Stolen Bases (The Miller Brothers #3)

1. Cameron

one

Cameron

“Hello, slut.” My brother Eli’s voice vibrates through my car’s speakers as he answers my call.

I roll my eyes at the comment. Eli already knows I was out last night, no thanks to some scumbag paparazzi who probably captured me out with the woman I’d taken to dinner and posted it online. My date was beautiful and nice, but … meh. She did nothing for me, and I won’t be seeing her again.

Before you ask—no, I did not sleep with her.

“I’m not a slut, you dick waffle.”

Do I like women? Hell yes. Believe me when I say they like me too. But contrary to what people believe, I’m not a manwhore.

Eli barks a laugh. “Sure, you’re not, bro.”

This fucking guy, I swear.

Okay, so maybe I date a lot of women, and maybe—just maybe—I have slept with a decent number of them, but not all of them. And that was all in the past. Now, I have standards. Scout’s honor.

I’m not the same twenty-four-year-old guy who liked to fuck around. Not that I am looking to settle down, but if the right girl came along… Let’s just say I’d be open. I see what my brothers, Jace and Mason, have. Somewhere, deep down and hidden away, I might someday want that too.

Just not yet.

What I really want is to win the World Series. I want my name engraved on the Commissioner’s Trophy forever. That’s my dream. I’ve been playing Major League Baseball for nearly a decade, and I’ve almost won a few times with the Los Angeles Evaders, but close won’t cut it.

I want it all. Winning the World Series is what I’ve been working towards all my life.

“Are you already in the office?” I ask, changing the subject.

I’m on my way to the stadium for some spring training workouts and meetings, and I called Eli for help, not to get slut shamed.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Unlike you, I have an actual job that requires me to work. I don’t get to play baseball outside all day long.”

“Gee, you’re sounding more like Mason in your old age,” I joke, masking my annoyance.

Eli laughs again, and my irritation dissipates. The jabs about my job and personal life are getting old. I question whether he—and the rest of my family, for that matter—takes me seriously at all.

“I have a real job, you know.”

I’ve worked my ass off to get into the MLB. I still work my ass off. Being one of the top-rated pitchers in the league comes with a lot of pressure and takes dedication, which is something I am not short on.

It’s just… As the youngest of four brothers, my family automatically lumped me into the “wild child” category. I’m the funny, carefree brother. Some days, I don’t know if I’ve become the person they expect me to be, or if I really am who they say. I like to think there’s more to me than being a goofy playboy.

My big bro sighs. “Sorry, kid. I know you work hard. I’m just stressed. Stuff’s been…” His voice falls off as if he’s deep in thought.

A couple of years ago, he and his best friend opened up their own talent agency. They manage and represent a lot of A-list clients in the entertainment industry. I am really proud of my brother and all that he has accomplished.

Eli’s the reason I studied sports management in college. I figured maybe I could go work with him if I ever got hurt or too old for baseball.

“Too old” is getting closer with every passing season.

“Princess problems?” I’m referring to his number one client.

He hums a non-answer.

I let the topic go. “Want to grab a beer later?”

“Sounds good. So, tell me, why the early call? You nervous?”

“Yeah. Thought maybe you had the scoop.”

Eli might not represent athletes, but he knows a lot of people who do. My brother has a way of scoring insider information on all the big names, no matter the industry they work in.

“I asked around,” Eli gets to the point, his voice grim.

The sense of dread I’ve been carrying for the past few weeks burrows deeper in my stomach.

“He’s got an offer with the Goliaths, and it’s likely an offer from the Evaders too. There have been talks on both sides.”

“Fuck,” I groan, pulling up to a red light.

Rumors have been flying around for weeks that the catcher from the Los Angeles Saints has gone free-agent and is up for grabs. I’ve been hoping it was just that—a rumor.

Nico fucking Romero.

In his thirties, Romero is still in top form. He’s a powerhouse hitter and a great catcher. Only problem? He’s a total asshole.

We went to college together and played on the Southern California University baseball team.

Go Kodiaks.

For some reason, the prick has had it out for me since I met him, and it’s gotten worse over time. He’d bait me with snarky, underhanded comments in the locker room. It was obvious he was angry and itching for a fight. I never took the bait. I refuse to give him the satisfaction of knowing he gets to me.

Romero’s got a major chip on his shoulder, and I know, down to my bones, it’s not about me. It doesn’t mean I don’t want to punch his fucking teeth out .

When he made it to the big leagues—a season after me, and three for him in the minors—it only got worse. The guy made it a mission to run his mouth at me, on the field or on camera. Romero always has something to say about me. I wish he’d keep his mouth shut, but the fans love it.

“Are you going to be okay?” Eli asks.

