Well, likely they weren’t eight seasons old. But it wouldn’t surprise me if they were at least three.
He growled under his breath.
“I don’t want to think about it,” he muttered. “I’m trying not to die.”
I covered a laugh by coughing into my hand, making him peak out between his eyelid again.
“Don’t laugh at me,” he ordered tiredly.
I patted his arm and walked around the tub.
“I’m getting a drink. Do you want anything?” I paused.
“Sprite.”
I walked to the fridge I had in my office and removed my water. Then I grabbed a dollar from my wallet—which, might I add, was locked up in my freakin’ desk—and got Hancock a Sprite from the drink machine before walking back to him.
He held his hand out before I was to him, and I had to wonder how he knew I was there.
“Will you open it for me?” he asked, turning the can’s opening toward me.
I opened it without taking it from him, and wondered how, exactly, this kind of relationship between us had come to be.
Two weeks ago, when I’d started, if you’d asked me which player I would get closest to, I would not have said Hancock Peters.
I would’ve said none of them.
Why?
Because I was a social pariah.
I didn’t talk to people easily. I didn’t even talk to my own family easily.
Unless you asked me about a book, then I could talk to you like you were my best friend.
Which was how Ember had broken through my wall.
As for Hancock, I didn’t know how he did it. Especially with how rude he’d been at the very beginning.
“Why don’t you swing at the first pitch?” I asked him conversationally, taking a seat in the rolling chair and scooting closer to him.
I was worried if I didn’t keep him awake, he could very well fall asleep in the ice bath, and then I’d be responsible for him drowning.
“Superstition,” Hancock yawned, his mouth opening wide.
I resisted the urge to stick my finger inside his open mouth, and idly wondered if it’d piss him off if I did. By accident, of course.
I nodded my head as Gentry, Hancock’s friend and tonight’s starting pitcher, waved at me.
“You need a ride, big man?” he asked.
Hancock opened his eye slightly.
“No,” he grumbled. “My truck should be back by now.”
“It’s not.” He countered. “And seeing as it’s after six, I doubt it’s going to be back at all since the dealership closes at six.”
Hancock cursed and pushed out of the water.
“Dammit,” he growled.
My mouth went dry as I watched water sluice off his body in delicious waves.
Oh, my tattoo.
He had them everywhere.
I’d seen them, of course…under the water.
But since I was sitting directly next to him as he stood, I was close enough to actually feel the water dripping off his body.
And what a body it was.
So, so magnificent.
I lifted my hand and touched a tattoo on his hip of what looked to be a scratch mark of some kind. Then, where it looked like skin was ripped away, a grassy baseball diamond shown through.
“That’s so cool,” I mumbled, my eyes fascinated.
“I think she’s actively trying to kill me,” Hancock mumbled as he took the towel that Gentry offered him.
When he wrapped it around his waist, my hand got trapped in the material.
And, of course, that would be when my uncle came walking around the corner.
“Sway, do you think I could borrow you for a…” he stopped, and I yanked my hand away so fast it was more than obvious I’d been doing something inappropriate. “I thought I told you not to touch her, fool.”
“Coach Siggy,” Gentry was too busy laughing to try to conduct an understandable conversation.
I sighed.
“I wasn’t doing anything,” I promised.
“Uh-huh,” Uncle Siggy murmured. “Sure looked like you were doing nothing instead of having your hand around his tattooed cock.”
My mouth dropped open, and like always, my curiosity got the best of me.
“You have a tattooed weenie?” I exclaimed.
Hancock started to laugh, which died in his throat as coughing took over.
“What do you need, Uncle Siggy?” I asked, standing up and removing my hand from its confines.
Hancock walked out of the training room like he had lead weights tied around his ankles, and I couldn’t help but watch as something foreign…almost like caring…filtered through my being.
“I need to borrow your phone.” My uncle held out his hand while asking.
“What for?” I held onto my boob protectively.
It wasn’t because Uncle Siggy had a code word for a boob named phone, but because that was where I held my phone while I was working.
It was stupid, I know. It was probably unsanitary, too, because of boob sweat, but that’s where I kept it.
Not that anyone could notice.
My boobs were big enough to hide a fucking iPad, so concealing an iPhone was no problem.
He snapped his fingers. “Mine died. You know how Aunt Margaret gets when I don’t call her on time.”