38. Briggs
brIGGS
“I love when they play hard to get. It makes my cock hard and—” Several handfuls of peanuts launch at Davis Blaine, our third baseman, and the biggest loud mouth of emotions, thoughts, and shit no one wants to hear about.
“Shut the hell up, man,” Theo—our catcher—chides, circling his tequila in his glass as another country song blares from the overhead speakers of the bar. “No one, and I mean no one, wants to hear about your dick and what makes it hard.”
“Second that,” Josiah—our right fielder—adds in.
“Third that,” Riley—our center fielder—tacks on even further. “Please, just don’t.”
Davis doesn’t, and never, looks discouraged when we bitch at him about what goes on underneath his pants, flagging down one of the bartenders with his hand.
“Alright. Well, when you hear screamin’ in my hotel room tonight, don’t be alarmed.
I’m just going to be pullin’ on some brown curls to celebrate our big playoff debut. ”
And thank God for that.
It was a stretch and a lot of pressure, but we finally gained our spot tonight, and we’re not slowing down. We’ve got a lot of work still to do, and the pressure is mounting, but Coach Davidson has laid off me, which gives me more mental space to focus.
“Fuckin’ disgusting,” Riley mumbles over his beer. “I’m movin’ floors.”
“I’m movin’ hotels,” Theo quips. “Because the last time you fucked someone, idiot, you got us in the media.”
Davis leans against the bar top and shrugs. “I didn’t know she was gonna be a freak. That’s those brunettes for ya. Especially the innocent-lookin’ ones. And the one I’m eyeballin’ tonight…” He shakes his head and bites down on his lower lip. “Yeah, you might wanna move blocks, my boys.”
Good to know.
Because the last thing I wanna do is listen to him fucking some rando while I’m trying to talk to Layla.
Which has been a minute.
Fishing my cell phone out of my jeans, I texted her after the game, but she didn’t respond right away. So I figured she was in the shower or eating or something.
But when I power my screen on, I’m happy to find her name on there.
LAYLA JEAN: Congratulations, Briggs. I’m so proud of you.
brIGGS: Thanks, Short Stop. You gonna show up naked on our video call tonight?
LAYLA JEAN: Sounds like it’s been earned. Wanna ring me now?
brIGGS: I can. Need about ten minutes, tho. I’m at the bar with the boys, celebrating. But the hotel is right down the street.
LAYLA JEAN: I can wait. Celebrate, you deserve it.
brIGGS: I’d rather celebrate with you.
“Do you think I should go with white wine or red?” Davis asks out loud. “I’m buyin’ her a drink.”
I ignore him because who the hell cares?
“You just said she was playing hard to get,” Josiah reminds all of us. “How about you leave her alone and let her come to you?”
Davis rolls his eyes. “That’s the point of playin’ hard to get, stupid. They want you to chase them.”
LAYLA JEAN: Well, take your time because I’m waiting.
brIGGS: Did you order food?
“Davis, man, why are you such a moron?” Riley asks as if he’s really going to get a reasonable response.
“We’re just trying to celebrate and then get some shut-eye.
We’re headin’ out tomorrow, and it’s gonna be a long series with Louisville.
Julian Erza is back from that concussion, and he’s ready to play. ”
“I ain’t worried about him, man. He can’t hit a sinker to save his life. We have his number.”
LAYLA JEAN: Wine.
“Alright, so red or white?”
“White,” Theo gripes out. “Geezus, now get lost.”
brIGGS: So, we really are celebrating.
LAYLA JEAN: Sorta.
“Let me go double-check,” Davis declares. “I want her pussy in my face by the end of the night, so I don’t want to mess this up.”
brIGGS: What does that mean, Short Stop? I’ve been waiting to talk to you all night.
“You’re gonna do that anyway,” Riley discloses. “All you need to do is open your mouth.”
LAYLA JEAN: I know. Been busy.
“Which means you should probably shut it,” Theo suggests. “You might make it last longer before she leaves.”
brIGGS: I bet.
