And that’s okay most of the time, like I said. I love my job; I love dedicating my life to my family dynasty. Especially now, I love that I can dedicate myself fully to turning our image around, even in the darkest of times. My commitment has been and always will be to this organization, it’s my first true love.
But when I see Whitney, I can glimpse it for a moment what it might be like. To have a husband, to have a man love me so deeply that he’d commit his life to mine. I can see the children, a bouncing baby on my hip that curls into my chest. My heart flutters at the thought, at letting that much love into my heart. Coming from the kind of family that I did, I don’t even know what that’s like.
Some women just aren’t cut out for family life, and maybe I’m just one of those. But why does my heart sink a little at the thought of that?
“Now, let’s talk about something more important; when was the last time you got laid?” Her eyes dance with wickedness.
A swallow of vodka gets stuck halfway down my throat and I choke on it. “Jee—Jesus, Whit, warn a gal!”
She leans forward conspiratorially. “Because I’ll tell you, it’s been about six hours for me. Ian came home on his lunch break, and we role-played. He was my boss, and I wore this sexy little skirt—”
“Okay, I don’t need that much detail.” I hold my hands up. “Though, I have to admit that I’m a little jealous. Not of your sex life, but of other people. Having sex. In general. It’s been …”
I tap my finger to my chin, because I honestly can’t remember the last time.
“That’s sad. You can’t even remember!” Whitney fills in the blank of my silence.
I shrug. “It’s just not something I’ve been focusing on.”
In truth, I’ve never focused on it. Dating, men, relationships … they all got in the way of the job. I’ve had exactly three lovers in my twenty-eight years, and they’ve all been predictable and fine. Fine is definitely not the word you want to use when talking about sex, but I don’t know how else to describe it.
“Orgasms should always be a central focus of life. At least tell me you have a good vibrator at home, and then let’s devise a plan to get you a real flesh and blood man,” she whines.
“I do have … a friend in my nightstand.” I stick my tongue out at her.
I’m not a prude, by any means, I’ve never been afraid of sex talk or the raunchy things Whitney or my other female cousins would tell me they did before kids. I simply just had no time for it, and if a guy wasn’t serious in pursuing me, I couldn’t be bothered. I’ve never met anyone who really got my heart, or my libido for that matter, pumping.
Well, except …
“Can’t you just hit it and quit it with one of your hot players? I mean, take one down to a training room, or better yet, call them into your office. Show them who’s boss. There are some sexy single guys on the squad these days, if I do remember correctly.”
She wasn’t wrong, and it was a damn shame that there was only one standing out in my brain right now.
Hayes Swindell is too gorgeous for his own good, and that brooding scowl he’s always giving me only adds to the forbidden appeal of it. I’ve had a few daydreams about exactly what a man like that could do with his hands, though I’ve tried to shut the thoughts out. After all, he was right when I bumped into him outside the Buzz the other day; not only would it be unprofessional for us to even maintain a friendship, but fantasizing about sex with one of my players is off-limits. Seriously, even the thought of having thoughts is wrong.
Plus, even though we’ve semi-cleared the air about him loathing my family, he still doesn’t want to be here. I can feel it every time I watch him step up to the plate. He’s playing on autopilot, and that might be good enough for someone with Hayes’ talent. But the reason I loved watching him throughout the years is because of the passion behind his game, and now I find none of that.
I considered letting him go, trading him back to Los Angeles, where he clearly wants to be. But that would look terrible for the Pistons, and even on his worst day, Hayes plays better than seventy-five percent of our team.
“Yeah, because that would end really well for the daughter of the former disgraced general manager if it ever got out.” I roll my eyes, blowing off her ludicrous suggestion.
That didn’t stop the tingle that went down my spine when I thought about those wavy, dirty blond locks hanging to a set of very brawny shoulders.
“Well, fine. Guess you’ll have to find pleasure in Parmesan fries for now.”
“Who ever said fries weren’t just as good as sex?” I chuckle.
Whit cocks her head to the side. “Hm, you might have a point.”
“Now, did you see the latest episode of Below Deck?” I ask.
My cousin launches into a tirade about her least favorite crew member, and I’m off the hook.
At least for now, I can enjoy my night out with good food, company, and a couple too many dirty martinis. Seeing as they would be the only dirty things in my life for right now.
8
Hayes
The fast pitch machine fires off ball after ball, the hard leather coming at my body and brain somewhere around ninety miles an hour.
My arms are sore, tingling with overuse, but I want a couple more good swings before I call it a day. We’re scheduled for a night game at home, and it’s only noon, so I’ll have a few hours’ rest before I truly have to perform. But with my batting average under three hundred, my drive for perfection and statistics has ratcheted up to the next level.
I’ve been in this cage for a week now, every single day, working on stance and adjusting my hips. Putting my left toe over the plate instead of on the corner. Shifting my fingers slightly higher. Anything to increase the odds of hitting to get on base, or hitting one out of the park.
The stadium is somewhat empty, with most of the guys already in ice baths, down on the massage table, or carb-loading in the player’s only dining room. Grounds crew mill about, checking the diamond and grass. Some of the announcers are testing the PA system, and I saw a reporter mosey by before with a rookie they were doing a feature on.
But I’m just focused here, smacking the ball over and over until each one rattles the chain-link fence wall of the cage violently.
“I heard your swing was getting slow, but now I see there really is something to report about.”
A crinkly, familiar voice chuckles with sarcasm as I grunt into the next pitch, this one with a little extra oomph behind it as it slams into the cage.
“I’d like to see you put a helmet on, old man,” I challenge, not even bothering to look at him.
Another ball, another timed swing. It’s off, the bat just clipping the edge of the ball, and it burns out on the ground before reaching the back wall.
“Don’t be too sure of beating me, kid. If I were a betting man, I’d say fifty bucks I could hit one harder than you.”
I snort. “You are a betting man, that’s why Ronnie won’t let you go to Vegas anymore.”
The machine clicks off, as all the balls have run out, and I drop my bat back into the bucket. Turning, there is Bryant Templeman, legendary sportscaster and, as luck would have it, my fairy godfather.