11. Chapter 11
Whit: Good luck tonight. I'm rooting for you
I hit send and lean into the light blue leather recliner in my father's Catfish man cave.
My phone buzzes almost instantly.
JB: You watching?
I snort, almost in disbelief that he'd ask me that, considering I'm spending the next two weeks with my family as I wait for the next championship to start.
There's only one response I can think of to JB's question.
I lift my phone and take a photo of myself, making sure the Carolina Catfish logo stitched into the recliner is visible.
Whit: Picture Attached.
JB typing...
The phrase comes and goes as if JB is really thinking about what to say, which makes sense from everything I know about him.
JB: How the hell am I supposed to squat for three hours with a huge boner?!
I laugh out loud.
Whit: It's just me in a Catfish jersey. What's the big deal?
JB: You're the big deal.
JB: Whose name is on your back?
I start typing, wanting to tease him a little more.
Whit: Can't see.
JB: Don't lie to me, Whit. If it's Tate's jersey, I will lose my ever-loving shit.
JB: Fuck, what if it's Grayson's? I know Larry goes to him for tailoring advice, but shit, I thought the hot dogs made me special.
My smile widens because I've gotten to him, and there's something deeply satisfying about knowing how easy it is for me to get him in that state.
Whit: Marlow.
JB: Callahan.
I snort.
Whit: I'm not just saying my last name, you idiot. Marlow is on the back of the jersey. It's the one they gave me after I threw the worst pitch in history, so calm your 'ever-loving shit' down.
There's a pause.
As expected, the dots appear and disappear. Appear and disappear.
So I text him back before he can respond.
Whit: Although don't calm down too much. I do like you a little... domineering, and I bet you play better like that.
I set my phone against my thigh, knowing it’s going to take JB a little longer to respond this time. My cheeks are warm, my thighs still ache from Sunday night, and I haven’t stopped thinking about him since he left.
My phone finally buzzes.
JB: Do you think this is news to me? You were soaking wet when I tied you up to the headboard with my belt and called you a good girl.
I bite down on my bottom lip, hiding my smile.
JB: You liked that, didn’t you?
Before I finish typing out my response, he’s already messaging.
JB: We can do more if you want next time.
JB: Maybe I could tie you up again and we could try a little spanking?
I take in a sharp breath. Why is reading that turning me on so much? Spanking... yes, please. I rub my thighs together, thankful that I'm wearing shorts today, because it means the fabric is bunched closer to my core. Maybe just a few strokes and I'll be good.
“Here's your drink.”
Shit.
I toss the phone into my lap so fast I nearly drop it onto the floor and close my eyes.
Please, please be face down.
I cannot have my father see JB's texts about spanking and restraints.
“Everything okay?” he asks, tossing my phone onto the cushion next to my thigh.
It must’ve locked when it fell. There’s no way he wouldn’t ask me what the hell is going on if it didn’t.
Either that, or he’s just as embarrassed and doesn’t want to mention what he saw.
Oh, God. Oh, God.
Taking my time, I open my eyes and drag my gaze to my father.
Can he see how red my cheeks are?
“T-Thanks, Dad.” It’s all I manage to get out as I take the water, my hands a little shaky.
He doesn’t say anything or seem that bothered by my reaction. Instead, he just drops down into the recliner next to me and props his feet up on the ottoman.
Maybe that’s a good sign, and he didn’t actually see anything... I hope.
“Pre-game's on,” he says happily as he grabs the remote and turns the TV on. “Gonna get a good look at Grayson’s warmup.”
“Mm-hmm.” I open the bottle and take a sip of my water.
My phone is burning a small rectangle of shame into my thigh, so I slide it under the cushion, and refuse to look at it. There’s no way I can reply to JB without visibly reacting right now.
“Good crowd tonight,” Dad says, pointing at the TV with his beer. “Cincy always brings it.”
“Mm-hmm.”
The second the camera pans to JB stretching, my father glances over.
“Well, look who it is,” he says with a little sarcasm in his voice. Okay, my father isn’t an idiot, and JB and I weren’t exactly subtle toward the end of the tournament, but does he have to call me out like this?
I don’t acknowledge that look with any kind of confirmation. I just give him a tight, non-committal smile, pretending that I’m not dying to touch JB’s exceptional ass.
“Yeah, it’s JB,” I state just as a broadcast graphic flashes across the screen with the words 'Earlier Today.’
JB’s face fills the screen as he smiles at Sienna with his hat on backwards, and a little tuft of his dark hair poking through the hole. Why is that so attractive?
“JB, you had quite the weekend,” Sienna says. “How does it feel to be the first Catfish ProAm winner ever?”