“You guys are just jealous that y’all have no game, sittin’ here at a bar, by yourselves,” Davis defends. “And, not only do I think that this girl is a freak, but she has two names, so I know she’s gonna do all sorts of shit tonight.”
My head shoots up because now he has my full attention. “What did you say?”
Davis flicks his focus to me, still wearing his annoyed expression from the boys riding him. “What now?”
“Her name,” I press impatiently, feeling my heart kick up several notches. “What is it?”
He shrugs. “I dunno.”
This stupid moron.
Pushing my stool back, Davis quickly moves around the guys to get to me. But it’s not to get me to calm down, but because he always believes one of us is trying to take from him.
Only child syndrome or something.
“Where are you going?”
“I wanna see this girl you’re takin’ home.”
He shoves his hands in front of me when I make a move to look around the bar. “Wait, why?”
I push his blockade away and glower at him. “Where is she?”
“Aw, c’mon, Kerrigan,” he whines. “Don’t be stealin’.”
“I ain’t stealin’ what’s already mine,” I bark back. “If you don’t move, you’re gonna be part of the floor, Blaine. Move your ass.”
“You can’t just get up and—wait, what did you say?” I face palm him, literally, and move his whole frame out of my way. “Wait, Briggs, do not say bad things about me.”
My face skews at his comment because he’s not even relevant right now. “Are you on steroids?”
“Wh—no. That’s a rumor.”
“Well, something’s affecting your hearing because I just asked you where she was.”
He points toward the other side of the bar. “She’s over there, jackass.”
Barging by him, I walk down the length of it, looking from table to table for my girl when I get to the end and don’t find her.
The place isn’t huge, that’s why we come here, and it’s easy for security to keep the media and reporters out, but I find myself disappointed as all hell that the one person I want to be able to sneak in somehow isn’t here.
My fingers clench into annoyed fists when I realize I’m still holding my phone in one.
Glancing down, I power on the screen to text Layla Jean when I hear a female’s voice ask, “Can I have your autograph, Mr. Kerrigan?”
Knew if I had stepped away from the bar, this would happen.
Inhaling to keep my annoyance with current events at bay, I turn on my heels and fall upon hazel eyes, curly brown hair, and, I bet to shit, she smells like sugar.
Because the girl who stands in front of me is none other than the one I was searching for.
Layla Jean Melrose.
My girl.
My girl who never legally took my last name.
Instantly, my gaze falls down the length of her, finding a black baseball jersey with the Tennessee Tornadoes labelled on it and the number twenty-three. My cock twitches in my sweatpants because it’s my number.
“Layla Jean,” I apprise, not able to take my eyes off the damn jersey. “Please don’t tell me you flirted with a man wearing my fucking number on your chest. I’ll kill him right now.”
She chuckles, which would be funny if Davis weren’t such a dipshit whose mission is to sleep with, at least, one woman in every city we’re in.
“If he calls that flirtin’, then he’d need to look up the definition,” she replies simply. “Because all he did was talk about his game-winnin’ catch and if I wanted something to drink. I said wine.”
“He thinks he’s going somewhere with you.”
“You just said he thought we were flirtin’, Briggs,” she replies with amusement in her tone. “I think we need to reevaluate what he believed was going to happen and what was actually going to happen.”
I look up at her. “I’m curious about what your play was here, Short Stop. Wearin’ my jersey, sneakin’ in, and, what, eye-fuckin’ me from across the way?”
She bobs her head and pushes her lips out before responding, “Oh, there was definitely eye-fucking. How else was I going to get my autograph?”
“I’d give you more than that, Layla Jean.”
“Yeah?” Her head cocks to one side. “I was hopin’ that big mouth would say something about my name. He talked a lot about it. I was just waitin’ for you to catch on.”
“What’s it gonna take for you to leave with me right now?”
“Aren’t you gonna introduce me to your friends?”
