Page 21 of Playboy Pitcher
“Are you crazy?” I look across the table to find Ned with both hands shoved in his hair. “You just ripped up an eight hundred-million-dollar contract!”
“Eight hundred and two million.”
His response is to drop his head into his hands and groan.
Am I crazy?Probably.
Drake is right; I have no idea what the hell I’m doing. But I have twenty-eight days to figure it out, or at least to concoct a way to get myself out of this mess. All I know is that I can’t sell to Drake Prescott. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever.
“Is there an out to the clause?” I ask.
Jack lets out a low chuckle. “Yeah, Prescott’s death.”
I bite my lip.
“Willow!” Hoyt scolds, slamming his palm onto the table.
“Relax. I’m kidding.”Mostly.“However, until I can come up with a plan”—glancing down, I swipe what’s left of the shredded contract across the table—“I’m in charge. Is that clear?”
One by one, everyone nods.
“Good.” Standing, I circle the room, once again finding myself by the windows. I gaze out at the practice field, at the moment, a term that should be used loosely. What’s left of the team is standing around playing a game of mini-golf with bats and a baseball. “So, what do we have to do to pull our shit together this season?”
Ned snorts. “Win.”
Raising an eyebrow at him, I slowly turn my attention back to the field. To the misfits who somehow ended up forming a major league baseball team. Even our star player, our ace pitcher and most expensive contract, is out there driving a baseball like he’s on the fucking PGA tour.
With a resigned sigh, I nod. “Then I guess that’s what we’ll do.”
“I was kidding.”
I turn around, my stare unyielding and firm. “I’m not.”
“Who’s going turn those guys around?” he argues. “Hoyt couldn’t do it in three years. Who’s going do it in three weeks?”
“Me.”
The whole table dissolves in hysterical laughter.
“Laugh all you want, gentlemen, but I grew up on that field.” I tap the inside of my arm. “I’ve got red clay in these veins. I know this team and this game just as well if not better than any of you.” Again, my gaze pulls through the tinted glass window to where Ben slaps a teammate on his shoulder, both of them laughing as they head toward the locker room.
My pulse shifts from a steady thump to a gallop as my mind drifts back to yesterday. To the challenge in those icy blue eyes as he dared me to fight back. To the non-existent space between us that nearly sent my willpower into a tailspin. And to that scent. That damn intoxicating scent of fresh-cut grass and leather that screwed with my head.
And to the fiery accusation in his voice.
“So instead of fucking me last night, you waited until today?”
“The only one getting fucked here is the poor asshole who gets stuck with this team.”
Closing my eyes, I press my forehead against the glass.
It’s me.I’mthat asshole. I just didn’t know it at the time.
Benson LaCroix doesn’t know the meaning offucked, but he’s about to.
We both are.
Chapter Seven
