Chapter Five
My muscles burn. I can feel every step like a needle in my knee as I trudge into the dugout, leaving another brutal practice behind.
Amy's methods are ruthless. She stands on the field with her arms crossed, barking orders at me or whoever else gets in the way of the routine she's mapped out for me—or should I say the torture she's mapped out.
I collapse onto the bench, ignoring the way it groans under my weight, and stare out at the Jacksonville skyline glowing in the distance.
It's almost dark, but she's still out there.
My teammates gave up on practicing a while ago. As they left the field, the guys gave me encouraging thumbs-ups as well as grins and winks. Yeah, they've supported me all the way. But I have a feeling that if I can't get my fastball back soon, I'll be a former member of the Jacksonville Admirals.
Now that Amy and I are alone, I can't help but notice the way she stretches her arms above her head.
The movement awakens my dick in a way I really don't want to happen right now.
I swerve my head in the opposite direction, but my eyes insist on following her.
Phil is already here in the dugout, shuffling through papers like he doesn't have a care in the world.
"Long day?" he asks, raising his head just enough to glance at me sideways.
"Yeah, it feels that way," I mutter. My shirt clings to my skin, and even I can smell the sweaty stench wafting off me.
Phil goes back to his paperwork.
And I…well, I can't stop my mind from reliving every movement Amy made during our session.
The way her tits bounce when she pretends to throw a pitch.
How she bites her lip with her tongue sticking out a little every time she does that.
Oh, and I can't forget how she wriggles her ass while playing the umpire to my pitcher.
Yet I also can't forget the training routine. It's indelibly inked on my brain.
Amy's voice still echoes in my ears too, compelling me to remember how she pushed me to my limits, demanding more, unrelenting in her determination.
That's exactly what a great coach ought to do.
She's driven me into the ground since day one, and I'm beginning to realize that's what I've needed all along.
Her whip-cracking is the only thing that might get me back to where I was before the injury.
But every time I see her, every time I hear her call my name, the most inappropriate thoughts fill my head.
"You did well out there," Phil says. "Amy's a ballbuster, but she knows what she's doing."
I nod absently. Maybe I should give her credit, but I'm still pissed that I even care what she thinks of me.
The stadium is mostly empty, the distant sound of cars drifting in from outside.
The metal bench is cold beneath me. It's peaceful in a way, and I let myself relax for the first time all day.
I watch Phil, his sturdy frame leaning over the clipboard, his pen scratching methodically against the paper.
"You know," he says without looking up, "you are getting your form back."
"Doesn't feel like it." I flex my fingers, feeling the dull throb that races all the way up my arm. Still, I can't deny the pain has been lessening lately.
"It will come back," Phil assures me, his tone calm with a confident ring to it, like he's said these words a hundred times and they've always come true. "You'll be the fastball king again, trust me."
"Does Amy ever quit?" I ask, more to myself than to Phil.
He chuckles. "Not likely."
My gaze flicks to Amy, who's talking to another coach, and they both laugh at something one or the other said. Whenever Amy smiles…damn, it's hot. Makes me want to drag her into the nearest secluded spot and kiss her until she melts into me.
Phil turns toward me. "Ya know, I've watched you two out there. You and Amy."
I stiffen, confused about where he's going with this. "And?"
"Reminds me of when I was still playing."
I look at him, really look at him, and it's easy to forget sometimes that Phil was in my shoes once. His beard is starting to gray, and there's wisdom in his eyes that feels earned.
But I haven't earned anything yet. "What about me and Amy reminds you of your glory days?"
"Pushing too hard, getting frustrated, feeling like it's all slipping away. And someone standing there, making sure it didn't."
I follow his gaze back to Amy. She's ambling toward us both, though I'm sure she's aiming for me. I haven't been fully whipped yet today, after all. Not that I mind those whippings all that much these days.
Phil shifts on the bench, and I hear the soft rustle of paper. "You know how I ended up here?"
I shake my head, curious despite myself.
