Page 32 of Wild Card

I smiled, loving the shade of pink her face had turned. I briefly considered what it would take to make her do it again so I could sneak a picture. Would that be creepy? Probably.

“So, tell me why you don’t want part of this delicious cinnamon roll.”

“It’s just…a personal thing.” She tucked those loose strands behind her ears.

I chewed, watching her closely. I’d been in enough nutrition, sports medicine, and psych classes to know this was probably deeper than I even knew, and it was also her own shit to sort through. Not my business.

“The other night…was that your first time participating?” She meekly transitioned us back to the topic at hand.

I nearly choked again just thinking of her that night, those perfect tits fitting perfectly in the palm of my hand.

Fucking hell.

If I kept thinking about it, I was going to get more than a semi here in this little bookshop café.

“Yeah…it was.” I let my eyes roam down her form, not hiding the fact that I liked what I was seeing.

Her green eyes, those freckles sprinkled under those dark lashes, and those full lips that were currently pinned between her white teeth all said she was remembering too.

“Was that your first time participating?” I returned the question, hoping like hell none of my teammates had ever had their hands on her.

She laughed and nodded her head. “Yeah, definitely.”

“Why is it so shocking to ask if that was your first time?”

“You don’t know me, but I’m not exactly the partying type. I’m usually working on the weekends, or writing for the paper, maybe reading…but parties? Not so much.”

I fucking liked her. I liked her a lot. “So, you were only there for the article then?”

“Yep. I wasn’t even invited, but…uh…you already knew that part.” Her face flushed red again. “There were a few guys who seemed to play specific roles in the game—do you know about any of those?”

I wanted to press her about the topic we should have both been avoiding, but right as I was about to talk, the front door opened, and in walked Elias Matthews.

He was on the phone, that gleaming, brand new device shoved up against his face. His eyes flitted toward me, then to Mallory. They lingered on her, traveling down her form, over her hair and down her shirt while he talked to whoever it was on the other end of the call, then he smirked and walked past our booth.

“Who is that guy?” Mallory leaned forward, dipping her pointer finger into a glop of frosting that had fallen onto the plate. Her face was so much closer now that I almost met her halfway to taste that white sugar on her lips.

“Remember the guy I pretended to be?”

“Elias something?” she whispered, leaning closer.

“Yeah.” I peeked over my shoulder, only to return to find her sucking more frosting from her finger.

“Sorry.” She laughed, wiping at her face.

My jeans felt too tight as I watched her pink tongue dart out and lick the cream from her fingers. Her eyes closed as she let out a little moan, and two other guys sitting nearby turned to look at her. My hard-on pressed against my zipper, and I wanted to take her right there. But fuck, it was more than that…I also didn’t want them looking at her or thinking about her. She was a vision in that green shirt she had on, the gold jewelry…and I just wanted to tell them they couldn’t have her. No one could.

“Anyway, he’s the head pitcher for the team…kind of a big deal according to anyone in the baseball world.” I moved on from the frosting. I had to, or else I was going to lean over and do something I shouldn’t.

“The competition,” she murmured, writing something down in her journal.

I crinkled my eyebrows together in confusion. “What do you…”

“He wants Taylor, you want her…” She moved her hand, pointing the pen back and forth between E and myself. “He’s your competition.”

No, he wasn’t. I didn’t want whoever Taylor was. He could have her; I just wanted him to pay for ruining my career.

“Right…yeah.” I cleared my throat and moved to stand.

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