She’s Back

Gwendolyn York was the object of my teenage obsession and the cause of every hard-on that I ever got at the most inopportune moments, starting the first time I ever saw her.

It was the first day of my sophomore year at Walton High. I was in the gym when she—the new girl—brushed against me as she walked in with the girls’ soccer team, heading toward their locker room. She then turned and looked me up and down while walking backward, objectifying me in the most appreciative way.

I stood there, feeling a grin spread across my face as I looked her over the same way she was me. Thick, long, light brown hair with natural blonde highlights kissed by the sun and not by Ms. Sally down at Southern Beauty salon on Main Street, all knotted up on top of her head. She was about five-foot-six, a hundred pounds and twenty, but maybe more, and seeing her calves and arms were muscular and cut, and her ass … an onion, it literally brought tears to my eyes.

But enough about my eyes. Her eyes were stunning, a blue-gray. Her lips were so damn full, and I knew I needed to kiss them ASAP. I was utterly mesmerized.

“New bitch, that’s my boyfriend.” Shelby Shutter, my girlfriend at the time, shoved Gwendolyn on her ass.

Gwendolyn York sprang up off the ground, like the strong, beautiful little troublemaker I learned she is,before anyone could react. She then stepped at Shelby, taunting, “Not for long.” She did this all while looking thoroughly amused, and then stepped backward, smiling at me.

I’m sure I looked like one of those cartoon characters with the heart eyes, birds chirping overhead, the whole bit, and then …

“Locke,” Danny hissed.

Thinking he was struggling, I glanced down but could not see him. However, I did see my ball shorts tented up like Barnum and Bailey’s Circus had claimed ground there instead of on the edge of town, as they did annually.

“You mind getting your fucking dick out of my face?”

It wouldn’t have been so bad if Coach hadn’t also seen me.

“Kid, you want to pitch something? Grab a ball and your glove and get out on the field, for God’s sake.”

He didn’t give me a second to reply, not that I could have denied I was hard if I wanted to, as he sprinted toward the locker room when someone yelled, “Girl fight!”

Shelby and her three closest friends exited the locker room with bloody noses.

Shit, I thought as Gwen stepped through the doorway with her thick as fuck hair hanging down past her shoulders, no longer in the knot on top of her head, with a smug-ass look on her pretty face.

Ms. Toomer, the girls’ gym teacher, pulled Whitley Belington, the preacher’s granddaughter, aside as she tried to sneak out of the locker room and questioned her.

After practice, on our way home, Coach—or Dad as I call him when not at school or on the field—said to me, “We need to discuss something before we get to the house.”

“You teach health class.” I paused, unable to keep a straight face. “You, of all people, should know that young men my age sometimes have things pop up occasionally.”

“Leland,” he sighed heavily.

“One day, I’ll have better control,” I assured him, again trying not to laugh.

“I’m sure Danny Aiken would appreciate that,” he huffed. “But that’s neither here nor there, son. Your girlfriend, the shit she and her friends pulled on the new girl?—”

“Gwendolyn York,” I say her name, which I knew by the end of the first class I had after the fight, and I loved how it sounded.

“Will you focus?” He turned down our street.

“I’ll do my best, Pops.”

He rolled his eyes. “What they displayed was bully behavior. Four-on-one is not acceptable.”

“Not going to disagree at all. But I will point out that Gwendolyn York handled it?—”

“Will you quit saying her name like that before you have another situation in your shorts? We’re just about home.”

“It’s a name that deserves to be said like?—”

“Yeah, and less than twenty-four hours ago, it was Shelby Shutter.” He mocks my tone. “A month ago, it was Nicky Fr?—”

“It’s only Gwendolyn York.” I laid it on thick that time. “From now on.”

“Shelby know that?”

“Breaking up with her tonight,” I state.

“And what are you going to say?”

“That Coach Locke doesn’t want me dating a bully?”

“Try again, smart ass.”

“That Gwendolyn York is a goddess?”

“That girl had every right to defend herself, but from what I hear, she was taunting Shelby. She’s going to be trouble, kid. You sure you need that when you’ve got two years left before?—”

“Yeah, Pops, I’m pretty sure I do.”

“You’re the best player I’ve seen on the field my entire life, and that’s got nothing to do with you being my son. That’s a blessing you don’t want to waste.”

“Gwendolyn York would never even try to come between me and baseball. She likes me too much to do that.”

“So, you talked to her before breaking things off with?—”

“Not one word, Pops.” I cracked up and continued laughing as I told him, “But when you know, you know.”

“There’s something not right with you, kid.” He shook his head, trying not to react, although I knew he wanted to laugh.

