Throwing Heat: A New Adult Sports Romance (The Baymont Bombers Book 1)

by McKayla Box

  Throwing Heat

  The Baymont Bombers #1

  McKayla Box

  Throwing Heat

  The Baymont Bombers Series – Book 1

  By

  McKayla Box

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Throwing Heat

  The Baymont Bombers Series – Book 1

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright ©2021

  Cover design by McKayla Box

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited without the expressed written consent of the author.

  Created with Vellum

  Other Books by McKayla Box

  The Sunset Beach High Series

  Fall

  Winter

  Spring

  Summer

  The Del Sol High Series

  Blinded

  Burned

  Eclipsed

  The Playa Del Mar High Series

  Hopeless

  Heartless

  Fearless

  The Baymont Bombers Series

  Throwing Heat

  Catch Fire

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  The End

  Chapter 1

  HOUSTON

  This chick is like an octopus.

  Her hands are fucking everywhere.

  We’re on the couch in the middle of the living room in the house I share with several of my teammates. The music is bumping, a thrumming bass line shaking the walls. I can’t count how many people are here and I have no idea who invited them. Guys who wish they were part of our team and girls who want to do every guy on our team. A fairly typical night at our house at Baymont University.

  You know how every college has that one house that seems to always have something going on? The one that no matter what time you show up, there’s music rolling and drinks being poured and someone ready to toss a TV out of the second story window?

  That’s our house.

  “Can we go to your room?” she purrs in my ear, her tongue flicking at it like she’s a snake. Her hands are gripping my shirt, and she lifts the hem and lightly trails her long nails against my back.

  “Nah,” I say. “Not tonight.”

  Her red lips push into a pout. “Come on, Houston. I promise. You’ll love me.”

  She doesn’t know how wrong she is.

  I won’t love her.

  I won’t love any girl until I get what I want.

  Her hand slides between my legs. “Come on. Let me show you.”

  Tempting.

  She’s definitely hot. Long, blond hair. Tan legs beneath a skirt that’s nearly to her waist already. A tight red tank top that’s about to explode. I’ve seen her around campus, but I don’t know her name and I don’t know what year she is. I don’t even know how she ended up on the couch with me.

  But if I take her in the other room and give her what she wants, here’s what’s going to happen:

  We’ll fuck.

  She’ll like it.

  She’ll want to spend the night.

  She’ll want to give me her number.

  She’ll want to know when I’m going to text her.

  I won’t text her.

  She’ll come by the house.

  She’ll want to know why I haven’t texted.

  I’ll tell her it’s because I’m busy.

  She’ll ask if we can go upstairs again.

  I’ll shake my head.

  She’ll get pissed.

  She’ll call me names.

  I’ll laugh.

  She’ll leave and tell her friends what an asshole I am.

  And then I’ll have to deal with all of that shit the week the season starts.

  No thanks.

  Any other week?

  Maybe, because she looks like she’d be fun.

  But not right now.

  She squeezes the right spot between my legs. “Come on. You’ve never been with anyone like me.”

  That’s not true. I’m the best college baseball pitcher in the country. I’ve traveled the country, showing off my arm in games and tournaments everywhere. In a couple months, I’m going to be the number-one pick in the Major League Baseball draft. I’m going to sign a contract worth millions, and then in a few more years, I’ll sign a contract worth hundreds of millions.

  Everyone knows it, and every girl I meet is willing to ride me to try and take that million-dollar ride with me.

  I’ve been with everyone like her.

  But I don’t need any bullshit when everything’s about to ramp up, and this girl just feels like bullshit waiting to happen.

  “Nah, I’m out,” I say, getting out from under her and standing up. “I’m getting something else to drink.”

  She pouts again, then grabs her red cup from the coffee table. “Fill me up?”

  I take the cup from her. “Sure.”

  I make my way through the crowd, drop her cup in a trashcan, and walk out onto the patio. There’s a slight breeze that carries the smell of pot and someone’s cloyingly sweet vape. It’s early March, which in southern California means we might need a sweatshirt to stay warm if we stay outside too long.

  I see Beck Winslow, my catcher and best friend, standing with Luke Decker, our third baseman. They each have a red cup in their hand and they’re laughing their asses off. Luke is shirtless. Guess it’s not too cold for him.

