“I have no doubt my team will pull off the win,” Lexie chimes in.
AJ waves his hand toward the traitor. “See, right there. Now, she’s a true fan.”
“Whatever. My heart belongs to the Phillies.”
“Yeah, I’m a little torn,” Mia admits, shooting me a wary glance before gnawing on her lips. I hate this. I hate that she feels guilty at the mere hint of her brother. The ugliness surrounding our breakup shouldn’t involve her.
“At least you’ll be rooting for the Dodgers in the playoffs. The Phillies don’t stand a chance this year.” The slight condescension in AJ’s tone raises Mia’s eyebrow, but who can blame him? Mia’s brother took AJ’s position. There isn’t any love lost between Drake and AJ. I hate him for my own personal reasons. But despite Drake’s excellent performance, the team hasn’t had a stellar season. It’s a far cry from the previous two years.
“Don’t jinx us,” Lexie fills in as she pours AJ’s water.
“You’re the one who had all the faith in us not less than three minutes ago,” AJ huffs.
“That’s different. That’s me.” She turns toward Mia’s glass, fills it, and then sets the pitcher on the table. “Are you excited to start school next week?”
“Yes, it’s long overdue.”
“I’m proud of you, Mia, for going back. I can’t believe both my girls will be in school together,” AJ boasts and looks proud. There’s only one major difference—AJ isn’t paying for Mia’s schooling like he is mine. Not that he didn’t try, but she refused his help. I’m not in the position to turn down his charity. My brother always comes to my rescue. I think about the problems I had last year. The problems I caused. My throat suddenly dries, and I reach for the now full glass of water. Mia smiles warmly at me, but she’s a stark reminder of my past mistakes.
My gaze darts around the room reserved for celebrities and famous people. Maybe, I should be honored sitting here secluded from the public, but all I feel right now are the walls closing in. And what is up with the temperature? I think Mr. Monroe has the heat cranked up despite the eighty-degree weather. Lexie seems to take notice of my sudden demise. She nudges my shoulder and motions for me to follow.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell AJ and Mia and follow Lexie out. When we exit the room, I take a deep breath. “Thanks, girl.”
“No problem. I have a drink order I need to get in.”
I follow her in silence. Talking, scratch that, thinking about my ex makes me anxious. It’s been several months. I’ve had plenty of time to get over him. And I am over him. It’s just embarrassing how I got so wrapped up in him. Moving to California and transferring to a new college is supposed to be my new start. Sort of like a do-over. I’m not sure how writing a gossip column plays into that.
We reach the bar, and Lexie places the drink order with a new bartender. I’m not exaggerating. Keeping help around here is impossible.
“The real reason I wanted to drag you here is the delicious man candy alert in section D. He’s one of CU’s finest.” She turns to me with a pale blonde eyebrow raised, challenging me to look.
I laugh while securing the bobby pin working loose from my bun. As if the promise of a hot guy isn’t enough of a lure, she tosses in Cessna University’s finest dessert to hook me. How could I resist a peek? With skills that would make Ethan Hunt jealous, I slip into recon mode and shift my gaze past the open bar. My old boss stands next to the kitchen entrance in deep “conversation” with a busboy. Poor kid. From his doe-eyed expression, it looks like he’s taking the heat that used to be reserved for me.
“Hurry up and look already,” Lexie says through a laugh. “Monroe’s attention span is short. He’ll be up in my face next.”
Assured she won’t be reprimanded, I pivot until my back rests against the wooden edge and peer past the open entrance into the dining area. My gaze lands on the guy, looking every bit as delicious as Lexie described. His sandy-blond hair is cropped short on the sides with an almost spiky top. I can’t tell the color of his eyes. He’s glancing at his phone, brow scrunched, while finger-punching the screen. It’s as if each hard jab conveys his tone. The mystery person can’t see you. Spare your keyboard. Send the angry-faced emoji or a few exclamation marks instead.
He pauses, jawline set in determination. A moment later, he shakes his head then jabs away at the screen again, clearly not getting my mental message. Somebody has pushed his hot button.
