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

by McKayla Box

  “What’s the class?”

  “Linear Algebra. Whatever the fuck that means.”

  “So you’re just cutting it? Sounds like a solid strategy.”

  “I’m done talking about me,” he says. “Let’s talk about last night.”

  “Why?”

  “You know why.”

  “I didn’t touch Dickson,” I tell him. “You told me not to, I told you I wouldn’t, and I didn’t. End of story.”

  “You fucking kissed her,” Beck says.

  I lie down under the bar and he moves near my head to spot me. “It was a joke.”

  “Didn’t look like a joke. And you two were pretty hot and heavy at the table after.”

  “Only because I was telling her it was a joke,” I explain. “She was the one who was hot and heavy. I had to cool her off. Gonna do eight. Count ‘em.” I lift the bar off the rack and do eight reps before I set it back. I sit up and shake out my arms. “There’s nothing going on.”

  “I’ve seen you kiss a lot of girls,” Beck says as we switch places.

  “Stalker.”

  “And I’ve never seen you kiss a girl like that,” he says, ignoring me.

  “Like what?”

  “Like you fucking wanted her to feel it.”

  “You are a fucking stalker.”

  “I’m serious, Houston,” he says, laying down beneath the bar. “I saw it. Don’t fucking lie to me.”

  I hate having a best friend who knows everything about me. I should probably ditch him. Might make things easier.

  He does his reps and we move to the pull-down machine.

  “There’s nothing going on,” I say. “I was messing with her. So what? I had a little fun with her and was just trying to shake her up a little bit. And fuck Clay Dickson, too, alright?”

  “That we agree on,” Beck says, picking up a couple of barbells. “Fuck that guy ten times. But you cannot get sidetracked with Lila Oakley.”

  We work through our last sets of bicep curls, rerack the weights, grab our towels and head outside. It’s a warm afternoon, not a single cloud in the sky, no breeze to speak of.

  “I’m not getting sidetracked,” I tell him, wiping the towel over my face.

  “Look, I get it,” he says. “She’s smoking hot. And she’s smarter than most of the girls that throw themselves at you, which I’m betting is kind of a nice change of pace. She knows how to spell her own name, can probably add, and we know she can write complete sentences.”

  I laugh. “Whatever.”

  “There’s nothing not to like about her,” he continues. “So I get it. And any other time? I’d tell you to get after it. Actually, any other girl, I’d tell you to get after it. But not this one.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I can see you falling for this girl.”

  “Shut the fuck up.”

  “I’d like to, but you keep asking me questions,” he says, a small smile forming on his lips. But then it disappears. “I’m serious. I see the way you look at her. And I know you like a challenge. And you wanna know the truly scary part?”

  “Yeah,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Blow me away with your wisdom.”

  “She can handle you,” he says. “She’s not intimidated by you. She’s not afraid of you. She’s not in awe of you. She can hold her own.” He glances at me. “That, buddy, is something you are definitely not fucking used to.”

  We reach the gate to the back of the house. There’s no one on the patio, and a few empty beer bottles are still sitting on the table, leftover from either the party over the weekend or someone knocking a few back the night before.

  “Are you fucking Doctor Phil now or something?” I ask.

  “If I need to be,” he says. “I’m just telling you. Now’s not the time. You wanna hook up with someone? Go find one of the other thousand girls who’d love to get fucked by Houston Cade. But Lila Oakley is not a hookup, brother. She’s a keeper, and don’t insult me by telling me I’m full of shit. When I’m right, I’m right.” He looks at me. “And I’m right.”

  I push open the back gate. He’s not wrong about Lila. She is a keeper. The kind of girl you end up with, not the kind of girl you end a night with.

  “There’s nothing to worry about,” I tell him. “It’s all good.”

  “No distractions,” Beck says. “That’s our mantra, right?”