“I got my daddy’s game and my mama’s heart,” I stated proudly.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

Those hard-ons didn’t stop popping up at the most unfortunate times. For the remaining two years of high school, when she was my girland I was her player, I was finding ways to hide my dick behind notebooks, duffle bags, pillows, under dining tables during family meals, and even … at church.

All these years later, even after she broke my heart and I shattered hers, I still crave her. Hell, I popped wood just three weeks ago when I was home for my grandpa’s funeral. Well, thankfully, not at his funeral, but at Ollie’s bar after the service. We were both fucked up when we ended up in the alley out back, where we’ve now scratched each other’s itch on three separate occasions since high school.

Since that night, that itch has only intensified, and rubbing it—or one—out hasn’t soothed it one bit. The mere mention of her name makes me want to drive into her so hard she doesn’t ever forget me and shake her hard enough that answers to all those questions spill out.

The biggest one? How did we manage to mess up something as good as us?

* * *

Gwendolyn York is hotter now than she was in high school, hotter than she was just weeks ago, and she’s here tonight. That finely aged ass, and waxed kitty, is planted in the bleachers with Danny and Chloe Aikens and Whitley Paul. Like me, they all grew up in Walton, Texas. Whitley was the preacher’s granddaughter and is now married to my high school teammate, who made it to the majors and is again my teammate for the Jersey Jags.

Yeah, she’s here for them, but she’s no doubt watching that on-again, off-again fuck boy who plays centerfield for the Montana Mountaineers tonight against us, Frankie Frangula.

On more than one occasion, Mom told all of her kids that, when we’re feeling down, “You gotta find the sunshine in the rain.”

Mom would be proud, being it’s dark, so I had to imagine that sunshine, finding it even in the dark of night. I’m picturing the sun and its setting, a perfect mix of reds and pinks. The red: We drew first blood and won the first game of our series against the Mountaineers. The pink: I’m sure Gwendolyn York’s pretty pink parts are hotter for me than that bastard right now.

I’m still pissed off, though, and I know that’s fucked up since the idea of her watching two guys—well, one man and a bitch baby boy—who she’s been with in the biblical sense has my blood boiling.

Irrational, coming from a man who, for the past decade, has had more threesomes than I can count? Sure, unless you dig deeper and realize that’s a different game. Fucking is fucking. Three people fucking leaves no room for misunderstandings.

I start pulling off my uniform, wanting to hit the shower then get the hell out of here.

“Are you going to O’Donnell’s for a drink?” Chuck Turner, our team’s designated hitter, asks.

I glance at John Paul—Pope. “You going?”

He eyes me skeptically and nods. “Yeah.”

“She gonna be there?”

“If you can’t handle it?—”

“The ex here?” Turner cuts him off.

I lift my chin, and he laughs as he looks at Pope.

“There will be no issues. We were at the concert the other night. Met up with Hart and saw Rudy G.”

Pope arches a brow. “A little confused as to why that means he isn’t going to be a dick to one of my wife’s best friends.”

“He found a hometown honey to play with.”

“I didn’t find a hometown honey to play with,” I scoff at the idea. “I’m not playing shit but baseball. You’re the one talking about the chick you had grinding on you, and you don’t even have her number.”

“You get your girls?” Turner asks.

“Turner,” I groan out my frustration then remind him, “I don’t do hometown honeys. She was a hot chick who I stood with at the concert.” And whose company I wished I’d enjoyed without thinking about Gwendolyn’s.

I was sure things would have progressed had Vander been at the show with me and not with his women—open relationship. I don’t understand it, but that’s not the point. But yeah, no.

Gwendolyn fucked me up real good this time.

“You ever see her again, you better get me her friend’s number.” He winks then heads toward the shower room.

Not gonna happen.

Pope turns to me. “I don’t want to get involved with whatever you and York do or do not have going on, but I will ask if Frankie Frangula is at the bar, you just leave it alone for tonight.”

I don’t reply.

“My wife and her girls seldom get together anymore and?—”

I grab my towel and try not to slam my locker … too hard. “For someone who doesn’t want to get involved, you’re doing just that.”

“Not trying to be a dick,” he calls to me.

Let’s be clear here, I am never a dick to Gwendolyn York, but there’s nothing I enjoy more than getting under her skin … except getting inside her.

* * *

Walking toward my ride, I hit my key fob and unlock the door.

“Late workout tomorrow. Do you feel like heading out of town for the night and finding something to play with?” Vander asks from behind me.

Turning, I hitch my duffle over my shoulder. “We won. We hit O’Donnell’s,” I remind him of the unwritten rule established after one of the owner’s cousins opened a bar right off Revolutionary Field property.