  “The fuck is so funny?” I ask.

  Beck puts a hand on my shoulder. “Look at the fence.”

  I squint into the dark and find the fence in the shadows. “”Why’s it moving?”

  Luke puts a hand to the side of his mouth. “Because Cash is fucking someone on the other side!”

  He yells it loud enough for whoever’s on the other side of the fence to hear him.

  “He grabbed some sophomore,” Beck tells me. “They were making out near the fence. Then they climbed over it and they’re just going at it now.”

  I laugh. Cash Hollow is our shortstop. He’s the next best player on our team after me, even though he’ll tell you he’s number one.


  “Get it, Cash!” Luke screams.

  Cash’s middle finger rises above the fence, but the fence keeps rocking.

  Beck pats me in the chest. “Saw you on the couch with Caroline Wood. What’s up there?”

  “That her name?” I ask, then shake my head. “Absolutely nothing.”

  “That’s my boy,” Luke says, throwing an arm around my shoulders. “Our ace, Houston Cade, isn’t letting anything distract him before our season starts.” He winks at me. “You mind if I take a shot?”

  I laugh. “She’s all yours.”

  He winks again and disappears inside the house.

  Beck reaches into a cooler and hands me a bottle of beer. “Time for the last one before season starts?”

  I nod as he sets his empty cup down and pulls his own out of the cooler. We rip the tops off and clink the necks.

  “To winning the whole fucking thing this year and then watching you tear it up in the show next year,” Beck says.

  “You’re coming with me,” I say.

  He frowns. “Come on, brother. That ain’t in the cards and you know it. And I don’t need it.” He aims the beer at me. “You, on the other hand, are a once-in-a-lifetime genuine star.”

  I think Beck downplays his skills more than he should. He’s sort of the rock of our team, the guy who is always under control, and the guy who always has the right words at the right time. Especially for me. He can walk up to me on the mound when I can’t get shit over the plate and know exactly what to say to me so that I get my head back on straight and get the job done. He’s my best friend and there’s no one I’d rather throw to.

  We drink our beers and watch the chaos around us. People drinking. People making out. Cash still working it on the other side of the fence. Music pumping. The beer tastes good, probably because I know it’s the last one I’ll drink until the season’s over.

  Focus.

  That’s what matters.

  I can’t let anything distract me or hold me back.

  Beck finishes his beer, sets his empty bottle down on the patio table, then rubs his hands together. “Alright. Unlike you, I am not taking a vow of celibacy and I would really like to make some girl lucky tonight.”

  “Didn’t see any ugly ones,” I tell him. “Might be out of luck.”

  He fakes throwing a punch at my right arm, but stops just short. “That hurts, brother.”

  “I’m just glad we don’t share a room, so I don’t have to walk in on anything,” I say.

  His eyebrows bounce. “Maybe I’ll use your bed tonight.”

  “Do and you’re dead.”

  He cackles and heads inside, in search of his girl for the night.

  And, yeah, it’s really that easy for us. Baseball is king at Baymont. Our other teams are just average. But not baseball. We’ve got a long history of winning titles and sending guys to the majors. We’re gods on this campus, the guys that everyone tries to sneak a look at and whispers about when we walk by. Hooking up is not a problem. Getting an extension on an assignment is not a problem. Getting scouts to come watch us play is not a problem.

  No, the only problem we have is staying focused. Ignoring all of those distractions, no matter how pretty they are, is important. We can’t let up. We were so close last season. Every single guy on our roster needs to be dialed in, and it’s going to fall on me and Beck to keep them in line. We’re the seniors and we’re the leaders.

  And I’m not settling for anything less than a title and being the first player chosen in the draft.

  Anything less will be a failure.

  I finish my beer and set the bottle next to Beck’s. I know a few other guys will party during the season, but not me. I’m maniacal. My routines. My diet. My workouts. Everything.

  And that means no girls, too.

  They’ll be there when the season’s over, and they can lick the champagne off my bare chest when we’re celebrating. They can lick wherever the fuck they want.

  But until then?

  No bullshit.

  I turn around, ready to go back inside, find a couple of the other guys, and see what’s up. I’m happy to watch them make asses of themselves. I’m in control and even though I’m already in season mode, I can appreciate them having a good time tonight.