“No.” Her brows knit together. “They can meet you later. They’re not going anywhere.”
“I could be here for just an hour.”
“Highly doubt it if you were waiting for me to catch on to your little game.”
“Maybe I just like to tease, Briggs Kerrigan.”
I narrow my eyes suspiciously at her. “How long?”
“A while.”
“How is that possible?”
“I made it possible.”
“Are you fuckin’ with me?”
“Aren’t I always?”
My lips break out in a full-blown smile before my arm reaches out to snatch her in my arms, pulling her tight against my body. The softness of hers against mine is irreproachable to anything that happened tonight.
Sure, we landed our playoff spot, but my girl ended up surprising me and feeling her is everything.
“I missed you, Short Stop.”
“I couldn’t tell from all the text messages. And the dick pics.”
“You should’ve sold those online. Would’ve made you a fortune.”
She snorts out a laugh. “Yeah, that’s not going to work for me. I told you if you made the playoffs, we’d talk about still being together. And, I’m here to tell you, Briggs Kerrigan, that if you can sweep me off my feet tonight, I’m all yours.”
Bet.
I know she means dancing, but my ass is not going to rock side to side in front of my buddies with a million and one questions in their heads on what I’m doing, who I’m with, and what drugs I may be on because none of them know I’m married.
Not one.
I’ve always gotten questionable looks when they were on the prowl, searching for women to satisfy them for a night, and I wouldn’t go with them.
I’ve never found a woman attractive or stimulating enough to want to step out on Layla Jean.
My head has always been brimming with a future involving the girl in my arms.
And soon to be somewhere else.
Bending over, I scoop Layla up, tossing her over my shoulder as I make my way out of the bar.
She squeals her mild protest, pushing her palms on my spine to see where we’re going. “Briggs, what in the hell? I’m not a sack of potatoes.”
I approach my boys, all staring at me with different expressions on their faces.
Confused.
Concerned.
Intrigued.
Annoyed.
“Boys,” I announce flatly, flicking my focus along all of them.
“This is my wife, Layla Jean. You tell anyone about Layla Jean, you can kiss your playoff time goodbye because I’ll bust your head open.
No one knows about my wife. I’ve kept my personal life my own.
I’m going to keep it that way, understood? ”
Davis brings his fingers to his forehead. “Son of a fuckin’ bitch, dude.”
“Do you know what being married is?” Theo asks seriously. “That means you actually see her.”
“How the hell are you married?” Riley wonders out loud, and I almost bust out with a shit-eating grin, but they haven’t confirmed what I need yet.
“Do we get to see her?” Josiah presses. “Or are you gonna be a caveman about it like you already are?”
Turning on my heels, I give them Layla, and no one says a word for a minute before I hear Layla take one of her hands off my back.
“Hi,” she greets sweetly with, I’m assuming, a wave. “I’m Layla Jean.”
“Do we need to call the cops for you?” Riley proposes in a very serious tone. “I think our boy is having a mental break.”
“Layla Jean,” I hear Davis say. “I apologize for the flirting. I didn’t know—”
“Shut up,” the other three chime tersely in unison.
“You flirted, my ass,” Josiah cuts in, then says, “It’s really nice to meet you, Layla Jean. I’m Josiah—”
“Faulkner,” she finishes for him. “Right fielder. And Riley Atkins, Theo Benoit, and the famous Davis Blaine.”
“Don’t say that,” Davis lightly berates. “Your husband is a mean jackass.”
“Damn right,” I agree, turning back to my boys and not entirely thrilled about the idea because now they have the perfect view of her ass. “I need your sweatshirt.”
“What for?” Riley asks but still grabs it anyway.
“Media. I’ll bring it back.”
“Alright, friend. Have fun.”
Oh, I will.
With a newfound purpose tonight, I carry Layla Jean to the front door of the bar with Riley’s sweatshirt over her head when I hear Theo yell out, “Flight’s at seven, buddy. Let that woman get some sleep.”
“She can sleep on the plane.”