Chapter Twenty-Three
The stadium blows up in a deafening roar of screams and applause.
I can't help myself—I pump my fist in the air as adrenaline burns through my veins.
My teammates rush the mound, surrounding me in a tangle of arms and shouts and pure, unfiltered joy.
My heart is racing, and now I really do feel breathless.
A pile of players has overtaken me, but I couldn't be happier to get crushed.
"You showed that bastard!" Phil yells, clapping me on the back so hard I nearly stumble.
Through the crush of bodies, I catch sight of Morris slouching back to his dugout, shoulders hunched in defeat.
Briefly, our gazes connect, and I detect something beyond his usual arrogance.
Maybe it's respect, or possibly shock. Either way, I'll take it.
He shakes his head slightly before disappearing into the shadows of the dugout.
"Braddock! Braddock!" The crowd chants my name like I'm some kind of hero. Maybe today, I am.
The celebration continues as we make our way back to our own dugout. Hands slap my back, and voices congratulate me from all directions. The sweet taste of victory is on my tongue, and it's juicier than any beer could ever be.
"Didn't I tell you?" Phil says, his voice rough with emotion. "Didn't I say you had his number?"
I grin, still riding this high. "Yeah, you did. I'll never doubt you again, Phil."
"That curveball in the ninth…" He gestures wildly with his hands. "Pure artistry!"
An announcer comes on over the PA system. "Let's hear it for our hometown hero, Charlie Braddock! His fastball clocked in at…"
Everything seems to freeze while the damn announcer draws it out for as long as possible. I hate dramatic effect. Just fucking tell me. When Amy rushes up to me, wrapping her arms around my waist, we both wait in hushed anticipation. The entire stadium seems to hold its breath.
"One hundred point six!" the announcer virtually screams. "Charlie Braddock is in second place worldwide! Only Nolan Ryan could best that fastball!"
The stadium explodes again, the sound so intense I feel it vibrating through my bones. One hundred point six. Holy shit . I've never thrown that fast in my life. Not in college, not in the minors, not even before my injury.
"Charlie!" Amy races up to me, her eyes wide with excitement. Her hands are still gripping my waist, and I realize I'm holding her too, both of us locked in a moment of unbridled exultation. "Do you have any idea what this means?"
I can barely hear her over the roar of the crowd, but I can read the joy on her face. My teammates are losing their minds around us, jumping and shouting like little kids.
"It means I'm back," I exclaim, my voice cracking with emotion.
Her smile widens. "Damn right you are."
For a fleeting moment, I see something else in her eyes, something that goes beyond professional pride. It's gone before I can be sure, but it leaves me with a strange flutter in my chest that has nothing to do with baseball.
The post-game interviews are a blur. I'm shuttled from one reporter to another, microphones thrust in my face, cameras flashing.
I answer on autopilot, spouting the usual clichés about teamwork and perseverance, but inside I'm still reeling.
One hundred point six. The number echoes in my head like a mantra.
"How does it feel to silence your critics?" a reporter asks, her pen poised over her notepad.
I pause, considering how to answer. "It feels like…finding something you thought was lost forever."
Later, in the locker room, the celebration continues.
Someone's broken out the champagne—against regulations, but no one seems to care tonight.
The cork pops with a satisfying thunk, and the bubbly liquid splashes everywhere, drenching jerseys and cleats.
The guys are singing some off-key victory anthem they made up on the spot. It's terrible and perfect all at once.
I take a swig directly from the bottle when it's passed to me, the bubbles burning my throat in the best possible way. After a shower and a change of clothes, I head for the exit, still riding the high.
The hallway outside the locker room is quieter, the sounds of celebration muffled behind me.
I'm almost to the exit when I see her—Amy leaning against the wall, scrolling through her phone.
She's changed out of her coaching gear into jeans and a simple blue top that makes her eyes look even more beautiful, if that's possible.
"There he is," she says. "The man of the hour."
She gazes up at me with what I swear is…adoration.
"Just doing my job, Coach," I say, but I can't keep the grin off my face.
"False modesty doesn't suit you, Braddock." She pushes off the wall and walks toward me. "One hundred point six. That's not just doing your job. That's making history."
The hallway feels smaller suddenly, the air between us charged with something I can't quite name. My heart rate picks up again, and I wonder if she can hear it.
