Swing and a Mishap (Summersweet Island 2)

“Fuuuck me.”

Thankfully, Wren’s head is so deep into the freezer she doesn’t hear the quiet mutter I can’t stop from slipping out of my mouth as I stare at smooth, tan, and toned legs, leading up to a perfectly full and round ass covered in a pair tiny jean shorts. The frayed and tattered edges are currently sliding up dangerously high with the position she’s in until my vision tunnels and I see nothing but the underside of two smooth, sweet, perfect ass cheeks peeking out from under them that I just want to sink my teeth into.

A gentleman would immediately rush over and assist the poor, tiny, adorable woman, but I was never a gentleman in high school when I would stand off to the side and quietly enjoy the show, and I’m not about to start now.

“We need to get these bats going. You boys better remember that Tampa pitcher’s got a nasty backdoor slider with a perfect break back over the plate…”

Wren’s muffled voice gets clearer as the upper half of her body pops up and out from the freezer and she slides down the front of it until both her feet are back on the ground.

All of the air in my lungs leaves me in a whoosh, my chest gets tight, my heart starts pounding so fast it feels like I just ran the bases a hundred times, and the grip I have on the counter next to me has turned my knuckles white and made my arm start to shake with how hard I’m holding on so I don’t launch myself across the room at her. I knew seeing Wren again after so long, after the bond we formed that I so selfishly ripped away, and after how goddamn much I missed her that it would be a struggle to just stand here in her presence and not yank her body against mine so I can finally know what she feels like in my arms, or crash my mouth against hers so I could finally know what she tastes like.

All of those things are still scrambling around in my brain. But now they’re magnified by a thousand at the sight of Wren standing a few feet away with her back to me, wearing a white T-shirt and her long hair up in a high ponytail so I can clearly see 26 in purple smack dab in the middle of her shirt, along with OLIVER printed in all caps and also in purple stretched across the back of her shoulders.

She’s wearing my fucking name on her back.

All those months of conversations, all those times I teased her….

Her own words typed on a screen rapidly flash through my mind, and it’s a wonder I don’t rip the counter from the wall.

Sorry! Don’t think I’ve ever watched one of your games.

Nope, I have no clue what position you play.

You know I only watch the sport when my son is playing.

Stop asking if I’ve watched you play. The answer will just make you cry, like always.

#soboring #likewatchingpaintdry #idratherdomytaxes

Wren Bennett, the woman who swore she’d never watched one of my games and who clearly knows more about the sport than half the coaches I’ve had over the years, is wearing my goddamn name on her back!

I’ve seen plenty of fans, female and hot, wearing my name and number over the years, and it always brought a smile to my face from their support. Knowing Wren has been supporting me when I didn’t even know it, seeing my name touching her skin, it brings something out of me I can barely control no matter how tightly I’m gripping the counter.

She’s mine. She’s been mine since the first day I met her; it just took me too many fucking years to do something about it. But I’m here now, and I’m not going anywhere. I’m going to finally do something about it, and no one is going to stop me.

Like maybe wrap that ponytail around my fist while I’m bending her over the—

Stop it! Apologize for being an asshole first!

“Come on, DeVera, you’re our only hope,” Wren mutters, her back still to me as she hugs the three-gallon drum of ice cream in her arms and looks up at the TV mounted on the wall next to the freezer. Two pitches sail right into the catcher’s mitt. “That’s fine; let those two go by. You saw them, so now you know what to do. Lay off the high ones, DeVera. Give us a nice line drive out to center.”

Hearing her talk about my friend calms the beast inside me a little, and I finally let go of the tight grip I have on the counter to shove my hand back inside my hoodie pocket with the other one. I still want to bend her back over that freezer and fuck her from behind while looking at my name across her back, but I can smile about it now instead of growling like a wild animal.