  I think about Lila’s lips and her ass walking away and her smart mouth and how badly I wanted to just push her down on the floor of the bar and keep going. I wonder what she would’ve done if I hadn’t stopped. Maybe gotten her up against the wall and pushed my hips into hers. Gotten my hands on that ass.

  I wonder.

  But I look at Beck and nod. “No distractions.”

  Chapter 18

  LILA

  I can’t stop thinking about Houston.

  No, not like that.

  Well, a little like that.

  But I’m trying to focus on what really matters.

  The profile.

  And the suspension.

  I wanted to ask him about when we were at the bar, but then the kiss screwed everything up and I was off my game. Then Beck came back to the table and I didn’t want to ask Houston with him sitting there.

  But now my curiosity is at an all-time high. I’ve spent the last hour scanning the internet and I can’t find anything. It’s really strange to have something like that just disappear. I managed to track down the box scores for the two games he was suspended from to confirm that he didn’t play. But I can’t find another word about the suspension. So I decide it’s time to go straight to the source.

  Well, not exactly.

  Baymont High School is exactly seven minutes from the college campus. It’s like a mini-version of the university. Similar layout, same school colors, same fixation with baseball. I’ve been there a couple of times for different events, but I’ve never been there for baseball reasons.

  The coach at Baymont High is a man named Ron Petty and the only reason I know that is because I’ve looked it up on their school website. I check in at the main office, show them my university press pass, and explain why I’m there. The secretary looks completely disinterested as I explain all of this, but she makes a photocopy of my driver’s license and tells me I’ll find Coach Petty out on the athletic fields because he’s teaching P.E.

  I make my way out to the athletic fields, passing students who look much younger than I did back in high school. Or at least that’s what it feels like to me. There are posters tacked up inside glass-enclosed billboards, advertising speech and debate meetings, auditions for the spring musical, and a car wash fundraiser for Campus Beautiful

  About a dozen kids in gray T-shirts and blue shorts are chasing a soccer ball around on the soccer field beneath a hazy sky when I finally reach the field. A guy wearing a blue ball cap, a blue T-shirt and Adidas sweatpants is standing in the middle of them, a whistle around his neck, his arms folded tightly across his chest. He’s maybe in his sixties with a deep tan and a thick mustache across his upper lip.

  “No, Morrison!” he barks. “Wrong way!”

  The kids don’t stop kicking the ball and moving toward the goal.

  The man shakes his head, then takes notice of me.

  “Are you Coach Petty?” I ask from the sideline.

  He nods, but doesn’t move.

  “My name’s Lila Oakley,” I say. “I’m a writer for The Baymont Ledger. Over at the university?”

  “I know it,” he says. “Gimme a minute.”

  He blows hard on the whistle and the kids lazily drift toward him. His arms stay tightly crossed as he lectures them about something I can’t quite hear. Then he makes a dismissive gesture and they straggle off toward the building on the other side of the field.

  He drops the whistle and lets it fall to his chest as he strides toward me. “Don’t ever coach soccer.”

  “I don’t plan on it,” I tell him.

  “Don’t teach P.E., either,�
� he says. “Unless you like banging your head against a wall.” He holds out his hand. “Ron Petty.”

  I shake his calloused hand. “Lila Oakley.”

  “What can I do for you, Lila Oakley?”

  “I’m doing a feature piece on Houston Cade,” I tell him. “I know he played for you when he was here.”

  He lifts the cap, exposing a head of gray hair, then repositions it on his head. “That he did. Best arm I’ve ever seen on a high school kid.”

  “He was always good?”

  “From the second I saw him,” Petty says, nodding. “Never a doubt he’d be as good as he is. And he’s gonna get even better once the pros get ahold of him. You watch.” His chest puffs a little with pride.

  “Right,” I say. “Can you tell me a little about what he was like when he was here?”

  Petty shrugs. “Not much to tell, honestly. He was as dominant of a player as I’ve ever coached. He can hit like crazy, too, but I know now he’s really focusing on pitching, which is good. But he was a big reason why we won so many games during his four years here.”

