Unprimed

Wednesday / Thursday

Standing under the scalding hot water, I’m pissed off that we lost, but more pissed that that fucker slid into third, nailing my ankle and boasting, “Made it to third, bitch.”

I would have questioned the little show fate gave me earlier—the one with Gwendolyn York being next door—had the umpire not yelled, “You’re out!” at the same time.

Twice, he got to third. Both times, he slid in purposely, hitting my damn ankle. Have to give him an A for the effort he put in trying to get me to drop the ball, but what I didn’t have to give him was the ability to score … just like last night.

“Need a minute before you head to press,” Coach calls in.

“That your way of telling me some asshat dipped out, and I’m needed to fill in?” I holler back as I rinse my hair.

“Your reply doesn’t dignify a response, Locke,” he yells back.

“Oh no? Why’s that?” I ask, amused.

“Because you’re that asshat who’s about to dip out.”

Everyone within earshot starts laughing, including me.

* * *

Press ready, dressed in black pants and a gray button-up, I tap on Coach’s open door to grab his attention.

He looks up, appearing confused as to why I’m standing in his office doorway.

“You asked me?—”

“Shit, right. The ankle. After press, have the doc check it out.”

“It’s fine. I’m?—”

“And don’t mouth off on camera about the fight at O’Donnell’s or his?—”

“Using the game as a method of assault? Yeah, I’ll let that go.”

“He pulls that shit tomorrow, and we’ll get the commissioner involved.”

“Tomorrow’s the last game against the Mavericks in our three-game series, and there’s no fucking way we’re losing against them. When we win tomorrow, the shit’s not gonna matter.”

“You want me to contact them?—”

“Fuck no. We’d look like bitch babies.”

“Jags are no bitch babies,” he says with a growl, and I have to hold back a laugh.

I’m standing here, waiting for him to say something—anything—when he finally looks up. “Press, Locke.”

“On it, Coach.”

I turn and see Amias walking toward the exit and jog up to him. Once out of everyone’s earshot, I ask, “Coach? Foes he seem okay?”

“What do you mean?” he asks.

“Spacing out in a big way.”

He shakes his head. “Haven’t noticed anything different.”

Nodding to the press room, I ask, “Keep an eye out?”

He lifts his chin. “Brisa the Barbie and Tarzan are waiting on you.”

“You fuckers really do all sleep in the same room every night, don’t you?”

He laughs. “Hell no. It’s Sunday dinners.”

His grandmother, Josephina—Momma Joe, as they call her—hooks her arm in his. “No longer always on Sunday, but we make time. Tell Brisa to hurry and meet us upstairs, will you, Leland?”

“Yeah,”—I nod—“will do.”

As I head down the hall, Brisa sends Nour and Bennett Jr. in first. I look at my watch. It’s ten o’clock, and as the minutes tick down, so do my hopes of pissing Gwendolyn York off enough that we end up angry fucking against a wall somewhere—anywhere.

“Son of a bitch,” I mumble, feeling my dick stir, and real fucking quickly decide it’s best not to lean into it this time and focus on the boys.

I glance at Brisa. “Bennett’s eyes are fucking dead.”

“I see that,” she sighs.

“Kid’s off tonight. Something has been eating at him for a couple of days.”

Ranger, Brisa’s husband, looks at me.

“You notice anything?”

“Kid’s an odd one. Nothing like his old man. In fact, I’m pretty sure he ha?—”

“Yeah,” Brisa cuts me off, “something’s off with them, which is why I hope he bonds with some of you. He’s truly talented.” She stops and covers her mouth.

“Shit,” Ranger says, hurrying her toward the ladies’ room.

Well fuck, I think and turn my focus back to Bennett and Nour.

“Tonight was tough.” Bennett’s voice is tinged with a raw edge of emotion. “We gave it everything we had out there, but sometimes, it just doesn’t go your way.”

Nour comes in for the save, his words measured, voice even. “We’ll regroup, refocus, come back stronger tomorrow, and finish up ahead.”

“Fucking snooze-fest, man.” Xavier Steel clamps his hand on my shoulder. “Get in there and give it some flavor.”

