Hard Pass (Trophy Boyfriends 1)

He waits and watches until finally, I give a curt nod.

Whoosh.

Snap.

The ball and bat connect at the sweet spot, five inches into the wood, the combination causing a ripple of momentary stinging in my forearms before sending that leather orb into space.

I raise the brim of my red helmet to watch it soar.

“Nice.” Coach’s nod is one of approval, and as the ball is fielded, I ready my stance again, flexing and tightening my arms to ease out the vibrations. “Ready?”

Another nod from me, another ball torpedoing my way, another base hit from my bat.

I am on fire today, thank fucking God. Our first game is days away and my second season has to be a good one. I have no intention of leading this team down the tubes instead of to the pennant.

I bat. Then give up my spot at home to someone else, in favor of the cages.

Wallace is there, throwing with the assistant fielding coach. He looks over at me, pulling his arm back before letting the ball fly, “Thought you were going to biff it out there.”

I pound shape into my leather glove. “Shouldn’t you be worried about yourself?”

“Nah bro, we’re a team. Your success is my success, your house is my house.” He catches the ball thrown at him with little trouble.

It’s times like this where I actually feel guilty getting pissed at him. Buzz might be a womanizing ball sac most days, but when push comes to shove, he would have my back in a heartbeat.

“My house is not your house.”

“Eh,” he disagrees.

“It’s not.”

“Whatever you say.” With a shrug, he releases another ball to the coach fifty feet away. “By the way, you’re almost out of almond milk.” Thwak goes the ball. “And toilet paper in the powder room off the kitchen.”

“Stay out of my fridge asshole.” I laugh, eyes trained on the staffer who’s about to catch with me, making sure there’s room between Wallace and me. “Or go shopping yourself.”

“Shopping is your job.”

What the hell? “Stay home,” I argue, lobbing a ball toward the staffer. His head gives a shake every time Wallace says something outrageous. “Not my home, your home.”

“But you have a more comfortable couch.”

“It’s not my fault you bought a man couch.” Meaning: a black leather sofa, shaped like a square and completely uncomfortable.

We go on and on like this for a solid hour, neither of the assisting coaches joining in on the banter, but amused by it just the same. My catches are on point, my throwing game strong, perspiration dripping from my hair to my forehead.

I remove my hat and wipe with the back of my hand then reach for the hand towel hanging from my belt loop. It’s not summer, but working out has me sweating as if it were sweltering outside or maybe it’s just nerves.

Nothing prepares you for being out in front of crowds and it’s something I don’t think I’ll ever get used to, no matter how long I’m a professional.

I wish it had been you.

Miranda’s words repeat when I’m under the shower spray in the locker room, head tipped back, hot water sluicing over my entire body, dirt and grime disappearing down the drain at my feet. My eyes open to stare at the tiled ceiling of the shower room then close and I turn my back to wash the shampoo from my hair.

Women. I will never understand what they want from me especially when they don’t seem to want my money. Buying a card from Miranda is one thing; I get it—she has something I want. Being used because I’m famous is entirely different.

I shut the water off and reach for the towel on a nearby hook, wipe it down my legs, arms, and torso then wrap it around my waist. Stroll to my locker and root through my duffle for a clean t-shirt.

Sniff it.

It might be clean, but it smells like gym bag, so it looks like I’ll be going straight home and not to the grocery store; I cannot go out in public reeking of moist, dirty socks.

Down on the bench in front of my locker, my cell screen lights up, catching my eye, and I glance down at it while I pull on a pair of mesh shorts.

Miranda. And the text preview reads: Yes. I think that would…

Huh?

Yes she thinks that would what?

I snatch the phone and tap in the password to unlock it, quickly tapping the messages open.

Miranda: Yes. I think that would be fun.

My eyes wander, tracking farther up into the conversation, then damn near bug out of my sockets.

Apparently, five minutes ago, I texted her and asked her on an actual date.

And she said yes, in an exchange that went like this:

Me: This is gonna sound super rando, but I was wondering if I could take you out?