  “Good student?”

  “Better than you’d think,” he answers. “Not a dumb jock in any sense. Did he coast a bit? Sure, but not in a bad way. Houston’s a good kid. Good leader. I think you’d find that most people who were here with him liked him, and that would include people who didn’t play baseball.”

  I nod. “Okay. Good to know. I’ve been doing some research on his career.”

  “He’s put up some pretty spectacular numbers.”

  “He has,” I say. “But I ran across something a little odd.”

  “Odd?”

  “I found a short article that said he was suspended for two games his senior year,” I say. “No explanation as to why, and I can’t find a single mention of it anywhere else.”

  He purses his lips and looks away. “That right.”

  “Yeah. I was hoping you might be able to elaborate on it a little bit. I’m curious as to what happened. He didn’t play in those two games, but he played after that, so I’m assuming it wasn’t anything significant. He wasn’t kicked off the team or anything.”

  He adjusts the cap again. “If you’re assuming it wasn’t significant, why do you care about it then?”

  “Because I’m trying to get as much background as possible,” I tell him. “Because I want to tell his story and I don’t want to leave anything out.”

  He sets his hands on his hips. “There’s nothing there, Miss Oakley. You can trust me on that.”

  “So if there’s nothing there, you should be able to tell me about it then, right?”

  “I don’t think that’s my place,” he says. “And the district has privacy rules in place. About student records.”

  “So it wasn’t just related to baseball?” I ask. “It was something in school?”

  He toes the grass for a moment. “Houston know you’re here?”

  “He’s agreed to let me do the profile,” I answer. “He’s spoken to me.”

  “Not what I asked.

  I consider lying to him, but don’t see the point. “No, he doesn’t know I’m here.”

  “Didn’t think so,” he says. “Look. Houston’s a good kid. Helluva player, but a good kid, too. Not too often you find that combo. Usually it’s one or the other. But Houston’s both. I don’t think this is something you want to stir up.”

  “I’m not trying to stir anything up,” I tell him. “Really. I just find it strange that he apparently served some kind of suspension his senior year and there’s almost no information available about it.”

  He glances at the silver watch on his wrist. “I need to get moving because I’ve got another class coming.” He pauses. “Let me ask you a question. Do you like Houston?”

  That felt like a loaded question. “I don’t really know him.”

  Petty smiles at me. “Okay, but you said you’ve talked to him. Do you like him for as much as you know him?”

  I think for a moment. “I think so. He’s pretty arrogant, but one on one…he’s alright.”

  Petty nods. “That’s fair. Kid like that with a lightning bolt for an arm, he’s gonna be full of himself once in awhile. But I promise you. He’s not a bad kid.” He squints at me. “Not my place to tell you your business, but I’m gonna say it again: you’d do well to leave this one alone.” He tips his cap in my direction. “Nice talking with you, Miss Oakley.”

  Chapter 19

  HOUSTON

  “You’re all over the place,” Beck says. He smacks me in the chest. “Get your shit together.”

  We’re at practice and I’m doing my last bullpen session before Saturday’s game. I’m working out the kinks, making sure my feel is right, and finding my rhythm.

  But none of that is happening.

  I can’t find his glove with the ball.

  My feet aren’t landing in the right place.

  My grip doesn’t feel right.

  And I’ve got about as much rhythm as a corpse.

  I wipe at the sweat on my forehead. “Yeah.”

  “The fuck’s going on?” Beck asks, his mask up on top of his head, a deep frown etched into his forehead. “You should be dialed in right now. We’re in the window. What’s going on?”

  I shake my head. “Nothing. Just trying to put it all together.”

  “Bullshit,” he says. “You should’ve had it together by now, dude.” He taps me in the chest again. “Where is your head?”

  I take off my cap, wipe the sweat off my forehead again, and squint into the sunlight. “It’s here.”

  “Is it?” he asks. “Or is it in Lila Oakley’s pants?”

  I don’t say anything.

