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

by McKayla Box

  “Which just totally pisses the kid off,” Cash says. “But he knows now he has to tell Shoe. So he’s sitting at his locker, about to cry, ready to go talk to Shoe.” He starts laughing again. “And in walks Houston.”

  Wyatt’s laughing. “He’s got Tundry’s uniform on. He’s wearing his shoes. He’s got a T-shirt from the kid’s high school. He’s got all of his stuff because he’s been taking it. He walks right up to Tundry and asks him what’s wrong.”

  Cash is laughing so hard he’s shaking.

  “And the kid doesn’t know what to say,” Wyatt says. “He’s just confused. And Houston just looks at him and says ‘I just figured since you’re the greatest player to live, I’d see what it was like to be you.’ He takes of the uniform top and tosses it at him. ‘Wasn’t that great,’ Houston says. Throws the rest of his crap at him and just walks away.”

  “Guys were dying,” Cash says after catching his breath. “And this kid had nothing to say. Nothing.”

  “It’s always like that with him,” Wyatt says, leaning back in the booth. “He’ll put you in your place. He’ll embarrass you a little, but he’ll let you know what’s up. And it’s always something you’d never think of.”

  I look across the bar. Houston is laughing with Beck. He looks relaxed. Way more relaxed than he’s ever been with me.

  “He’s a leader,” I say. “He makes sure you guys are all on the same page and finds the best way to do it.”

  “Pretty much.” Wyatt nods. “If you come in and work hard, he’s got your back. But if you’re screwing around or your head’s too big for the room?”

  “He’ll shrink it real fast,” Cash says. “He’ll put you in your place. Not to be a jackass. But just so you know.”

  “Anyone ever push back?” I ask.

  They look at each other, then shake their heads.

  “Would be no point,” Wyatt says. “This is his team. We’d all side with him. We trust him.”

  Cash nods in agreement.

  I’m thinking about that when the door to the bar opens. A few more guys walk in. They look like baseball players—tall, athletic, confident—and they look vaguely familiar, but they’re not Baymont guys.

  “Oh great,” Cash says, leaning back in his chair. “I guess the entire Clearwater team decided to make an appearance tonight.”

  They make their way to their teammates at the bar. They look around the room the way guys do when they’re assessing who’s watching them and who they want to have see them. There’s some hand-slapping and some laughing.

  “And that whole thing with Houston and Dickson?” Wyatt says, leaning toward me. “That’s his way of taking the air out of the room. He’s letting us know we don’t need to brawl. He’s got it under control. If he’s not here?” He looks at Cash.

  “All hell would break loose,” Cash says.

  I’m not surprised that Houston has this kind of hold over the team. He just has that kind of personality with the game to back it up. It’s just a little different from what I’ve been experiencing with him.

  I notice Houston isn’t smiling anymore and he’s fixated on one of the new guys at the bar. He’s tall with short brown hair. He’s wearing a red golf shirt and jeans, flip flops on his feet. If he’s taken notice of Houston, he doesn’t show it.

  Then Houston’s eyes flit in my direction.

  I’m tempted to look away, but I fight it.

  So I stare back at him.

  But I can’t read anything into his expression.

  Finally, I look away.

  And the guy in the red golf shirt is now looking at me.

  He laughs, then says something to Clay Dickson. Dickson looks over his shoulder in my direction, then says something to the guy.

  “Is this normal?” I ask. “Them coming over here and hanging out? I thought Houston told me it wasn’t.”

  “It’s not,” Cash says. “They’re just trying to stir shit up.” He lifts his chin in their direction. “The kid in the red. Will Bauer. He and Houston went to high school together. He was always the number two guy behind Houston. Can’t seem to get over it. He’s not nearly as good, but thinks he is. It’s not like Dickson. He’s an asshole, but he’s pretty good. Bauer’s a wannabe.”

  Bauer whispers something in Dickson’s ear, knocks back a shot, then heads in our direction.

  I glance toward Houston.

