Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 68697 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68697 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
Holden cracks up as he pulls his jersey over his head. “No, the guys and I want a lesson on how to pose for a selfie,” he deadpans when he reappears.
My spine tingles.
Shit. Did someone see me in my car?
But why does the thought both worry me and also electrify me? I imagine a teammate walking by my car, busy on his phone as I snapped a pic for Rafe. A spark shoots down my chest at the prospect of getting away with it.
“Yeah, I was thinking lighting tips, maybe how to artfully place a sticker over your dong,” Holden says, as Zane joins him in laughter.
Ah, he only saw the pic I posted this morning. Luckily, I love a good ribbing. Trash talk is my native tongue. “Nice to have my artistry appreciated.”
“You’re a dick artist, man,” Zane says.
I smack his palm. “Takes one to know one?”
Zane straightens to attention. “No higher praise than being a dick artist.”
I hold out my arms and take a bow in the middle of our locker room. “And yes, students. There will be a session in the art of a thirst trap.”
“I can’t wait,” Zane says.
I turn around, tuning out the locker room talk now that the guys are finished heckling my Instagram post.
I shouldn’t look at Rafe’s text. Really, I shouldn’t. But I do it anyway.
Rafe: Bet you’ll hit well today. If you do, there may be a reward for you.
I swallow roughly, imagining what naughty rewards he might have in mind.
Gunnar: What sort of reward? Because, much to my disappointment, I will not be able to meet you back at the club tomorrow night. I’ve got a game.
But then, because I’m nothing if not resourceful, I send another text.
Gunnar: You could send me a dirty pic?
Rafe: No. But if you play well, you can send me one. And you’ll love it. In fact, I bet the thought of finding a private spot in the ballpark to take a dirty picture gets you rock hard. It makes me hard, imagining what you might pull off for me. Make it good, Gunnar. And that’s an order.
Yes, sir.
This man is a commanding fucker, and I intend to fulfill all his filthy wishes.
7
HERE’S YOUR REWARD
Gunnar
I dig in at the plate, take a few practice swings, then get in the box. It’s the seventh inning, and I’m hitless so far against the Chicago Sharks.
And that is not okay.
First, this is my goddamn job—to play hard and go all out, every day. I don’t aim for average. I aim for the upper deck. Baseball lets me take care of my family. But even beyond that, this sport means sanity to me. Baseball got me through the toughest of times when I was younger.
Now, as a major leaguer, I want to be someone my teammates can depend on. For a long time after my dad died, I didn’t have many people I could rely on. I don’t want my guys to ever worry about that with me.
But there’s one more reason I’m pissed about my performance. And it bugs the shit out of me that it’s the one at the top of my mind.
Rafe.
My mind leaps to him again as I adjust my batting glove. I want him to know what I can do on the field and at the plate. I want to impress that sexy motherfucker. I wonder if he’s watching me from the comfort of his office, studying my moves.
And that is distracting AF.
Time to shove Rafe out of my head. I zone in on the pitcher. Hildebrand has annihilated me in the past, but I think I’ve got his number now. Thanks to Declan, I know how to hit his heat. Dig in at the plate. Wait for my pitch. Focus.
And when I crowd the plate the slightest bit, he fires off a fastball. I swing hard, connecting with a loud crack.
The ball soars down the right-field line, arcing, taunting me near the foul line . . . and it’s fair.
Hell yes.
That is how you turn a game around.
I run to first, joy ringing in my ears and mixing with the cheers of the crowd. There is nothing quite like whacking a ball out of the park, and this one flies free, up, up, and beyond the fences. I punch the air as I round the base, smacking the first base coach’s outstretched palm. As I pass second, I know how I want to celebrate.
There’s no way to know if Rafe is watching the game live. Is he streaming it at his office? Or listening to the broadcast as he works that fine body of his at a private gym?
I’ll take that chance. It’s too perfect a way to send him a message. He might like to order me around. I might even dig his commands. But I like to play too.