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

by McKayla Box

  I share my middle finger with him, too.

  He grins at me.

  I drop to the grass, spread my legs, and stretch a little.

  “What’s the deal?” Beck asks, sitting down next to me. “She gonna interview you now or what?”

  I shrug. “No idea. Didn’t even know she was coming.”

  “She was here for the whole practice.”

  I knew that. It took everything I had not look in her direction.

  “No idea what the plan is and I don’t care,” I tell him. “She can wait all night.”

  “Bring her to the team dinner,” Cash says, grinning.

  “Not a fucking chance,” I tell him. “And if you say anything about talking bunting with her over dinner, I will drill you in the ribs the next time you step in the box.”

  He laughs and shakes his head. Some of the other guys laugh, too.

  But I don’t.

  I will absolutely bust him inside if he keeps harping on it.

  “You want me to run some interference?” Beck asks.

  I reach for my right foot. “No. I’m gonna handle her all on my own.”

  I take my time stretching, not just to keep her waiting, but because I need to be careful with my body. Attention to detail matters, and it’s even more important at the start of the season, before your body gets in a rhythm. So I’m methodical in my stretching and recovery.

  It’s just a little added bonus that it keeps Lila waiting.

  When I’m done, the other guys head for the locker room. I gather up my stuff and take my time getting it in my bag. I drape my T-shirt over my shoulder, grab my bag, and head over to where she’s waiting at the fence.

  I’d be lying if I said she wasn’t attractive. That long hair pulled into a loose ponytail, stray strands blowing against her cheeks. Eyes that aren’t afraid to look back at me. She’s wearing jeans and a Baymont hoodie, nothing spectacular, but even those look different on her than they do on other girls.

  “Might get a sunburn,” she says as I drop my bag near the fence.

  “Figured you might like a look,” I say, smiling.

  “Well, I didn’t eat much for lunch, so no danger of me puking,” she says. “You threw a live session today. Why?”

  I shrug. “Just staying in routine.”

  “The week of your first start and you’re throwing live to guys?” she asks. “Thought you’d be in the bullpen. Kind of unusual that you’re going against live hitting.”

  Damn.

  I hate that she’s so smart about baseball. She knows her shit.

  “I’ve always done it,” I tell her. “I don’t really like bullpens. I’d rather see guys in the box. Feels more real and I get more dialed in.”

  She nods. “Makes sense.” She squints into the sun. “That fourth pitch to Wyatt. You’d gone inside three straight times and he missed badly on the two swings he took. Why go outside if he was struggling inside?”

  “That was more me than him,” I tell her. “I’m just working on some mechanics stuff and I want to be able to throw a little off the plate when necessary. I knew I could get him if we went inside again, but I thought he might chase if we went outside.” I smile. “And he did, so I got him anyway.”

  “He’s half a step too far off the plate,” she says. “To reach that outside pitch.”

  I can’t believe she picked all of this up from standing near the fence.

  “You’re a little more upright this year,” she says. “Last three years, you’ve been a little more forward before you started your motion. Was that on purpose?”

  I hesitate, then nod. “Yeah. Jesus. Did you miss anything out there?”

  “Tried not to. Did I?”

  “Doesn’t sound like it,” I say. “Starting more upright allows me to drive harder off my back leg. More velocity.”

  She makes a note in her notebook. “Interesting.”

  “I gotta go,” I tell her. “We’ve got a team dinner and I need to shower and get dressed.”

  “Cool,” she says. “I’m hungry. Where are we going?”

  “What?”

  “Where is dinner?”

  I shake my head. “No. It’s a team dinner. You’re not invited.”

  “I beg to differ.”

  “You can beg all you want,” I tell her. “It’s a team dinner.”

  “And our deal was for me to have access to you for five days, starting today,” she reminds me. “This is a feature piece. You know the deal.”

  “It’s a team dinner,” I repeat. “What part of team don’t you understand?”

  “I don’t give a shit who it’s for,” she says. “It’s exactly the kind of thing I’m going to with you so that I can actually see what you’re like.”

  I shake my head. “No way.”

  “Yes way.”

  “I’m not arguing with you,” I say. “I don’t have time.”

  “And I’m not missing the dinner,” she says. “I already confirmed this week with the SID office. They know we have an agreement now. They said to let them know if I needed anything.” She holds up her phone. “Should I call them right now so we can figure this out?”

  “You’re a fucking pain in the ass,” I say.

  She shrugs. “Maybe, but it doesn’t change the fact that I made contact with your fastball and put down a perfect bunt and won the bet that you agreed to.” She smiles at me. “Now. Where is dinner?”

  Chapter 12

  LILA

  The team dinner that he’s so worried I’ll screw up is at a pizza place.

  Romano’s. It’s like the oldest Italian restaurant in Baymont and I’ve been there about a million times. It’s good food, it’s casual, and it’s exactly the kind of place I’d expect a baseball team to have a team dinner.

  I go back to my apartment, change out of my sweatshirt, throw on a sweater, and brush out my hair and then head back out to meet them.

