1. Trick

Florida / February

In two decades of playing professional baseball, it's never been a mistake to get to the clubhouse early.

Not until today.

I don't recognize the impending disaster, of course. The season hasn't even begun. I'm only here to do a pre-season interview and a photo shoot. It's not something I would normally agree to, but this might be my final season playing ball, and I'd rather do the press now than once the season is underway.

It's a gorgeous day, sunny with a good breeze. I get changed, then grab my glove and head down the tunnel toward the field.

That's when I see the woman.

A pink baseball hat is jammed over long, blonde waves that tumble over a loose jersey, disguising the shape of her upper body. That doesn't stop my brain from immediately putting the two of us in a variety of positions, even before I fully appreciate the snug-as-fuck leggings on her bottom half that leave nothing to the imagination.

Round thighs. Delicate calves. Bare ankles I need to taste.

Ankles, Trick? Really?

My mouth waters. Yes, her fucking ankles. I'll lick her there as I hook them over my shoulders, and keep licking until I find her sweet, breedable pussy.

The heady, sustained bolt of lust that throbs inside me is a shock, because I've been celibate longer than I can remember. Sometimes I'll wake up stroking myself, my dreams unlocking desire my conscious brain can't reach.

But the rest of the time? I just don't care about sex.

It's always been baseball for me.

So who the fuck is this girl, and why do I want to drag her into the nearest alcove and bury my cock between those lush little legs? Breed her our very first time, to make up for lost years. Get started on that family I thought might one day happen.

Get her good and pregnant so she can start swallowing some of my babies, too.

Daddy wants to be licked almost as much as he wants to do some licking.

"Hey," I call out hoarsely.

Nobody has ever described me as a smooth-talker, but the single syllable utterance is a new low.

She twists in my direction, putting her more fully in shadow. All I can make out is her silhouette, hips swinging as she starts to come toward me.

I'm more than twice her size, so it's not like I'm scared, but there's something unnerving about her approach—as if she thinks we know each other.

But I would know if I'd already met the woman I'm meant to claim as my own, right?

Maybe it's because I'm already imagining our first kiss—followed by my first taste of her neck, her tits, and finally the musky perfection of her pussy, right here in this tunnel—that I miss her saying my name.

Not Trick.

Patrick.

She repeats it now, laughing as she emerges from the shadows and takes off her hat. "Patrick, you okay? Don't tell me you don't recognize me."

I swallow hard, desperate to erase the mental images of the last thirty seconds. Erase the fact I thought about licking into her off-limits pussy. Erase my dream-devouring of tits I am never going to see. Erase the fantasy of kissing the soft, pink lips curling up in a smile I have to admit I still don't fully recognize.

This beautiful woman cannot be my best friend's daughter.

But her voice? The teasing way she calls me Patrick, even though everyone else in this world calls me Trick?

"Sinclaire," I say hoarsely.

She laughs and throws herself at me, wrapping her arms around my neck. A backpack slides off her arm and thumps to the ground as I catch her.

"Ooof," I say, the word coming out through some kind of muscle memory. She wasn't heavy back then, because she was a girl. And she's not heavy now, because while Sinclaire Rosehill is all grown up, she's still an itty bitty thing.

But this is what we say. Said, once upon a time. I say oof, and she?—

"Silly Patrick," she says, thumping her hand on my shoulder.

My heart lurches at the very new, very different sensations that playful push triggers.

"Didn't Dad tell you I was going to be here today?"

"I—" I set her down and push her back, using the pretense of wanting to take a good look at her to put some distance between us. "Haven't seen him yet."

She beams at me. "They're taking pictures of him today, too, and I asked them if we could do a family photo since I was going to be here anyway."

"Of you and me?"

She blinks at me, her brow pulling together in confusion. "No, of me and my dad. But that's a great idea!" She carries on as if I haven't just put my foot in my mouth like a sex-deranged madman. "We'll definitely get a picture of the three of us. There's a picture at home of me swinging between you, hanging on your arms, do you remember?"

Each word is another nail in my coffin.

Yeah, I remember.

I remember Jeff Rosehill welcoming me onto this team when I was a bright-eyed twenty-year-old kid from Wildflower Hollow, Wyoming. He introduced me to his three-year-old daughter daughter, Sinclaire, who looked up at me like I was as tall as a skyscraper. And when I knelt down in front of her and introduced myself, she said, "Trick? That's a mean name. Tricks are mean."

I was Patrick to her for the next twelve years.

She was fifteen when her dad retired. Fifteen when they moved to California, and other than seeing her briefly at her mom's funeral when she was…seventeen? Eighteen? our paths haven't crossed since.

But Jeff is back with the team he once led as a player. A few weeks ago, he was announced as the new team manager.

My one-time teammate and mentor will now be my coach.

Yesterday, we had lunch and I promised him I was looking forward to this season. That nothing has changed, and I'm still totally focused on taking the best team we've fielded in years all the way to the World Series.

But that was yesterday.

I pick up Sinclaire's backpack and hand it over. When her fingers slide against mine, her eyes go wide and her gaze snaps up to my face. My breath catches in my chest and I see my career flashing before my eyes as I consider yanking her hard to my body and confessing my darkest fantasies about her.

Brand new fantasies, still staggering around on coltish legs. Half-formed and hard to explain.

But before I can do anything—like showing her how hard she makes my cock and what I instinctively want to do with it—she lets out a nervous laugh that slaps me in the face like a full glass of ice water.

"You're not as tall I as remember," she says in a rush. "I mean, you're still really tall, but…"

I'm six-foot-four, and she has to be at least a foot shorter than me.

And here I'm looming over her, thinking horny thoughts. Fuck.

I step back, way back. "We'll put your dad in the middle," I say, the words scrapping out of me.

She frowns.

I don't know. That didn't make any sense but I can't think straight.

From the field, I hear Jeff calling her name.

For a second, I think she's going to grab my fingers and tug me along with her—she looks at my hand—but then she turns away and starts walking.

I watch her hips sway for a few strides before remembering I'm going in the same direction.

"Hey," I say, catching up with a few jogging steps. "So, you said you'll be around. Did you move here with your dad?"

"No, but I am staying with him for a few weeks. I'm doing field work for my Masters degree." She speeds up.

We're almost at the mouth of the tunnel now.

"Masters degree?" I was teaching this girl to ride a horse just yesterday, wasn't I?

We spill out into the warm Florida sunshine. She spins around and gives me a smile so bright it makes my knees weak. "I'm a statistician. Or I will be in three months, if my thesis is approved. Which means I'm going to be watching every single one of your games up close and personal, Trick Lowry. You better give me the good stuff."