  He’s leaning back in his chair, watching, his expression now unreadable.

  Will Bauer is smiling as he gets to the table. “Couple of Baymont bozos with a beauty. What’s up, fellas?”

  “Not the IQ in the room now that you’re here,” Cash says. “Unless you want to wipe down the table or bring us more drinks, keep moving.”

  Bauer laughs. “Funny.” He stares at me. “I know you.”

  “Do you?” I ask.

  He nods. “Sure. You’re a writer. I’ve seen you at games. I didn’t think Baymont had a newspaper at first. Figured it was like a kindergarten college or something. Fingerpaints, crayons.” He smiles. “But apparently they try, and you write for it.” He nods in Houston’s direction. “And Clay tells me you’re hooked up with Cade. Why? Do you have a thing for dickheads?”

  “Means you have no shot,” Wyatt says.

  Bauer laughs again. “You guys really are funny.”

  “No, I don’t,” I say.

  “So, just baseball players?”

  “I just prefer the guys who are the best on their teams rather than the guys who pretend they are,” I say. His comments about Baymont piss me off.

  Bauer’s smile dims. Cash covers his mouth in a sorry attempt to hide his laughter. Wyatt grins at Bauer.

  Bauer glances toward Houston again before letting his eyes settle on me. “Cade and I went to high school together.”

  “So I’ve heard. Still not impressed.”

  “I could tell you things about him,” he says. “Lots of things.”

  I start to tell him to fuck off, but I stop.

  He might know about the suspension.

  But I don’t want to find out from this asshole. Who knows if he’d even tell me the truth? And who knows what he’d want in return for the information? My guess is that it would involve my mouth and his dick, or something just as gross.

  He gestures to the bar. “Come with me, sweetheart. I’ll tell you some stories.”

  Before I can tell him I’m not interested, Houston is at the table, his eyes on fire.

  Chapter 25

  HOUSTON

  “She’s not interested,” I say.

  Will Bauer chuckles. “Relax, Houston. I’m just having a chat with your girl and ball boys.” He glances at the table. “Sorry. Teammates.”

  My girl.

  It takes me a second to realize that Dickson has told him Lila and I are together after we kissed the other night.

  Fine, whatever.

  “This isn’t your bar,” I say. “Get out.”

  “You own it now?” Bauer says. “Man, you’re wound pretty tight. Nervous about Saturday?”

  I am wound pretty tight, but not because of Saturday. It’s seeing all of these Clearwater assholes in our bar.

  And it’s seeing him talk to Lila.

  “I was just telling your girl I’d be happy to share some stories with her about you,” Bauer says. “From back in the day, you know? Tell her what kind of prick you were in high school.”

  And other things, I’m sure.

  “She doesn’t want to talk to you,” I tell him. “Get the fuck out.”

  “Maybe I do,” Lila says.

  All four of them look at me.

  “Maybe I want to hear the stories,” she says, staring at me. “From high school.”

  Because of course she does.

  “You don’t want to,” I tell her.

  “Oh, really?” she says, anger flashing through her expression. “Since when do you tell me what I want or don’t want?”

  “Man, I guess I got here just in time,” Bauer says. �
��Trouble in paradise. Let me tell you something, honey. You can do a lot better.” He looks me up and down. “In every way.”

  My hands ball into fists and I feel a hand on my shoulder. I turn.

  It’s Beck.

  “I’m telling you,” Bauer continues. “I’ve got stories for you. Probably take us all night to get through them. If you like, you could come back to my place and we could go through them.” He smiles suggestively. “Or whatever.”

  I know he’s doing this to get to me and it’s working. I don’t know whether it’s the threat of him talking to Lila or just the fact that he’s near her, but I’m not just wound up anymore.

  I’m ready to explode.

  “Get the fuck out of here,” I say. “I’m not gonna tell you again.”

  Beck’s hand flexes on my shoulder. A warning.

