Brock
“You’renotreallygoingto eat that, are you?”
My stomach roiled when the infuriatingly handsome man seated across from me winked before shoving another forkful of what could only be described as candy-coated, crispy animal fat between his lips.
The smell alone gave me heartburn.
Seriously, deep-fried bacon blanketed in cotton candy—talk about a crime against gastronomy. Gone were the days of a good, old-fashioned bag of popcorn or soft pretzel drenched in cheese sauce.
Mmm, cheese sauce.
To be fair, it had been a decade or so since I’d frequented a fair of any kind—my work schedule didn’t allow for much beyond the office or podcast studio during baseball season and my social life was nonexistent—and apparently, sometime between then and now, popcorn and pretzels had gotten a makeover.
One that made my eyes roll and stomach churn.
“That’s disgusting.”
“No,” Tucker countered. “That’s delicious.”
I nearly choked when his tongue darted out to catch the sugar granules clinging to his lips, and then mentally kicked myself for responding to him like that. It was hard—and gettingharderby the second—not to picture what else that mouth of his could do. If the rumors were anything to go by, most of Portland had experienced the oral delights of Johnathan “Tuck” Tucker.
Tucker might not have been the only Roaster with a reputation, but he was the only Roaster whose ass was my screensaver. Not that he—or my editor—ever needed to know that.
What could I say? I preferred my menthicc—with two cs—and Johnny Tucker had thighs like tree trunks. I would be lying if I said I hadn’t pictured them wrapped around my back while I plowed into him at least once or twice.
“Alright, hellhound.” His thick, heavy voice tore me away from my inappropriate thoughts. “Your turn,” he said, nodding toward the plastic fork on the table.
My stomach lurched.
I should have known better than to blindly accept his “condition” for our interview. It wasn’t unheard of for players to have requests—or even hard limits—when it came to their press interactions. That applied to both the location of the interviews and the subject matter itself. After a decade of professional journalism and over a thousand interviews, I thought I had seen it all.
That was until Tucker had demanded a trade—one bite per question.
“I can’t.”
He smiled. “You can.”
“Seriously, man, sugar makes my skin break out, and I haven’t had processed meat in, like, three years.”
“Are you vegan?”
I shrugged. “Vegan-ish.”
“Oh god, you’re one of those ‘my body is a temple’ guys, aren’t you?”
“You know it,” I said around a smirk. “One that deserves to be worshipped.”
His eyes widened with surprise. He wasn’t the only one taken aback by my flirty response. I blamed it on the afternoon heat and overwhelming stench of barbecued pork and . . . caramel?
“Forget me.” I cutting him off before he could come up with some witty comeback. “I don’t know howyoucan eat all that.”
For his next bite, Tucker flexed his bicep as he lifted the fork to his mouth. “Somehow, I think I’ll be okay.”
We had been at this for nearly twenty minutes—him devouring plate after plate of sweet and salty fair food, barely coming up for air to answer my questions—and that was after waiting in lines for nearly twice as long. Surprisingly, Tucker hadn’t tried to use his local celebrity status to jump ahead. In fact, the only reason it had taken us as long as it had to get our food was because of all the selfies he’d stopped to take with fans.
We had already covered most of my questions about the All-Star break, the team’s philanthropic efforts, and even a few personal questions about Tucker’s rich dating history—there was no topic too taboo for the Roasters’ second baseman—which meant it was time to hold up my end of our bargain.
“C’mon, Hell,” he goaded. “Pick your poison. There must be something on the table you can eat.”
