She gives me a side-eye and then points to her protruding stomach. “I’m pretty sure here’s your answer. Plus”—she looks around—“I thought you didn’t believe in all that locker room crap.”
“I don’t, but at this point, I’ll do anything it takes to make sure you never walk out of my life again.”
“Never going to happen.” She rubs her thumb across my cheek. “You’re stuck with me, Gentry.”
“In that case.” I reach to my back pocket and pull out a piece of paper, handing it to her.
Brows knitted together, she takes it and glances down. “Why are you giving me a campus map?”
“Open it up.” I nod.
Skeptical, she opens it, revealing what I wrote inside. Her gasp carries through the room as she looks up at me, but she has to look down, because I’m bent on one knee, holding a ring box to her. On the inside of the map, I wrote, “Spend your life with me.”
“Oh my God,” she whispers.
“Em, from the moment that map hit me—yes, I stole it from you—I knew you were something special. I also think I knew it when I passed out with your tit in my hand, because honestly, I never forget a good pair of tits. And, baby, you have the best tits around.” She rolls her eyes but tears fall as well. “You are everything I need in my life and more. You’re the mother of my child, the love of my life, and my best fucking friend. Please make me the happiest man on this planet and be my wife.”
She nods, words unable to fall past the tears.
I scoop her into my arms and twirl her around, elated . . . no, fucking overjoyed that this girl will forever be mine.
I place the ring on her finger and we both marvel at it. She tells me it’s too much, I tell her I wish it was bigger. She kisses me all over my face. I let her.
When she pulls away, I wiggle my eyebrows and nod toward the showers. “Want to get naked?”
“We are not doing it in here.”
I think about it for a second. “Then bend over and let me finger you. We have to do something, babe. We need to seal the deal.”
“Holt has gotten to your head.”
“It worked for him.”
She sighs heavily and looks to the side. “Fine, one fingering and we’re done.”
I laugh. “Come on, babe, you know I always use at least two.”
The Dugout
Prologue
CARSON
Everyone knows me as the easygoing, fun-loving guy without a care in the world. You know who I’m talking about, right?
The guy who cheers when a couple kisses, who says stupid shit like YIPPEE when he’s excited, the guy who has no shame in shimmying his bare, bright white ass to his friends just to make them laugh.
I’m also the guy who is magically smart, can lead an entire bar to harmoniously sing any Taylor Swift song, lucks out in everything he does, and has impeccable taste in clothing—despite wearing a baseball hoodie every Monday. A dude must make himself feel better when the Monday blues hit and a hoodie does just that.
But have you guessed it? Do you see where this is going?
I’m not that guy anymore.
Nope.
Easygoing and fun-loving? Not anymore. I spit venom at whoever dares to be in my presence. You know the old man who throws endless piles of shoes at the street youths as they walk by? That’s me, minus the incontinence problem and mothball smell.
My days of singing Taylor Swift with a crowd are over. Instead—if I even make it to a bar—I bury myself in a corner and sneer. Oh boy, do I fucking sneer. I sneer at anything and anyone that even attempts to look at my face.
That impeccable fashion sense I was boasting about? Gone. I think I’ve been wearing the same pair of athletic shorts for a month—not really—but maybe it’s a little true.
And the guy who lucks out in everything he does? Ha, my luck was cut short at the beginning of the season thanks to the square ass, dirty dick named Kirk Babcock, also known as Kirk BADcock by my team.
What did this Badcock do, you ask?
If you’re thinking he poked me with said bad cock, you need to get your mind out of the gutter.
What he did was even worse than winging his willy around on the baseball field.
So bad that you might need to brace yourself . . .
**FLAILS ARMS**
He committed a sin against all baseball etiquette.
The cardinal sin.
The biggest sin of all sins.
Are you sitting? I don’t want you to faint from the blasphemy I’m about to share.
Deeps breaths, everyone . . .
He . . . damn it, he slid late . . . at practice.
Gasp, I know.
I told you it was bad . . . my balls are shriveling up into my taint just thinking about it.
The dumbass freshman, who had too much juice in his junk, decided to book it to second during a practice game while Holt and I were fleshing out a double play. The dingleberry slid into second base two seconds too late.
Why is this a problem?
For those of you who might not be in the know—don’t worry, I won’t hold it against you—back in 2016, the gods of baseball developed a new rule; all players sliding into second must hit the ground first before touching the bag to avoid injuring the opposing players.
Layman’s terms: don’t be a dickhead and hurt people.
Apparently, Badcock didn’t get that memo, because the little turd nugget charged second base like an out-of-control steam train . . . just as I slid my foot across the base for the out. His dirty slide took my leg out, twisting me in the process, and tossed me to the ground.
As I fell, I heard a resounding snap that would make any grown-ass man throw up into his lap, followed by an immense amount of pain shooting up the back of my leg.
The motherfucker—stenchy bad cock—ruptured my Achilles tendon.
Like Achilles himself, I buckled to the ground and wallowed in pain while holding my leg, as if I let go, it would detach from my body and float right on up to heaven where it belongs for the many good years it gave me.
Badcock proceeded to fling his helmet off his head, get in my face, and apologize profusely, making up some excuse about tripping over his own damn feet.
Yeah, okay, fart breath.
I’d like to see the tape for a full review, because I’m questioning the shit out of that statement. Tripped, my left nut.
If I was a freshman and got hurt, I wouldn’t want to rip the skin off Badcock’s scrotum, maybe just give him a swift lodge of my foot up his ass. But ripping scrotum skin, nah.
But guess what? I’m not a goddamn freshman.
I’m a fucking junior, and if you know anything about baseball, you know being a junior in college is one of the most important times in a guy’s life.
Because that’s the year you’re eligible to be drafted.
DRAFTED.
Brentwood University is known as a breeding ground for exceptional baseball players; it’s where the scouts come to find their next top prospects. If you want to play professional baseball, you either choose to go into the draft right after high school or be recruited by Brentwood. I chose an education so I had a possible career to fall back on in case something happened to me . . . like rupturing my Achilles tendon.
Can you guess where this is going?