Chapter 14
“Fuck, Whit, I’m gonna—” JB’s words cut off into a broken groan as he thrusts into me one last time.
I shatter around him at exactly the same time, my own cry muffled against his shoulder while pleasure rips through me in sharp, pulsing waves.
He finishes with his face buried in my neck and his whole weight presses me into the mattress for one long second before he catches himself on his forearms so he doesn’t crush me.
“Have I told you,” he murmurs before kissing me softly, as though he didn’t just wake me up by nudging his perfect cock between my thighs, “how happy I am to see you?”
He rolls off me just as he finishes the question and pulls me into his side, tucking me against his chest.
I smile against his skin, listening to his heartbeat and never wanting to leave.
“Yes. You’ve also shown me. Several times.”
“I could show you a few times more if you’d like?” I can hear his grin as he kisses the top of my head. “I like to be thorough. Managers always say it’s one of my best qualities.”
His fingers skate across my shoulder, and although I know I should move and answer the thousands of emails I have, I don’t want to. I want to stay in this bed and pretend nothing else in the world exists except for me and JB.
Shit, did I just rhyme?
What has this man done to me?
He’s made me want something more than a championship win, that’s what.
“So, I have a game tonight,” he drawls out. “It starts at five, and I’m supposed to check into the stadium by one.” He takes a sharp breath before asking, “What time’s your flight?”
Reality settles between us. Unwanted and impossible to ignore.
When will I see him again after this?
In a month? Two months? I haven’t checked when our schedules align next.
“About that,” I say, propping my chin on his chest so I can watch his face. “I might have moved things around, so I don’t have to leave until tomorrow morning.”
He goes very still. The only thing I feel are his fingers twitching as they stop caressing my shoulder.
“Say that again.”
“I'm here until tomorrow.”
“So you could—” He sits up slightly, dislodging me, his eyes searching mine to see if I’m serious. “You could come to my game tonight?”
“Only if you’d like me there.”
“If I'd—” He laughs, and I feel the chuckle reverberate through his chest. “Yes, fucking please. Yes. Will you please come to my game?”
“Of course.”
His hand cups my cheek, and he pulls me into him, kissing me so deeply I can feel his cock hardening against my thigh.
I back away and rest my forehead against his. “Is it okay if I stay here tonight instead of with my parents?”
He puffs out a breath, throws the covers off, and launches out of bed.
“JB? What are you—”
He's already gone, disappearing into his closet, and I prop myself up on my elbows, watching the empty doorway as drawers slide and hangers scrape.
“I told you,” his voice comes muffled through the wall of clothes, “you're welcome here. Anytime.”
Then he reappears.
Naked and semi-hard, he gestures grandly back at the closet as though he’s a game show host revealing a prize.
I can't help it. I laugh.
“I made you space,” he announces, proud as anything, his hands still sweeping toward the closet. “Already. Last week, actually. Before I even knew you were coming. There's a whole section. It's yours. Take it. Stay whenever, for however long you want.”
“Stop kidding, JB.”
“I'm not.” He drops the showmanship, and his voice goes quieter, which is somehow worse for my composure than the nakedness. “I know you’ve never really had an excuse to settle down because you hop from city to city and have never felt like you need a home base, but I want you to have one. It can be somewhere you can just be Whit—not the best female golfer in the country.”
“World,” I correct before I can stop myself.
His brow furrows.
“If we’re going on points, I’m the best female golfer in the world.”
He barks out a laugh. “World. My mistake. The best golfer in the world.” He shakes his head, smiling. “I just want to give you an option that isn't another hotel or your parents’ house.”
“Because moving in with a Catfish player is so much more dignified than staying in a house with a catfish man cave.”
“Oh, it's better, baby.” He leans down over the bed, bracketing me with his arms, and kisses me slow. “So much better.”
He smells like sex, and I let myself have the kiss for a second longer than I should before I plant a hand on his chest and shove him away.
“Go shower. You stink of sex.”
“That's the smell of victory, Whit.”
“It's the smell of a man who's about to be late to his own game. Go.”
He pushes up off the bed, still grinning, and pads toward the bathroom—
and stops.
He looks down at his right hand. Turns it over and studies it, his little ass clenching as he does.
“What's wrong?” I ask.
He drops the hand, then turns back to me with a sheepish, almost guilty smile.
“I, uh.” He clears his throat. “I didn't really want to shower.”
“You need one.”
“I know, but....” He raises his hand and wiggles his fingers in my direction. “That means I have to wash you off.”
“Oh my goodness.”
Grabbing the pillow next to me, I throw it at his head. When it hits him square in the face, he doesn’t even flinch.
“You can’t play a professional baseball game smelling of our juices.”
“Juices.” He cocks a brow. “I like the way that sounds.”
“Stop it. You’re being ridiculous. You have to shower eventually.”
