Of course my parents, especially my mother, are thrilled about the news. The Blaze is our home team. Me being traded means that this visit in the off-season is turning into me moving home. Sure, that’s a perk, but I’m still blindsided.
I’m salty about it. No, I’m more than salty. I’m pissed. The Tomahawks were my team growing up, and to play for them has been a dream, but apparently, according to my agent, the media hype that follows me everywhere I fucking go was too much for them. It’s not uncommon for a team to broker a multiplayer deal. I just never thought I’d be one of them. I’m the top-ranked shortstop in the league, but according to Harold, they don’t want the press. Apparently, they’re, and I quote, “taking the team in a new direction.” I call bullshit. It has nothing to do with the press and everything to do with the Blaze’s top shortstop getting injured last year. The team has kept his prognosis quiet, but to me, they are screaming loud and clear. Gerald Baylor is not coming back.
It’s bullshit. Sixty percent of the shit written about me is complete and utter shit. The other 40 percent, I’ll claim. I’m a single man, and I’m dating. That’s life, but since my life is in the spotlight, I look like my dick sees more action than a public restroom. It doesn’t, by the way, in case you’re wondering. Sure, I’ve been with my fair share of ladies, but I don’t fuck them all. Most nights, I fall into bed exhausted and send them home in a cab, but that’s not what the paparazzi like to report. How they latched onto me, I’ll never know, but those fuckers got me traded. Okay, fine, I played a role in it as well. I don’t dissuade the rumors, but I blame that on Harold. He claimed any press was good press, and well, here we fucking are. Add in the fact that I play the field, not ever committing to one woman, and you have Holden “the playboy” Bailey.
It’s a crock of shit.
Kind of.
Mostly.
I do like to play the field, and committing to one woman, well, it’s not something I’ve ever considered. I’m still young. Still trying on the many varieties.
Luckily for me, Harold’s contract is up for renewal as well. As soon as I speak to the management of my new team, I’m going to ask for leads for a new agent. Harold can kiss my ass.
Don’t get me wrong. The Blaze is a good team. Hell, they’re kicking ass and have done so the past several years, having won two World Series in the last ten years and several attempts at almost making it there. That’s further than I’ve gone with the Tomahawks, so this might be a good thing for me. It’s every player's dream to make it to the World Series. It’s an even bigger dream to actually win it. The Tomahawks are a strong team, but the Blaze, well, they’re kicking ass and taking names. So, I guess I’m not as pissed as I once thought now that I think about it. I just hate being blindsided and fuck them, and fuck Gerald for saying it was my “media reputation.” Call a spade a spade and just be up front about Baylor being out this season.
That brings me to the present. I’m in town staying with my parents until I find a new place. That’s what every twenty-three-year-old wants to be doing—moving back home to live with their parental units. Sure, it’s only temporary, but after you’ve lived on your own, it’s weird as fuck to move back in with Mom and Dad. I guess the trade isn’t so bad, bringing me home to my family.
Regardless, I needed to get out of the house. Since I have yet to meet my new teammates, I’m flying solo tonight. Most of my friends I grew up with moved away for college and never came back home. And the others I’ve fallen out of touch with. You know, the ones who only call when they need a loan or have a great business venture they want me to invest in. Yeah, I won’t be calling those so-called friends. Being alone tonight suits me just fine. All I want to do is have a drink or five and then call an Uber to take my ass back to my parents’ place.
So, here I am, sitting at the bar of the crowded club, minding my own business when I see her. Long dark hair that looks like it would feel like silk between my fingers. Her eyes, they’re a bright blue, similar to my own, and although it could be the lighting, they look like they’re sparkling. She’s with a friend who is cute but doesn’t hold a candle to the dark-haired beauty. I’ve been sitting here for the better part of two hours, and she’s the first woman to approach the bar who’s caught my eye. I’m selective, unlike what the tabloids like to report.
After calling the bartender over and sliding him some cash to pay for the beauty and her friend’s drinks, I keep my eyes on her. They’re deep in discussion, and neither one seems to notice they’ve captured the attention of every man sitting at the bar and even that of those standing close by.
I watch as she shakes her head and tries to give her money back to the bartender. I bring my beer to my lips to help fight my smile. The bartender nods my way, and she turns her head. Our gazes lock, and it’s like a shock to my nervous system. I can’t seem to look away. Hell, I can’t seem to move from her stare; it’s locking me into place. Finally, she turns to her friend, and they walk away.
Draining my beer, I signal for another and turn in my seat to look for her. She’s easy to spot with that gorgeous hair, and did I mention she has a tight little body too? She’s with a group—two other girls besides the friend with her at the bar and two guys. I pay close attention, not caring that I’m blatantly staring at their table. Both guys appear to be with the other girls. I didn’t see a ring, so that means she’s available, or at least not legally attached. Not that I’m one to poach on another guy’s girl, but damn, if she has a man in her life, he should be here with her. I know I would be.
I don’t even pretend to casually watch her. I stare openly, and let me tell you, the view is spectacular. When the girls move to the dance floor, my eyes move with them. I have to adjust my stance to follow them. My eyes are locked on her. Every sway of her hips, her arms held high in the air over her head. The way her long dark hair cascades down her back when she tilts her head back as she belts out the lyrics. I could stand here and watch her all damn night.
I’m well on my way to doing just that when the two guys from their table join them. They go to their girls, which leaves mine and her friend dancing alone. Yeah, I called her mine. She will be too. She just doesn’t know it yet. When some jackass slides up beside her, getting way too close for my liking, I set my warm beer on the bar and start toward her.
Cocksucker.
I saw her first.
It’s as if I’m on autopilot as I head her way. My feet eat up the distance between us. I don’t have a single claim to her. Hell, I don’t even know her name. What I do know is that if someone is going to be putting their hands all over her on the dance floor, it’s going to be me.
I walk up behind her, and the guy's eyes widen. Ah, he must recognize me. I don’t say a word as I keep my eyes on his and place my hands on her hips, pulling her into me. She glances over her shoulder, and to my surprise, she rolls those big blue eyes. However, what she doesn’t do is pull away.
The douche who thought he had a chance backs away, and once he’s out of sight, he’s also out of mind. Not that I can think of anything but the beauty in my arms as she rolls her hips. When she lifts her hands in the air, I grab her wrist, pressing my lips to her sensitive skin before bending so she can place her hands on my hair. She tugs, and my cock twitches against her ass.