  Bauer laughs. “You’re not gonna tell me again? You’re not my dad, Houston. Hate to tell you. I’ll leave when I’m ready.” He winks at me. “And when Little Miss Thing here tells me she’s ready to go.”

  I’ve been in exactly two fights my entire life. One was in fourth grade when some kid pushed a girl down and I grabbed him around the neck and tried to choke him out, even though I had no clue what I was doing. I just didn’t like that he’d pushed a girl down.

  The second time was my sophomore year of high school when the ex-boyfriend of a girl I was dating decided he didn’t like it. She was a junior and so was he, and he was a little pissed that she was hooking up with someone younger. He’d tried for a couple of weeks to get me to fight him and I wasn’t having it. But then I saw him at a party one night and he had his hand on the girl’s arm and wouldn’t let her go. It was the first punch I’d ever thrown and it connected, dropping him to the ground.

  When you’re physically bigger than almost everyone else, most people just assume they can’t take you. They stay away from you and you don’t have to fight. That’s how it’s always been for me. I haven’t had to fight because people just assumed I’ll whip their ass.

  They aren’t wrong.

  My fist hits Bauer flush in the jaw and he stumbles backward, falling on his ass. Beck immediately wraps his arms around me as Wyatt and Cash jump up. People are rushing toward us from every direction. There’s screaming and shouting. I see more guys tumble to the floor. I can’t get loose from Beck’s grasp, though, as fists start flying and bodies crash into one another.

  “Let me go!” I yell over my shoulder.

  “Not a fucking chance!” Beck yells back. “Getting you out of here!”

  He’s not as big as I am, but he’s stronger. A catcher’s body. He lifts me off my feet and spins me around, walking me away from the chaos and toward the back of the bar. I know why he’s doing it. It’s his job. To protect me.

  But I’ve never wanted to fight more than I do right now.

  He maneuvers me to the back door and finally lets go of me. I spin around and he’s blocking my path.

  “We’re leaving,” he orders. His tone tells me just how fucking serious he is. “Now.”

  I look over his shoulder.

  It’s total chaos. The kind of fight you see in a movie.

  But I don’t care about that.

  I’m just looking for Lila.

  And she’s nowhere to be found.

  Chapter 26

  LILA

  “He punched him?” Shea asks.

  “Right in the face,” I tell her.

  It’s Thursday morning and I’ve barely slept. When the fight started in the bar, Wyatt got me out of the way before he jumped into the fray. I saw Beck get Houston out of the mix and I just decided to leave at that point. I walked home, climbed into bed, and then pretty much stared at the ceiling all night, my mind running on repeat everything that had happened in the bar.

  Shea stumbled in sometime after midnight, mumbled something about a new boy, and crashed in her room. She was in no shape to talk.

  I wasn’t, either.

  Now, I’m sitting at the kitchen counter after a shower, nursing a cup of coffee, and she’s huddled under a blanket on the couch. Her hair is a mess and her smudged makeup left over from last night tells me just what kind of an evening she had.

  “Damn,” she says. “I like fighting. It’s kind of hot.”

  “It’s dumb,” I say. “It’s guys being idiots.”

  “Maybe,” she says with a shrug. “But also kind of hot. Particularly when they’re fighting over, say…you.”

  “They were fighting because they were a couple of roosters puffing out their chests,” I say.

  “Over…you,” she pointes out.

  “Whatever,” I say. “The Bauer guy was a total asshole, but Houston just made it worse.”

  “Because of…you.”

  I roll my eyes. Technically, she’s right. But it’s not like they were both hitting on me. Bauer wanted to piss off Houston and he used me to do it. And Houston very clearly panicked at the idea of my talking to Bauer. Not because he was jealous, but because Bauer might have something to tell me that Houston doesn’t want me to know.

  And as obnoxious as Bauer was, it was Houston that pissed me off even more. Telling me I didn’t need to talk to Bauer, making the decision for me, was way out of line, and more than I was willing to put up with. I’d already made up my mind not to talk to Bauer, but Houston trying to tell me what I could and couldn’t do pushed me over the edge. The only reason I said that maybe I wanted to talk to Bauer was because I knew it was going to piss Houston off. And it did, and then everything went to shit.

