And I forgot why I ever wanted to wear a uniform in the first place. And I didn’t forget in spring training. I didn’t forget when I got here to Copper Valley. I forgot sometime between the time I made it to the big leagues and the end of last year. New York knew it. I wasn’t a leader in the dugout anymore. I was playing for the paycheck. I was relieved when we didn’t make it to the post-season.”

  I swallow hard. “Burnout happens. You’ve been playing for a long time—”

  “Being here—having you holding me accountable, believing in the team, pushing me to be better again—I get it. I remember. I want to be the guy the rookies come to when they need to figure out how to navigate the big leagues, how to know when their agent isn’t looking out for them, and which veterans they can prank without waking up with a taxidermied snake in their freezer. I want to be the player that kids pretend to be while they’re catching balls. I want to remember how it feels to make a difference. I want to be the hero you thought all baseball players were, until I fucked that all up for you.”

  Oh, my heart.

  This isn’t about him having sex or staying a virgin. It’s not about where he lives.

  It’s about who he is. Who he was. And who he wants to be.

  “Gods,” I whisper.

  “What?”

  “I thought baseball players were gods.”

  “Fuck, Mackenzie, I can’t fix that.”

  I shake my head. “But you did. I shouldn’t have thought baseball players were gods. You’re not. You’re human, and I expected too much. You get to have off-days, Brooks. You get to make mistakes.”

  “Not at this level.”

  “At every level. You get to be a real person with flaws. And you should enjoy your job.”

  “You’re helping me remember why I loved it in the first place.”

  He pulls my fingers to his lips and presses a soft kiss to my knuckles, and I melt into a happy puddle of I am so in love with this man.

  “I hate this apartment. Let me grab a bag, and we’ll go to your place. Or another park. Or bowling. Or somewhere. Anywhere. So long as I go with you.”

  “I like being with you.”

  He’s smiling an eye-crinkling smile as he turns inside and freezes.

  Glances back at the door like he’s checking the apartment number, then looks at me.

  I suck my lips into my mouth and try to look innocent, which I’m sure does the exact opposite.

  But that bewilderment making his hazel eyes flare wide and his lips part—yeah, that was worth the wait.

  So long as the end result is that he doesn’t hate his apartment anymore.

  Or, hell, I don’t care if he still hates it. He can think it’s even uglier. He can miss the echidna penises drawn on the ceiling. He can want his lava lamps back.

  I just want him to stay. I want him to want to stay.

  And I want him to be happy, no matter how he finds his happiness.

  “Did you—”

  He cuts himself off with a shake of his head, then drifts deeper into the apartment, checking out the clean gray slate tile in the entryway, the white walls decorated with blown-up prints of New York City landmarks—everything from the baseball stadium to the Brooklyn Bridge—and even glancing up at the ceiling.

  At the end of the short entrance, there’s a soft red glow over the fresh gray carpet and new white leather couches in the living room.

  He walks haltingly deeper inside, as if he’s afraid he’ll step wrong and hit a button that’ll reset the apartment back to what it was before, and when he glances back at me again, my heart squeezes at the astonishment and the husky tone in his voice. “What’s this?”

  I let the door close with a soft click. “You needed a home. I needed to say sorry for cock-blocking you.”

  “But how? And in a week?”

  “Don’t ever doubt a woman with connections and taste. Wait. I should probably ask if you like it before I claim we have taste.”

  He doesn’t answer right away. I follow him into the living room, where there’s a blown-glass chandelier with color-changing LED lights that are shifting from red to blue, and which I know will cycle to purple before going back to red, but can be set on any color, right down to a simple white. Gray textured pillows and blankets clutter the new white furniture. There’s a small stone statue of Fortuna, the goddess of luck, on the simple coffee table, and decorative lamps on the end tables.

  He turns in a slow circle, pausing when his gaze lands on the ficus in the corner. “I have plants?”

  “And a watering service if you want it.”

  Coco Puff races across the rug and leaps into a basket filled with squeaky toys and those dildo-looking dog toys. He barks.

  “I’m the luckiest dog in the world!” his collar crows.

  I gnaw on my lip and lean in the doorway to the kitchen while Brooks looks at me again. I can’t read him, partly because I don’t have enough practice, and partly because I’m afraid to believe that all that affection overflowing his warm hazel eyes is real.

  “Meaty helped.” I grab the card we left for him when we thought he’d come here last night, and hold it out to him.

  He glances at the meatball’s face on the cover, and his grin is so broad and sudden, it’s like someone threw back the drapes and let in all the sunshine. “I wouldn’t have expected anything less.”

  “The other mascots didn’t know. Meaty doesn’t like them. He’s an asshole in person.”

  “Mackenzie.”

  “What?”

  He takes the card and tosses it over his shoulder, then cups my cheek. “Thank you.”

  “We did it for the whole team,” I whisper while my eyelids drift closed.

  “This was all for the team?”

  “No. It’s for you.”

  “I’m going to kiss you.”

  “Thank god.”

  He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering on the outer rim, and then his lips brush mine, and yes.

  This is the kiss I’ve waited for my entire life.

  The you get me kiss.

  The you are my everything kiss.

  The you’re my kind of crazy kiss.

  He’s not a baseball player.

  I’m not an obsessive nutcase.

&n
bsp; We’re two people who can’t keep our hands and bodies to ourselves, learning all there is to know about each other.

  And I’m still learning to trust that this can be real. “Why me?” I ask between soft kisses.

  “Because you’re the sunshine my life has been missing. And I want to be yours.”

  “I’m not sunshine. I’m crazy.”

  “You’re Nutella-covered bacon in a baked chicken breast world.”

  Oh, god, this man. “You’re a little crazy too, aren’t you?”

  “You have no idea.”

  I’m laughing as I lean in to kiss him again, because I can’t contain all of my happiness.

  Not when everything in the world is this right.

  “I want to taste you,” he says.

  And that’s all the warning I get before his lips move to my jaw. Then my neck. Down between my breasts. Over my belly, leaving a trail of kisses down my shirt.

  I drop my head back against the wall as his hands and mouth reach my waist, and he deftly unbuttons my top button, whispering all the dirty things he wants to do to me, all the places he wants to strip me bare, how many different ways he wants to take me, and I’m helpless to resist.

  I want him.

  I want him when he’s happy. When he’s seducing me. When he’s frustrated. When he’s agitated with me. When he’s playing with Coco Puff.

  I gasp.

  I definitely want him when he’s licking my clit. “Brooks.”

  “Fuck, you taste good.”

  I clutch my fingers through his hair while he very effectively demonstrates that while he might not have years of experience, he has something better—sheer determination to always be the best.

  And oh my god, this man.

  He is the absolute best.

  I don’t know what I did to deserve him, but heaven help me, no matter what happens to my team tomorrow, I will do everything in my power to keep him.

  No. Matter. What.

  34

  Brooks

  I do Mackenzie on the floor.

  In the shower, the kitchen, the hallway, the living room, and against the door.

  On my new bed, beneath my unicorn chandelier because apparently free renovations only go so far, and under the watchful eyes of pictures of the entire Thrusters’ hockey team, which is a little weird, but then, what isn’t weird?