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

by McKayla Box

  I smile at her. “No, honey. I want sex with you right there on that chair. In front of everyone.”

  By this time, people have started to gather around us. They can tell by our body language that something’s happening. I hear a few laughs when I tell her what I want.

  Her eyes widen for just a minute and her cheeks burn pink. “Not happening.”

  “You said anything,” I remind her. “Who’s chicken now?”

  A few more laughs.

  “I’m not betting sex,” she says. “Call me chicken or whatever else you want, but I’ve got more pride than that. Try again.”

  I laugh. I like that I’ve rattled her. I’m not really serious, but I wanted to see her reaction. I like that she’s tough, that she’s standing her ground.

  Even if she’s kind of a bitch about all of this.

  “Fine,” I say. “I’ve got it.”

  She looks at me.

  “You can’t ever talk to me again,” I say. “Not for the paper, not for anything. Me? I can say whatever I want to you, whenever I want. But your mouth can never address me again.”

  Confusion spreads on her face and I know I’ve got her. It’s a good bet. I know it’ll kill her to never be able to ask me for another interview or to not talk to me about a game or to try and make fun of me. Her mouth is her biggest weapon. And if I win, she can’t ever use it again on me.

  I lean down. “Now who’s chicken, sweetheart?”

  A few more cheers from the crowd. She looks around like she’s just now realizing people are watching us. I can tell she feels like she’s on the spot.

  Good.

  She looks at me. “Or maybe they’re all just waiting to see if you’ll finally throw a curve?”

  There’s a low rumble through the crowd.

  My jaw locks. “Whatever. Are we betting or not?”

  She stares at me for a long moment, then she smiles.

  Damn.

  “Deal,” she says. “You’re on.”

  Chapter 6

  LILA

  The curveball comment gets him.

  He has no idea that I know baseball, and not only does it embarrass him, but it catches him off-guard.

  But he recovers quickly.

  No way in hell I’m fucking Houston Cade. Privately, publicly, or any other way.

  But I can live with not talking to him. It might make my job at the paper tough, since I’ll be covering the team. But there are other players I can talk to. I’ll figure it out.

  If I lose.

  “So what’s the bet then?” I ask. “What are we doing?”

  “Hey, this was all your idea, sweetheart,” he says, grinning. “Think that’s on you.”

  Sweetheart.

  Honey.

  It’s so obnoxiously arrogant.

  And maybe a tiny bit sexy, considering how good-looking he is.

  And now he’s in his element. He’s got everyone’s attention and he’s in the middle of it.

  I need something that will give me a chance to win.

  “Play HORSE!” someone yells.

  Houston raises an eyebrow.

  “Lame,” I say. “We need something better than that.”

  “You wanna sit on my lap?” he asks, still grinning. “See if you can keep your hands off me? That might not be fair, though, because it would be impossible for you.”

  “Better bet would be to see if I could keep from vomiting on your face,” I say. “But that’s a definitely loser for me because sitting on your lap would definitely turn my stomach.”

  The crowd murmurs. They like the back and forth. I hate being the center of attention, but there’s nothing I can do about it now.

  Wyatt Lawrence sidles up next to Houston and starts whispering in his ear. Wyatt is the left-fielder on the team. He’s a little taller than Houston, but skinnier. Lankier. He moves like everything is easy for him. I’ve never actually heard him talk. He’s one of the few guys on the team that doesn’t run his mouth.

  A massive smile spreads across Houston’s face. He looks at Wyatt. “You are a fucking genius.”

  Wyatt shrugs. They bump fists and Wyatt fades back into the crowd.

  Houston folds his arms across his chest. “You’re going to hit.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’re excused,” he says. “You’re going to get in the box. Against me. And you have to get a hit. Off me.”

  I frown. “Oh, come on. That seems super fair.” My voice drips with sarcasm.

  “I don’t give a shit about fair,” he says. “You didn’t have a plan, so here we are. Take it or leave it.”