He knows Romero and I have a beef. The whole fucking world knows it. I don’t know what I ever did to that guy, but it’s clear he can’t stand me.

“Yeah, of course.” My fists tighten around the steering wheel as my skin grows hot with anger. Taking a deep breath, I force my pulse to slow. “Nothing I can do. Management knows there’s an issue. If that’s the way they want to go, I’m just going to suck it up. Besides, he’s the one with the problem.”

“You got this, brother. I’ll let you know if I hear more.”

“Thanks, E. Appreciate it, man.”

“Anytime, kid. See you tonight.”

“See ya.”

Our call disconnects as I pull into the players’ parking lot.

The sun’s golden rays dance across the Evaders stadium, casting the iconic architecture in a warm, golden glow. Wispy clouds drift hazily overhead in the early morning azure-blue sky.

My negative thoughts evaporate like raindrops on hot cement. Standing here, on the hill towering above the city like a king, I’m reminded that this is the dream.

I bleed Evaders blue. Nothing and no one will stop me from bringing home the trophy.

I’m here to play ball.

The clip restarts, and my brows furrow at the image before me. In slow motion, I watch as my elbow drops too low and locks straight before I throw the ball downhill off the mound .

Well, that explains the elbow pain.

“Do you see it?” Coach Turner asks, rewinding the film for us to review again.

Matt “The Bullet” Turner never misses a thing. It’s why he’s one of the best pitching coaches out there. He’s a two-time World Series winner and has pitched three no-hitters, putting him in the baseball Hall of Fame with pitchers like Cy Young. Now, the Tom Selleck looking pitcher spends his retirement days coaching us on how to keep our bodies strong for long-lasting careers like his.

“Yeah, I see it,” I grouse.

“How’s your arm, Cam?” Before I open my mouth, he cuts me off and huffs. “And don’t bullshit me.”

I scoff, lifting my hat off my head and running my fingers through my shaggy curls. Fuck, I need a trim . “Like I would ever chance an injury, Coach T.”

“Really?” he asks like he doesn’t know I was the one who signaled for Anson, our team manager, to pull me out in the middle of the seventh inning.

Unfortunately, sending me off wasn’t enough. We ended up losing the last game of the series to the San Francisco Goliaths, which knocked us out of the pennant race.

Not only did we lose the division championships, but we also lost our catcher, Gage Thompson, in a freak accident when a runner on third decided to steal home, cleats up. Thompson took the hit, but he broke his fibula and pulled his groin, effectively ending his career. Now our trusted catcher is gone.

My elbow is the least of my worries at the moment, as I think back to my earlier call with Eli.

Shaking it off, I concentrate on my job. “Really. Elbow is good. You know I don’t fuck around. I’ve been following all of Doc’s instructions. I feel strong and ready for the season to start.”

Not a lie. I have been ready since I walked onto the field for my first T-ball game. I knew then that I wanted to be a baseball player. I’m in my early thirties now, but my dream is still the same.

There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do to stay in the game.

Strict rehab? Extra training sessions? Daily PT? You name it; consider it done. Going above and beyond to ensure my career lasts has always been my top priority. Even if I can’t pitch, I’m prepared to make my mark in any position.

I eat, sleep, and breathe baseball.

I have no off-season. When I’m not pitching, I’m hitting, running, and doing field drills to keep my skills sharp. I’m what you call a five-tool player, and I have worked my ass to be seen as such.

“That’s what I like to hear. As for this, I’m going to chalk the elbow strain up to you pushing too hard. I’ll be watching you when we start up. I don’t want to see these lazy mechanics. You’re better than this, Miller.” Coach Turner isn’t telling me something I don’t already know.

As soon as I was off the mound, my dad was texting, concerned about my arm and criticizing my throw. Mark Miller takes injuries seriously. He ruined his shoulder playing ball in high school, killing his dream of making it to the big leagues. It’s one of the many reasons he pushed me to finish college before going pro.

Always have a backup plan.

“Yes, sir,” I joke with a salute.

Turner’s lips twitch from under his thick, graying mustache as he turns back to the screen.

We continue to watch more tape of me on the mound, making notes on what else I need to be aware of when we get back into the bullpen.

A knock sounds behind me, and coach Anson appears at the door, his grizzled face set in a scowl, per usual, as he grunts, “Miller. My office. Now.” He turns and leaves without another word.

“The boss has spoken. Better hurry.” Turner turns off the video feed. “We can pick this up tomorrow. Don’t forget to follow up with Doc before you head out on vacation.”

“Will do. Thanks, Coach. ”

The air is hot and stagnant as I make my way to the boss’s office. I might as well be walking the green mile to my fucking death sentence right now. My heart rate spikes, and my palms sweat as I follow the corridor towards Anson’s office. I nod at a couple of trainers and Evaders staff members as I pass them, my ever-playful smile securely in place and masking the inner turmoil taking root in my head.

