Prologue

Nour

After Mom madeTommy White spit his gum out in her hand and freaked him the fuck out by telling him that chewing gum turned into the flesh of the dead after dark, I stopped inviting friends over to stay the night. She didn't do this to be problematic; she actually believed it. My parents would cross the street if they saw a black cat and repeat statements exactly forty times because it was supposed to make whatever they were saying happen. They would pinch their right earlobe and knock on wood twice with their left while saying mashallah—even though they were Christians when they immigrated here from Turkey—to ensure evil wouldn't be alerted of their good fortune.

Once I started playing high school baseball, I began thinking my parents might not be as crazy as I had thought they were. In college, it was much the same. The oddities, including my own, were amped up when I played in the minors.

My first RBI was hit while I was wearing the only jock strap I could find, one left in place of all the others that my team had stolen as part of their hazing. It was hot pink and bedazzled with a heart that read, "SWEATY BALLS." I wore it for an entire season.

There's more, so much more. It's almost embarrassing, and it gets worse every damn day. But it is what it is, and that's not what has me all in my fucking head right now.

It's been weeks since the fire at "Slugger Row," which is a row of townhomes all rented by fellow Jersey Jags players. Although no one was hurt and really no personal items were damaged by the fire, well, the smoke stench isn't coming out of anything we own, but that's really it. It was an electrical fire, so most of the damage was inside the walls, and now the electrical system and walls have to be fully replaced and repaired.

Our second baseman and owner of the property, Roman Hart, is dating the neighbor, CeCe, who owns a Victorian house that's as big as any bed and breakfast my family stayed at when Mom and Dad dragged us on our annual leaf-peeping trips up the coast. Luckily, she's letting us crash here. I'm sure it has way too much to do with her feeling responsible due to the fact the man responsible for dicking with the electrical system that started the fire is CeCe's piece of shit father. He's now behind bars, where he belongs, and everyone knows she's not responsible.

We could easily find a new apartment, but our place is so close to Revolutionary Field and the local hangout, O'Donnell's Pub, that we're all willing to wait. It also has a hell of a lot to do with the fact we've all grown close, something I never expected would happen, but I'm glad it has. I've missed being part of a close family.

We're all alive and have a roof over our heads. CeCe, her family, and girlfriends are amazing and love to cook as much as I do. Add their pup to the mix, and it's a win.

A win is a good thing in my profession—no, it's a great thing—and for the Jags, who have never been at the top in the fifty-two years since becoming an MLB team. Not ever. But now we're winning games and slowly pulling up in the ranks, which is also great. And it's not just the team doing well; my batting average is the best it has ever been since we moved into CeCe's.

But there is one major problem: I haven't had sex since we moved into Slugger Row, and with how packed this place is, even ten minutes in the bathroom is a luxury I don't often get. What does this mean? I barely have enough alone time to get myself off, and it's crucial I release before a game.

That's right; me, the guy who hated superstitions the whole twenty years I lived with my parents, has game day rituals that include a big, early morning breakfast that always consists of a loaded omelet and two pieces of toast, one with butter and the other with strawberry jam. Next, I shower and do some self-care—jerk off—before chilling and watching two episodes of Real Housewives, which is my form of relationship control. I nap, then head to a yoga class at Revolutionary Field when we're in town. If I can't find a class when we're on the road, I find a place by a body of water or in a park and do an hour before heading to the stadium, where even more game day rituals—superstitions—take place.

It's time to take things, other than my dick, into my own hands, to go where this man has never gone before.

Looking down at my phone, I flex my fingers before hitting the app store. Then I search dating apps and look for one that's more the opposite.

"Bingo."

Welcome to Flingshot

Whether looking for a fling or a spontaneous connection, Flingshot is your go-to app for instant sparks and unforgettable moments.

Shoot your shot!

After careful thought,I tap out a ridiculous bio.

Profile name: SportsManSam

I've surfed the biggest waves … in my bathtub, scored a touchdown in a hockey game, and hit a home run in chess. My secret talent? Outrunning cheetahs on the track. They're fast, but I have better sneakers. When I'm not busy winning Olympic gold in musical chairs, I enjoy coaching unicorns in the art of pole dancing. Hit me up for a lesson.

I uploadeda few mirror selfies that hid my face: one in a suit, one in a towel showcasing my abs, and one on a surfboard that one of my friends back home took. Then I hit "submit."

AJ walks into our shared room. "Bathroom's yours, man. Come down when you're done. CeCe's making popcorn, and we're going to watch?—"

"I'm not into murder documentaries when I'm rooming with a guy who sounds like he's running a chainsaw in the?—"

He cuts me off with a laugh. "Rome's family's here; she's not going to watch that shit and freak them out. We're watching highlights." He knocks on the wooden doorjamb before walking away. "Let's go."

