Chapter 11 Will
A Stroke of Luck
The home crowd’s chants for my former teammate who is up to bat are deafening—what was once a thrilling sound now only fuels the fire for revenge raging inside me.
St. Louis had always been home for me, and playing in this stadium for this crowd was one of the only things that gave me purpose for far too long.
I still don’t know who I am away from the mound, but I hopefully have a few seasons left in me before I need to figure that out.
Digging my cleat into the dirt, I bend forward and narrow my sight to see which pitch Brooks is going to call for.
Fastball.
Fuck that.
I shake him off, and he cracks his neck in annoyance before giving me the sign for a slider.
Nodding, I stand upright and bring my glove up to my face to hide the seams of the ball.
My eyes stray of their own volition to the owner’s box my parents are sitting in directly behind home plate, giving them the best view in the stadium.
Good. I hope he hasn’t missed a second of the asswhooping his team has received from me and my teammates tonight.
Pride for my formidable performance swells in my chest, mixing with the fury I’ve been feeling since the old man practically ambushed me outside our hotel earlier.
A bead of sweat drips down my forehead, narrowly missing my eye as I throw a slider that veers to the right, causing my former teammate to swing and miss just like I knew he would.
Strike two.
With two outs in the bottom of the ninth, I’m one out away from a perfect game.
Possibly one pitch away.
Instead of throwing the ball back to me, Warren jogs from the plate to the mound to hand me the ball.
Bringing his catcher’s mitt up to cover his mouth, he murmurs for only me to hear, “I can’t think of a bigger ‘fuck you’ to your dad than throwing your first perfect game against his team.
What do you say, Sinclair? You ready to finish this? ”
I nod once, too focused on the task at hand to talk to him right now.
“I say you throw your curve,” Brooks suggests.
Shaking my head, I bring my own glove up to cover my mouth so my lips can’t be read. “He’s always been able to hit my curve. I’m throwing another slider. He’s not expecting me to throw another one, and DeLuca has never touched it.”
Brooks’ gaze bounces between my eyes, and he must see the determination set in them because he says, “I’m good with that. Give him hell.” With a slap on my shoulder, Brooks puts the ball in my glove and jogs back to behind the plate.
For appearances sake, he gives me a sign I shake off, then another that I nod my head to. It’s go time. One last slider and maybe I’ll do what only twenty-four other pitchers have done before me.
Throw a perfect game.
It’s something I’ve only dreamt of, knowing it was a long shot—an anomaly—to be able to actually do so in the major league.
Wiping my face across the shoulder of my jersey, I take a deep breath and stand to my full height.
With my weight on my back leg, I wind up and release, transferring all of my weight to my front leg. I watch in anxious desperation as the ball leaves my hand and veers off to the right for a second time just as DeLuca swings and misses without making contact.
Strike three.
Out number three.
Holy shit.
I did it.
I fucking did it!
My first perfect game.
This is monumental—once in a lifetime.
“Let’s fucking go, baby! That’s what I’m talkin’ about!” Brooks shouts as he throws off his catcher’s mask and mitt before charging the mound. He tackles me in an embrace, but I manage to keep us from falling to the ground.
His chest heaves against mine, matching my heavy breathing. My heart rate picks up speed, and my body heats from the feel of his sweat-slicked skin against mine.
He grips the sides of my face in his hands and screams, “Let’s fuckin’ go! You did it!”
Tension builds between us as his gaze flits between my eyes and my lips.
The brief, heated moment is broken as our teammates join us, slapping me on the back and giving me congratulatory high fives.
Brooks backs away to give our teammates space to embrace me, though my stare doesn’t stray from his. Our intense exchange leaves me with a hunger I’m not sure can be satiated by anyone but him.
“Alright, man, I’m hitting the showers,” I tell Mateo, slapping him on the back as I pass by him.
“I’m headed out to the bus. Great game, Sinclair. I owe you a drink when we get to Chicago.”
“Thanks, Costa. See you out there.” What I don’t tell him is I won’t be taking him up on that drink.
