Page 101 of Playboy Pitcher
The umpire’s voice booms across the field. “Strike!”
“He did it!” Emma screams, jumping from the bleachers, popcorn flying up from her lap like confetti. “Willow, he did it! We won!”
The capacity crowd roars, but I stand rooted in my spot, unable to take my eyes off him. “He’s hurt.”
Emma follows my gaze to where Ben cradles his arm against his body, his face twisted in pain. Wordlessly, she trails after me as I push past the rows of fans chanting his name while hugging each other. Some are shouting excitedly about the upcoming season while others scream, “Miami’s back, baby!”
Miami may be back, but it won’t be with Ben.
His career just ended.
Leaving Emma behind, I run down the steps toward the barrier gate. By the time I make it to the field, a security guard stops me. Irritated, I flash my lanyard. As he finally lets me through, I remind myself to have his ass downgraded to parking lot duty tomorrow.
When Ben sees me, he rushes over, a smile breaking through the grimace. “Hey, Puddles.”
“What the hell—?” Before I have a chance to say another word, he crushes his mouth against mine, swallowing the rest of my tirade. It’s nothing like the chaste kiss from the garden, but nowhere near our frenzied ones fueled by lust. It’s somewhere in between, a potent tangle of possessive lips and demanding tongues.
When we finally break apart, his rough groan draws me out of the haze of his kiss. I look down to see the swelling already forming around his elbow, and my voice breaks. “Ben…”
“Stop,” he says, grabbing me around the waist with his good arm. “It’s fine. Doc will patch it right up, and I’ll be good as new.”
It’s a lie.
And the first time he’s broken his own rules.
We both know he’s headed back under the knife, and this time, placing his name on the injured list will be permanent. No doctor will clear him to play again.
“Hey,” he says, dragging his thumb under my eye. “No tears on your birthday. We’re celebrating tonight.”
My stomach doesn’t just knot, it feels like it’s caving in. “You remembered,” I say, the thick emotion woven through each word making me hate myself for how pathetic it sounds.
That lopsided grin breaks across his face, sinking a dimple deep into his cheek. “Of course, I remembered. It’s not every day my wife turns thirty.”
I laugh, warmth filling the cracks he keeps causing. “Twenty-nine.”
He gives me a playful wink. “Whatever, Mrs. Robinson.”
For all his kisses, and jokes, and smiles, and laughter, he doesn’t fool me. I’ve spent too much time in this man’s bed not to see past the plastic public face. He knows what the hell just happened out there, and he knows I do too.
He’s not charming his way out of this.
“Ben, you know I don’t celebrate my birthday. I’ve told you, it’s just another day.” I nod to his elbow. “You need to get that checked out and get some rest.”
“Hell no. I have something planned for you,” he argues, and I know there’ll be no reasoning with him on this. The best I can do is humor him and take care of him myself.
“Oh? What is it?”
“If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise,” he says, taking off his baseball cap and placing it on my head. The bill is pulled down so low I can’t see shit, so I have to tilt my head so far back I’m almost looking straight up at him.
“Come on, give me a hint.”
Tugging me closer, he leans down and whispers in my ear, “I’m leaping.”
Two words.
Two little words that mean nothing to most people almost cause me to choke on my own tongue.
Leaping? He’s fucking leaping?
