Wild Pitch (Dominating the Diamond Book 1)

CHAPTER 24

Ramirez smashes the ball like I knew she would. She seems to surprise herself, stepping back from the plate and staring at the bat in her hand as if someone swapped it out for a strange, foreign object. I let her have her moment, expecting her to turn and say something–half-expecting it to be something bratty–but she simply steps back up to the plate, adjusts her stance, and waits.

She misses the next fast ball, coming in a little too late as she adjusts to the extended rotational length. I brace myself for her argument that my adjustments were wrong, that this is why she positions herself the way she does, that she needs those two extra inches of control.

Like last night, when all of her shyness and self-consciousness melted away in my hot tub, like that moment where she placed her hand just below my throat and took control, Ramirez surprises me. When she steps back from the plate, she raises the hem of her shirt to wipe the sweat from her brow, showing off so much golden-brown skin in the sunlight. She drops her shirt and waits.

The bat clips the next ball, and I am almost too distracted by her grunt–surprise, exertion, and frustration bundled in that throaty, little sound–to dodge as it clips it foul. Her shoulders rise and drop on a centering breath, and she waves over her shoulder for the next one.

“That’s it. Perfect,” I say when she sends it sailing. I let her have a few more. Five balls in a row, I watch her settle into beautiful form. “How’s that feel?”

“You know it’s good, but that doesn’t matter.” She tosses her bat to the turf and walks toward me. “Even if they let me in the line-up, I”m never going to get on base hitting like this.”

“You sound awfully sure of that. Give me your phone; let me record you because you’re clearly not seeing what I am.”

My mind jumps into the gutter with those words on my lips. I need to adjust myself, as blood rushes to my dick in these pants that won’t hide a thing.

“I don’t need to watch myself to know that every single one of those balls would have been an easy flyout. It doesn’t matter how good my form is, not one of those would have made it over the wall.”

I crouch down over my bag before she can see the way her little attitude makes me grin. Unzipping my bag, I pull out the bat that I’ve been forgetting to put away since the last time I visited Leila.

“Here.” I kick her bat out of the way and hand her my niece’s spare. I stand too close and inhale her strawberry, bubblegum scent. Ramirez doesn’t step back, but she eyes me suspiciously and reaches for the bat.

“It’s too heavy,” she says. Brown eyes go wide as she tests the balance of the bat. An inch longer and only a couple ounces heavier, I have no doubt she can handle it.

“Try it,” I say, trying not to think dirty thoughts about how many inches she can handle while I’m placing my hands on her hips and spinning her back toward the batter’s box. “For me.”

“Ugh, fine. You’re so pushy.”

She’s slow on the first ball. Clips the second. Fouls off the third. Grounds the fourth with a bad bounce that would have probably landed her on first base.

I’m not surprised when Ramirez drops the bat and turns with both hands on her hips, one foot kicked out in front of her, toes tapping in irritation, and an I told you so expression on her face.

“Pick it back up.”

“You pick it up,” she says, and I know that as captain, I should put an end to that attitude before she lets it out in front of our other teammates. But as a man–fuck. What I wouldn’t give to have someone talk to me like this every day. It just can’t be her.

I drop to a squat to retrieve the bat. Instead of rising, I stare up at her, the position so similar to last night, flooding me with memories of tasting the chlorine on her skin, and I delight in the way pink washes across her cheekbones. Inappropriate and risky don’t begin to describe the feelings consuming me, but if she told me to kneel right here, right now, I would be hard-pressed to not drop to my knees with my legs spread wide around hers. If she grabbed my hair, I would let her guide my face wherever she wanted me, just for a chance to know how far she would go to control me.

Ramirez fights a smile and loses. Her irritation disappears behind hooded eyes, and her tight-lipped grin gives way to pearly, white teeth sinking into her full bottom lip.

“?Y ahora?”

She looks down at me in smug surprise. I relish every second, every degree of this intensity, but in the back of my mind, Oliver lurks with his condescending questions.

“Get up,” she laughs breathlessly. “Troublemaker.”

I am playing with fire and combusting from within. Still, I lean in and whisper, close enough to brush my lips along the shell of her ear with each syllable. “Only for you.”

Her hand in the center of my chest, pushing me away with a laugh, is only eclipsed by the reward of making her shiver under the scalding September sun.

