Page 21 of Praising the Pitcher

“Yeah … see, the moaning isn’t what does it,” he basically coos, delight filling every crevice of his face. “Not at all.”

“What is it then?” I shrug, pulling my pony tighter. “Their words telling you how good you are?” I lift an unconvinced brow.

“Their pussies squeezing my dick,” he deadpans, though his smirk remains. “When my dick feels like it’s being strangled, it’s hard not to know how much they’re enjoying themselves.”

My back stiffens, eyes growing wide. For a moment, I stand here, frozen and ready to insert my foot in my own mouth. I’ve read enough sex scenes from the dude’s point of view to know a woman’s body tells him when she’s at … that point. How stupid of me not to remember that. I’ve just never experienced it for myself with a man to know.

But you’ve felt yourself clamp around your fingers, you dumbass. That thought hits me like a freight train, and I feel even more embarrassed. I’ve had sex one time, and I certainly didn’t orgasm. But I’ve brought myself to that point plenty of times to know better.

“Right. Well, okay, you are the orgasm master,” I stammer. “Good for you.” I bob my head up and down. “Anyway, I need you to flip over so I can change my pants before I leave.”

“Where ya running off to so fast, Smoke?”

“I have practice.”

“Yeah, at ten. I woke up early and messaged your trainer,” he says with complete nonchalance, but I’m sure he sees the instant panic in my eyes. “And before you freak out, she was understanding. So like I said … you have practice at ten, which is the same time as me. So what’s the hurry?”

I look down. I’m a lot. My routines? They’re a lot. Every day I do the same thing. Even being here right now, sleeping in this late, is stressing me out.

“I need to eat breakfast before practice,” I finally say. “And then I need to change and make sure my softball bag has everything I need before I go to the facility.”

“We can go to the coffee shop on the way to your place,” he answers instantly, testing me. “They have bagels, donuts, whatever you want.”

I fight back the scrunch of my nose. That all sounds good, but I’ve learned the hard way I need to fuel my body with good things before training. If I don’t, I’ll just feel like crap again like I did after the French toast debacle.

“I … I just like to eat the same thing,” I stammer out. “To make sure I’ll feel good during practice, you know?”

“Every single day?” he utters. “You eat the same thing every single day?”

He’s judging me. I know he is. I’m annoyed about it, but can I really blame him? What kind of grown-ass woman needs to eat the same thing every day?

Me. That’s who.

“Yeah? So?” I shrug. “I like to be consistent. You know how hard it was for you to make it this far—even with a retired NFL player for a dad? Now imagine if you also were a female. Do you know how hard girls have to work to be seen? To be noticed? Not to be overlooked?” I feel my neck growing hot with anger. I have no doubt he’s worked hard to get here, but I guarantee I worked harder. I bet Haven did too. And Isla Hardy, Harland Meadows, and Lilly Hunt. “I’m sorry. I just … I’ve prided myself on consistency.”

He watches for a moment, studying me.

“What is it?” he finally says. “That you eat every day. What is it?”

I find myself even more awkward now because not only do I eat the same thing every day, it’s also extremely boring.

“Eggs. Toast. Fruit when I have it.”

“Coffee?” he asks, lifting a brow.

“Black coffee,” I murmur because no one in their right mind who is in college would prefer a black coffee over one with sugar and cream. But it’s all I know and I’ve come to … not hate it.

“Can you trust me?” he says, not making fun of my boring black coffee. “I’m not asking you to change anything crazy, but what if we both compromised and went to get protein smoothies? It’s not boring like eggs and toast, but it’s not shit like donuts either.” He flashes me a small smile. “And after, I’ll take you to your car so you can get to practice with plenty of time to spare. Deal?”

I don’t know why he’s so set on taking me to breakfast today, and a big part of me worries I’ll feel like crap if I don’t eat what I normally do. Yet, here I go, once again finding myself saying yes to my best friend’s brother.

“Okay,” I agree shyly. “Now turn around so I can finish getting dressed.”

Throwing the blanket off, he winks and climbs out of bed. Walking right toward me, he stops, only in his briefs and nothing else. “I’ll do you one better. I’ll go shower.”

Leaning around me, he reaches in his dresser and grabs a pair of briefs, and for a few seconds, all I can do is stare because he’s so stupidly hot. And the worst part? He’s fully aware of it too. He knows he’s wildly charming and foolishly attractive, and he uses it to get under my skin.

Finally, I smack his chest lightly. “You slept in those?” I blurt out, waving a hand toward the briefs but making sure my eyes stay on his face—even if they don’t want to. “Seriously?”