"I was the next big thing. Power hitter, tons of speed.
" He smiles as if he doesn't quite believe it anymore himself.
"Then one game, I take a pitch right to the wrist. Bone shatters.
Just like that, I'm off the roster. Not much to do when you're sitting on the sidelines and everyone's moving on without you. "
His words hit me harder than any fastball. I don't interrupt, letting him continue.
"The manager told me I was washed up. Offered me a coaching job in Single-A.
Might as well have been the bottom of the ocean.
But I took it. Couldn't imagine not being in the game at all.
" He pauses, his gaze catching mine. "I spent years building myself back, little by little.
Worked my way up to manager. I learned the hard way that it takes more than muscle to get back in the game. "
I exhale a slow, shaky breath. His story hangs in the air between us, heavy and real. "And your wrist?"
"Doing just fine. But not major league fine. Doesn't matter anymore, though, because I love being team manager."
I lean back, feeling the cool wood press against my back, and wonder if he's gently prepping me for the possibility that I won't get my game back. But I shouldn't think that way. I won't think that way.
Phil picks up the papers, stacking them with practiced ease. I watch him, absorbing the steady, comforting presence that he brings to this team. "Don't lose heart, Charlie. It's a process, and you're not alone."
Maybe I do have something left, and I just need to believe it.
Phil stands up, tucking the papers under his arm. "I'll see you tomorrow, Charlie."
I manage only a tight smile.
While Phil walks away, the clinking of his pen fades, leaving me alone with my thoughts.
Amy finally reaches the dugout, though she lingers on the top step, her hands grasping the roof. "Time to go home, Charlie. You need rest before our next session."
"Yes, ma'am."
I uncoil my body, wincing at the protest in my muscles, and stretch out the stiffness.
As I grab my gear, I turn away from Amy in the process.
When I shuffle around to face her, I'm stunned to realize she's moved directly in front of me.
I stare at her blankly, unable to move even one millimeter. Her hot breaths tickle my face.
"Everything okay, Amy?"
She nods slowly, biting her lip, releasing it little by little until it springs free. Her gaze wanders over my entire body. Why she wants to smell the stench of my sweat is beyond me.
"Amy?" I ask, feeling weird about this encounter.
She grasps a handful of my shirt, dragging me closer. "I have a radical idea for speeding up your recovery."
"No electric shock, please. My brain's already fried enough right now."
Amy ignores my dumb joke and instead stares deeply into my eyes. Her voice has grown huskier. "Do you trust me, Charlie?"
"Yeah, of course. You are my coach, after all." And I'm getting turned on more and more by the second, making my chest rise and fall with every breath.
She grazes her fingers over my cheek. "I don't usually like stubbly men, but your shadow beard makes me so damn hot for you."
My entire body freezes, from my toes all the way up to my scalp. It's a sexy kind of frozen, though. The sort that makes my dick spring to attention.
Amy licks her lips unhurriedly, dragging them back and forth. My breathing grows ragged and heavier. Her voice is throatier now when she finally speaks. "I believe the only thing that will supercharge your recovery is…sex."
Her words fire an electric jolt straight through me, like I've taken a hundred-mile-an-hour fastball straight to the chest—but in a good way. A really good way. She's tugging on my shirt, and the tug travels downward gradually until she reaches the hard-on straining against my pants.
"Is this some kind of cruel experiment?" I can barely breathe or speak. Though I try to sound cool, there's too much hoarseness in my voice to pull it off.
Amy leans into me, her gaze intense. "This is no experiment, Charlie."
Only now have I noticed she's calling me Charlie instead of Braddock.
That does it. Every molecule in my body leaps for her all at once. I close the gap between us at lightning speed. But then I slow down, brushing my lips against hers so tentatively that I might as well be a twelve-year-old who's experienced his first crush on the cutest girl in school.
Amy doesn't want to wait for me to unfreeze. She kisses me harder than I expect—than anyone should ever expect. And holy fuck, it feels amazing.