“I’d like to buy you a drink while I’m here, woman to woman. I know how tough it is to exist in a man’s world, especially when you’re in a sport exclusively played by men. How does a glass of wine sound?”
“Make it a tequila and I’m in.” I smile at her.
I don’t know very much about her, but Colleen seems cool. And what the heck, I don’t have a lot of friends. She might be my boss, but we could have a good time.
“Only if it’s good tequila. Which sounds bougie coming from me, but it’s a must.”
“Jose Cuervo or bust. Or Don Julio, if I’m feeling extra spendy.”
“Don Julio it is, my treat.” She clasps her hands together.
“Well, I have an arms training session with the pitchers, so I better get down there.”
“Whip them into shape, will you? We need some great pitching this season.”
I salute. “I’ll try my best.”
After leaving her office, I’m walking toward the weight room for the session when I spot Sinclair across a crowded part of the building.
He lifts an eyebrow in my direction, and his tongue darts out to wet his lower lip. God, that action alone has my panties flooding with wetness.
Sinclair and I have been sleeping together for two weeks now. Not every night, but mostly every night. He showed up at Eddie’s after that first time, and I knew before my ass even touched the rickety old barstool in its shade of peach that I’d be taking him upstairs to my place.
After that, things just kind of happened. We exchanged numbers. He booty called me two days after the second time. And pretty much every night since, he’s come over to get naked.
We would have spectacular, earth-shattering sex, and then I’d crack a beer from my fridge while he put his pants back on and stroll out the door whistling. Neither of us wanted more, nobody needed to cuddle or spend the night, and we didn’t talk while we were in the confines of the Pistons building.
It was the best kind of booty call and the perfect way to end my days.
I tip my lips up in a half-smile, acknowledging him, and then get on my way. He’s not a boyfriend, and he’s not even really a friend; I’m not going to stop and dillydally for him when I have a job to do.
Walking into the weight room, most of the pitching lineup is already here. There is Garcia Nova, the new starter that we acquired from Philly. Clark, the reliever who I know is close with Walker Callahan, the family’s star player. Jason Yardley, the clinch closer who got us out of a lot of jams last year. Then there’s Garrett Chester, the new rookie with the arm like a rocket.
They all have their own strengths, their own problems, and things they need to work on. But they’re pitchers, the most prideful of the bunch. It’s a little trickier to get through to them on the way they should be conditioning their arms.
“Good afternoon, guys,” I announce myself as I walk into the room. “If we haven’t met, I’m Frankie, the head strength coach down here. I’ll be working with you today on our arms lesson.”
“A chick?” I hear Garrett snicker.
Clark throws him a furious glare, and the rookie rolls his eyes.
I continue on, having dealt with my fair share of sexism long before this baby hotshot came into my weight room.
“As pitchers, you need to keep your arms conditioned. Loose, muscular, but with a certain precision. We don’t want to bulk you, but we don’t want them becoming soft. It’s a complicated balance, one I’ve tried to refine in the workout regimen I’ve put together for you.”
I nod to binders sitting in front of each of their feet. They pick them up, thumb through them.
“These are good. Really good.” Clark looks up, winking at me.
It’s not a flirtatious wink, I can tell. No, this is a “way to go” wink from a player who supports a female being in charge. But if it was flirtatious as well, hell, I wouldn’t be mad. Clark is a demi-God. The man looks like one of those European male models in a perfume commercial.
“Not bad,” Garcia says in his thick accent. “I think the light weight coordination with the bench presses will actually help. I’ve been feeling some tightness after my fast ball.”
“Well, that’s what we’re aiming to do here. Cure the letdown after your pitches. Build the necessary muscle mass to keep everything flowing correctly.”
Even Garrett looks impressed that I might know what I’m talking about.
“If everyone is ready to listen to me,” I direct that one at the newbie, “then let’s get to work.”
All the men jump to attention at my command, and I grin a smug smile to myself. Yeah, I’m the head honcho in here and it feels damn good.
9
Sinclair
Red curls spill across the bed sheets, one hand fisted in hers, pinning it back against the mattress.
“You’re so fucking hot. Do that thing with your leg.”
I groan as Frankie grabs her ankle, pulling her shapely thigh up and over her head as I drill her missionary style. Jesus fuck, if that isn’t the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. I move my hand from where it was tweaking her nipple and hold her ankle myself. I’m splitting her in two, pounding her to kingdom come, and she’s moaning so loud that I think the patrons at Eddie’s bar can hear us half a mile down the street.
We’re both slicked in sweat, and it’s like we’re running some kind of sex marathon. This is the third time I’ve been in her tonight, some insatiable need spurring us on from our usual wham-bam-thank you, ma’am.
“I’m going to come. Oh my God, Sinclair, I’m going to come.” Frankie is gasping, and her violet eyes latch on to mine as a careening wail leaves her lips.
Her orgasm hits hard, those nails raking into my hips. As soon as I feel her internal muscles relax, I pull out, spilling my come onto her stomach.
When I flop over, grabbing a tissue from the box on her nightstand and handing it to her, I’m practically breathless.
“Jesus.” The ceiling fan in Frankie’s bedroom spins above me in a rhythmic, hypnotic circle.
“Yeah,” Frankie agrees to my sentiment. “I think I have a new record of how many times I’ve come during sex.”
A smug, slow smile parts my lips. “Hell, yes. That’s what I’m talking about.”
“You’re such a man. Damn, I shouldn’t have said anything. Now your ego will be even bigger than it already is, and it can already barely fit through a doorway.” She chuckles, reaching for another tissue.
She rises from the mattress; her curves doing a whole lot of things in the dim lamp light of her room. If I wasn’t halfway dead, my cock would be stirring again. After a quick trip to the bathroom, Frankie is back, and I’ve barely moved a muscle.
Typically, I’m up and at ’em after coming over for our nightly booty call, but I’m exhausted and can’t seem to muster the energy to get my pants on.
“I don’t even know your last name.” She settles half on an elbow, half on my chest, and begins tracing circles in my hair there. “It seems odd that I’m fucking you five nights a week and barely know a thing about you.”