  The team is in the back room of the restaurant when I get there, and I work my way past the red vinyl booths and the bathrooms until I’m standing in the doorway. They’re all seated around a massive table—or, rather, a bunch of tables all pushed together. They’re laughing and talking, and it reminds me of what I imagine a meeting of politicians might look like. A bunch of men sitting around, telling each other how great they are.

  Gross.

  Houston frowns when he sees me. His hair’s wet and his face is freshly shaved. He’s wearing a blue button-down over a black T-shirt. It’s like he’s stepped right out of a photo shoot. It’s so unfair that he has this amazing talent and he’s so utterly great looking, too.

  Beck holds up a hand in greeting. “Lila. Seat for you over here.”

  The room quiets a little and I do my best not to blush as I make my way around the table to the empty seat between Beck and Houston. I’m aware of all the eyes on me and I’m sure most of them wish I was anywhere but with them.

  I slide into the chair and nod at Beck. “Thanks.” I look at Houston. “Hi.”

  He lifts his chin at me, but doesn’t say anything.

  The guys go back to their chatter and I do my best to just sit back and listen.

  It’s mostly baseball talk. Some school talk, and I’m sure there’d be more talk about girls if I wasn’t at the table, but it’s mostly baseball. Talk about guys on other teams they’ll be playing. Guys in the majors. Guys they want to hit against.

  “Boring, right?” Houston finally says, reaching for a glass of water.

  “Not boring,” I tell him. “Just baseball. Right?”

  “I meant boring for you.”

  “Believe it or not, I actually like baseball.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s a dumb question from a guy who’s hoping to make his living as a professional baseball player.”

  “Not hoping to,” he says. “Going to. I just meant why do you like baseball. How did that happen?”

  I set my notebook and pen in my lap. “My dad. He’s a huge fan. I don’t recal
l a time when the radio or TV wasn’t on and he wasn’t listening or watching. It’s like the soundtrack to my life. I’ve been going to games since before I can even remember. He’d take me to Little League games and minor league games when we’d travel in the summer. He was never a Dodgers fan but we went up to San Francisco to watch the Giants play any chance we could.”

  “Good man,” Houston says.

  I smile. “One time, we went to Chicago once and watched a Cubs doubleheader on a Saturday and the White Sox play two on Sunday.”

  He laughs. “That’s pretty funny.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “So…yeah. I’ve just always been around it. I like the stuff you don’t see, the stuff people miss.”

  “Like?”

  “Like when a pitcher shifts sides of the rubber to get a better angle,” I say. “Like when a baserunner is stretching a lead to see what the other team will let him do. All that subtle stuff is interesting to me.”

  “I thought you’d say bunting,” he says dryly.

  I can’t help but laugh. “Yeah, that, too.” I pause. “Why do you like it?”

  He takes another drink of his water and looks around the table, thinking. “Because it’s the one place I feel comfortable.”

  “You?” I say. “Mr. Big Man on Campus?” I can’t hide my disbelief. “You don’t feel comfortable…everywhere?”

  “Not really,” he says. “Not like when I’m on the mound. And I know I’m usually the best guy out there. If I lose, it’s because I wasn’t good enough. It’s pretty black and white. I’m in control of what happens.” He cuts his eyes toward me. “And I really like watching guys walk back to the dugout after I mow them down.”

  I nod. “Makes sense. Did you grow up playing?”

  “I did,” he says. “Always a pitcher. Every other position was too slow for me.”

  “Were your parents fans?”

  He shakes his head. “Not really. Not until I got good.”

  “You weren’t always good?”

  “Not until I got great.”

  I’m not sure I buy the line about him not feeling comfortable everywhere, but it makes him a little more interesting if it’s true.

  “Hey, Houston,” Cash calls from the other end of the table. “Who was that dude that tried to steal home last year? The guy on—”

  “Cape Union,” I blurt out. “Martin Wingerton.”

  The whole room goes quiet.

  This time, I know I’m blushing.

  “Yeah,” Houston confirms. “Wingerton.”

  Cash eyes me. “How did you know that?”

  “I covered the game,” I say. “I don’t forget much.”

  “You don’t look like the smart type,” Cash says. “You’re too hot.”

  There’s some snickering around the table.

  “And you don’t look like a guy who can range to his right at short,” I says. “Oh, wait. You can’t.”

  His smile vanishes as the rest of the guys at the table laugh.

  Even Houston.

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Cash mutters, shaking his head. “I go just fine to my right.”

  “Yeah, you do,” Houston says, then glances at me. “No one else I’d rather have at short besides Cash.”

  The buzz of conversation returns to the table.

  “He’s short going to his right,” I whisper. “You have to know that.”

  “Of course I do,” Houston whispers. “But I tell him I know that, then he starts doubting himself and I don’t want any of these guys doubting anything when we’re out there. I need them all in, all the time. So what if he’s a little slow going that way.” He shrugs his massive shoulders. “He gets to the ones we need him to get to.” He winks at me and points at my lap. “You can write that one down in your little notebook if you want.”