If I have it my way, I won’t be leaving my hotel room this evening after we check in.
I won’t even try to blame it on the fact that we’re on a brutal long stretch of away games.
No, it’s got everything to do with my catcher who just so happens to be standing with his back to me in the shower stall across from where I stand.
I should turn around and look away. I shouldn’t be staring at the way the water pelts off the broad muscles of his traps. And I should absolutely not be following the trails of droplets as they run down his corded back to his supple butt and thick catcher’s thighs.
Need like I’ve never known surges inside of me, threatening to pull me under.
What is happening to me?
Squeezing my eyes shut, I curse myself for staring at my teammate—at another man. When I open them, I’m stunned to find Brooks not only facing me, but blatantly taking me in with a salacious smile.
“Why is it that I’m always catching you with your eyes on me, Pretty Boy?” he rasps, his voice pure smoke. “You like what you see?”
Fighting like hell to keep my eyes on his, I’m pleased with my restraint.
That is . . . until I watch his hand glide over his chest, lathering his tanned, tattooed skin with his body wash, the citrus and pine scents permeating the dense air between us.
My self-control slips, my gaze remaining fixated on his hand as it coasts past the contours of his abs straight to his fully erect length.
Look away. Turn the fuck away. Even as I shout the commands to myself, I can’t seem to break my stare.
I’m far too entranced watching the way the corded muscles of his forearm flex as he fists his thick cock in his hand, giving it a firm stroke. He shamelessly pulls his bottom lip between his teeth as he continues to work his fist up and down his shaft.
My vision blurs at the edges, and I have to grip the tiled wall beside me as I fight off the arousal that would surely consume me if I gave into it.
“I think about it far more than I should, you know.”
“Think about what?” I finally ask, my low voice sounding foreign to me.
“What you’d look like if you stopped being such a stiff and let go.” He hisses through his teeth as his hand begins to work harder, and I can’t help but stare as he does so. “God, I bet you’d look so fuckin’ good giving up control to me.”
“Don’t get your hopes up.”
“Oh, yeah? And why do you say that?”
“I don’t give up control.”
“Maybe I’ll make you lose that control you like to hold on to so tightly,” he taunts. “I already make you crazy.”
Narrowing my eyes, I step back into the water spray to wet my hair. When I grab my shampoo bottle, I tell him, “I wouldn’t count on it if I were you. I submit to no one.”
“Careful, Sinclair. I’ve never been one to shy away from a challenge, and that sounded like a hell of a challenge to me.”
Turning my back to him, I mutter under my breath, “Only you would take that as a challenge.”
By way of avoiding him, I take a longer shower than necessary, which is needed to come down from the adrenaline rush of pitching a perfect game.
I’m the last one onto the team bus, but no one gives me shit. Instead, the guys all shout their congratulations, many of them standing to pat me on the back as I pass them by in the aisle on my way toward the back of the bus.
My usual spot is occupied by none other than the man who has taken up far too much space in my mind.
“You’re in my seat.”
Without looking up from his phone, he murmurs, “I am.”
“Why?”
“Because you just pitched a perfect game and I want to celebrate with you,” he explains.
I sigh and set my duffle bag in the overhead compartment before taking the aisle seat beside him.
Once I’m situated, the aisle lights shut off and the faint dim of some overhead lights are the only thing to illuminate the darkened bus.
Before I can put on my noise canceling headphones, Brooks grabs my wrist to stop me.
I let out a grunt of frustration. “What is it?”
He leans into my space, lowering his voice when he says, “I said we’re celebrating. Can’t very well do that if you’re ignoring me.”
“And how do you intend to do that? We’re on a team bus. It’s not like we’re at a bar and can have a drink to celebrate.”
Brooks drags the back of his fingers down my forearm, eliciting goosebumps in their wake.
“My idea of celebrating was a bit more . . . hands on than grabbing drinks with teammates.”
I nearly choke on my gasp as his hand moves to grasp my thigh.
What is he doing to me? And why am I dying to find out?