Chin Up Champ (The Boys of Sweetwater Springs #3)

Chapter 1

ONE

COLBY KESSLER

Colby Kessler

It’s wild to think that what I’m about to do is historic. I’ll be making history for the next hour. As soon as I sit on this plastic bucket to feed baseballs to a two-hundred-pound first baseman rehabbing his shoulder—history.

Well. Here goes nothing.

“Chet. Nice to meet you. I’m Coach Kessler.

” I hold out a stiff hand, ready to meet his firm shake with my own.

I catch the little flash in his eyes when he turns and confirms that I am a woman.

His hitting coach. In charge of letting the money guys know when he’s ready to head back to Texas.

He’s Chet D’Angelo, a four-time All-Star.

A massive, beast of a human. And I’m . . . a woman.

Little ole me.

“Oh.”

I suppose there are worse words he could have uttered.

“Sorry,” he laughs out, shaking his head as his cheeks inch toward pink. “I was just surprised. I mean, it’s sort of a wiener fest around here. Shit! I probably shouldn’t have said that.”

“No, it’s fine.” I break our now-awkward handshake. He’s trying. I can respect that. “And yeah, you’re right. It’s kind of a wiener fest for sure. Plus one vagina. There, now neither of us has a leg up on the other with HR.”

I wink at him, and he chuckles as he drags his bat over his shoulder, then rocks back a step.

“Fair enough, Coach. Now, what do I need to do to get back to Dallas for the New York series?” His gaze goes right to the bucket of balls, and my shoulders relax. Chet D’Angelo has just become my favorite player. And his wife would be damn proud of him. All business. Ready to learn.

Respect.

“Let’s see how you handle this workout and go from there.”

I adjust the hitting tee’s position, then drag the bucket of balls closer before taking my seat on the empty one.

There’s zero fanfare when it happens, and were it not for Chet ripping the first ball to the back of the tunnel with his first swing, I doubt anyone would turn their head to notice we’re in here.

That’s not entirely true.

At least one person would have been looking.

Jayden Vargas has been watching me the entire time.

I caught his stare the moment I checked in at the Sweetwater Inn two days ago, and again when I passed through the lobby as he was checking out to move into his apartment.

Of course, he’s the only one watching now.

I’m just not sure whether he’s waiting to jump in to defend me or pile on with jokes.

Either is a possibility. Jayden and I have history.

Lots of it. It’s complicated. And now we’re on the same team .

. . sort of. I’m the new Mavericks hitting coach, while he’s in his third year of rookie ball, on the verge of a big break.

One I could probably help him crack open. If only I wanted to.

“That felt good,” Chet says, bringing my attention back to where it should be—my job.

“Cool, let’s get more inside, then.” I lean forward and nudge the tee closer to the batter’s box, leaving a ball for him to hit. Chet takes a swing, and manages to nail a line drive to the right. His power is about half of what it was, though.

“You felt that, didn’t you?” I don’t meet his eyes. When I played, I didn’t like eye contact when I was facing what I perceived as negative feedback. And when you’re a baller, anything that keeps you from starting the next game is negative.

“Fuck,” Chet grumbles.

“Yeah, I know. But . . . now we know where your limitations are. We have something to work toward. Specific muscles you need to target. And if you’re open to a few tricks I have up my sleeve . . .” I flit my gaze to him and he peers down at me, his lip twitching into a smirk.

“I’m down for tricks, Coach. If you can get me to Texas, I’ll be David fucking Copperfield.”

“Ha. Well, all right, then.” I get up from the bucket and hold out my widened palm, urging him not to move.

I move the tee out of our way, then kick the insides of his feet, widening his stance a few more inches.

I toe his front foot back a few inches too.

“Feels weird, I’m sure. You’re a closed-stance kind of guy.

” I back up, then move to the front of the plate to eyeball how far an outside pitch is for him if his approach is like this.

“You do your homework, Coach.”

I nod before moving the L-screen into position.

“Knowing the details is important. I know it was hard for me to adjust my swing after I tore my bicep tendon,” I share.

“Ooof!” Chet winces, giving a sympathetic rub to his own arm.

“Yeah. No more third base for me after that. But good news for you is, I spent my junior and senior years at first. And I was really fucking good at it.”

Chet nods with a genuine smile. He settles into his stance, bat on his shoulder as he readies himself for me to toss the ball.

“Where’d you play?” he asks.

I barely get the “Ole” part out of my mouth before a familiar voice from my past finishes for me.

“Miss,” Jayden says.

His voice is more mature than I remember it. But the tone is the same. The hint that he’s smiling through his words. I can hear it. All it took was a single syllable.

I exhale and roll my shoulders as I bury the palmed ball against my thigh.

As much as I’ve prepared myself for our first conversation here, like this, in these roles, I couldn’t have prepared my insides for the sudden chemistry experiment that occurs the moment our eyes meet.

It’s his smile. And his eyes. But mostly his smile. It’s always been his fucking smile.

“Jayden,” I say, closing my mouth for a tight-lipped smile I’m sure he’s familiar with. I’ve made this same expression to him many times over the years, usually when he’s picking on me.

“Good to see you, Colby.”

“Coach,” I correct.

He sucks in his bottom lip and rears his head back as he holds on to the chain link from the other side of the hitting tunnel.

“Right. I’m sorry, Coach. I promise to get better at that.”

“Sure you will,” I huff out with a short laugh.

