“That doesn’t mean I don’t want to chat with you. If you gave us the chance, I think you’d like getting to know us, too. We’re pretty great.”
“I can’t see how that would end well.”
“Why not? You’re not the guy signing our cheques or shipping us off when we’ve run out of value here.”
“Being traded doesn’t mean you don’t hold value,” I correct him, not liking the way that sounds.
“It may as well. We’re professionals, Rome. We all know there will come a time when this team doesn’t need us anymore. All we can do is hope that time is after a winning season.”
A tight sensation tugs at my ribs, forcing me to shift on my feet. I open my shoulders a bit to try and ease the discomfort. “Your value is still very high, Beckett. I can’t see any of you being moved for a while yet.”
“Don’t make promises,” he drawls before knocking my shoulder. “But thanks. I’m pretty crazy about this team and our city.”
I nod, contemplating grabbing a drink of my own. “They can tell.”
“Sometimes I wonder if I should be doing more for them.”
“Them? The team?”
“Well, yeah, but the fans, too. I’ve seen the stories online the last few months, and they’ve been doing a lot of battling on my behalf.”
“I assume we’re talking about theSports Weeklysegment?” I ask coolly.
“That’s the one.”
“I wouldn’t put too much thought into what they say. They haven’t been taken seriously for years now. If their viewership was still where it was before their Maddox Hutton smear campaign, they’d be reporting on actual news and not low-level gossip.”
“The clickbait title they used was still good enough to draw in too many eyes.”
Is Beckett Rourke’s Off-Field Lifestyle Finally Catching Up To Him?
I remember almost every word of that article, and not because I had the writer for the bogus mouthpiece reach out asking for an inside statement. While they did, I remember it so clearly because the game they used as the baseline for his article was one that I watched him beat himself into a pulp for. It wasn’t his worst game by a long shot, but when our closer gives up a home run in the last inning with the score tied, everyone notices. He may as well have been the lone reason behind the loss, not the other pitchers who were stumbling on the mound or our top batters who went back-to-back-to-back with no hits.
The guy loves going out and celebrating his wins. It’s the losses that cut him deep. That’s how it always is in baseball. The highs are high, and the lows are so low you fight against them for weeks, unable to shake the disappointment.
“Nobody is taking it seriously, Beck. I’m not blowing smoke up your ass. I mean it.”
“Thanks.”
I jerk my head in a rough nod. “You’re welcome.”
An awkward silence creeps in as we stand side by side, neither of us knowing what else to say. From the corner of my vision, I can make out his heavy gulps of beer. His thirst seals my decision to find something of my own to drink.
Without another word, I turn from the bar and stare at the array of expensive champagne bottles waiting for the team. Three-tiered silver trays of food rest between the ice-filled buckets and bottles of harder liquor. I avoid it all and drop to a crouch in front of the mini-fridge built into the counter.
Beer usually turns my stomach with the reminder of late college nights spent on old bleachers, yet that’s what I reach for tonight. The silver can is chilly against my palm when I stand and crack it open, not bothering to pour it into one of the crystal glasses. Beneath the dim, yellow lights, I take a deep swig of the foamy liquid and fight a wince at the bitter taste.
“I swear to fuck, Wes, if you mention it one more time?—”
“Ow! Christ!”
“I’m going to do worse than that if you don’t put a sock in it.”
I recognize the female voice first. It makes no sense, but the soft, feminine edge of it is what I focus on. My spine goes as straight as a steel pipe as I whirl around and find myself drowning in a pair of impossibly vivid green eyes. The bolt of electricity that shoots straight through my middle knocks the wind out of me.
Brielle’s as focused on my being in front of her as I am on her standing so close. Her pouty pink lips are parted and glistening. Clawed nails are pressed into the sparkling fabric at her hip, pinching it. There’s no mistaking the interest that still lingers inher gaze as she gives me a bold once-over and taps her pointer finger against her skirt, drawing my attention lower.
The slight curve of it is wrapped in pink glitter. All of her is. From the halter around her delicate throat, the tapered front piece that only reaches her pierced belly button, and the thin waistband wrapping like a second skin around her waist. I’m a weak bastard. I let my eyes wander to the pale skin of her inner thighs and down to her muscled calves and the matching pink heels on her small feet instead of looking away.
