Page 24 of Playboy Pitcher
Roger Mays Stadium
A man who’s probably rolling over in his grave at the three-ring circus today’s practice turned into. I can’t blame him, either. I’d rather lay face down in dirt, too, than see the mess we’ve made of his life’s work.
“Nothing personal,” I mumble, offering up a half-assed apology while turning my head. “You were just the glue that held us together.”
A glue that has disintegrated, leaving behind a shitty, broken mess of a team that most fans wrote off two years ago. But now—I run a hand through my still damp hair at today’s shitshow of a practice—now there’sreallyno hope for us.
Or for me.
Especially since my already unstable career is now in the hands of a woman who couldn’t give two shits about it.
Fucking Willow.
She’s one of the reasons I couldn’t keep my mind in the game and my eye on the ball today. My jaw clenches as my hand tightens around the strap of the duffle bag slung over my shoulder.
Okay, maybe she’s the main reason.
Goddamn it.
Fine. She’s theonlyreason.
But it’s not because I can’t gether out of my head. It’s because I can’t stop counting the endless ways she’s screwed us. How she’s probably a few hundred million dollars richer by now. How she’s probably halfway back to New York, having a good laugh at the way she played me that night in West Palm Beach.
God, how stupid can one man be?
The answer? Endlessly. Apparently, LaCroix pride holds a master key that overrides common sense. For once, I thought someone found Ben interesting instead of Playboy. I thought finally, someone really cared about whatIhad to say.
I should’ve known it was just some bullshit lie.
“My future is kind of up in the air right now. The company I work for isn’t exactly…well, let’s just say it isn’t the most productive. It could be in for a big change. If that happens, I’m fucked.”
“Change isn’t necessarily bad, Ben. Even if it is, it’s not like there aren’t other companies out there.”
“Not for me.”
That wasn’t a chance meeting. She followed me, just waiting for the right moment to strike. I have to hand it to her; she played her role to perfection. I’m both impressed and infuriated at how easily she coaxed information out of me, smiling to my face all while knowing the next day she’d use it against me.
“Well, bravo, Willow McBaine. You won. Congratu-fucking-lations.” My footsteps fall heavier as I make my way down the sidewalk toward my Escalade. I’m pissed off and exhausted. All I want to do is go home and take the edge off with a beer or two and crash. Instead, I have less than twenty minutes to show my face at Hoyt’s pointless team dinner.
Like I don’t see these assholes enough as it is.
It’s dark and quiet, which means even though I’m running late, I timed everything perfectly. Most of the team left over half an hour ago, along with any lingering fans hoping to catch an autograph. For once, I’m left in peace.
Maybe that’s why the muffled curse catches my attention.
Why I turn my head toward it instead of keep walking.
Why when I see a female standing by a bright blue car throw a punch at a tall man pushing her up against it, I stop cold.
Why when that man grabs her arm and kisses her wrist as she tries to pull away, my blood boils.
Why when I catch a glimpse of the woman’s hair and realize it’s the same color of her car, I see red, and my bag hits the ground.
I fill my chest, and before I can exhale, I’m behind him. “Take your hands off her before I break them off,” I growl.
The man takes his lips off her wrist and straightens, but he doesn’t release her. Instead, the bastard rubs his thumb along her palm and something inside me snaps.
Grabbing the back of his head, I jerk him back by his hair. “Did I fucking stutter?”