  I actually do want to, so I grab the pen and scribble down my notes from the last few minutes. The pizza comes and they begin to wolf it down. Houston talks easily with all of his teammates and he surprises me. He’s not just talking with the other important guys on the team. It’s everyone. The freshmen, the guys who rarely get to play. He’s making conversations with them just as easily as he is with Cash and Beck. I don’t expect that and it catches me by surprise.

  I glance at him.

  Houston Cade might not be exactly who I think he is.

  Chapter 13

  HOUSTON

  “Where do we go now?” Lila asks.

  We’re outside of Romano’s and I’m stuffed with pizza. But the night’s not over just yet.

  “The Fair Pole,” I tell her.

  She rolls her pretty little green eyes. “Of course.”

  “Why do you say it like that?”

  “Because it’s your home away from home,” she says. “I thought you guys might do something different to kick off the season.”

  I shake my head. “No way. The Fair Pole or nothing.”

  We walk the six blocks from Romano’s to The Fair Pole. It’s a corner bar that’s a Baytown institution. The walls are lined with photographs of every guy ever to wear a Baytown uniform, old Baytown pennants, and signed baseball memorabilia from over the years. It’s like the Baytown baseball hall of fame and she’s right. It is our home away from home. Doesn’t matter your age. If you’re on the roster, you’re getting in. We celebrate wins, mourn losses, and show up for nearly any other reason, too. It’s home.

  Led Zeppelin is spilling from the jukebox when we walk in. The other people that are there try not to be obvious about looking at us, but they can’t help it. We’re the kings at Baytown and we’re walking into our castle. Half of them probably parked there for the night in hopes that we’d show up.

  The guys spread out around the bar. Beck and I take our usual table in the far corner. He grabs an extra chair for Lila. He’s nicer than I am.

  She hesitates, then sits down. She takes a look around. “I’ve never been in here.”

  I look at her, incredulous. “Seriously?”

  She nods. “Yeah. I’m not a big drinker. I don’t much care for bars. And because I’ve been covering you guys, I stayed away from here. It didn’t make sense to come in here.”

  “Well, you might be the only one in Baymont,” I tell her. “It’s like an institution.”

  “I’m aware,” she says. “Guess my life is complete now.”

  Beck stands up. “What do you want to drink, Lila?”

  “Just like a Sprite or whatever.”

  He nods and walks toward the bar.

  “He didn’t ask you,” Lila says.

  “Because he knows what I want.”

  “Which is?”

  “Water. No alcohol now.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Season’s started,” I tell her. “Need to stay focused.”

  She takes a look around the bar. “And your teammates don’t subscribe to that philosophy?”

  I laugh. “Not in the same way. It’s not a game night, so they’re fine. They don’t have to do what I do.”

  “But they would,” she says. “If you told them to.”

  “Maybe. But that’s up to them.”

  “You’re their leader. Why not have them follow your example?”

  “Because if I force them, what’s the point? If they choose to, cool. But if not? That’s fine. They can do what they want.” I drum my fingers on the tabletop. “As long as they’re ready to play when it’s time to play.”

  She studies me for a long moment.

  “What?” I ask.

  “I’m kind of surprised you don’t just bend them to your will.”

  “They don’t need to be bent. If they don’t perform when they need to, then I’ll do a little bending.” I shrug. “It’s a Monday night. A few drinks won’t hurt them and it won’t affect the game on Saturday.”

  She nods. “Alright.”

  I can see she wants to say something, but she’s holding back. “What?”

  She folds her arms across her
chest. “Just thinking. Wondering if that’s what separates you from them.”

  “Separates me?”

  “You’re the consensus best player in college baseball,” she says. “Barring any weird maneuvering, you’ll be the first pick in the draft. You have really good teams and some other guys that will get drafted, but they aren’t looked at like you. I’m wondering if that discipline is why.” She smiles. “Or is it just because you’ve got a breaking ball that falls off the table.”

  “That doesn’t hurt,” I tell her. “And I don’t know the answer to that question. All I know is that I love playing with these guys and I wouldn’t trade a single one.”

  “Fair enough,” she says, nodding. “Just something I’m curious about.”

  Beck returns with our drinks.

  “Is there a bathroom in this place or do you just pee in the parking lot?” she asks.

  “Usually we just drop our shorts here at the table,” I say. “Feel free.”

  She frowns at me.

  “Other side of the bar,” Beck says. “Down the hall.”

  She stands. “Thanks. Be right back.”

  I watch her walk away. Specifically, I watch her ass swing back and forth as she walks away.

  “Seriously?” Beck asks.

  “Seriously what?”

  He raises an eyebrow.

  I shrug. “I kinda like her.”

  He rolls his eyes. “From mortal enemy to kinda liking her in like, what? Twelve hours?”

  “I didn’t say I was gonna do anything,” I tell him. “And ‘kinda like’ is a lot different than ‘want to fuck.’”

  He laughs and shakes his head. “You stare at her ass any harder, you’ll set it on fire.”

  “Fuck off.”

  “No distractions,” he says, pointing a straw at me.

  I knock the straw out of his hand. “No distractions.”

  “Especially not one that looks like that,” he says. “That’s trouble.”

  “I can handle myself,” I say. “You know that.”

  “You can handle yourself,” he says. “Just not sure you can handle her.”