Quit Your Pitchin' (There's No Crying in Baseball 2)

Then I explained to him what he would have to do.

Then I made the other team, the team that had won the Division One college baseball championship, go first.

They were all college-aged, and cocky to boot.

“Just watch,” I said to George.

He flagged down a beer vendor, caught a drink from him, then got settled in to watch.

I rolled my eyes.

There was no rule about drinking for the players today, so I guess him drinking a beer was all right.

Wasn’t it?

He leaned his hips up against the dugout wall and grunted when he saw what he would have to do.

A young college baseball player, one that was going to be in the draft next year, walked up and picked up the bat.

He cockily bent over and started to spin with his forehead touching the bat. Once he’d reached fifteen revolutions, he wobbly stood straight, weaved his way to the plate, and promptly struck out—three times—his bat swinging at least a foot from the ball.

Over and over again, the men and volunteers participated, and each one failed spectacularly like the first. Though, some at least made contact, while others fell over completely when they swung.

Then came Furious George’s turn.

And he didn’t disappoint.

“Yeah, woo!” the fans screamed.

“Furious George, will you marry me?”

I gritted my jaw and kept my eyes on George but noted that the voice had come not from the fans, but from the crowd of charity attendees.

It better not be Melanie, that’s all I had to say.

George started to hold his beer out to me but stopped when my eyebrows went up.

Then, while keeping his eyes on me, he chugged his beer and made the entire freakin’ stadium start to laugh.

Once he’d finished it, he handed me the empty Solo Cup, and I took it, narrowing my eyes as I did.

“Hold that for me, Wrigs.”

Unaware of the excitement at hearing those words, George bent over the bat, and I felt my heart constrict in my chest when I saw his ass in my favorite pair of jeans that he owned.

I’d bought them for him for Christmas last year, and he’d never worn another pair since, mostly because he knew how much I liked them. It wasn’t often that he got to wear jeans and a t-shirt, but I noticed more and more how much he’d worn them when I was around.

I narrowed my eyes.

Did he know what they did to me? He had to. I’d told them how good he looked in them…little shit.

The man was devious, that was for sure.

“Remember, fifteen times around!”

George grunted and started to spin.

Unlike those before him, he moved fast, but he also moved with coordination.

By the time his fifteenth time around happened, he stood up, walked carefully up to the tee that was holding the ball, and took a swing.

The ball went into the lights, and I started to laugh.

“Holy shi—uhhh, crap!” the announcer sounded. “Furious George for a home run!”

“Show off,” Hancock muttered as George started to make his way around the bases.

“Come on,” I teased. “You can do it. You were the one to tell me how easy this would be on a tee.”

Hancock narrowed his eyes. “I used to like you, you know. Now I’m not so sure.”

I giggled and was just about to turn to survey George making his way home when I felt myself being picked up.

Seems George ran really fast.

I gasped and wiggled, turning my head to see George’s face.

“What are you doing?” I gasped.

“We had a bet.”

My mouth fell open. “A bet?” I squeaked. “You’re not supposed to collect until we’re done!”

“Fuck that,” George grunted. “Now.”

And, he wasn’t joking. We really were about to do it now.

He took me down the dugout steps, straight past the girl he’d brought with him, and into the hallway that led to the locker room.

Moments later, he pushed through the locker room door, then slammed my back against it.

I gasped, and then his mouth was on mine, and I no longer cared about anything.

I couldn’t even remember why we were mad at each other.

We were mad, weren’t we?

‘Cause, right then, everything was confusing. Everything, that was, but what George was currently doing to my body. That wasn’t confusing at all.

“Kiss me,” he ordered.

I was helpless to deny him anything.

I also had no control of my body when it came to him.

The man had always gotten to me, and all he had to do was look at me for my resolve to disappear.

Hell, that was why I ended up married to him in Vegas that first time…right?

But, the moment his mouth was on mine, and his hands went to my ass and slipped up under my skirt, I forgot to care.

I forgot to consider our son, who was at home with his Grams.

I forgot to do just about everything but breathe and feel.

Why?

Because George Hoffman, that’s why.