The whirling buzz of blending ice alerts me to the drink that’s almost done. It doesn’t matter. I’m not moving. I’m too busy checking out Mr. Delicious’s black T-shirt stretching across those broad shoulders. Casually dressed, given his surroundings, he exudes an “I don’t care” attitude. The way he conducts himself reeks of confidence. I’ve seen shoulders like his before. In fact, the same lean muscle and strong forearms look familiar. Too familiar.
“He’s an athlete!” The accusation in my voice draws the attention of the nearby table. I smile apologetically at them and then scowl at Lexie. The bartender sets her drink behind us, but I continue to glare at the person who knows about my no-dating-athletes rule.
Lexie laughs under her breath and picks up her drink. “Can’t get one past you. They don’t call him Modern-day Babe Ruth for the hell of it.”
“Really. You made me scope out a baseball player of all things?” My rule doubles down for baseball players. They’re the worst. And I should know. I’m the Goddamn queen of knowledge when it comes to dating them.
“What? So, he’s captain of the baseball team. Doesn’t change the fact that Braxton Smith is still hot.” She fakes a curtsy, balancing her drink on the small round tray. “You’re welcome.”
The traitorous voice trails behind me as she steps away. I shake my head, and my gaze strays back to Mr. Delicious. His date rejoins him, and I don’t miss her hand grazing across his bulging biceps as she brushes past him to her seat. The seductive glance he gives her as she tosses her long, auburn curls over her shoulder isn’t hard to miss either.
Well, there you go. Maybe, she’s his girlfriend, and he isn’t like my ex-boyfriend, for lack of a better word. I’d call Drake an ex-fuck, but that sounds so wrong. When push comes to shove, that’s all I was to him. A means to get off when no one else was around.
I bite back the bitterness crawling up my throat and push forward. My heels click against the wooden planks, but my thoughts sink to the upcoming fall semester and my responsibilities.
Like writing articles about said athletes.
When I make it toward the entrance to the dining area, I sneak another glance toward the happy couple. Modern-day Babe Ruth stands and places his hand on the small of his date’s back. Their half-eaten food lies on the table, and as he guides her toward the exit, I can’t help but wonder why they’re leaving so abruptly. His date smiles up at him as he holds the door for her. At least she’s not leaving mad, I assess.
With a quick shake of my head, I spin on my heels, walk back into the bar area, and head straight to the bathroom, the entire time questioning why I even care. What he does or doesn’t do with his date is not my concern. I don’t even know him. He’s cute and plays baseball. That sinfully sweet smile mixed with being a good player is a toxic combination. Let alone the fact he has a date. So, I question myself again, why do I care?
At the bathroom sink, I splash water on my face and steady my breathing. I don’t know where the sudden anxiety comes from. It must stem from the mere mention of Drake. His name may not have been spoken out loud, but his memory screams volumes. I can’t escape athletes altogether—not when my brother plays for the major leagues—but I’ve been good at avoiding them at CU.
I puff out a breath and stare at the scared, bug-eyed reflection. What the hell is wrong with me? I’m stronger than this. I won’t let another hot athlete reduce me to an enamored girl, left pining over him. I won’t be that person. Not anymore. I straighten my spine and tip my chin. I’ve got this.
Wearing my fake bravado like a
badge, I march back into the bar, but two things happen simultaneously. My breath hitches at the exact moment the wooden planked floor warps beneath my feet and I stumble forward. That’s my excuse when I slam into the waiter, and Calamari and fried mushrooms splatter in a crunchy fried mess. Clanking sounds of the dishes reverberate around me as I freeze and then glance toward the actual reason for my demise. My gaze locks with a certain blond-haired guy for a split second. Braxton Smith. He’s back at the bar, sitting at one of the side tables, but the woman with him now is blond.
Two dates in one night? At the same restaurant? A bold move if I’ve ever seen one.
I force myself to look away before I end up glowering at him. Un-fucking-believable. What a pig. Anger rolls through me. A fury not for myself—it’s none of my business what he does—but one born out of empathy for the girls. They’re probably like me and clueless to the many women parading around him like Black Friday shoppers during a BOGO sale.
