I have never once in my life told Levi that I’m a Fireballs fan, even when we were on his tour bus and he was watching games, because I didn’t want him to find out that I was once hung up on Cooper Rock for six months after he broke my heart.
They’re friends, and I’m well aware that Cooper does a lot of good around here.
Alotof good.
Often with Levi at his side. I’m not messing that up.
“Okay, Waverly, first, we’re fixing your stance.” Cooper squats at my feet, taps my back foot, and helps me move it about six inches.
And suddenly all I can think about is that his head is right next to my crotch.
“Other foot,” he says. “And now bend your knees. Good. Like that.”
He leaps back to his own feet, but instead of telling me to take a test swing, he does exactly what I want him to do and exactly what he most definitely should not do, and he lines himself up against my back, gripping my hips to indicate I should lean over the plate while pushing my butt back into his crotch.
That’s a cup. That’s a cup. That’s a cup.
Hehasto be wearing a cup.
Has to be.
“Squat a little lower.” His breath tickles my ear. He pulls his hands off my hips, and then does the absolute worst thing he could possibly do.
As if what he’s done already isn’t bad enough.
But when he closes his large hands over mine around the baseball bat, a full-body shiver that I can’t even pretend to hide races from my fingers up my shoulders and down to my breasts and lower.
My neck has goosebumps. My scalp has goosebumps. My pussy has goosebumps.
“Bring it back like this,” he says, pulling the bat back over my right shoulder and nudging my elbow higher at the same time, “and then when you swing, you step forward with this foot—good—and let it all flow however it feels most natural.”
He walks me through a swing that I don’t remember because his breath is tickling the side of my neck and my butt is nestled in his crotch and his hands—god, his hands.
His hands are warm and strong, and his arms are solid, and I want to lick every inch of them up to that tattoo that I know he has under his sleeve, and I very much should’ve found a fling a month ago when Aspen told me I needed to get back on the dating train.
Aunt Zinnia is glaring daggers.
Levi clears his throat. “You about done, Rock?”
“Pitch it,” Cooper calls back.
“We might be having words later.”
“Baseball first. You know I can’t stand seeing people play poorly when I can help.”
“I believe him, Levi,” Mac calls. “He knows we’d all kill him on Diego’s behalf if he makes D’s favorite musician look bad. Also, did you hear? Management says they’ve sold more of Diego’s jerseys than Cooper’s this season?”
Cooper jerks behind me. “The fuck they have.”
“Everybody already has yours,” Levi says with a laugh. “And you’re getting oooooold.”
“So old,” Piper agrees.
“Pitch the ball or we’re replacing you,” Mac orders. “And quit with the potty mouth, Cooper.”
Levi mutters something.
Cooper mutters something.