Standing, I look down and briefly contemplate changing out of my favorite comfy sweats but decide against it. I'm living here until the townhouse is finished; I'm not going to a fucking party. Sweats will work, but it's probably a good idea to wear a shirt, too.

Walking out of my room, I head for the bathroom just as Bennett walks into it.

Of course.

Jillian

Isit normal to peruse dating apps when you're peeing? I'm not sure, but the likelihood of me meeting my next "maybe" while on the toilet is high. Imagine telling that story to your grandchildren. Not that I think the next maybe will be husband material. Hell, I'm not even sure I even want to get married. Finding a man to fool around with is the objective.

Middle and high school were a bust. No one was interested in the girl whose brothers—plural—popped up in on every situation where a guy dared take a second glance at me. Hell, even after they graduated and went on to college, the whispers of the threats they'd made still followed me around our town and our school. I was sure my undergrad years would be promising, but they blew up my phone with warnings about what they would do to any jock or frat boy who added me to the list of girls they nailed and how they'd end up in jail.

Could they have been blowing smoke? Yes. Could they have been serious? Also, yes. But worse than that was I didn't want to be a number on some immature asshole's list of ass he tapped. A man who has a list like that clearly has issues, and I know all about men with issues.

My brothers are the men they are because our mother raised good men. Hell, they even give her Father's Day cards. They won't admit our father ever taught them a thing, but he did teach me a thing or two. He taught me what I didn't want in a man. My list of red flags could span a mile, if not more, all thanks to him.

Add to all that the classes I took outside of my exercise science degree requirements, ones of a more personal interest that ended up giving me a second major in Women's and Gender Studies, and I am now confident in what I, Jillian Hart, want in a man.

Yes, I know it's more PC to say "partner," but I'm not looking for that yet, maybe not ever. What I want right now is a man to … experiment with. That sounds cold, but it is what it is. Limited experience doesn't negate my desire to feel, to touch, to taste, and to be touched and tasted.

Yes, undergrad would have been an epic exploration of all of that if not ruined by the pandemic. Then, after that shitshow, Rome and Hudson were drafted, and Grandma Hart got sick and passed away. That loss? Devastating.

Mom and I traveled as much as we could to watch and cheer Rome and Hudson on as they played. Their seasons, for the most part, are opposite of one another, and Hudson's is shorter, so he traveled with us when he could. It was awesome. There was no years' worth of planning and saving; Hudson simply whipped out his card.

Mom still insisted on using coupons, discount codes, and scouring the best price on the web, if available, and always reminded him to think twice before a purchase. He owns a kick-ass house on Skaneateles Lake near the Knights training facility and playing field, Legacy Stadium, in Blue Valley, New York.

"It's bought and paid for; that's my savings account," he always tells her.

Now that prices of real estate have gone through the roof, she agrees it was a wise investment.

Roman went straight from the minors to the majors and bought rental properties, yet he still drives his old pickup.

We used to live in Grandma's house and had planned to until I graduate in a couple of weeks. Yes, used to. However, a few weeks ago, when we returned to Virginia, we found my father had moved into Grandma Hart's house—his mother—and had changed the locks. It didn't matter that it had been at her request that we moved in because her only child—my father—had taken her savings and had been cashing her social security checks, meaning she had been on the verge of losing her home. It didn't matter that Mom paid the taxes and utilities, and we all took care of Grandma when she was sick for more than eight years. It didn't matter that Rome, Hudson, and I painted the house and maintained the property because we loved her, and it was home. It didn't matter that we loved her and knew he never visited her, even when she was dying, because he was her son and Rome's ex-girlfriend was the sheriff's daughter.

My plan to go to grad school is now on hold. I've been accepted to Montana University's program, but I really don't want to be that far away. I'm still waiting to see if I get pulled off the waitlist for Binghamton University in Central New York or Rutgers here in Jersey.

Being as busy as they are, I have yet to bring this up with Mom or my brothers. Why? I know Mom will pack us up and move West, but that's not fair to her or my brothers, who are only a four-hour drive from each other.

Hudson bought a freaking RV, and Mom loves driving the damn thing. He has a whole setup for it on his property, which is amazing.

He recently lied and told Mom that he sold a half-acre to a teammate whose family lives in the South so they had a little place here. The truth is he and Rome are having a house built where everything is on the main level, and the upstairs is a loft where we can all stay one day. The front, all windows facing the lake, and "we" are giving her the deed to it on Mother's Day. The reality is, I'll never make the money they do, even with a Doctorate, and it sucks I can't ante in a third, but wallowing in that feels gross.

I will not begrudge their success, and I don't, not even a little. I'll celebrate their success, born of hard work, and bask in the love they have for the woman who deserves all the Father's Day cards she gets because she played both roles.