“I’m so sorry,” I say as I drop to my knees and pick up the pieces of the broken plates. I curse to myself that I let this guy even get to me. But maybe, it’s not him and the fact I’m still harboring pained feelings over my ex. I don’t want him back. In fact, I don’t ever want to see him again, but that declaration doesn’t negate the feelings I had toward him. It hurts to be used.
“Don’t worry, ma’am. I’ve got this,” the waiter says as he picks up the larger pieces.
I stand and adjust my bun. My feet carry me past the patrons, including the cheating captain of the baseball team, on the way back to the private room. I bite my lip. I can’t blame everything on my ex Drake. I knew about the other girls in the beginning and chose not to care. After spending an amazing weekend together at his cabin, I really thought he had changed for me. My lovely brother had informed me otherwise. That still wasn’t enough to deter me though. Nope! I continued to answer every phone call and went running to him like a dog after a treat.
It took my brother being traded and Drake celebrating in front of me while knowing how much I was hurting before I saw Drake Gunner for what he was worth. Of course, being the team’s secondary catcher, he slid into my brother’s spot, which would naturally make him happy. But it became obvious he didn’t care about me or my feelings. Then when he tried having congratulatory sex with me, I left and ran to my brother’s apartment.
My brother came through for me, yet again. AJ moved to Los Angeles, and on his dime, I transferred to Cessna University in Los Angeles last semester. I kept low-key and concentrated on my studies. I was serious before. I’ll never let a man, especially an athlete, control me ever again.
The fall semester starts next Monday, along with my newest adventure, and I know exactly how to pay homage to my fellow females. It’s my obligation to stand up and fight.
Look out Modern-day Babe Ruth, you’re about to meet your match. And I just found my story.
Second Chance Hero Excerpt
Lacey
CITI FIELD STADIUM
Zach Pritchett. The one name I never want to see on my itinerary. Ever. But I’m not stupid and know the possibility of our paths crossing exists. I just refused to believe they ever would. I don’t care that the position I accepted places me in press conferences with professional athletes. There are one hundred and sixty-two regular season games. With a five-man pitching rotation, the probability of being in the same room with him is rather low. But as today proves, my odds are not favorable. Then again, when have they ever been when it comes to that man?
I close my eyes and try concentrating on the surrounding chatter. The buzz of well-acquainted sports journalists—the deep masculine chuckles and feminine laughs from people comfortable being here—fills my ears.
I’m so jealous.
Although, I shouldn’t be. I’ve put in as much, if not more, legwork as any other person in this room. I’ve earned my spot to be here.
As far as Zach goes? I’m seated in the fourth row toward the edge and highly doubt he’ll see me. Of course, I could shrink farther in my seat and hide behind the row in front of me. No matter what I do, I’ll still be nervous.
God, five years have passed, and my heart still can’t handle facing Zach. No way am I prepared to talk to him.
“Excuse me,” a masculine voice says.
A young, dark-haired gentleman with eyes the color of a mocha latte stands to my right. I’d place him around my age of twenty-seven.
“Sure.” I shift my legs to let him pass and try to pretend being here doesn’t freak me out.
Mocha Latte Eyes sits next to me and opens his briefcase. As he rifles through his belongings, I continue to stare straight ahead and act casual. But it’s almost time to start. Any second, I’ll be in the same room with the guy who shattered my heart.
Tiny sweat beads form on my forehead, and I casually raise my hand and dab with my fingers to soak up the evidence.
Sweet Jesus. I’m totally freaking out.
Dangerous thoughts infiltrate my mind. Stupid ones like what if Zach notices me and shows no signs of regret? Or worse yet, doesn’t recognize me. Or remember what we shared. I mean, my body has changed. I’m no longer that perky, slim college girl he let go. I’m not sure my fragile ego could withstand him passing over me. No matter how much I hate him.