He frowns.

“You and your girl already on the outs again?”

“Nah, we’re good,” he mumbles. “You staying at your townhouse tonight?”

I probably should have bought the row of four townhouses when they came up for sale since I’ve rented one for a few years now, but I’m not a city guy—I prefer my beach house on the shore. But tonight?

“Yeah, man, you can crash there, too, if you want.”

“Perfect,” he says as I pop the hatch and toss my duffle inside.

When I first got pulled up to the majors, I bought a new house every time I was traded. I own a place in New York City; Houston, Texas; Denver, Colorado; and Miami, Florida. I wasn’t going to buy in Jersey since I have a place in New York, but I fell in love with the shore. When I resigned with the Jags, I bought a killer house.

I also buy ridiculously expensive vehicles at the start of every season. This year, it’s a charcoal gray Levante GT.

“Heard mention they weren’t making them much longer.” I toss my duffle in, and he does the same.

We get inside, and I inhale one of my favorite scents in the world.

Vander leans back. “Leather and new car.”

“Damn right.” I hit the ignition button then press on the gas to hear her purr louder.

“You name her yet?”

“It hasn’t come to me yet,” I say, pulling out of my parking spot. “But it will.”

“Some guys have kids; some have cars and houses.” He laughs.

“Don’t feed me your line of bullshit. Some guys have them both,” I say, referring to his daughter.

“She’s not a kid anymore, man. She’s going to college.” He exhales deeply and scrubs a hand over his face.

“You and Lisa should make it official and have another,” I joke … sort of.

He doesn’t reply with his typical fuck that this time; he just looks out the window.

We’re teammates and have an unspoken view on relationships—I don’t say shit, and he doesn’t, either. We don’t roll like that, and tonight’s not the night to open that bag and unpack it.

Especially not with Gwendolyn in town.

“You get new wheels?”

“I bought my graduate a new ride.” He smiles.

“You get Lorna the new Range Rover?” I ask, knowing she was asking for one.

He shakes his head. “Got her a used Land Rover.”

“Fucking harsh,” I joke, knowing that’s not the case.

He rolls his eyes. “Two years with a license and three car accidents. The damn insurance is more than the vehicle. She keeps it on the road and her grades up, she’ll get a new one for college graduation.”

“You’re a good dad, man.”

“Damn right I am,” he says as we pull into O’Donnell’s parking lot.

When I swing into a tight spot, he grips the dash, and I can’t help but laugh.

“Something’s not right with you.”

I open the door and slide out. “It’s meant to be driven and parked, not left on a showroom floor.”

* * *

Walking into O’Donnell’s, the scent of aged wood and roasted peanuts wafts through the air. The dim lighting casts a warm glow over the place, packed with Jaguars fans waiting to celebrate the win with us.

“First round on me.” Vander nods toward the back where our teammates gather after a game. “I’ll meet you back there.”

It only takes a few steps before I hear a loud, somewhat obnoxious male voice yell from behind me, “Make way. The Roman Hart Fan Club is in the house!”

I look over my shoulder to see who the hell it came from.

A man who looks a hell of a lot like our second baseman, Roman Hart. No doubt his brother. The two women with him, beaming, have got to be his sisters.

Rome pushes through the crowd, making the perfect path to get where I want to go. All eyes are on the Harts, and I get there without being noticed, and I get noticed all the damn time.

I love the Jags fans, the best in the league—no joke—but I’m on a mission, the seas have parted, and I have my eye on Gwendolyn York.

Amidst the buzz of voices and clinking glasses, my eyes catch her. She’s sitting under the soft amber light, chin raised up and pointed toward the TV screens showing clips from tonight’s game. Her profile is beautiful. Hell, everything about her is.

She looks sexy and stylish, wearing a fitted, white long-sleeved tee-shirt that accentuates her slender frame, the fabric hugging her perfect tits. That shirt, paired with faded blue jeans that cling to her legs in all the right places … so sexy. Her feet? She’s wearing Chuck Taylors, of course. Her thick, long hair is pulled through the back of the ball cap and cascades down her back in waves. I’d take that girl, in that fit, over any chick in a slinky dress on some red carpet.

As I get closer, I can’t help but notice her intense focus and her lips curved into a faint smile as she continues watching the game highlights. It’s a familiar sight, reminding me of the times we watched reels together before my big games, all wrapped up in each other.

I can’t deny the rush of warmth that floods through me at the sight of her so damn close. She’s still as enchanting as the day we first met. And yeah, that warmth is heading straight for my balls.

“You might have won the game, but that little minx isn’t going home with you. She’s leaving with me. I’m going to make her mine, officially,” comes from beside me, and then …