“Where’s Coach?” I ask.

“Players running this shit tonight.” He winks then then nods.

Come to Daddy, I think as I walk in.

As soon as my name is said by one, they’re all over me. Gone are the days when I recognized at least a handful of the reporters in the room. ESPN, Fox Sports, MLB, NBC, CBS, SportsNet, and TBS, I could keep straight. Add all the new sports reporters who submit to social media channels, and I can’t keep shit straight anymore.

Nour and Bennet look relieved when I sit down at the table.

I lean into the mic and smile. “Sorry I’m late.”

“How do you feel about playing with rookie starters?” is the first question I receive from somewhere in the packed press room.

“I started this game as a pitcher. I would argue all day with any sports fan or player that the relationship between the pitcher and the catcher is the most critical in any sport there is. Teamwork, constant communication, and one hundred percent trust in each other, or it doesn’t work. That shit doesn’t happen overnight. It takes years to build a relationship like that. These two have never played together before showing up at Revolutionary Stadium. Rookies or not, they’re right up there with the best of the best in the league.” I laugh. “They’re going to be the very best in a short time.

“Hart plays like he’s been on a team his whole life. Learning that’s an extension of who he is on and off the field. Tereira’s got center on lockdown. Hell, he’d cover right and left if he needed to.”

“How about?—”

“Hold up. There’s no better way to mess up a family than leaving the rest out. As a whole, we’re a team on fire. Vander, Rudy G., and Pope are untouchable on the field. Chuck Turner is killing it as DH, and I’m still at the top of my game.”

“How’s your ankle?” the woman from Fox yells.

“Left one as strong as the right,” I answer with a smile then nod to whoever the hell it is from SportsNet who wants to ask the next question.

“Can you tell us about the viral video of you and Mavericks’ Centerfielder Frankie Frangula?”

“I post on social media for Jags fans and people who have followed my career for years. So, when I tell you no, it’s because I haven’t seen a video. I also had no idea Frangula has a virus, because that’s none of my business. I can assure you that he and I haven’t appeared in any videos together.”

She shakes her head and tries to correct me like I’m an idiot and not fucking with them. “No, a viral?—”

“Julie, you’re up,” I cut her off, calling on the next reporter.

“Are you currently in a relationship?”

“I’ve been in a relationship for years. I just haven’t had the opportunity to put that ring on my finger.” I shrug. “This may be the year.”

“Are you referencing marriage or base?—”

“Stockton, it’s all you,” I say over her.

“We heard that the stadium owners had their hands full tonight with a girl fight in a concession line; how are they going to keep folks safe here? Then add Frangula’s obvious attempt to take you out on third, not once but twice. Does that have anything to do with why Coach T isn’t out here tonight?”

“Let’s back it up to a fight.” I shake my head. “If the rumor is true, I’m sure it was dealt with swiftly. The security team is top-notch. The facility is wired with surveillance cameras; if you mess up, you’re out, not just for that game but for good. Anyone who enters the facility passes through a metal detector. You’re probably safer here than at your grandma’s house. Part two: Coach T’s good. He’s busy keeping his players in line.” I give a laugh for the viewers. “He reminded me that I was on for press tonight or I’d have missed all of you. Twenty-three Jags are not in this room, and I’m sure his absence is due to the fact he’s dealing with whoever needs his attention.”

“You skated the question about Frankie Fr?—”

I nod to another reporter. “Bertie, what’s on your mind?”

“Are you on the injured list for the next game?”

I look around, confused. “Why? Did something happen to me that I don’t know about? Was there something on the interweb that I missed?”

Half the room laughs.

A woman I have never seen asks, “Did your long-time relationship with Cody Vander’s have anything to do with the fight Monday night?”

“Vander and I have played for the Jags?—”

“I’m talking about your off-the-field adult team play, specifically with the ladies,” the little shit cuts me off, giving me a taste of my own medicine.

I scratch my head. “I mean, neither Vander nor I are what one would call Knights in shining armor, but we’ve never crossed a line or swords.”