Mom and I rolled into town this afternoon, and she made me drive the huge RV. Okay, it's not that huge. It's not like a rock band bus, but it's bigger than Grandma Hart's seven-year-old Prius. She was so proud of that car; it was the first vehicle she'd bought brand new. She gave it to me when she could no longer drive, and I have sworn I'll drive it until the wheels fall off.

I focus back on the app and swipe through the profile pics until I see abs—perfect abs—the kind that all others should be measured by.

I click to read the bio.

Profile name: SportsManSam

I've surfed the biggest waves … in my bathtub, scored a touchdown in a hockey game, and hit a home run in chess. My secret talent? Outrunning cheetahs on the track. They're fast, but I have better sneakers. When I'm not busy winning Olympic gold in musical chairs, I enjoy coaching unicorns in the art of pole dancing. Hit me up for a lesson.

Oh.My. God. That's freaking priceless! I laugh to myself and decide, Screw it. Then I slide my finger back on the slingshot and release to?—

"Jillian," Mom calls to me through the door. "I'm going to the RV to get some sleep."

I set my phone down, wipe quickly, flush, wash my hands, and hurry out, catching her before she leaves. "You're not going to watch the highlights?"

"I watched it all in real time. It's been a long day." Then Mom yawns as she gives me a hug, which does as yawns do and makes me yawn, too.

"Oh no, you can't leave, too." Cora's worried whisper comes from behind me.

Stepping back, I give Mom a peck on the cheek. "See you in less than an hour."

"Take your time. That purple mattress your brothers bought me was way too expensive, but I have to admit, it is a dream."

"My brothers are professional athletes; they can afford it," I remind Mom.

"Can afford what?" Roman asks from behind me.

"She's swooning over the purple mattress again."

"It's a double." Roman kisses her cheek. "You swoon over a king, not a double."

"I'd get lost in a king." She kisses his cheek back. "I'm more than happy with a good book in a double. Goodnight, my Harts."

"I'll walk you out," Roman says, following behind her.

"Reels starting in ten … nine … eight … seven … six …" AJ Tereira, six-foot-two, hot as hell Brooklyn raised centerfielder and one of the three displaced Slugger Row players still crashing at CeCe's, calls to us.

Blaze Bennett Jr, the Jags' starting pitcher, is also hot as hell, but that stick up his ass and the fact he acts uncomfortable around us takes him from ten to nine-point-five; and Nour Uyar, the six-foot-three, two-hundred-twenty-three-pound catcher who is so hard to read, are the other two.

"Rome's walking his mom out. Chill." Nour Uyar's deep voice pours over me like warm water on a cold day.

Sweet Jesus, I think as he passes me, leaving the smell of man, soap, and a hint of something extremely sexual to waft in the air.

If all three of these players' books were on a shelf, I'd find Nour's dark exterior the most alluring, and it would be the one I'd pull down from the shelf and read first. On the surface, he seems so laid back, yet I've witnessed his quiet restraint and find it extremely sexy.

A few weeks ago, there was a fight at O'Donnell's, and when others jumped in, he stood back but not too far. His dark brown eyes were honed in entirely on the situation, as if he were assessing the situation and would step in if needed.

There have been games where Bennett's pitches have been called poorly on the field, and from sixty feet and six inches, you can tell Nour remains calm and soothes Bennett's anger or anxiety.

His body is so sexy. He's built like a Greek statue. Okay, well, the body type. But the dick size? Those statues always seem to have below-average-size cocks. I know Nour is packing—I've seen the outline of his dick in sweats, sans the cup.

I'm not all that experienced because, hello, two brothers made me any decent guy's little sister, but I've done my research, and his dick isn't resting on his balls; it's hanging long, thick, and proud. It passed Go and collected two hundred dollars, if you know what I'm saying. You can even see the outline of his head, and even though giving a BJ isn't something I'd like to do for fun, my mouth has watered more than once when I've been able to sneak a peek. I imagine he has the kind of dick you'd want to high-five for being awesome but fear you'd hurt it.

His ass? Perfection. Not that I'd be into eating ass, but I'd love to bite his to see if it's as hard as it looks. Catchers have the best asses, anyway, due to the fact they squat for half the game. And then there are those nipples, and I am generally not turned on by a man's nipples, but Nour's are so perfectly placed and proportionate on his pecs that I'd love to bite them, too.

"You wanna help me out?" Cora laughs, drawing my attention back to the here and now while she juggles plastic movie-theatre-looking popcorn containers. She nearly drops them when she looks at me. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine." I force a laugh.

"Yeah," she sighs as I take a couple of the containers from her hand. "You and me both." Then she whispers, "I need to get laid."

We both start laughing but stop when we hear the clearing of a voice.

Thinking it's Roman returning, I look back and see Nour freaking Uyar holding up my phone. "This either of yours?"