  “So now what?” Shea asks.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I need to go talk to Houston. This isn’t working, and now I feel like we’ve gotten off-track. I’m not sure I can do the piece.”

  “You can do the piece,” she says. “Maybe not the exact way you want, but you can do it. I know you can figure out a way. Don’t let him dictate whether you can or not. If he doesn’t want to cooperate, fine. You can find a way around that.”

  She’s right, I guess, but it’s not the way I envisioned writing the story and it’s hard to change my mindset.

  And the curious part of my brain still wants to know about the suspension.

  “I’m gonna go talk to him. And just figure it out.” I sigh with frustration. “I hate this. It shouldn’t be this hard.”

  “That’s what he said,” she says dryly, then cackles.

  I can’t help but laugh. “Stop.”

  She’s still laughing a little. “I’m just saying.”

  I decide a change of subject is in order. “And what exactly were you saying last night when you stumbled in?” I ask. “Something about a new boy?”

  “Boys,” she corrects.

  I stare at her. “Boys?”

  She holds up two fingers. “Just two of them.”

  I raise my eyebrows.

  “I don’t fuck and tell,” she says.

  “Uh, since when?”

  “Fine,” she says, relenting. “I fucked two boys last night. Neither of them were interesting. It’s a long story.”

  “Two?”

  “Was almost three.” She yawns. “Maybe three tonight. But I’m tired. Go do your journalist thing so I can take a nap.”

  “It’s eight in the morning.”

  “I’m a college student without a class at the moment,” she says. “I’m allowed to nap whenever I want.”

  “Whatever,” I say. I set my coffee mug in the sink. “If there’s a foursome going on when I get back, make sure there’s a sock on the door or something.”

  She gives me a thumbs up and lays her head down on the sofa.

  I laugh, grab my keys, and head out. The morning is cool and the streets are damp from a layer of fog that is only just beginning to lift. I shove my hands into the pockets of my fleece and duck my chin to keep warm.

  I’m not sure what I’m going to tell Houston. Or even ask him. It’s all so screwed up now and I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t think there’s any
way now for me to write the profile the way I originally wanted to, but I don’t have another idea of how to frame it. And being angry with him is definitely a problem. I can’t let that filter into my writing, but I can’t just let it go, either.

  I’m thinking about those things when I get to the baseball house. I knock on the door, but no one answers. I walk around to the backyard. The lights are off inside.

  Then I hear a voice yelling in the distance.

  I turn around.

  It’s coming from the baseball complex.

  I walk through the back gate and head over toward the complex. I see guys running across the outfield. I’d gotten the team schedule from the SID’s office and there was nothing about a morning workout. I push open the gate to the complex and walk to the fence that encircles the field.

  The guys are running sprints from one foul pole to the other, cutting across the outfield grass. Five in a group. They’re sweating and guys are laboring. It looks like they’ve been there for awhile.

  A short, stocky man is standing in the middle of the outfield. He’s wearing gray baseball pants and a blue windbreaker, with a Baymont cap on his head. His arms are folded across his chest and a whistle is perched in his lips. Manager Herb Shoemaker does not look pleased.

  He spits out the whistle and it drops to his chest. “Thirty seconds recovery.” He paces back and forth on the grass. “And maybe think about how dumb it is to get in a fight with another school the week of your first game. I’ve seen a lot of stupid things in my time, but this is right up there.” He checks his watch. “First group ready.”

  Five of the guys get themselves ready.

  Shoemaker grabs the whistle and blows it. They take off. He waits a couple of seconds, then blows it again, and the next group takes off. He keeps doing it until they’re all running toward the other side.

  Houston is in one of the middle groups and he reaches the sideline first in his group. His hands are on top of his head.

  And his right hand is taped up.

  Shit.

  His pitching hand.

  From punching Will Bauer.