The other half of the room laughs at this.

“It’s a tough crowd tonight,” I observe. “Speaking of the Knights, did you all know Roman Hart’s kid brother plays in the NFL for the Knights?”

Someone calls out, “Old news, Locke.”

“Well, damn, I thought I was giving you some insider info.”

From somewhere in the back of the room, I hear, “I heard you were adding yoga to your training regimen. How is that going?”

“The instructor was great.” I pause for effect. “He bent over backward for us.”

A handful of reporters actually get the joke.

“So, you’re not a yoga fan?” another asks.

“How can I not be a fan of yoga; it’s the reason yoga pants were created.”

Brisa enters the room and walks to the front. “Thank you all for coming in tonight. These three no doubt need to eat, get back to their families, get some sleep, and be back here tomorrow to win us a game.”

When I walk out, Ranger—aka Tarzan—stands there against the wall, eyes on his wife.

“She preg?—”

“Not a discussion to be had.”

Something about how his jaw tightens has me sensing not anger but pain, so I curb my need to keep up the verbal sparring that he and I have had since we met and shut my mouth.

“See y’all tomorrow.” I nod and start hoofing it toward the exit.

“Locke,” he calls to me, and I look back over my shoulder. He pulls a nicety out of his ass. “You handled that like a pro in there.”

Fuck yeah, he’s hurting.

“Thanks, man.”

* * *

When I roll in, I see the back porch of CeCe’s home and a porch full of people. With the windows cracked, I can hear them laughing. Perfect.

I park, get out, grab my bag, toss it on my back steps, and then head over to see what I can stir up.

As I round the garage, I let out a whistle. All conversation stops as they turn and look at me.

“Neighborhood watch, I got a noise complaint.”

Danny Aiken stands up and tosses me a beer. I catch it.

“This a bribe?”

“Damn right it is.” He chuckles.

I look down and see it’s Crawford Bock. “Well, shit, y’all ain’t fu—” I stop when I see a Hart’s mother. “Messing around over here.”

“CeCe’s brought the southern hospitality to Trenton.” Danny’s wife, Chloe, stands. “How’ve you been, Locke?”

I crack open the beer and tip it in her direction, “Much better now.” I tip it back and take a long swig.

“Texas is a big state, but nothing beats a hometown where you can damn near be in three states at once. You got your fancy beer, but how many pigs have y’all roasted?” Hudson says with an exaggerated Southern accent.

“Three states, huh?” I chuckle and look at Danny. “We can roast a hog.”

“We have roasted hog,” Danny confirms.

“Hogs a fancy word for pig, Ma Hart?” Hudson asks his mother.

“Call me Ma one more time, Hudson,” she warns.

He laughs, grabbing her and pulling her into a hug.

I glance around inconspicuously in search of Gwendolyn.

“She went to bed when she saw you pull in,” Chloe says, blowing my damn spot.

“Would you be willing to draw me a map and look the other way so I can go inside and make nice with her?”

“Not a chance in hell,” comes from behind me.

I glance back. “Marks, my man, why the hostility?”

“She’s been yawning since I rolled in. She and CeCe both,” Roman offers.

“Understood. I’m sure she and I will catch up before she heads back to Walton.”

Rome’s little sister, Jillian, pushes up from where she’s been sitting, yawns, and stretches. “I’m going to bed, too. Been a rough?—”

“What the hell happened to you?” I ask, and then it hits me. “Those reporters weren’t blowing smoke about a girl fight.” I look at Chloe and see she’s good. “Gwendolyn, okay?”

Chloe arches her brow. “She’s good.”

“CeCe, Jillian, and a couple of CeCe’s friends got into an argument?—”

“Jumped. We got jumped by a bimbo wearing a Locke jersey,” Jillian, who happens to be a complete knockout and has that extra bit of sass that some unknowing fool is going to fall face-first in and never be the same, cuts Roman off.

“Well, I certainly do apologize for that, but I can tell you that I’ve only ever given out one jersey with my name and number on it,” I assure her.

“You must be hungry, Leland. Here, have a taco; they’re delicious.” Mrs. Hart hands me a plate.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hart.”