  Now I feel like I’m backed into a corner. This was all my idea and he’s right. I didn’t have a plan and I didn’t think it through. My big mouth now has me in trouble.

  “No,” I say.

  “Yes,” he says. “This is it. Take it or leave it, Oakley. You don’t like it, fine. No profile and maybe I won’t talk to you anyway. I guess I win both ways.” He winks. “And you lose.”

  It’s the way he says it that makes up my mind.

  No way I’m losing to this asshole.

  None.

  And I know a little something that he doesn’t.

  So maybe there’s a shot.

  I shake my head. “We both know I probably can’t hit your fastball.”

  “Probably? Sweetheart, you might not even see it.”

  “Let me finish,” I tell him. “I probably can’t hit your fastball…for a hit.”

  He studies me. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying if I can make contact, I win,” I tell him. “Foul ball, dribbler, anything. Any contact, I win. I strike out? You win.”

  “Just contact?”

  “What? You can’t throw a couple of baseballs by me? I thought you were supposed to be good?”

  He rubs his chin. “Yeah, but you’ll just keep taking pitches. We’ll be there all day.”

  I have to admit that was part of my thinking. I could stand there in the box for awhile and see what happens before I actually swing.

  “Live count,” Beck says.

  Everyone turns and looks at him.

  “Live count,” Beck says again. “We can have someone call balls and strikes. That way she can’t just camp out. And you have to throw her strikes.”

  “Who exactly is going to call pitches?” I ask. “Not you. You’re his best friend.”

  “And I’ll be catching him,” Beck says. “So definitely not me. That’s fair. What about Wyatt? Since it was his idea?”

  The crowd again turns toward Wyatt.

  “You up for it, dude?” Houston asks.

  Wyatt nods. “I’ll do it.”

  Houston turns back to me. “So live count. You make contact with anything I throw or I walk you, you win and you can do the profile. But if I strike you out, either swinging or on stuff Wyatt calls a strike, I win and you have to leave me the fuck alone for forever.” He raises an eyebrow. “We have a deal?”

  I think I can trust Wyatt to be honest. I would’ve trusted Beck to call strikes, too, but I just didn’t want to give Houston every possible advantage. I needed to dig in a little, but I think Wyatt will be fair. Actually, I’m not worried about the calls. I know what Houston’s going to do. He’s going to throw as hard as he can, right down the middle.

  Which is fine by me.

  “Okay,” I say. “We have deal. That’s the bet. Now. When are we doing this?”

  Houston smiles again.

  And I hate that it makes him even better-looking, because that smile is so full of arrogance.

  But it’s the kind of high-wattage smile that stops traffic.

  “Oakley,” he says, spreading his arms wide. “We’re doing this right fucking now.”

  Chapter 7

  HOUSTON

  She looks panicked. “What?”

  And that’s what I want from her.

  Panic.

  “Why not?” I say. “We can walk over to the field right now. A
nd I’m pretty sure everyone here wants to watch anyway. Let’s give them a show.”

  The crowd that now surrounds us roars. I think every single person at the party is now watching our exchange.

  And, man, she hates it.

  I almost feel bad for her.

  Almost.

  She’s looking around like she’s not sure, but I’m not letting her off the hook.

  “Now or never, sweetheart,” I tell her. “You wanted this. So let’s do it.” I nod at the lounge chair. “Or you can sit on my lap and we can talk it over.”

  Her mouth sets in an angry little line and she glares at me.

  I wink at her because I know it pisses her off.

  “Fine,” she says. “Let’s go.”

  The crowd roars again and immediately starts moving.

  We leave through the back gate of the house. One of the reasons that this house always has baseball players living in it is because it’s exactly a block away from the baseball complex on campus. We can roll out of bed and be on the field in six minutes. I know that because I’ve done it. When the lights are on at the field, you can see them from the back of the house, glowing in the sky.

  Beck catches up with me as we walk. “You sure you wanna do this?”

