Chapter 4
I Can Be Your Good Boy
Slipping the frayed, woven bracelet I wear for every game I start under my elbow sleeve, I sit back in my locker and get lost in the music blaring through my headphones.
Jimmy Eat World’s “Sweetness” finishes playing just as Hughesy takes a seat at his locker beside me.
Slipping off my headphones, I nod at my new teammate. “Hughesy, did I hear you live on the beach?”
“Yeah, I live over on Sunset Cliffs, so not your traditional beach houses, but can’t beat the views,” he tells me as he works a muscle cream onto his strained left hamstring.
“Nice. I’m thinking about purchasing something oceanfront. Did you use a realtor?”
“Yeah, her name is Stefani. She’s great. Let me know if you want me to send her contact information your way.”
“That’d be awesome, man. Appreciate you.” I slap Hughesy’s back in thanks.
“Of course you’d live on the beach.” Brooks scoffs, shaking his head so his shaggy black hair falls across his forehead.
“Aren’t you supposed to play nice?” I retort with a quirked brow.
I’ve noticed he’s not one to back down, so I’m not surprised when Brooks looks up at me with a shit-eating grin eclipsing his face.
Leaning into my space, he murmurs, “You wanna play with me, Sin? With a name like that, I didn’t think you’d like it nice.
But if that’s what does it for you, I can be your good boy. ”
His low, raspy tone has my stomach clenching involuntarily. And the way his warm breath scorches my neck has me wanting to crawl out of my skin. I flinch as if I’ve been burned.
The moment he pulls away, I shoot to my feet and head for the solo bathroom just outside the locker room. Needing a moment to collect myself, I shut and lock the door behind me. With my back to the door, I close my eyes and curse myself for letting him get under my skin again.
What is it about that cheeky attitude of his that has my chest heaving and my blood pumping?
He can be my good boy? There’s nothing good about Brooks Warren. I have a feeling his version of “playing nice” is far different than Coach’s.
It’s no secret that he’s into men, seeing as he’s openly bisexual. I can’t help but feel like he’s toeing the line between giving me shit and . . . flirting? I don’t know. Regardless, I don’t like the way my body reacted to his voice and his breath on my skin.
Feeling a bout of nausea roll through me, I rush over to the toilet and empty the contents of my stomach the way I do before every game. No matter how many years I’ve played, and the hundreds of games I’ve started over the years, I throw up without fail each and every time.
As I’m rinsing out my mouth and splashing cool water on my face, there’s a knock at the door.
I’m surprised to find Brooks there when I step out into the hallway.
He scratches his jaw and smirks at me, causing that damn dimple of his to pop. “I guess I thought the rumor around the league of the All-Star pitcher throwing up before every game was just that. What’s the deal?”
My instincts say to shove my way past him, but the genuine curiosity sparkling in his eyes has me leaning against the wall and admitting, “Not sure. I’ve done it every game without fail since my first ever start.”
His brows shoot up. “Shit, really? What about in high school and college?”
“Never.”
“You’re a weird one, Pretty Boy. Now step aside; I’ve gotta take a piss.” He slaps me on the shoulder, and heat shoots down my arms from the contact.
“Someone should teach you some manners,” I mutter under my breath, stepping back to put some much-needed space between us.
“You wanna teach me, Daddy?” he asks, leaning against the wall.
I sputter. “What the fuck did you just say?”
“I asked if you wanted to teach me some manners.”
“Clearly. And then?” I question him with narrowed eyes.
“And then I called you daddy.” He shrugs as if that isn’t totally inappropriate to call another teammate. “You seem like the type of guy who likes women to call him Daddy. I bet you eat that shit up.”
He needs to shut the fuck up and stop saying that word right now.
I clench my jaw in frustration before clearing my throat. “Can’t say I’ve ever been referred to as that before this moment.”
Rolling his bottom lip between his teeth, he shrugs in indifference. “Guess I was wrong about you. There’s a first time for everything.”
Yeah, like the first time I knock a teammate out before the start of the game. Shit, I’m feeling nauseous again.
Pushing past him, I rush back into the bathroom and slam the door shut behind me.
Brooks calls out from the other side of the door. “You’ve gotta get your shit together, man. Throwing up before every game doesn’t fit right with the new nickname I’ve given you.”
When he lets out a low chuckle, it’s almost like he can see the middle finger I’m throwing his way right before I empty anything left in my stomach.
“The brunette with a navy Rays jersey on, three rows up from the left of the dugout. She’s a total smoke show,” I overhear Hughesy point out to Truett as I take a seat beside them on the bench between innings.
“Here,” Brooks says as he throws my arm wrap to keep my shoulder warm while our team is at bat.
“Thanks,” I mutter, grateful he reminded me because my new pitching coach is a stickler about recovery, and keeping my shoulder warm between innings is part of that.
“You’re pitching one hell of a first game,” Brooks tells me, and it’s kind of hilarious the way his face pinches like it pains him to say it.
I huff out a laugh. “You look like you’ve got a stick shoved up your ass from paying me a small compliment.”
Brooks sits back against the bench, manspreading in his catcher’s gear as he folds his arms behind his head. “Trust me, that’s not how I’d look if that were the case. But yeah, paying compliments to you is new for me.”
“Hughesy, how are our prospects looking for tonight?” Brooks turns his head to ask him, looking like the picture of nonchalance.
Hughesy walks over and spits some seeds onto the floor of the dugout before he says, “I’m pretty sure the brunette I was just pointing out to Truett was the girl from the bar last week who said she’d be down to share before her friends were cockblocks and said they wanted to go to a different bar.”
My brows crease. Share? As in share Hughesy with one of her friends?
Hughesy must read the question written on my face because he clarifies, “From time to time, Brooks and I like to share a girl if she’s down.”
Now I know my poker face is shit because my brows skyrocket to the brim of my ball cap.
Brooks bends over in laughter as does Hughesy before he says, “Oh don’t look so scandalized, Sinclair. You’d think with a nickname like Sin you’d have gotten into a little threeway fun.”
Brooks scoffs and fixes his gaze on me. “I’m almost certain Pretty Boy over here doesn’t like sharing his toys, let alone his women.”
“You make an awful lot of assumptions about me, and you seem oddly fixated on my sex life, Warren,” I cut back.
Brooks arrogantly shrugs. “Not fixated. Just calling it like I see it.”
“Well, you were wrong again. I can share my toys and my women, I just choose not to—share my toys, that is.”
“Prove it.”
“How?” I ask him, feathering my jaw in frustration.
“We’ve got an away game in Seattle next week and I happen to know a girl who is always down for a good time. Especially the threesome kind of fun. It’s time to fuck around and find out, Sin.”
“Consider it done, War. Text me the time and place.” I regret the words the second they’ve left my mouth, especially when Brooks’ eyes light up with mischief.
Rubbing his hands together, he looks me up and down and says, “Oh, this should be fun. I’ll give my girl Deidre a call tonight.”