The ball in the pit of my stomach tightens as I straighten my back. I’m so not ready to face him. Why, of all the assignments my boss gave me, do I get stuck in the same room as my ex?
New plan. Let everyone else ask the questions while I absorb the answers.
And believe me, there will be plenty of material to sort through with all questions directed toward Zach. After all, he swept into town and pitched a no-hitter against my beloved team, the Mets.
Asshole.
The man can pitch. Always could. Even in college. And what’s worse, his success proves we made the right choice to end things. That he made the right choice. I never agreed to end anything, but I didn’t fight to keep him either. Although, I tried once. Three months after he left me, I went to see him. A sharp pain slices through my chest at that memory.
Damn it. I’m not strong enough for this.
“Are you new to the Times?” Mr. Mocha Latte Eyes asks.
Jesus, girl. Quit comparing this guy to a latte. I must be in dire need of coffee. Or something stronger to relax my nerves.
“Not exactly, but this is my first assignment.”
I’ve been with the New York Times for almost five years now. It’s taken me awhile to get to the sports journalist position, and even though it wasn’t what I had intended to do, I’m grateful for this opportunity. But I’ll keep that information locked tight. No stranger needs to know my life story. No one does.
“I’m Brayden Hicks with CBS New York.”
He extends his hand, and when I shake it, his hand is warm and soft. Not at all like the callused ones I prefer. Like pitcher’s hands.
“Lacey. Lacey Stark. Pleased to meet you.”
“Pleasure’s mine. If you need anything, I’m here to help.”
“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.” I end with a warm smile and turn my attention to the front. Brayden seems nice, but I can’t focus on any other guy right now.
“Okay, we’ll have the coach answer a few questions, then open it up for the one you’re all waiting for, Zach Pritchett,” the media relations guy announces.
Brayden doesn’t say anything else and faces forward himself. My stomach churns. This interview will not be good.
I swallow my insecurity and watch as Coach McFay steps to the platform. A moment later, the blond-headed star pitcher waltzes in behind with his confident swagger. He always was a cocky bastard. That hasn’t seemed to change.
As Zach extends his arms to pull the chair out, his white shirt sleeves fit snug against those massive biceps. His six-foot-three-inch frame settles into the seat, and I can’t help but gawk. Damn, he’s filled out nicely since the last time I saw him. All lean muscle, he looks good. All hints of boy
ish features are long gone, replaced by a strong, chiseled jaw masked with stubble. He never did shave on the days he started.
I bite my nail as my focus shifts to his perfectly thinned lips. Oh, those lips that dominated every kiss. Spearmint floods my senses from the memory of that perfection, his greedy tongue claiming me. He always tasted of spearmint. Does he still?
No. No. No. I will not allow my thoughts to stray there. Zach Pritchett crushed me when he left, and I never fully recovered. I will not revisit that memory.
“What was the morale of the dugout?”
“At what part did you let the no-no enter your mind?”
Questions are flung at Zach, but he answers each one with the grace of a seasoned player. I’m not surprised; he’s always been good at everything he does.
Zach smiles and brings his large fingers to his chin. My body betrays me as my nipples harden and press against my bra, yearning for those big hands to caress my skin. Among other things. He sure could fuck. He brought my orgasms to a whole other level, and no one since has matched his skill. Or even come close.
That pisses me off more.
“What does the last out of a no-hitter feel like?”
To hell with these bullshit questions. How do you think Zach felt? He felt freaking fantastic. I need a question that gets to the heart of the matter. I’m sorry, Mr. Pritchett, but I know exactly what to ask. Your physical appearance and performance may have improved, but you haven’t shed your little habit. And I’ll be the one to call you out on it.
“Mr. Pritchett,” I shout. “Do you expect the pain in your left shoulder to be a lingering problem?”
Zach’s head snaps toward mine, our gazes locking.
Warmth travels through my bloodstream and heats places that haven’t been alive in months. Crap. I think I just messed up.
Also by Kimberly Readnour
Cessna Wildcats Series:
Swinging Strike
Behind the Count
Behind the Count: Cessna U Wildcats Book Two Page 28