  I look at him like he’s crazy. “Are you serious right now?”

  “I’m just saying,” he tells me. “Don’t want you getting hurt doing something dumb.”

  I frown. “Please. I’m not even gonna unleash on her. I’m gonna make her look stupid, win the bet, and be done with it. You’ll see.”

  “What are we thinking?” he asks. “Straight fastballs?”

  “And at least one breaking ball,” I say. “I want her to miss. Badly.”

  He laughs. “Alright. And what are you gonna do if she tags one?”

  “I know you didn’t just say that to me.”

  “It’s a possibility. She’s in the box with a bat and you’re throwing. Everyone gets lucky once in awhile.”

  I appreciate that Beck is so logical about everything. It’s what makes him a great catcher. In the middle of a game, if things are breaking down, he can assess the situation and know exactly what we need to do. What pitch I should throw. Where guys should be in the field. He takes a look and he calculates what’s the best play, knowing that even that calculation might be off. He knows every possible scenario and he’s prepared for everything. I know that’s what he’s doing now, trying to prepare me for every scenario, but I don’t need the prep here. I’m good.

  “There’s no way she’s touching anything,” I tell him. “I know exactly how I want to throw to her and I’m going to embarrass her.” I look around. “Where is she?”

  “She’s hanging back,” he says. “Walking with that Shea chick. Think it’s her roommate. Kinda hot.”

  “Well, I hope Shea can offer her a little advice,” I say. “Because she’s in for a world of hurt.”

  The lights are already on when we reach the field and I stop for just a second. I love the smell of the grass, the color of it. I love a perfectly dragged infield where you can’t see a single line in the dirt. I love the clean, white bases.

  And I love that hill in the middle of the diamond.

  Beck pats my shoulder. “Gonna run and grab our gear.” He jogs off toward the building that houses both our clubhouse and gym.

  People file into the bleachers and I stand right on top of home plate, like I own it.

  Because I do.

  “I need a bat.”

  I turn around and Lila is standing there with the chick Beck mentioned. She is kinda hot. Not as hot as Lila, but close.

  “Did you not hear her, Babe Ruth?” her friend says. “She needs a bat.”

  “I heard her,” I answer. “Beck’s getting the gear. And Babe Ruth was an old, fat guy who couldn’t throw nearly as hard as I do.”

  She frowns. “What the fuck ever, Pitcher Boy. Just get her a bat so she can wreck you.”

  I laugh and look at Lila. “That right? Gonna wreck me?”

  Lila shrugs, but doesn’t say anything.

  “Don’t worry,” I say. “I won’t throw at full speed. I don’t want you to have a heart attack. Half-speed will be enough.”

  “You can throw as hard as you want,” Lila snaps. “Don’t hold back for me. I don’t want any excuses when I get hold of one.”

  I have to hand it to her. She’s nearly as confident as I am. I like that she’s a shit-talker.

  Maybe I will bring the full heat for her, just so she can get a taste.

  Beck emerges from the building. He’s got his mask on his head, both of our gloves, and a couple of bats. He’s got a big duffle back draped over his shoulder. He stops at the girls first and lets Lila try on a couple of helmets from the bag until she finds one she’s comfortable with. Then he shows her the bats and she settles on a black and purple Easton..

  I could give a shit.

  She could choose a fucking elm tree and it wouldn’t matter.

  Beck walks over to me and hands me my glove. “She picked the right bat. So she at least knew to do that.”

  “I don’t fucking care, Beck,” I say, sliding my glove onto my hand. I held out the open glove. “Give me the fucking ball.”

  He drops the duffel. “Put your spikes on.”

  “I’m good.”

  He shakes his head. “No. Put them on. If you’re gonna do this, I’m gonna make sure you don’t get hurt doing it. Rolling an ankle is dumb. Put them on if you want me behind the plate.”

  I shake my head, but I know he won’t move until I put them on. Beck’s not afraid to stand up to me. Probably why he’s such a good catcher.

