Chapter Four
The training room's a wreck—bats, helmets, and gear flung everywhere.
My foot connects with a baseball and sends it skittering across the floor.
It's like walking through a damn minefield.
I hate this place, the low drone of the lights, the smell of sweat and desperation.
It's the smell of failure, I guess, and it's wafting off me in waves.
My shoulder feels stiff, and I rotate it, hoping nobody's around to see me wince.
To escape the stale smells, I head outside.
That's when I notice her , standing by the pitching mound like she's the new fastball queen who'll take over my slot on the team.
Amy holds a clipboard in one hand, and her ponytail bobs as she shakes her head slightly.
Amy wears an Admirals cap, and she's waiting for me.
Her confident stance and expression make me uneasy.
"What took you so long, Braddock?" she asks. "Must've been playing with your ball for too long this morning."
Maybe I am holding a shiny new ball in my hand, but I don't appreciate her innuendo. Wouldn't mind feeling up those luscious tits, though. Or her lips, which she's currently licking over and over like she wants to devour me.
Amy glances down at the bulge in my pants, her lips curling up at one corner in an appreciative way. Then she makes a come-hither gesture. It doesn't seem sexual at all, unfortunately. That's just the way a coach might summon a player. I halt an arm's length from her.
My coach shakes her head and frowns slightly. "Did you go on a bender last night? You look like hell, Braddock."
"Why are you riding my ass so hard? This is how I am first thing in the morning, buttercup. Impressed yet?"
She ignores the dig and checks something off her clipboard, completely unfazed. "You need rehab, not a babysitter. You'll hate me most of the time, but I'm the only one who can turn you around and keep you out of the minors."
I snort. "You talk tough, but let's see your credentials, sweetheart. I bet you're fresh off the T-ball circuit."
"Let's see your World Series ring, sweetheart ," she fires back, and damn if it doesn't sting more than I want to admit.
I drop the ball and fold my arms over my chest. "Guess you're also the new team shrink, huh?"
" Coach , Braddock, not shrink." Her steely gaze locks onto mine. Those eyes are fierce, daring me to keep making excuses. "Are you ready to get to work yet? Or would you rather whine and moan some more?"
Wouldn't mind making her moan…but that would get me into way more trouble. "I'm here, aren't I? That's proof I want to do the work."
Amy puckers her lips and squints at me for long enough that I start to get seriously annoyed.
But I take a deep breath and release all the tension.
Well, as much as I reasonably can, considering the circumstances.
I glance around at the weights and resistance bands scattered at her feet like some medieval torture setup.
My coach sets down the clipboard and steps up to me with confidence in her stance and her eyes. "Let's start with some basics. Show me those stretches we talked about."
"Here? On the field?"
She rolls her eyes. "No, Braddock. You'll train in the workout room until I decide you're ready for more. Let's go."
Amy walks away without another word, and I follow like a scolded puppy.
Everything inside me screams to fight back, but there's something about her that makes resistance feel futile.
Nothing special about the workout room either, with its cold floors and mirrors that force you to face reality.
I was hoping for a miracle, but it's the same as always—a place where players go to work off their frustrations or work through their loser phases.
Amy picks up a resistance band, tossing it at me. "Let's see what you've got, hotshot."
I catch the band just in time, fumbling only a little. "You mean I have to do all the work myself?"
She laughs, which throws me off guard because it sounds melodic, like she really finds me funny instead of just pathetic. "Afraid of a little exercise? I thought you'd be happy I wasn't hovering over you."
Her words needle at me until all my thoughts blur into one persistent hum: Prove her wrong . I loop the band around the bar and give it a test pull. My shoulder complains, but I grit my teeth and keep going.
"That the best you can muster?" Amy isn't even writing anything down. She simply stands there, hands on her hips, like she's waiting for me to collapse into a puddle and burst into tears. "This is me taking it easy. Can't risk showing off too much at the start."
"Uh-huh. Try lowering your shoulder a bit."
I do it her way, fighting the urge to tell her where she can stick that pointer finger of hers. "Like this?"
"Exactly like that." She smiles, and I wonder if she's surprised that I listened—and did what she wanted me to do.
I push through a couple more reps, each one loosening the stiffness in my shoulder and winding it tighter in my chest. "What's next, boss?"
"Weights. But with the way you're huffing and puffing already…"
A quick glance over my shoulder tells me she's serious, and I don't know whether to be impressed or frustrated. I drop the band and move to the weights. "You trying to kill me, Coach?"
Her lips quirk into an almost smirk. "Just waking you up."
Oh, trust me, baby, I'm awake. Your sexy body keeps me charged up all day and all night, if only in my dreams.
Amy hands me a dumbbell. Her fingers brush against mine, and my dick twitches, though she doesn't seem to notice. "A light one for your delicate condition, old man."
"Gonna give me one in pink?"
"Would you prefer sparkles?" She lifts her chin, and there's a dare in her eyes.
I grunt and get started. The reps go smoother than I expect, but by the last set I'm ready to call it a day and possibly a career.
Still, there's something satisfying about it too—like proving her wrong is more important than anything else.
The burn in my muscles distracts me from the gnawing doubt in my head.
I set the weight down with a clatter and a pointed look at her, waiting for more smart remarks.
She doesn't take my bait. Instead, she nods and scribbles something on that damn clipboard of hers. "So, what do you think, Braddock? Ready to trade me for someone with bigger tits?"
