Letting my eyes dip down my body, I tongue my cheek. The generous chest I was blessed with sits high from the tightness of the bra, exaggerating my natural cleavage. The nude cups are decorated with stitched pink flowers that climb the first few inches of the shoulder straps before disappearing. I slip a nail beneath the right strap and exhale, looking lower.
My thighs press together as I stare at my reflection. It’s no surprise to me that filming myself turns me on. I’ve known that fact since the first time I turned my camera on and uploaded a short clip on After Hours six months ago. It was nothing more than a slow video of my stomach and lace-covered boobs, but I knew in that moment that I wanted to feel exhilarated like that again.
That’s when I started promoting my account online behind the usernamecrushedvelvet. The response was sudden and overwhelming, which encouraged me to start offering live videos and posting daily, even if I don’t have anything recorded to share. I’m far from a big name in this industry, but I’ve done alright, and I like it this way. If I were to get any more well-known, I can only imagine it would lead to problems.
Spinning from the mirror, I catch a glimpse of my soft green eyes and grin. I grip the back of my desk chair and twirl it toward me before I take a seat in front of my only blank bedroom wall. The website is already loaded up, so the only thing left for me to do is go live.
It isn’t hesitation that has me browsing the usernames of the members already waiting for me before starting, but excitement. I search for the one that’s been present for almost every single one of my live videos this last month, and when I find it, my pulse quickens.Quiethours.
Without keeping anyone waiting any longer, I position myself in front of the camera and get started.
2
ROMAN
I stareat the ceiling as I pump the bar for another rep, ignoring the burn in my biceps.
Weights clatter, followed by the low, deep grunts of a dozen sweaty men. My right earbud died ten minutes ago, leaving me vulnerable to the distracting mess around me. This is only proving why I insist on working out by myself instead of with the team I’ve been managing for the last five years.
Even my thighs are tight by the time I set the bar back into place and slowly rise. I pant while sweeping my gaze over the bright gym. Searching for any sign of injury or fatigue, I run my sweaty palms down the front of my shirt.
I’ve been called too observant a thousand times in my lifetime, and I wear that badge with honour, knowing it’s what’s gotten me here as one of the youngest-ever managers of an MLB team. Being observant is what keeps my players healthy and the wins high on the record books.
My team’s gotten too good at ignoring my prodding looks, though.
With the exception of Wesley Hayes, at least. That guy is far too oblivious for his own good at times. Especially when he’s distracted by his best friend, Finn Avery. The catcher-and-pitcher combo is deadly on the field, but behind closed doors, they’re my worst nightmare.
Wesley has long since stalled his weighted squats. Instead, he’s grown enthralled by the sight of whatever is lighting up Finn’s phone screen. It’s none of my business what these men do when we’re off the field—somewhat, at least—but my irritation with their lack of drive to finish up here still bothers me.
I stand and move to the row of stationary bikes a few feet from where they’ve congregated at the squat rack. Neither of them notices me when I sit on the middle one and get started.
“Why are you taking pictures of that guy?” Wesley asks.
My music is too quiet, even with one earbud still working. I pick up the pace of my cycling and tighten my grip on the handles as I try not to eavesdrop.
“Aubrey needs some date suggestions.”
“Did you forget we’re in Texas? Are you planning on bringing this guy home to Vancouver with us after the series?”
My brows draw in at that idea as I stare at the man who’s still sprawled out on the weight bench adjacent to the one I’ve just vacated. I didn’t notice him much before this, considering I don’t know who he is, but I’m positive he isn’t a ballplayer. Not one that I know.
We’re in the hotel gym rather than the one at the Texas stadium that we’ve been using the last three days. It’s a great facility, but I try to keep myself as distanced from the team as I can, and that includes not working out with every player in the clubhouse’s gym.
Finn and Wesley weren’t here the last two days, so I can’t be sure why they’ve opted out of joining the other players at the stadium. It’s not my business, either.
“Obviously not. I’m just trying to see what type of guys she’s into,” Finn says.
“You could just ask?”
I almost laugh when I catch Finn balking at his best friend. He’s not intimidating in the slightest, with his messy blond hair, matching mustache, and goofy grin that he flashes whenever possible. If anything, he’s more like a golden retriever with his tail wagging for anyone who grants him a second of attention. Wesley isn’t too different, but he’s a bit more closed off.
He was already a member of the team when I came on, but didn’t hesitate to offer me a hand with getting to know the other player. Where Finn’s blue-eyed and blond-haired, Wesley has light brown hair and a pair of eyes to match. If you put the three of us together, the only things we’d have in common are our love of baseball and two sets of brown eyes.
Finn types away on his phone while he speaks. “Yeah, I’ll get right on that, Wes. Or, even better, you could send her a text and ask.”
“Is this why you didn’t want to go to the gym with everyone else?” Wesley ignores Finn’s poking.
“I wasn’t about to send her photos of the team.”