“Call me Linda.”

* * *

Less than half an hour ago, I sent a text.

Me

Time to make nice, Gwendolyn. Am I coming to you, or are you coming to me? X

I then said goodnight to the Harts and Aikens and headed to the townhouse.

Once inside, I turned on ESPN to catch the highlights, stripped off my clothes, and went full slut mode, throwing on a pair of gray sweats, no shirt. I then grabbed two bottles of Berg from my fridge, lit a candle, and set our song on repeat.

As soon as my ass hits the brown leather couch, my door flies open, and Gwendolyn York crosses the threshold into the townhouse.

I push up off the couch, stretch specifically to show off the six-pack, and groan as I look her over, from the thick waves spilling out of a bun perched on top of her head to her navy-blue painted toenails peeking out of a pair of Birkenstock slides.

“Bring it over here so we have nice to make.”

“Have you lost your damn mind?” she snaps, crossing her arms over her chest, but not so fast that I don’t notice her nipples trying to tear through her shirt to get to me. “Stupid question. Of course, you have. Could you turn this shit off?”

“It’s ‘Our Song.’”

“We don’t have a song, Locke. We broke up like a hundred years ago.”

“This is still ‘Our Song,’” I point out.

She covers her ears, and her cheeks start getting pink. “Turn this shit off now.”

“You’re adorable.”

“Swear to Jesus, I will smash the fucking—” She’s got that wild critter look while glancing around, trying to find where the music is coming from, and when she spots the speaker, she heads toward it.

In order to get there before she does, I make the decision to jump over the couch to stop her, knowing damn well she will, in fact, fulfill that promise.

I land a little fucked up and realize my ankle’s a bit more tender than I realized. Not enough to stop me, though.

I get to her in time to wrap my arm around her waist, pull her in tight, and sing the words in her ear, “Our song is a slamming screen door, sneaking out late, tapping on Gwendolyn’s window, when you’re on the phone and you talk real low, ’cause it’s late and Miss Deb… oof.”

“Turn. It. Off.”

“You win, but do me a solid?”

“No,” she snips.

I can’t help but chuckle. “Tell me I’m right; this is ‘Our Song.’”

“It was lame all those years ago; it’s still lame,” she snarls.

I spin her around to face me. “In case you’ve missed it, Taylor Swift has kind of become a big thing, and I am pretty damn sure it has a lot to do with ‘Our Song.’”

She snarls at me, plants her hands on my chest, and attempts to shove me.

“Can’t have you right next door and go about my day knowing I haven’t put a smile on those gorgeous lips of yours.” I lean in and whisper, “Make nice with me.”

I feel her body shiver against mine before her spine straightens.

“Make nice with you? You told Frankie that you and I fuc?—”

“Not to sound like a little bitch, but he started it.” I lean in and don’t even try to hide the fact I’m inhaling her scent.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” She wiggles yet doesn’t pull back.

“Always smell like magnolia trees after the rain,” I answer, not giving a fuck if she does or doesn’t realize I spent the better part of a year trying to capture that scent and put a name on it.

She huffs, “And you smell like a man obsessed with his dick.”

“Well, there’s something we always had in common.” I grab her hips and lift her up so she’s at eye level with me. Her hands grip my shoulders and she wraps her sexy ass legs around me … in sleep pants. “My dick, my mouth, my fucking?—”

“You need to shut up and get on with it. I don’t have time for your games.”

Walking toward the hall to head upstairs, she grips the doorjamb, halting us. “We can fuck right here.”

“You want me to fuck you, Gwend?—”

Fingernails digging into the back of my neck, she states, “No, I’m going to fuck you.”

“You sure you can handle little Texas? You think you’re ready to slide your tight, sweet pussy down my cock?” I shake my head. “Never could?—”

“You have a condom down here?” she asks, reaching down into my pocket.

“Prepared like a fucking scout.”

She bypasses the condom for a handful of cock. As always, her first touch makes my eyes get warm, my lids get heavy, and yeah, still, all these years later, the first breath following that connection, it’s kind of hard to take in.