“It feels incredible.” JB grins, leaning into the mic. “I played some of the best golf of my life, but it was nothing in comparison to my partner, Whit. She’s the only reason I now have a cool Catfish trophy in my living room.”
Sienna laughs in that fake reporter way. “And how was it playing with Whit Marlow? Is she as intense as everyone makes out?”
“Intense?” I pipe out, sitting up a little straighter and looking at my dad with surprise. “I'm not that intense, am I?”
My dad chooses to drink a beer instead of answering.
“You want me to be honest about Whit Marlow?” he asks, his grin dropping.
When Sienna nods, he continues, “When she wants something, she’s completely locked in.
She sees the whole course before she’s on the first tee.
She’s the best athlete I’ve ever had the honor of playing with.
” He pauses. Looks away for a second, then back to Sienna.
“She’s just really good at her job. Like, really good.
I got to watch her work for two days and I learned more about focus than I have in a decade of professional baseball. ”
“Sounds like you enjoyed working with her?”
“I loved it.”
“Is it true she was coaching your swing?”
He laughs. “Oh, she coached my swing, my grip, my rotation, my setup, my stance. Everything.” He holds up a hand. “In her defense, I needed it. All of it. The woman was correct every time.”
Sienna is laughing. My father is too, and I'm smiling wider than I want to.
“So should we expect a return to protect your title next year?” Sienna asks.
JB doesn't hesitate. “If she'll have me. I know she and Max would make a formidable team, but I’d only want to play with her.”
My father lets out a low whistle. I can’t look at him in fear that I’ll give it all away.
“That's quite an endorsement,” Sienna says. “Anything else you want to say to Whit Marlow?”
JB considers it. He looks right at the camera.
“Hey, Whit,” he says with this cute little boyish grin on his face. “Thanks for fixing my swing and letting me feed your dad hot dogs. I hope you’re watching because every homer I hit tonight is dedicated to you.”
He looks directly at the camera and winks. I feel it all the way down to my little blue panties.
I sink into my seat, refusing to look at my father in fear that I'm blushing so much I’ll give it away.
“Thanks so much for taking the time to talk to us, JB,” Sienna says as the segment ends.
The broadcast cuts back to the live shot of Grayson stretching. A graphic of his stats pops up beside him, and as interesting as I find his 2.86 ERA, I don’t think my father cares. No. He’s now turned fully sideways, looking directly at me with a wide grin.
“Whit?”
“Yes?”
I’m still not looking at him.
“Is there something going on with you and JB?” he asks before taking a swig of his beer, acting casual with the question when deep down inside, I know he's probably jumping for joy. Seriously, my dating a Catfish player might be his biggest dream now that I've won the U.S. Women’s Open twice.
“We’re just golf partners,” I say, brushing it off. There’s no way I want to get his hopes up. “We respect each other.”
“Good to know,” he says.
There’s a small smile playing on his face, but he doesn’t probe. Thankfully, the game starts, diverting my dad’s attention.
The Catfish are up to bat first. Tate starts with a lead-off double, earning a boo from the crowd. Not that he cares, he’s just talking away to Cincy’s second baseman.
I nearly lose all my cool when JB steps up to the plate. It’s the first time I'm really going to watch his at bat. Last time, I was too busy bitching to Jess about my pitch to care. Today, I care. Deeply. More than I'd like to admit.
He does this cute, little routine when he gets to the diamond. Taps the plate with his bat, rolls his shoulders, taps his helmet twice, then sets his feet. Once he's done all that, he lifts his bat and gets into his stance.
His stance.
Well, now it all suddenly makes sense.
It's so wide, and his butt, although magnificent—is pushed so far out that I can't stop looking at how round and perfect it is.
I just want to grab it.
“He's got Reyes figured out,” Dad says, leaning forward. “He's been sitting on that sinker all year.”
The pitcher throws the first pitch and JB doesn’t swing.
“Ball one,” the umpire says.
“See.” My dad points to the TV with his beer. No, I do not see. I have never been able to tell the difference between pitches, but I let my dad ramble.
The second pitch comes and goes.
“What's he waiting for?” I mutter to myself.
“Fastball,” my dad answers.
When the third pitch comes, he swings and the bat hits the ball with a satisfying clunk.
The announcer is yelling, my father is up out of his chair, and I'm frozen watching the ball fly higher and higher in the stadium.
“Go,” Dad is saying. “Go. Go. Go go go — “
It goes.
Over the left field wall.
And just like that, he’s scored a two-run homer.
I am out of my recliner so fast I nearly take the armrest with me.
“YES!”
My arms are in the air.
My father looks at me.
I look at him.