Chapter 1
When Sin Walks In
I let the cool water from the shower rain over my head, squeezing my eyes shut as it runs in rivulets down my face. I’m the last one to get a shower after my strength training session ran over.
My ears strain to listen to the commotion around me. I hear bits and pieces of heated conversation mixed with laughter. I pay no mind until I make out the word “traded,” and I quickly shut the water off and grab my towel from the hook.
“Coach confirmed it. It’s happening.” I hear our shortstop, Mateo Costa talking to our first baseman, Truett Embers.
“What’s happening?” I ask, situating myself in front of my locker while the others slowly gather around Mateo.
“Coach brought on your new boy toy, War,” Mateo teases. I ignore his quip and dig for more.
“Someone got traded?”
“Sí. The one and only Will Sinclair.”
I huff out a laugh, tugging my towel off to slip on a fresh pair of briefs.
Will Sinclair. Mateo couldn’t be further from the truth.
Will isn’t my type. He’s way too stiff for my taste.
He’s the perfect, nepo pretty boy bachelor whose daddy owns the St. Louis Bullfrogs—the team we absolutely loathe here in Rays nation.
His family is known as MLB royalty as well, going back generations within the organization.
Must be nice.
I’m surprised he’s getting traded from a team he’s been playing on almost his entire career. I wonder what the deal is with knowing Daddy Sinclair willingly allowed management to trade his son.
But Sinclair is too clean cut for me to play with.
I like my men rough around the edges and my women soft with a mouth that can suck like a Hoover.
Plus, the man was born with a trust fund that will set his great grandkids up for life.
He’s never had to work a day in his existence outside of his baseball career.
I’ll give him credit for his talent, but the man was born with a silver spoon holding his mashed peas. He can fuck right off.
“Funny, Costa. It seems you don’t know me at all. Sinclair seems more your type. You know, arrogant, pompous dicks. You’re a match made in heaven.”
Laughter erupts from around the locker room, and Mateo flips me off. I return the sentiment, giving him a kissy face for good measure.
“The guy is on his last legs in the league,” I chide. “That arrogance comes with his old age, boys.”
“I don’t know, War. He’s thirty-four, not ninety,” Truett cuts in, a playful grin tugging his lips. “Although, come to think of it, you could probably use an older man to put you in your place. God knows you need it.”
“Sinclair is ten years older than you and could probably run circles around your ass, papi,” Mateo tacks on.
Fists bang on lockers and loud laughter echoes off the walls from my teammates, all at my expense. Whatever. Even though I’m trying to whip anyone within a foot of me with my towel, I love these guys no matter how much shit they throw my way.
“Old and arrogant, huh?”
A deep voice cuts through the laughter, and a set of deep blue eyes are suddenly on me. The scowl on his face should agitate me, but the complete opposite happens, throwing me a curve ball I didn’t see coming.
Will Sinclair is fucking hot.
I don’t miss the fullness of his lips, the sharp edge of his strong jaw, and those eyes. Those beautiful, navy eyes that hold so much mystery. I find my tongue darting out to wet my lips because they’ve suddenly gone bone dry at the sight of him.
He’s leaning on the edge of the door frame from where he entered, his biceps bulging from the way he’s crossing his arms across his firm chest that imprints through the white dress shirt he’s wearing with the sleeves rolled up to expose his sinewy forearms. They’re tan from hours in the sun, and the corded muscles flex when he reaches up to adjust the silver watch on his wrist. It looks expensive as fuck as it glints under the light.
He’s paired his dress shirt with a set of perfectly tailored slacks that match his eyes to the hue, hugging his strong thighs, then tapering down toward a pair of toffee brown brogues. A smug smile tilts my lips.
Ha. Fucking pretty boy, alright.
I’m aware I’m fully checking him out, allowing my gaze to devour every gorgeous inch of his tall frame.
He must be 6’3” or 6’4”, almost a head taller than I am.
When he runs a strong hand through his sandy blond hair, looking every bit the All-American boy he is, I shut my mouth closed before an embarrassing amount of drool leaks out, clearing my throat when he walks towards me.
“Sinclair. Welcome to San Diego. A bit overdressed, don’t you think?
” My eyebrow lifts, and his eyes dart down to my naked chest. I don’t make any moves to put clothes on.
I’m standing toe-to-toe with the enemy. I won’t let this asshole intimidate me on my own turf, even if he is too pretty for his own good and has me sporting a half-chub.
“You’re in California now. Loosen your collar a bit and relax. Maybe some of that arrogance I was talking about earlier will disappear.”
This asswipe has the audacity to laugh in my face. I hate myself for the way my stomach flips when he smiles. If I could punch myself in the gut right now, I would.
“You have no room to talk shit. Brooks Warren, right?” I say nothing. He takes a half step closer, and I can feel his breath fan against my damp skin. My lips twitch to fight a smile.
“I think you boys relax a little too much here in California. It shows in the fucking rankings. So I suggest you shut the hell up and let me be as arrogant as I want. You can talk shit to me when your batting average improves. Until then, leave my name out of your mouth.” Will seethes, then turns quickly on his heel, stomping out of the locker room.
Well, damn. That shouldn’t make me horny but it does. I feel Truett snap a towel against my ass, and we all burst out laughing.
“Pretty boy tore you a new one, War. Maybe he’s your type after all.” Truett smirks, slapping my shoulder before leaving out the door Sinclair slammed on me.
I shake my head with a chuckle, throwing on my worn Rays hoodie and a pair of loose sweats. Slinging my bag over my shoulder, I replay the interaction between me and the new pitcher with the stormy navy eyes.
As I walk through the parking lot, finally settling in my truck, a wide smile cracks my face. I sure as fuck hope William Sinclair has more to say to me. I’m already thinking of how I’m going to grind his gears the next time I see him.
Can’t fucking wait.