I grip the back of her head and pull back, forcing her eyes to mine. Then I bend to kiss her.

Gwen turns her face and releases my dick. At the same time, she grabs the condom, untangles herself, and steps back.

Turning, she says the same damn thing she did last time and every time since the first post-breakup fuck. “No kissing.”

I grind my teeth together to stop from saying a fucking thing that could ruin this.

She places the packet between her teeth, shrugs off the old man cardigan she’s sporting, pulls her arms out, crosses them in front of her, pushing her perfect little tits together, and pulls the sleep top over her head, tossing it as she turns and hops around to the front of the couch, removing the shorts.

She looks back at me, “Let’s go.”

When I cross my arms, she rolls those blue-gray eyes of hers.

“Let’s make nice.”

“Let’s.” I lose the sweats as I walk around the couch and she takes me in.

I watch as she swallows hard then clears her throat before pointing at the sofa. “Sit.”

I raise my hand like a schoolboy. “No disrespect, but you topping me when you’re not primed is?—”

“I’m a big girl, Locke. You let me worry about what I can and can’t handle.”

“Big? You’re the same damn size?—”

“No talking.”

“Fine by me.”

I’m knee level when I pick her up and lift her up high enough so I’m eye level with her pussy, that’s waxed like it was a few weeks ago, and she’s got just a little bit of soft growth.

“Legs, now,” I growl out my demand before pulling her close and pressing my lips to her soft heat.

“What the hell is wrong with …?” She trails off, and a whimper escapes when I slide my tongue between her folds and keep doing it nice and slow as she caves and brings her legs over my shoulder.

If I weren’t in heaven right now, tasting her sugar, I’d make her admit to me being right … again. She wasn’t nearly wet enough. Grown or not, her pussy is still exactly as I left it—tight and tasty.

“Locke,” she moans. “Whatthefuck.”

Hands palming her ass, I pull her as tight as I possibly can and lick the sweet out of her as her thighs tighten around my face.

One hand traveling up her back, I move to lay her out on the chaise end of the sectional, positioning myself between her legs and dropping down to my knees.

“Did you know your hot little pussy’s like fine wine—gets better with age?” I ask, my hot breath against her cunt as I grip one of her thighs and push my hand beneath the other.

“No talking.” Her voice shakes as she cups her breasts and squeezes them.

I circle her entrance with a finger before slowly pushing it inside her, cock twitching when her pussy tightens around it.

“Not sure it’s possible not to talk while I’m making nice with you. How else would I tell you how fucking much I like this?” I tug at the sprinkling of soft hair.

“Some of us have to work and can’t make our monthly … Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Her back arches, and she squeezes her tits harder when I thrust my finger deep inside her, curling it and twisting, making damn sure to avoid the spot I know damn well will make her come in seconds.

“Perfect,” I groan, reaching down and squeezing the tip of my aching cock before giving it a long stroke. “Nipples, play with them, and I’ll give you orgasm number one.”

She opens her mouth, no doubt to tell me that she’s a “big girl,” or how “grown” she is. All that shit’s cute until you’re minutes from seeing Gwendolyn York come.

Me? I do what needs to be done to shut her up—keep her here.

I tap her spot, and her thighs begin to shake. “Nips.” I tap it again, and she squeezes and kneads her breasts, then pinches and rolls those deep red peaks that I’m gonna have in my mouth next.

“Good girl,” I groan, increasing my thrusts and building her up to the point she soaks my hand, my face, my couch. To the point her body’s shaking, and she’s physically drained.

“Not good enough.” She thrusts against my hand, and I wanna ask her what she means, but she fills me in. “For an orgasm. Jesus, Locke, give me?—”

I squeeze in another finger and give her exactly what she needs, and then I suck the hell out of her clit, giving her what she wants and getting my reward.

Legs shaking, she’s just lying there as I climb over her, bend down, and suck a nipple into my mouth as I slide my hand down her and dip inside her again.

“Shit, Locke,” she whimpers.

Mouth full of tit, tongue stroking her hard nub, I simply groan and continue until she’s coming again.