Page 11 of Fastball Fever
She's teasing me again—the same kind of grin that had me craving her like mad yesterday.The woman knows exactly what she's doing to me.I might hate it if it wasn't so fucking sexy.
As we finish lunch, the rest of the squad filters out of the clubhouse, stretching and yawning as they take their places on the field.Amy is already in the dugout, clipboard in hand, barking orders before I can get another word in.
"Let's go!"she hollers."Grab your gloves!Move!"
Her voice reverberates across the diamond, and players scramble to line up.
By now, my arm is definitely sore, but I won't tell Amy that.Not after pretending the pain was nothing and getting double drills to celebrate my supposed recovery.I dive into practice with every bit of energy I have left.We put in another few hours before she finally calls it a day and cracks a joke about me limping back to my car.I never limp, and she knows it.It's my frigging shoulder that bothers me.But it is better than it was a few days ago.
Amy must know I'm exhausted—I can hardly stand up straight—but something tells me she won't let me get away with admitting it and begging off tomorrow's drills.
Gray clouds gather overhead while the whole team jogs out of the training ground.I can smell rain in the air, heavy and humid.By the time I get home, all I want to do is rinse off the sweat and crash in bed.
Fresh out of the shower, I slump on my couch with an ice pack on my shoulder.Sleep is next on my list, but then my phone rings.Morris's obnoxious mug flashes across the screen and some part of me is tempted—just for a second—to toss it across the room and pretend I didn't notice the call.Why on earth did I ever give him my number?Because when I first met Jared, he'd been friendly.Then I found out he loves to troll everybody on my team.
Rather than swiping left, I answer with a curt, "What'd ya want, dipstick?"
"Hey, Braddock!Make sure you bring your smokin' coach," Jared says, sniggering.I can almost hear him grinning through the phone."I'd hate for the Altitude to trample you too hard."
"Worry about your own team, Morris."
His cackling laughter is loud and abrasive."You're still playing with a wet-noodle arm, huh?Last I heard, you were barely handling practice."
"You must be talking about someone else."I try to keep my voice steady and cool.He's trolling me again, since nobody on the Admirals team would leak any details of my injury.
"We'll see about that, Chucky."Jared pauses, just long enough for him to make me think it's over.And he's just dumb enough to think that'll work."Tell your new Playboy centerfold coach not to wear you out too much.Save a little something for me."
I clench my jaw.And I think smoke might be coming out of my ears.
The line clicks off before I can respond.That bastard.
I slump back into the couch and try not to let Jared's taunts get to me.It doesn't matter what he says.I'll be waiting to punch him in the jaw.For now, I turn my thoughts away from him and toss my phone aside.I do my best to ignore every loudmouthed word Morris said.It's not hard, because Amy replaces them in an instant.Her voice, her eyes…her soft, yielding lips.
Rested or not, I'm first at the practice field in the morning, shoulder iced and taped.Once I'm ready, I head out to the diamond.And damn if Amy doesn't have me doing insane drills from the get-go.I love the way she looks during lap five—tight braid coming loose as she bounds after me armed with a whistle and stopwatch.This is Amy Keller at her most intense, but I can't help wondering if there's more passion where last night's kiss came from.
Jared doesn't have a clue how wrong he is—I'm more ready than ever to put him back in his place tomorrow.
"Pick it up!"Amy's voice booms across the field.She points at her watch without stopping or even slowing down half a step.
I'm running sprints side by side with Ron Peeters when the rain finally bursts from the clouds to drench us all in an instant.I glance up, wiping my eyes.This is a frigging deluge.
Amy doesn't seem to notice or care that we're soaking wet."This is nothing!Keep it going!"
Ron and a couple other guys groan like they're about to go on strike, but they keep sprinting in spite of it.Lightning crackles in the distance, and Amy reluctantly calls it a day just before the deluge turns into Noah's flood.It's still coming down in buckets as players scatter to their cars.
Once everyone else has peeled out of the lot, I take my time getting out of my soaked shirt.On days like this, having a spare is the only thing that will stave off a cold.I'm about to leave when I see Amy get out of her car and trudge back toward me, her head down as the rain pummels her, plastering her hair to her face.
The nearest shelter is in the dugout.So, I rush to Amy and grab her hand as we race back to the dugout.
"Stupid piece of shit car wouldn't start," she half-shouts over the downpour.
I fumble with the hoodie in my hand and toss it over her."Here."
She stares at me, blinking rapidly."You're giving me your sweatshirt now?"
"You're soaked.Might catch cold."I struggle to stop myself from staring at her nipples that are visible thanks to her wet shirt."Never seen you back down because of a little weather."
She grabs the dry shirt and pulls it tightly around her shoulders."Even I have limits."
