Page 5 of Force At Third

“First round on me.” Vander nods toward the back where our teammates gather after a game. “I’ll meet you back there.”

It only takes a few steps before I hear a loud, somewhat obnoxious male voice yell from behind me, “Make way. The Roman Hart Fan Club is in the house!”

I look over my shoulder to see who the hell it came from.

A man who looks a hell of a lot like our second baseman, Roman Hart. No doubt his brother. The two women with him, beaming, have got to be his sisters.

Rome pushes through the crowd, making the perfect path to get where I want to go. All eyes are on the Harts, and I get there without being noticed, and I get noticed all the damn time.

I love the Jags fans, the best in the league—no joke—but I’m on a mission, the seas have parted, and I have my eye on Gwendolyn York.

Amidst the buzz of voices and clinking glasses, my eyes catch her. She’s sitting under the soft amber light, chin raised up and pointed toward the TV screens showing clips from tonight’s game. Her profile is beautiful. Hell, everything about her is.

She looks sexy and stylish, wearing a fitted, white long-sleeved tee-shirt that accentuates her slender frame, the fabric hugging her perfect tits. That shirt, paired with faded blue jeans that cling to her legs in all the right places … so sexy. Her feet? She’s wearing Chuck Taylors, of course. Her thick, long hair is pulled through the back of the ball cap and cascades down her back in waves. I’d take that girl, in that fit, over any chick in a slinky dress on some red carpet.

As I get closer, I can’t help but notice her intense focus and her lips curved into a faint smile as she continues watching the game highlights. It’s a familiar sight, reminding me of the times we watched reels together before my big games, all wrapped up in each other.

I can’t deny the rush of warmth that floods through me at the sight of her so damn close. She’s still as enchanting as the day we first met. And yeah, that warmth is heading straight for my balls.

“You might have won the game, but that little minx isn’t going home with you. She’s leaving with me. I’m going to make her mine, officially,” comes from beside me, and then …

What The Fuck

2

Sitting around the back bar, a section reserved explicitly for Jags players after home games, surrounded by the best friends a girl could ask for, I still can’t help but be a little distracted after the texts I received from Frankie Frangula right after the game.

FF-boy

You should have told me you were in town so I could take you on a date.

I didn’t reply. I’m here for one reason, and he’s not it.

My ass vibrates, and I pull my phone out of my back pocket, seeing he’s sent another.

FF-boy

My ego can’t take another hit. Don’t leave me hanging, sweet thing.

I roll my eyes and tap on the screen.

Me

Busy.

The last time we hooked up, marriage was brought up. He had the balls to tell me that he might find a trophy wife when he’s fifty and knock her up so he had a kid to carry on his name.

I laughed it off because I see myself married in no ordinary situation, but the closer I get to thirty-five, the more I’m forced to think about it. When I think about it, I remember the guy whose dick had been in me twenty minutes prior was talking about his future with a trophy wife.

As I shove my phone in my pocket, I notice Roman Hart, the second baseman, walking toward our group. I watch CeCe Shaw, Chloe’s little sister, shift in her seat.

Standing across from her, Roman extends his hand to Chloe. “You must be Cecilia’s sister. I’m Roman, the next-door neighbor.”

I tuck that bit of information away as I watch CeCe’s face turn pink and Chloe’s smile stretches across her entire face as she shakes his hand.

“I’m Chloe. It is a pleasure to meet you. CeCe didn’t tell me her neighbor played for the Jags.”

He chuckles. “Not sure she knew.”

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