  But now I’m looking at the door.

  And she’s standing there.

  I know exactly what Lila Oakley wants.

  And now I’m not sure about how much control I really have.

  Chapter 2

  LILA

  “I cannot believe I have to do this,” I say.

  “I can,” Shea says. “You’re the best writer on the paper and they know this would be a story that would be huge. And it would be huge for you, too.”

  We are walking across the campus quad at Baymont, heading to the party at The Baseball House. It’s called The Baseball House because it’s where all of the baseball assholes live.

  And, yes, they are all assholes.

  But it’s the house where everything happens and we want to get out.

  And I have to do this.

  Vomit.

  “I’m not the best writer,” I tell my roommate. “I’m just the only one who they can rely on to get shit done.”

  “Bullshit,” Shea says, fiddling with one of the gold hoops in her ears. “You’re awesome and we both know it, and your goofball editor knows it. That’s why he wants you to do the profile. And you can’t deny it, Lila. If you were able to pull something like that off, it would be a huge calling card for when you start applying to papers for a real job.”

  She’s not wrong. And that time is coming at me fast. I’m a senior and school is almost done. Graduation isn’t that far off, which means I need to get my ass in gear. I already have a massive portfolio of work, which is great, and I’ll be graduating from one of the top schools for journalism on the West Coast. Both of those things will matter when I’m pounding the pavement, looking for a job.

  But if I’m able to pull this off?

  Yeah, it would definitely be a calling card that would get me some attention.

  I’m just not sure it’s worth it.

  “You want me to fuck him and ask him to do it?” Shea asks, grinning at me.

  I smack her in the shoulder. “Gross. No.”

  “I would,” she says. “I mean, for you. Plus, I’d love to see him naked.”

  I laugh. Shea Connors has been my roommate and best friend for four years. You know the crazy girl who lives for dares and doesn’t give a shit about what anyone thinks? That’s her and more. Some days, I’d like to be more like her and then some days, I don’t want to be anything like her because the thought is too terrifying.

  “Yeah, well, no,” I say, as we cross the road. “You don’t need to do that on my account.”

  “Maybe you should do it then.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Come on, Lila.” She grabs my arm playfully. “It’s our last semester. Cut loose a little bit. Have some fun. Fuck a baseball player.”

  I laugh, but shake my head. “No thanks.”

  “Do you remember when I did Kenny Starks two years ago?” she asks. “It was Halloween—”

  “And you howled like the wolf you were dressed as. Yes, I remember because I was in the room next to you.”

  “God, was he good,” she says. “Baseball players. They know what they’re doing. They know how…to swing their bats.”

  We both giggle at the euphemism. And I know that most of the school agrees with her. The baseball players at Baymont are revered. Like football players at Alabama or basketball players at Duke, the guys who put on the pinstripes at Baymont are the masters of this universe. And they know it and they don’t care that you know that they know it. Girls drool over them. Guys wish they were them. Even professors fawn over them.

  And it’s not that it’s not deserving…to a degree. They all seem to be stupidly good looking. And they are good at baseball. One of the best teams in collegiate baseball, and they
have guys go pro every year.

  It’s just that they’re so in your face about it.

  Some more than others.

  “Not interested,” I tell her. “And I don’t have time for guys. I need to get through this last semester and find a job. I sold my soul in the form of loans to come here and I don’t want them hanging over my head my entire life.”

  “I know, I know,” she says. “Lila Oakley. Super serious journalist-to-be.” She eyes me. “I just want you to have some fun before we graduate and nothing sounds more fun than riding one of these baseball stars for a night or two.”

  We laugh again as we get near the house. I can hear the music from a block away and the noise from the sheer number of people gets louder the closer we get. I see people on the front lawn and on the upstairs balcony. It’s an old home that’s been converted into like a baseball fraternity house. It’s theirs to preside over and there’s no place people would rather find themselves for a night of drinking and partying than at their house. Everything else seems smaller and tamer by comparison. I remember the first time I came here my freshman year. It was like something out of a movie. All of the mayhem and debauchery come to life in one place. As much as I didn’t care for the baseball players and everything that came with them, I had to admit that they knew how to throw a party.