Chapter 3
Jealous of a Hot Dog
I’m doing a shit job tossing this frisbee with Truett. Every time it leaves my hand, it flies at an alarming speed toward the heads of stray children running through Balboa Park.
“Jesus, War! Aren’t you a ball player? You’re shit at this!” Truett calls out, laughing as he jogs up the hill toward me.
“Watch your mouth, Ham! There’re fucking kids around!”
“I don’t know what’s worse. You yelling ‘fuck’ or calling me ‘Ham’ in front of these innocent children.” Truett gasps with his hand to his chest before smacking the side of my head with the hard plastic frisbee.
“Okay perv. The kids don’t know the meaning behind your nickname, fuckface.” I try my hardest to nut-check him, both of us laughing under our breaths and dodging a knee to the goods.
“Embers! War!” Coach Hunter’s booming voice sobers us quickly, straightening ourselves out from our horseplay. “Could you two for five minutes not act like children? Embers, go help Hughesy with the hot dogs. I need a minute with Brooks.”
Fuck.
My mind replays everything I’ve done or said since the last time I saw Coach, coming up short on what I could’ve done to earn this one-on-one with him.
Truett gives Coach a mock salute, then walks over to Hughesy, who is currently burning the hot dogs.
“Who the hell let Hughesy behind the grill? Did we not learn from last year’s debacle, Coach?”
Hughesy insisted on grilling the hot dogs for the Rays’ annual Memorial Day team barbecue last year.
It was a massive mistake since he almost burned down half the damn park, families screaming in fear when the grill caught on fire.
I mean, how the fuck does that even happen?
We’re lucky the fire department didn’t permanently ban us.
I’m pretty sure Coach paid them off with season tickets. Smart man.
He shakes his head, dismissing my question before clearing his throat. “I need you to be on your best behavior when it comes to Sinclair.”
I scrunch my nose in disgust. “The stiff? Oh, come on, Coach. He fucking hates this team. He hates this city. Why the hell should I play nice with that pretty boy?” I obviously don’t share with him that Will Sinclair has been the face behind my alone time with my right hand—but I digress.
“War,” he warns, “he’s your pitcher. You’ll be working closely together, and I’m sick of losing. This trade couldn’t have worked out any better, so when I tell you to get your ass in order and take care of your new teammate, I mean it.”
Well, he’s right about one thing. I hate losing, and we haven’t had the best season. But playing nice with Sinclair?
“Quentin! You have a phone call.” Both of us whip our heads toward the direction of Stormy Hunter, Coach’s smoking hot wife. We don’t see her a ton with all the traveling, but she’s at almost every home game, turning the heads of the entire MLB. If the WAGs had a queen, Stormy Hunter is it.
“Whoever it is, I’ll call them back. I’m in the middle of an important conversation,” Coach calls back with a hint of annoyance in his tone.
Weird.
Stormy rolls her eyes, turning her back with a snarky hair flip. When I turn back to Coach, his expression is more tense than before he came to probably chew my ass out.
I stir the pot, because I just can’t help myself.
“Trouble in paradise there, eh Coach?” I cross my arms over my chest with a cunning smirk.
Coach Hunter’s neck flames red, his jaw clenched so tight you can hear the grinding of his teeth. Steam practically smokes out of his ears, and I’ve thoroughly pissed him off.
God, I’m such a sucker for punishment. In more ways than one, apparently.
“Okay, Brooks. Since you want to meddle in my personal relationships and be a total dickwad, I’m assigning Sinclair to be your roommate while we’re on the road.”
My eyes blow wide as saucers. What did you expect, War? Mess with the bull and you get the horns. In this case, Coach’s horns, which he shoved straight up my ass. And not in a good way.
“What?! Damn, Coach, you’re killing me.”
“I need you to make it right. Now go over there and be a good example for our organization. I won’t have my team acting like a bunch of ass hats just because of some new blood.”
Hanging my head, I blow out a relenting breath, looking over Coach Hunter’s shoulder where I find a lonesome Will nursing a beer by himself at a picnic table. My heart stutters when his eyes meet mine, and I suddenly feel bad seeing him all alone.
“Yes, sir,” I mutter.
Coach Hunter claps a firm hand on my shoulder, causing me to wince from the force of it.
Note to self: Shut the fuck up about Coach and his wife.
“Good on you, War. Enjoy the picnic.”
Will takes his eyes off me, tracking a kite floating in the sky. He doesn’t look at me at first when I take a seat across from him, his attention immersed at the kite above.
“Sinclair,” I announce, watching him take a long pull from his beer before meeting my gaze.
“War.” He says my name with a velvety texture, instantly making me hard beneath my jeans.
To make things worse, he takes a bite from a semi-burnt hot dog, his eyes locking on mine as he does.
A bit of ketchup smears on the corner of his lip, and I’m tempted to lean forward and lick it off him.
I’ve never been jealous of a hot dog before.
I watch his throat move as he swallows, and I imagine running my tongue along the length of it.
I discreetly adjust myself, not surprised he has this effect on me no matter how hard I deny it.
“I, uh. I think we got off on the wrong foot. We’re going to be working together, and I promise you we aren’t a bunch of degenerates like you think.”
He scoffs, rolling his eyes at me like I’m bullshitting him. I lift my eyebrow in amusement, leaning closer to him, propping my elbows on the table.
“Look. I’m extending an olive branch. I’m not a bad guy, and I think you’ll like having me close.”
He crosses his arms over his chest as if to put a barrier between us. It only makes me want him more.
“Is that so? Or are you just playing nice because Coach Hunter told you to?” A playful smirk appears on his lips, and if the sun wasn’t already making me sweat, Will Sinclair would have me in a puddle.
“Trust me. I’m about to be your favorite person.” Temptation takes over as I lean across the tabletop into his space, using the pad of my thumb to wipe the ketchup from the corner of his lip. He tracks me the entire time, eyes widening slightly when I suck my ketchup-covered thumb into my mouth.
“You’re a cocky shit. Aren’t you, War?”
“No. I wouldn’t say that. But I am very confident, Pretty Boy.”
He huffs out a laugh, flashing two rows of straight white teeth that set my insides on fire.
“Okay. If telling yourself that helps you sleep at night, by all means. Confident it is,” he retorts, and fuck do I love the way he plays back.
Not a stiff after all.
“Truce?” I extend my hand, waiting for him to relent and shake on it.
He glares at me with those midnight blue eyes, but for the first time since we’ve met, there’s no hostility in them. It flirts the line of curiosity and challenge—two things I can work with.
He shakes my hand with earnest, electricity zinging through our palms as I feel his rough calluses scrape against my skin.
He says nothing as he gets up from the table.
All I’m left with is a smug grin and an incredible view of his body as he walks away in those fitted jeans and a Rays T-shirt, stretched perfectly across his broad back and shoulders.
His aura drips with sin.
And sin has never been so tempting.