“Yeah, but...” He rubs the back of his neck, and the grin slips. “I've been having such a hard time at the plate, Whit. Nothing's working, and the last time I had trouble bringing my A game... Well—” He stops himself.
My thighs clench at the memory. My core tingles as though I haven’t just spent the last twelve hours with him worshipping every part of my body.
I point at the bathroom. “Shower. Now.”
He drops his head, deflated, and trudges to the bathroom.
The second I hear the water start. I lie back against the pillows and stretch my arms over my head, the deep ache in my core still there.
Bringing my arms down, I roll onto my side and see JB’s equipment bag slumped against the wall by the door. It’s half-unzipped with his bats sticking out, and his batting gloves poking out of the pocket in front.
What if I—
No.
I close my eyes.
No. Absolutely not. I am a rational adult. I do not believe that a man's batting average has anything to do with whether he's recently been in proximity to my—
I can’t do that.
His batting is not dependent on me. He’ll get a hot streak going soon, and he won’t need me.
But if I did that...would it give him his confidence back? He's been drowning out there for the better part of six weeks, getting under every pitch, tapping his hat for a luck that won't come. It's not his hands. It's his head.
I open my eyes again and look at the bag.
Maybe I could just—
The water shuts off.
I sit up too fast and whip my head in the direction of the door.
Did he hear my thoughts?
JB comes out with his towel slung low around his hips and water still running down his chest. I start plumping the pillows behind me, pretending I wasn’t just thinking about defiling his batter’s glove.
What a ridiculous idea.
“Better?” I ask, my voice light.
“Cleaner,” he says mournfully. “Not better.” He crawls back onto the bed, bracing over me, dripping slightly, smelling like soap instead of us, and I can’t help myself when he’s this close.
I pull him down by the back of the neck.
“We've got time before your game,” I say against his mouth.
He grins. “Yes, Coach.”
Jess: So, why am I sitting at the partnership dinner without you? I thought you were flying in this afternoon.
Adjusting my Carolina Catfish baseball cap, I bring my phone up and take a picture of myself smiling in the stands of the stadium.
Whit: Image attached
Whit: Had an important game to watch tonight. Agreed to make it up to the partnership by posing for pictures before the start of the tournament on Thursday.
Jess: Well, look at you. The cutest little baseball fan I've ever seen. Glad you're getting distracted at your boyfriend's game. Might give me a fighting chance of getting a place on the podium this week. ??
I type out a message, delete it, and then start to type it again, writing my innermost feelings.
Whit: Is it bad that I'd love to skip it all and stay here?
Jess: Do it! Do it! Do it!
Jess: And please don't think I'm saying that because I want to win. It's just nice to hear you worry about something other than winning for once. JB must be something special.
Whit: He is. Doesn't change the fact that I have a contract to fulfill. I couldn't miss the tournament even if I wanted to.
Three months. That's all JB and I have to wait for now.
Right before heading out to the field today, we matched our schedules and realized they align almost perfectly. Our downtime is exactly the same: November to February—which means if we can get through these next three months, I can hang out with JB for the next four.
My heartbeat skips just thinking about it.
Three months ago, if someone had told me I'd be anxiously waiting to spend three uninterrupted months with a baseball player, I would've laughed.
Jess: Oh my gosh, they just zoomed in on your face.
I whip my head up and look around the stands. It's starting to fill up, but the spot next to mine is free for when my dad gets some time between his work.
Jess: What were you thinking about?
Whit: Nothing.
Jess: You sure? You looked a little dickmatized.
Whit: Jess...
Jess: They're talking about your father right now and what a big Fish fan he is. Sienna is saying that's the reason you're there tonight. Did you tell them not to say anything about you and JB?
Whit: I didn't, but I doubt she'd say anything that might get her in trouble.
Jess: Good point.
Jess: Did you know they're interviewing your dad at the top of the third?! ??I can't wait to hear what daddy Marlow has to say about all this.
Wait, is that why he said he'd be here at the top of the fourth?
I'm gonna kill him.
“Hey, Coach.”
I don't have time to think too much about how I'm going to kill my father, because JB's voice fills the air. He's down in the dugout below, and when he starts waving, the fans around me start to cheer. Some even go up and ask for his autograph.
As per usual, he's so accommodating that he signs everything and takes pictures with everyone who asks.
Thankfully, no one recognizes me here so I can just watch my boyfriend in his element and bask in his positivity. Of course, I'd never tell him how attractive I find it. That would go to his head.
When he's finished, he mouths something to me, but honestly, I have no idea what he's saying, so I just nod, and mouth “Good luck.”
“I'm gonna need it,” he shouts, offering me a salute before dropping back down and disappearing under the dugout roof.
I smile, knowing exactly what he's referring to. Little does he know what's waiting for him when he goes up to bat.