“I do. You’re right. Because you’re ignorant!”
I can’t help but laugh. “I’m in my late twenties, Pepper,” I remind her. “I need to start thinking long-term.”
“Yeah,” she nods enthusiastically. “I bet Lincoln has excellent long-term power. I bet that guy can get you off—”
“Stop!” I giggle. “That’s not what I mean.”
Pepper doesn’t bother to respond. She just looks at me, totally unconvinced. “Weston was gorgeous,” she says finally.
I nod. “And he loved baseball far more than he’ll ever love a human being.”
This sobers my friend. She knows where I’m coming from. “I get what you’re saying.”
“Yeah.” Swirling my cappuccino around, I watch the foam twist and turn. “Besides,” I say, “Lincoln is way better looking than Weston. And funny and charming and . . .”
The door chimes and she fastens her apron. “Hold that thought,” she says before jogging to the counter.
Watching Pepper and her customer, an old friend of hers that comes in here a lot. I can’t help the pang of jealousy in my stomach. I don’t know what it’s like to have that kind of friendship with s
omeone, a deep connection to another person that spans time and locations. The closest thing I have is Macie. We met during Freshman Orientation in college and hit it off over our mutual love for kids, although our reasons for it are completely different. Macie does it because she feels like she’s giving back to the world. I find that working with them helps heal a part of my soul.
“I don’t know what I did to be cursed with a daughter. For the love of God, Ryan Danielle, do not embarrass me.”
I shiver as my father’s voice booms through my memory, the coolness of his eyes only adding to the pain in my heart. I used to think the hurt would ease, that the longer I was out of his house, away from the mother that could have loved me but loved his wealth more, it would alleviate. Years on my own and the sting is still there.
My father always wanted a son. It’s no secret that he feels cheated by the universe for getting a daughter, so much so that he named me Ryan Danielle. A boy’s name. A constant reminder of the failure I was from birth. Since I failed him, I also failed my mother, a woman that’s probably capable of love, but is so poisoned by her obsession with my father that her capacity has diminished. There’s no room for me in her life in any measurable quantity—just for the occasional photo or to make sure I’m not doing something that would blow back on my father and taint his prestigious image somehow.
Wrapping my hands around the mug so they’re pressed against the clay, I feel the warmth radiate into my skin and focus on that. The here. The now.
My gaze lands on my bag, a file from work poking out. Instantly, I’m out of the here and now and am mentally in my office. With the door closed. With the centerfielder.
A warmth erupts in the pit of my stomach and starts to fan out until it begins to toast my cheeks.
Why does God have to love athletes most?
He does. There are no two ways about it. They’re the hottest, most fit, most calculating and passionate people. They’re delicious . . . and dangerous if you aren’t careful.
Despite the heat roaring through my blood, I shiver. I can only image what it’s like to be on the receiving end of Lincoln’s passion. Feeling his eyes on me today was enough to make me crazy. Feeling his breath hot against my cheek? His fingers caressing my body? The weight of his cock as it sits on top of my ass, waiting to glide into me?
Because I’m cursed, both with loving athletes and having them love me, reality douses the fire as quickly as it starts. The passion, while white-hot and intoxicating, turns steel-cold and suffocating.
It’s why I’ll continue to remind myself just how bad it hurts when they prove, as they always do, that their first passion is, and always will be, the game.
Lincoln
“MOTHERFUC . . .” I STOP SHORT OF saying the rest, wincing as my injured arm is raised up and back as far as it will go. No, farther than it will go. It most definitely doesn’t go this far back.
This guy is a fucking sadist.
“There you go,” Houston says, guiding my screaming arm to my side. “You’re going to be sore tonight and really sore tomorrow. Ice it and be back here in two days for another session.”
I look at him. “Two days?”
“Yes,” he says, turning his stocky body away from me and heading to a big purple ball.
“You do realize I need this thing completely healed in about six weeks, right? And our progress is negligible.”
He nods, eyeing me like I’m the crazy one. No, I’m sane. I’m clear about what has to be done. His blasé attitude about this entire thing is the problem.