  I pull the spikes on and lace them up. I look at him. “Good now?”

  He shoves the ball into my glove. “Let’s do it.”

  “You one of those assholes that needs an hour to warm up?” Shea hollers.

  “I’m always warm, honey,” I tell her, backpedaling toward the mound. “Eight pitches and I’ll be good to go.”

  Shea rolls her eyes. Lila isn’t paying attention. She’s taking a few practice swings off to the side. Her swing isn’t terrible, but it’s not smooth, either.

  This won’t be a problem at all.

  I turn around and finish my walk to the mound.

  Standing on the mound is the best feeling in the world. It’s like you’re a king looking down on your kingdom. And the spotlight is always on you. You’re in control. Everything that happens on the diamond happens because of what I do up there. I like to take my time and take it all in. It reminds me that I’m in charge and that I have a job to do. I can’t wait to do it in front of sixty thousand people in a couple of years.

  And I will.

  I toe the rubber and dig in a little to get my footing. Beck sets up behind the plate. I roll my shoulders a couple of times, then make a couple of easy throws. Legs feel good. Shoulder feels good. My grip is clean. I throw a little harder and the ball pops in Beck’s mitt.

  There are some oohs and aah from the crowd. But now they start to fade away because I’m going to dial in. Just me and Beck playing catch. No matter where he puts his mitt, I can hit it.

  I step off the rubber, tuck my glove under my arm, and rub the ball with both hands. I look over and Lila is watching me. Her white jeans are so tight, it almost looks like she’s wearing a baseball uniform.

  I grin at her. “Let’s go, sweetheart.”

  Shea whispers something in her ear and she nods.

  The crowd gets louder and I see a couple of my boys standing near the dugout, beers in hand, watching, laughing.

  Lila finally walks toward the box. She’s right-handed. She’s careful setting her feet and Beck watches her get situated. Then she stares at me and cocks the bat back.

  I have to admit her stance doesn’t look that bad.

  But it’s time for a little fun.

  Beck squats down behind the plate and Wyatt slides in behind him, ready to call balls and strikes. Beck taps the
inside of his right leg and I don’t smile, but I want to. We’re already on the same page. He wants me to send one wide just to see if she’ll swing.

  I get set and stare her down. If there’s any fear in her eyes, I don’t see it.

  Impressive.

  I go through my wind up and deal. Maybe three-quarter speed, about four inches wide of the plate.

  She doesn’t bite.

  “Ball,” Wyatt calls.

  Lila steps out as Beck tosses the ball back to me. Okay. So she’s at least got some control up there. That’s cool.

  But now it’s time to roll.

  Beck drops a single finger, pointing straight down at the ground.

  Fastball.

  I find the seams on the ball in my glove and stare her down again. I wind up and let it fly.

  It pops in Beck’s mitt before she even finishes her swing. The crowd explodes, yelling and laughing. I can’t hide a smile.

  “Strike,” Wyatt calls.

  “Almost,” I yell at her, as I catch the ball from Beck. “So close.”

  She steps out of the box, but doesn’t say anything.

  The crowd lets her have it.

  “Did she even see that?”

  “I’ve seen better swings at the park!”

  “Put it on a tee for her!”

  I mess with the dirt in front of the rubber again to get my footing as she steps back into the box. She’s got the bat cocked, held high. Her feet are shoulder-width apart. And her hands are a little higher on the bat. She’s choking up so she can swing a little quicker. It’s a smart move and I’m surprised.

  But it won’t help her.

  I get set on the rubber and look in for the sign from Beck. He drops two fingers down. Curve. Again, we’re on the same page.

  I stare her down and she’s staring right back at me. I almost feel bad.

  Almost.

  I find the seams, wind up, and fire.

  My curve doesn’t break right to left as much as it moves top to bottom. It comes at you like a fastball and then drops like it rolled off a table. Unless you see the spin on the ball coming out of my hand, there’s no way to see it coming.