“Are you ever going to practice, or are you going to keep harassing me all afternoon?” Her fingers curl in my shirt, and she keeps me close even after she’s pushed me away. Only a few inches shorter than me, Ramirez rolls her eyes, and it would be so easy to kiss the smirk off her lips.

“Don’t worry about me. You’ve got a few more in you before you finish.” I hold the bat between us. The way she looks at it like it’s offended her mother fills my belly with laughter.

“I am finished. You’re the one who–”

“No, rookie. You aren’t finished until I say you are. Here. Take it.” I push the bat into her hands and reach for her hips. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of my business once you’re done.”

She shoves the bat back at me, and I’m torn between putting my foot down in captain mode and dropping the matter entirely. As positive as I am that she could be a killer batter with just a few tweaks, pushing her too hard when the coaches won’t put her in the line-up without some serious convincing might be overkill. I’m about to turn away and shove the bat back in my bag when a flash of brown skin stops me in my tracks.

Ramirez peels her shirt off and tosses it aside to let her sweaty skin glow in the sunlight. Her pants hug low on her waist, and every attempt at clever innuendos leaves me speechless.

“Fine.” She takes the bat and leaves me empty-handed and staring at the sway of her full hips. “Let’s get this over with.”

“Hang on.” I set myself up behind her. I squeeze her hips, even though she doesn’t need my help squaring up. As badly as I want to let my fingers linger on her skin, I bring my hands up to adjust her batting position. “Be serious for a minute. I don’t want you to just swing, planning to miss so I’ll leave you alone.”

“I don’t want you to leave me alone; there’s just no point. I bat the way I do for a reason. I use the bat I have for a reason.”

I squeeze her hips because I can’t help myself. “Okay. What’s the reason?”

“Don’t play, Reyes. You know–”

“Pretend I don’t.” The temptation to wrap my arms around her waist and hold her is so strong, it almost pulls me under. “I genuinely believe that you can do this, so if you’re sure you can’t, I’m going to need you to come right out and say why.”

“Because the bat is too big,” she repeats, still dodging the words she doesn’t want to say. “Because I’m not strong enough–”

“The bat is a few ounces difference from what you use, rookie.”

“Because I’m a girl, okay? Is that what you want me to say? I hit with a women’s bat because I am a woman.”

“No, it’s not what I want you to say, but I think you needed to say it.” Her frustration hums through her skin, practically making her vibrate in my arms, but she lets me hold her through the outburst. “You hit with a smaller bat because that’s what manufacturers decided to sell to women.”

“That doesn’t change anything, Reyes. It’s semantics–”

“No, it’s not. My niece has a teammate who uses a women’s bat because they are barely four-foot-eleven in cleats and weigh a buck thirty soaking wet, and that is the bat that’s the right size for them. My niece uses the very same men’s bat you have in your hands because she is a five-foot-nine powerhouse who can squat more than half the baseball team dreams of deadlifting. Mass moves mass. And that’s why I know you can do this, no matter how much you try to protest.”

“Your niece is a ballplayer?”

“Yes. You’re one of her favorite players of all time, actually. It’s kind of annoying.” That gets a laugh out of her, and enough of the tension dissipates that I decide to keep pushing. “Now are you going to give this a real try, or are you going to make more excuses?”

“I’m not making excuses. Look, I get what you’re trying to say but–”

“Do you throw like a girl, rookie?”

“Excuse me?” Her hair whips against my chest as she tries to turn, and I know I’ve struck the right nerve.

“What? Does it make you mad if I say you throw like a girl?”

“Are you trying to insult me? What does that even mean?” She sputters, trying to give voice to her indignation. “It shouldn’t be an insult. I’m here, aren’t I? I keep proving myself, and I’m not some special snowflake who’s not like other girls. I just had two softball moms who were willing and able to fight for my spot on the teams–”

“Exactly. You throw like the professional pitcher you are. Because you practice to throw like a pro without putting yourself in a box of self-imposed limitations. So, stop telling me that you need to bat like a girl, as if that makes any more sense.”

She turns. Just her face. Her nose nearly close enough to brush my cheek while her hips remain steady and squared in my hands. Ramirez nods in acquiescence, and that’s it. She’s gone, focused back on the pitching machine and waiting for the next ball. Another opportunity–misguided as it may have been–to kiss her, come and gone in the blink of an eye.

I force myself away from her and grab the remote.

“Ready, rookie?”

She nods. No words. All her focus in that box.

I press the button and hold my breath.