"I couldn't have done it without you," I admit. And it's true. Her relentless pushing, her refusal to let me wallow in self-pity after my injury—she deserves as much credit as I do.
"Don't be so modest." She grasps a handful of my shirt, dragging me closer. "What you did out there on the diamond made me so hot for you. Remember what I suggested earlier, before the all the melee?"
"Hmm, I think I've forgotten." But of course, I haven't.
She catches her lip between her teeth, letting it slide out gradually. "Tonight, you'll get the steamiest, raunchiest, most mind-blowing sex of your life, Braddock."
I lean closer until our lips brush. "Are you trying to seduce me, Coach Keller?"
Her laugh is low and sultry. "Is it working?"
"You know damn well it is." My voice sounds rough even to my own ears.
We're standing too close for a coach and player in a public hallway, but right now, I couldn't care less. The victory, the adrenaline, the way she's looking at me—it's all combining into something explosive.
"Your place or mine?" I ask, my hand finding her waist.
Amy's chest rises and falls heavily. "Mine. It's closer."
The drive to her apartment is torture. She insists on taking separate cars—for "appearances," she claims—but the anticipation building between us makes every red light feel like an eternity.
I follow her sedan through the Jacksonville streets, the city lights blurring as my mind races ahead to what's waiting for me.
When we finally arrive, I barely remember to lock my car. Amy's already at her door, keys jingling in her hand. The second we're inside, the pretense drops. She tosses her purse onto the floor, and I kick the door shut behind us.
"Get over here," I growl, pulling her against me.
Our lips crash together, hungry and desperate. She tastes like mint and victory. Her hands are everywhere—in my hair, under my shirt, clawing at my back. I press her against the wall, lifting her so her legs wrap around my waist.
"Bedroom," she gasps between kisses. "Down the hall."
I carry her there, our mouths still fused as we hungrily devour each other.
It's a miracle we don't crash into anything.
Her apartment is neat and minimalist, just like I'd expect from someone as focused as Amy.
But I don't have time to appreciate the decor because she's tugging my shirt over my head and running her hands over my chest, tracing the muscles there with an appreciative hum.
"God, Charlie," she breathes. "Do you have any idea how hard it's been not to have you inside me for so long? I know you needed to stay focused on your game, but still…"
"It's been torture for me too, baby." I lower her onto the bed, following her down, my weight pressing her into the mattress. Then I trail wet kisses down her throat, so hungry for this woman that my pulse is pounding in my ears.
"Know what turns me on the most?" she asks while arching beneath me.
"Your form. The way your body moves when you pitch.
It's like art and sex combined." Her fingers dig into my shoulders.
"And then you hit that one-hundred point six, and I nearly lost it right there in the dugout.
I wanted to drag you to the ground and ride you like a wild cowgirl. "
I laugh against her skin, my hand sliding under her shirt. "So it was my fastball that did it for you, huh?"
"Among other things." She pushes me back just enough to pull her shirt off over her head, revealing a lacy black bra that makes my dick twitch. "I've been planning this for weeks, imagining what I want to do to you—and with you."
"Go on, then. Fuck me, Coach." I drag a finger along the edge of her bra, watching goosebumps rise on her skin as her nipples tighten into stiff little peaks. "Tell me what else you've been planning."
She licks her lips, her gaze glossy, and drags her tongue over her lips again, more slowly this time. "Take off your pants and I'll show you."
The huskiness in her voice is so damn hot.
We're both frantic now, shedding clothes with no regard for where they land. When she's down to just her underwear, I pause to admire her body—the smooth curves, the toned muscles from years of athletic training, the flush spreading across her chest.
"You're staring," she whispers, but I can tell she likes it.
"Can you blame me?" I run my hands up her sides, feeling her shiver. "You're fucking gorgeous, Amy."
She hooks a leg around mine and flips us over with surprising strength, straddling me with a triumphant grin. "My turn to stare."
The woman will give me a heart attack. But who cares?
Her gaze travels down my body so slowly that I feel like I'm burning up from the inside out.
Next, she splays her hands over my chest and my abs, tracing every muscle with deliberate slowness.
"You know how long I've wanted this? How many nights I've lain awake thinking about having you like this, at my mercy? "
I grip her hips, guiding her against me. "Show me."