Total pages in book: 26
Estimated words: 24270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 121(@200wpm)___ 97(@250wpm)___ 81(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 24270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 121(@200wpm)___ 97(@250wpm)___ 81(@300wpm)
“Yeah, I like it when we beat you,” he says.
“I bet you do.” For a few seconds, I eye him up and down. “You taking off right now?”
“Yeah, what about you?”
“There’s a bunch of us going out to play pool. If you want to join and grab a beer after,” I say since that’s casual enough. Josh lifts a brow, like he’s curious, considering my offer, but I don’t want to come on too strong, so I add, “You know, just for fun.”
And something about that last word shuts him down. Fun.
His face goes stoic—kind of frowny. “I have a thing in the morning. So, yeah. I should probably go.”
And Josh takes off.
I guess that settles that.
Except, it doesn’t when I see him again in the last game of the year.
2
Josh Spencer
October
* * *
Baseball has a ton of rules, but some are so obvious they don't even need to be written down.
Like, say, when you’re manning second base, maybe don't get distracted by the sexy AF guy on first. Especially when he plays for the opposing team. Double that when it’s the top of the sixth inning of the last game of the World freaking Series.
Too bad my brain didn't get the message since I would really like to follow that rule right the hell now. This is only the biggest game of my career, and there will be zero flirting tonight. That’s a brand-new addendum to my unwritten rule.
As our relief pitcher trots in from the bullpen, I do an inventory of the moment to get my mind off my inconvenient attraction to Chris Garnett.
It's October. The air is cool, the stadium packed. I've been playing almost every day since early March. An endless season, except it'll end in a few innings with one team wearing the ring and the other wearing the loss.
Ideally, Chris’s team will lose, mine will win, and I’ll end up with a ring.
So I cut myself some slack, then double down on my focus. As our pitcher throws to the guy at the plate, I do my job keeping an eye on Chris, dancing off first base, ready to steal if my focus wanes.
Like I’ll let him swipe second without a fight.
My concentration doesn’t even flicker for a second. But it takes less than that for our pitcher to fire off a curveball. For Chris to take off running down the base path toward me and for our catcher to scoop the ball from the dirt and hurl it my way. With a feet-first slide that sprays dirt on my pinstriped uniform pants, Chris’s spiked cleats tear into my ankle.
What the fuck?
It hurts, like being stabbed with a fork. I jump back reflexively, enough that I can’t lay down a tag in time, and the ump calls him safe. Words form in my head, like are you fucking serious, but they die on my tongue because I might get thrown out if I argue with the umpire.
Argue with Chris though? Gladly.
“That’s a dirty fucking play, Garnett,” I spit out, staring down at the guy who’s trying to ruin my night. The guy who already invades my after-midnight . . . fantasies.
“You sure about that, Spencer?” Chris’s voice is all casual innocence, but his cool blue eyes roam up and down me as he stands.
“It was, and you know it,” I add, but then remind myself of my own golden rule—no distractions. I won’t be distracted by this man and his heated gaze. This man who’s now inches away and smells like sweat and determination, and fantasies I won't let myself have.
Chris just shrugs as he wipes dirt off his pants, gives a cocky smile. “Let me tell you what I know—pretty sure you slid the same way earlier in the series.”
I won’t let him get to me, even though my pulse surges with him this close. I say nothing. Just grind my teeth.
But Chris is chatty. Personable. A media darling. So he keeps talking. “And they didn’t call it that way. Maybe you’re mistaking it for something else.”
I shake my head in frustration. He could have broken my ankle sliding in like that. He was this close. He knows it too because he’s flashing that winning smile. The one he flings my way in other games when he flirts and teases. The one that’s, evidently, been tricking every umpire all season.
Of course, he’s a nice guy. His name is fucking Chris. They’re always the nice guys. A good clean player, despite that dirty slide.
Yeah, right.
I was fooled too.
He turns the spotlight of his magnetic grin fully toward me. “So quiet tonight. Everything going okay . . . Spencer?” Chris goads like we’re not playing in the World Series in front of fifty thousand spectators. Like he didn’t just spike my ankle. And like he didn't just say my last name like he’s rolling it around on his tongue, as if we’re on a date, not on the diamond.