Rowan Anson sits behind his desk, staring at his laptop, his sandy-brown hair hidden beneath his ball cap. He’s in his mid-to-late fifties, but you wouldn’t know it if you looked at him. A former player himself, Anson stays in shape, many times working out with the team and putting us through the wringer. He is by far one of the best managers in the league, with three World Series wins with the Boston Revs.

When the Evaders poached him two years ago, it was one of the greatest days in my life. I’ve been a fan since I was a kid. To work with him is a dream come true. I know our team can claim the trophy with him at the helm, leading us there.

I knock on the door frame, grabbing his attention. “You wanted to see me, Coach?”

“Close the door and take a seat, son.” He points to the oversized navy armchair in front of his desk.

I do as he asks and close the door, giving us privacy. The hairs on the back of my neck tingle.

This is it.

Taking a seat, I distract myself and my spiraling thoughts by checking out the newspaper clippings and awards that cover the wall behind him, some of which are from his own baseball career with the Chicago Antiochs.

When my eyes meet his, I already know how this conversation is going to go. My spidey senses are never wrong.

Anson gets straight to business. “Upper management has signed Romero to take Thompson’s spot.” He stares at me, waiting for a reaction .

There is none. I’m shocked but also not shocked.

“You know,” he states with a knowing chin lift.

“I had an idea.” Thank fuck I called Eli before heading in today.

“Should I be worried?” He rubs his fingers over the mustache above his thick lips.

What is it with old guys and mustaches?

“Not with me, sir. Romero, on the other hand…” I tip my hands like scales and shrug. “He might be a problem.”

“Explain to me how this started?”

I can’t stop my laugh from sounding like a scoff. “I’d love an answer for that myself. Let’s just say since I’ve known him.”

“From what I understand, you both played baseball at SCU together?”

“We did. To say we didn’t mesh is an understatement, and not for the lack of trying on my part. He just doesn’t like me. Never has.”

Anson hums. He looks off into space, deep in thought, working the problem out in his head. He lets out a sigh. “Seems like we are going back to elementary school for the season.”

“Um, what does that mean, Coach?”

“It means, from here on out, you and Romero are like peanut butter and jelly. You will room together. You will sit together on all flights. If he shits, you will stand by the stall, waiting for him with a roll of toilet paper. You will be inseparable until you two can work out your shit together. I don’t need you to be best friends off the field, but while you’re here, in my house, you will act like brothers. You will make it work. Do you hear me?”

The fuck?

Anson can’t be serious. Can he?

My mouth bobs like a fish’s as I try to find the words.

His eyes bore into mine, making it clear his decision is final.

I nod my assent. There isn’t a damn thing I can say, and I respect Anson too much to defy him. I want to win, and if that means working with Nico, so be it.

“I will have the same conversation with Romero when I meet him later this week. Upper management is aware of my concerns about the signing, and this was my stipulation. They agreed. I better not hear about you going over my head.”

The air in my chest whooshes out, my heart rattling in my chest. His accusation stings, but I understand. Many players have tried and failed to go over their coach’s head by speaking to the front office.

“You don’t have to worry about me.” I would never jeopardize my career by complaining. I’m more of a “work harder and keep my head down” kind of guy. “Is that all, sir?”

Anson stares me down again. “For now.”

With a slap to my knees, I stand and head for the door.

Before I’m out, Anson calls back to me, “One more thing, Miller.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Have fun at your brother’s wedding. But not too much fun. I don’t want to see your ugly mug with another woman in the gossip rags, you hear me?” His jaw twitches as he holds back a smile.

His switch in demeanor lightens the mood and reminds me why I love playing for him. He might be a hard-ass on the field, but Anson truly cares about us players. He’s invested in our lives professionally and personally.

I shoot him a wink and my signature Miller smile. “Can’t help it if the paparazzi think my dates are as pretty as me.”

That gets a chuckle out of him, and I preen like a peacock at his reaction. It’s difficult to get something more than a scowl from him.

“Cocky asshole. You need a good woman, not some pretty little thing with nothing to offer. Just you wait until the right one knocks you on your ass. I hope I’m around to see it.”

“I welcome the challenge.” With a wave, I head out of his office and make my way towards the locker room for a shower .

With how the conversation went, I desperately need a good stiff drink to prepare myself for the shit I am about to endure being strapped to Romero for the upcoming season.

One thing is for sure: I will not let Nico fucking Romero get to me. He can lug that chip around by himself.

My job is to win the whole damn thing this year. No one is worth giving up my dream for.