They finish squeezing each other and then start raining praises all over the man.
“That diving play up the middle. Fucking killer, man.”
“First home run of the season,” Shane shouts with his hand to his mouth.
They go on for a good minute and I just sit back, catching small glimpses from Carson here and there. I can tell he wants to move past my two gushing friends and take me into his arms, but because he’s a good guy and hasn’t seen Jerry and Shane in a long time, he gives them his attention.
It isn’t until Jerry catches me from the corner of his eye, that he says, “Oh shit, maybe you want to hug Milly.”
Eyes trained on me, Carson says, “Yeah.”
Shane pats him on the back, understanding his need to be near me. “We’ll, uh, meet you in the parking lot.”
On their way past me, they both make obnoxious kissing noises—they clearly still haven’t grown up—and head down the hallway, high-fiving each other and talking about the game. Their antics will never get old.
With determination and swagger in every step toward me, his eyes never leaving mine, and when the distance between us is non-existent, he cups my cheek and softly says, “In the locker room, I watched what you said about me, about us, about my mom and dad.” He gets choked up and presses his forehead to mine. “It meant so fucking much to me, Milly. To have you here tonight, cheering me on, wearing my jersey, being the fan in the stands that matters the most. I don’t know how I will ever repay you, but I know I’ll spend the rest of my life trying.”
“You silly boy.” I kiss his lips briefly. “You don’t have to repay me, just promise whenever I ask you to meet me in the dugout, you show up.”
“Anything for you . . . Coach.”
He pins me against the wall, his lips gently finding mine. It isn’t an erotic kiss, nor is it made for the church. It’s passionate and heavy, like he’s slowly memorizing every contour of my lips.
“You’re my girl, Milly. My Family. My everything,” he whispers.
My hands fall to his waist and I hold him tightly. “You’re the one and only man who’s ever owned my heart and held my hand. I love you, Carson.”
He pulls me into a hug and kisses the top of my head. “Come on, Coach, let’s go home.”
“Home?”
He nods. “You think I’m going to stay with Knox? No fucking way, not when my girl has an apartment I’ve had my bare ass all over.”
I chuckle. “Wow, way to ruin the romantic mood.”
“Ruin it? I just intensified it. We’re moving in together, Coach, whether you like it or not.”
He kisses me again and guides me out to the parking lot.
And honestly, I can’t deny how much I actually like the idea of Carson moving in.
I like it a lot. One of the things I love about this man so much is his faith in us. He told me last night he knew from the moment he watched my parents together that he wanted that with me. He saw how Mom and Dad loved openly and genuinely and craved to give me that.
They met with him early this morning and held him in hugs that I knew touched his heart. Healed the gaping wound the loss of his parents created. Mom had kept him in her heart the years he was gone. She’d had faith in him that he’d come back to me, to them, and that when he did, her arms would be open wide. They showed Carson forgiveness he didn’t expect, and told him that from this point forward, they considered him one of their sons. It was both moving and heartbreaking watching him cry. Watching him mourn. Watching him heal.
We talked about his parents after that and what his dad said about me, and I cried. I cried because my beautiful man had lost such incredible people far too early. Yet there was an expression of peace in his eyes rather than distraught agony, and that alone gave me joy.
My crazy, talented, sexy man was home. I felt whole again . . . and sore in places I had forgotten existed. Tomorrow will be our true test though. He might play with the big boys now, but I’m still me, and I refuse to let his beefcake muscles frighten me.
Back to the dugout, Stone. Time for some real training.
The Lineup
Prologue
JASON
It isn’t in my nature to cry over burnt ham, but here I am, tearing up like a jackass, because the meal I’ve been reluctantly slaving over for the past four hours is two shades away from charred dust.
I had it all planned out. The timing was right, the recipes perfected, the table decorated with impeccably folded napkins that impersonated angelic swans, and polished silver that I scrubbed for an hour until I could see my balls in the reflection. Nothing says polished silverware like a spoon that gives you a clear upside-down view of your gonads.
But even with countless hours of preparing this feast, naked as the day I was born with only an apron to cover my man-loins, I still ended up with a scorched ham doused in fire extinguisher agent because somehow, the damn thing caught on fire.
Imagine this, a grown-ass man—no, not just a grown-ass man, but a man at the fresh age of twenty-eight, built like a linebacker with buttocks you can bounce rocks off . . . thanks to squatting for a living—dancing around the kitchen on his twinkle toes, arms flailing with pink and white potholders attached to his hands, screaming like a banshee, as flames light up the Jenn-Air double oven where the brown sugar and pineapple ham resided.
Are you seeing it?
Add the imagery of said man naked, dick and balls harmoniously bouncing in panic while the apron his “girlfriend” got him that says Eat my food, Lick my dick, unravels in the fit to unleash the fire extinguisher.
That was me . . . a minute ago.
Frantic, screaming, and all in all losing any last shred of my man card I had left.
It’s why I’m currently weeping like a nitwit into the flaps of my apron, wondering where I went wrong.
If we’re going to be honest with each other—and I would like to establish honesty with you—I’ll admit, I’ve always leaned toward the sensitive side. You know, the cuddly grizzly bear. Big and intimidating but a fucking gooey butterball heart on the inside.
Tell me a love story. I’ll listen the crap out of it.
The Bachelor? Why yes, that’s one of my favorite shows.
Do I smile when sharing a candlelit dinner with myself, followed by a nice long soak in a bubble bath while Enya—the fucking goddess of all voices—plays in the background? I sure as shit do.
But if some ignorant asswipe gets in my face on the ball field, stirring up trouble, I’m the first to lay a fist across his jaw and the first to be thrown out of a game.
And I’m not even sorry about it.
People are arriving in an hour. I’m vulnerable as fuck with my bare ass resting against the cold white-oak floor of my girl’s apartment, while a lonely tear streams down my freshly shaven cheek. I have no main dish, and the apartment smells like burnt rabbit turd.
Why am I in this hopeless predicament?
Because of one person.
One single person who flipped my life upside down.
A bombshell in a suit, a ravenous sex-fiend in the sheets, a classy and sophisticated tight-ass in the boardroom. She’s a knockout who’s always on my mind. She’s the girl you do things for, that you never thought you’d ever do . . .