  “Get her out of your head, Houston,” he says. It sounds like an order. “This isn’t the time. No distractions. We good?”

  I nod. “Yeah. We’re good.”

  “Alright,” he says. “Let’s go again then. And let’s get it right.”

  I watch him walk back to the plate. I’m not sure why I can’t stop thinking about her and it annoys me that I can’t. Beck’s right. I should be dialed in. I should know what he wants me to do before he asks me to do it. But instead, it’s like I have no idea why I’m even out here. I just keep seeing her eyes and thinking about that kiss and that ass.

  I turn and walk off the back of the mound. I grab the resin bag from the ground and bounce it in my hands for a couple of seconds, then let it fall back down. I take a deep breath.

  Dial the fuck in.

  And I do. I spend the next twenty minutes doing exactly what I’m supposed to be doing. Hitting my spots. Anticipating what Beck wants me to throw. Snapping breaking shit off with a vengeance. Visualizing the batters. By the time we’re done, I’m covered in sweat, but I’m back on track.

  Beck jogs out to me when we’re done. “That’s what I’m talking about right there.” He claps me on the back. “Well done, dude.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “I’m good now.”

  “Yeah, you are,” he says. “You bring that filthy shit on Saturday and those Clearwater assholes will go home crying.”

  I nod. I’m glad he’s confident. And I feel a helluva lot better after that last twenty minutes.

  “Now, listen to me,” he says, as we’re walking out of the pen and toward the dugout.

  “I don’t need a lecture,” I tell him. “I’m good, Beck.”

  “I know you are,” he says. “I was just going to say don’t let her get in your head now. We just had a great workout. Whatever you guys are gonna talk about, don’t let it get in your head.”

  “She’s not even here,” I tell him. “What the hell would we talk about?”

  He laughs. “Wow. You really were dialed in.” He points with his glove toward the third base dugout. “Check the fence.”

  I look in that direction. Lila is leaning on the fence, scribbling in her notebook.

  “I didn’t know she was here,” I say.

  “Yeah, no shit. Otherwise, yo
u would’ve been throwing balls over the backstop.”

  “Fuck off.”

  He laughs. “I’m not wrong. Just stay focused. You can fuck her when we win the title. Alright?”

  “Whatever,” I tell him, then slap him in the chest. “But I’m good. Promise.”

  He nods, but doesn’t say anything else.

  I sit down next to my bag and find a towel, mopping the sweat off my face and forearms. I don’t look in her direction. Keeping her waiting for a little bit isn’t a bad thing.

  I check my phone and see a voicemail from a number I don’t recognize. I listen to it. It’s my old high school coach, Coach Petty. He wants me to call him as soon as I get the message.

  Weird. I’m wondering if he wants me to come talk to the team or something. I love Petty. He’s old school, but he taught me a lot and I’d do just about anything for him.

  I call him back. “Coach. What’s up?”

  “Hey, Houston,” he says. “How are you, son?”

  “Just fine. Just ripped off a pretty good bullpen session. Getting ready for Saturday. You coming?”

  “You know better than to even ask,” he responds. “Of course I’ll be there. But I wanted to give you a heads up on something.”

  “Okay.”

  “Had a reporter here today,” he says. “From your school. She was asking about your suspension during your senior year.”

  Something sharp forms in my gut. “What?”

  “I didn’t tell her anything,” he explains. “But I thought you should know she was asking about it. Said she was doing a piece on you and you knew about it?”

  I see Lila over at the fence. She’s still writing in her notebook.

  “Yeah,” I say. “I know about it.”

  “Alright,” he says. “Just wanted to make sure. And you know I’ll back up whatever you need me to back up. I told her that she can’t get access to your record or anything like that, so…I just thought you should know.”

  I tell him thanks, that I’ll see him on Saturday, and we hang up. I drop the phone in my bag.

  How the fuck did she find out?

  And why the fuck didn’t she just ask me about it if she was so curious?