The question knocks the wind out of me. Is my coach hitting on me? That would be sexual harassment. So I must have misheard her. I pull in a sharp breath before answering. "I'll give you two more sessions. If I'm not seeing results by then…"
Amy raises an eyebrow, waiting for me to finish my thought. Waiting for me to crack.
"If I'm not seeing results, you're fired—and so am I."
She smiles with satisfaction as if she expected nothing less from me. "Good. Make a decision about your wife before then too."
Her eyes flick down to my left hand.
I stopped wearing my ring the day after my ex-wife filed for divorce and announced she was going back to her maiden name. "Alicia is my ex-wife. I rarely see her these days, and I'm not in love with her anymore."
"Glad to hear it."
"You don't need to worry about my love life interfering with recovery. I haven't even dated anyone casually for at least a year."
"Good." Amy folds her arms and squints at me. "If there's one thing worse than a has-been, it's a has-been with girl problems." She waves toward the door. "Now get out of here. Show up tomorrow ready to work even harder."
I flash her a cocky smile, but my heart's not really in it. "You mean ready to whine and bitch?"
"Love that enthusiasm," Amy says with a smirk as she turns away, leaving me with nothing but the cold workout room and my own lousy thoughts.
What she doesn't understand is how desperate I am—desperate enough to beg for help before I leap off the side of the Titanic. But she'll figure it out. One thing I've learned is that Amy Keller is whip smart. Two more sessions? Hell, she'll have me figured out by lunch tomorrow.
I leave the training room, feeling like I've been run over by a truck and then kicked by a mule for good measure. It's a good kind of whipped, though.
Outside, the sun beats down so hot that I start to wonder if my car will melt into a puddle on the asphalt, and I squint into the bright Jacksonville morning.
Well, late morning. My body might be spent, but my mind is on overdrive.
Maybe I should've mentioned to Amy that my ex-wife popped up again last week and rattled my cage with a sexy offer for tequila shots that we would drink off each other's bodies. The offer was tempting, but…
I'd rather fuck Amy.
Oh, no you don't, moron. Coach Keller is the only one who can get you into shape, so don't screw it up .
No sex for Charlie. Damn .
I settle for a slice of celibacy pie and make my way to the locker room, hoping a shower might rinse off at least some of this defeat. The room's empty, except for a couple pairs of beat-up cleats sitting in the corner like they're taunting me. I fumble with my locker and dig out a towel.
Water beats down on my back, almost too hot but not quite enough to scald out the mess in my head.
Amy's voice echoes in my mind—has-been, girl troubles, old man.
Everything I already know but don't want to hear.
I soap up and try to focus on the fact that I survived day one without falling apart. That's gotta count for something.
Hopefully humiliation burns calories.
Just as I'm about to step out of the shower, my mind decides to torture me with images of Amy's hot body. Those luscious tits. Her toned muscles. The way her stiff nipples jutted. I feel too wired to go home, but I need to rest my muscles. When I glance down, I suddenly realize why I'm wired.
My dick is waving like a flag.
Aw, shit . How long will it take for my cock to go flaccid? Yeah, those are words I never imagined I'd think. The face of my sexy coach flashes through my mind, and suddenly, I'm breathing harder. Only one way to cure this little, ah, problem.
I wrap my hand around my cock and begin to pump in a rhythm that feels like an intimate dance, a solo performance where every stroke brings me closer to the edge—with Amy's face hovering in front of me.
Here, I am the master of this dirty workout, every movement deliberate and familiar, promising satisfaction.
The wet sound of my hand pumping fills the space, along with my grunts and hissing breaths.
"Fuck," I growl. "Amy, ah…"
I hiss and snarl, pumping faster and more urgently while I slap a palm flat on the shower wall.
I pump until my legs quiver and a surge of molten pleasure floods through me.
Oh, shit . I rest my head against the tile, letting the steam envelop me as I wait for my pulse to slow its wild pace.
How long has it been since I indulged myself like this in the shower?
It feels like an eternity. I never came this hard in the shower when I was married to Alicia.
Amy Keller turns me into a maniac.
When I finally drag myself out of the shower and get dressed, the locker room is still empty. Just me and some chipped linoleum tiles as an audience. Clean and dressed, I check my phone. Four messages from Alicia. Can't resist smiling even though I should know better.
Alicia: Dinner tonight? Pick you up after training?
Charlie: Sorry, busy tonight.
Before my ex-wife can try to seduce me into falling back into old habits, I shove my phone into my hip pocket.
The parking lot's mostly empty, just a few cars are still here.
Mine sits under a tree, and I'm grateful for the shade.
I slide into the driver's seat gingerly, feeling my morning workout throbbing in every muscle.
My phone buzzes again the moment I sit down.
I can guess who it is. It would be damn nuts to look.
So, of course, I do.
Alicia: Brunch tomorrow? You can't resist mimosas with me .
I let that statement hang in the air as I fire up the engine, blasting sports radio as if that will shake off the living ghost of my failed marriage.
A panel of analysts speculate about trades and line-ups, the Admirals' chances of making the playoffs this season, and more.
They talk about me like I'm already gone—"the player formerly known as Charlie"—and I twist the dial to shut them up mid-sentence.
Back at my apartment, I kick off my shoes and sprawl out on the sofa, too wiped to crawl into the bedroom. I live alone, so who cares if I don't even bother taking my shirt off.
If Amy doesn't kill me tomorrow, Alicia just might.