“Ready?” I hold the ball up for Chet, but he’s no longer in his stance. Instead, he’s staring at us with a slightly open mouth and an amused grin playing at the corners of his lips.

“Well, this is gonna be fun,” he says, swinging his bat in a circle before resting it back on his shoulder and resetting his feet.

“An absolute carnival of joy,” I say, my tone flat. I release the ball and catch the inside corner of the plate. Chet swings through it, hitting a hard grounder that clangs off the fencing near Jayden’s feet.

I smirk when Jayden jumps back.

“I’ve played for two Coach Kesslers,” Jayden says.

Great. He’s going to tell the story now. Better him than me, I guess.

“He sure did,” I say, encouraging him.

“Ohhh, so y’all grew up together, I take it?”

Chet nods, ready for the next pitch. I toss it, and he takes another swing. His balance is off, so I get up and move behind him to demonstrate adjusting his path to the ball.

“I’ve known Coach for, what . . . twenty years?” Jayden says.

“Well, we met at six, and we’re both twenty-six now, so yes, Jayden. That’s how math works.”

I may be feeling a tad snarky.

“Ooh, and there’s history. Okay, I get it,” Chet says.

I step around his front and meet his eyes briefly, then shake my head. “Nothing to get.”

That’s a lie. There’s a lot to get. To get over. To get me in trouble. To get off my chest. But now is not the time.

“We were friends,” I say.

“Were?” Jayden’s surprised tone catches me off-guard, but I manage to keep from meeting his gaze again. And I keep my mouth shut. This is most definitely not the time and place to dig into that detail.

I step behind the screen again and send another pitch Chet’s way.

He crushes it, and the smile on his face nearly erases the acid burning its way up my esophagus from having to face Jayden.

This is why I got into this work. To help high-level athletes find their best selves, at least at the plate.

I might not be able to work miracles anywhere else, but this one area of expertise is mine.

I’m good enough to break a few glass ceilings to get here.

“Let’s hit some more like that, yeah?” I prompt. Chet nods and taps the plate with his bat, digging his feet in before I release another pitch.

I’m lulled by the sound of wood cracking against the ball, but I never once forget that Jayden is lingering behind me. Always hovering. Never putting himself in front of me, though. Always just out of reach.

There was a time when I thought things between us were different. Kisses do a lot of talking when words can’t, and Jayden gave me one hell of a kiss. Then he broke my fucking heart.

I finish out the bucket with Chet, and he helps me gather the balls he hit into the back of the tunnel.

I’m acutely aware when an extra pair of feet joins us in kicking the balls into the corner.

Jayden’s laces are gold, and I can’t help but smirk when I spot them.

Always with the little extra flair. That’s always been his biggest problem.

Jayden is all show and not quite enough substance.

I can help him even out the scales on the field.

But in life? He’s going to have to figure that shit out on his own.

Jayden was my father’s favorite player, and for a man who swore to never pick favorites, it was obvious that Jayden found a way to crack that code in the dugout.

The two of them were in sync when it came to the game.

But my dad always warned me that great ballplayers don’t always make great people. And he nailed it with Jayden.

“Colby.” He says my name low, under his breath, his body a little too near for professionalism as he hands me a ball.

“Coach,” I correct, clearing my throat and lifting my gaze to meet his. I take the ball from his hand, and our fingers graze. It’s enough. It’s too much. I take in a sharp breath through my nose but hold my position, standing my ground. Close. Too close.

His head leans slightly to the side, and his gaze drifts up a hint as he bites the tip of his tongue and holds his smile at bay. It’s the dimple, I think. That’s what draws people in. I try to avoid staring at it, but it’s right there. Then his gaze drops again, and the smile evens out.

“Can we talk?”

My throat is literally bubbling with nerves and bile. I don’t look away, no matter how badly I want to.

“I’m working.”

His head tilts farther to the side, and he breathes out a laugh.

“Yeah, I know. Just . . . sometime. Soon. Like, later today. Or coffee maybe.”

My gaze shifts to the movement behind him.

Chet rests the nearly full bucket—all but the three balls I’m holding in my hands—on the stool behind the L-screen.

His brows rise, and I sense the mixed questions he’s asking with his expression.

Yeah. This isn’t appropriate. I slip by Jayden and get back to work, annoyed that this little break with Jayden caught Chet’s attention.

“I have a sign-up for extra time in the clubhouse. If I have any open spots this week, you can take one.” I clear my throat and hold up a ball, ready to get back to work.

Chet sets his feet in the batter’s box and I toss the ball, knowing full well Jayden is still standing in the back of the tunnel.

Chet grounds one toward Jayden’s feet and I smirk, watching him dance to avoid it.

“All right! Christ, I get it! I’ll get in line.” Jayden slips under the netting that runs along the side of the tunnel and rolls his eyes at me as he passes.

“You better put your name down quick, kid. I plan on monopolizing Coach’s time this week before I head back to Texas. She knows her shit.” Chet smacks the next ball I toss like an audible exclamation point.

“Yeah, I know. She’s the best,” Jayden mumbles.

I let his obligatory compliment roll over me, focused instead on proving it with action, not words.

But then Jayden throws in one last line, uttering “She always has been,” just loud enough for me.

Golden laces with words meant just for me.

There was a time that would have stuck with me for days.

Even still, after all this time and all the lessons I’ve learned, it will linger for the rest of the afternoon.