12. Pink

Pink

T hat’s going to leave one hell of a bruise.

So much for the abs of steel I was always bragging about. Nothing humbled you faster than a two hundred and sixty pound third baseman right to the ribs. Especially one you used to suck off.

Dimitri and I had played in the same college league between my junior and senior year at Penn. Our casual fling hadn’t made it past Labor Day, but we were both drafted the following fall—me to Baltimore, him to Charleston. Dimitri had definitely put on some muscle since the last time he’d been on top of me.

“You good, man?”

I glanced over my shoulder toward a freshly showered Bennett, another hulking body I would hate to run into at home plate—good thing he was on our side. Bennett was what some might call a gentle giant. Unlike a lot of the guys, Bennett tended to keep to himself, often opting to spend his nights in than go out with the team. Something told me there were a lot more layers to peel back on that onion, when he was ready, of course.

“All good, Benny Boo.” I rubbed the sensitive skin above my belly button. “It takes more than a ripped Russian to take me out.”

Besides, the whole thing had been my fault anyway. It had been my wild pitch that had sent Bennett scrambling for the ball and Dimitri racing toward home. A couple of bruised ribs were a small sacrifice to make for the win—nothing a bag of frozen peas and a few days rest couldn’t fix.

“I don’t know,” Bennett said. “You went down pretty hard.”

“That’s what she said,” Roman shouted. Our first baseman might have had five years on me, but he had the humor of a twelve-year-old boy.

“Dude,” Soren said, shooting a pointed glare his way. “2006 called, and they want their joke back.”

I tuned out their ribbing and reached for the tattered notebook inside my locker. The one held together with lime-green duct tape and prayer. I flipped through the pages—flashing past a year’s worth of scribbled words and doodles—until finally, I landed on a clean piece of paper. There weren’t many of them left, just enough to finish out the season. After that, it would join the others.

All nine of them.

Baseball players lived and died by two things: superstition and routine.

A 90s alt-rock playlist. The number seven deluxe from Do Your Wing Thing. One hundred grounders during warmups, no more and no less. As far as I could tell, every ballplayer had their thing.

And while there might not have been any direct, causal links between wearing a lucky pair of dirty socks or unwrapping three Dubble Bubble packages— never Hubba Bubba—and chewing counterclockwise, most sports psychologists agreed that there was some validity to athletic rituals.

“It’s a placebo effect,” Dani had explained to me during one exceedingly long bus ride back from Vancouver. “More than anything, superstitious behaviors can help players feel more in control, which more often than not helps reduce anxiety and increase confidence.”

In typical overachieving, only-child behavior, Dani had double-majored in sports psychology and multimedia journalism, which made living with her both exciting and infuriating. Mostly because she was usually right.

My game day rituals began with a squeeze of Blue Beary and ended with a self-evaluation in my notebook. It hadn’t always been that way, though.

The notebook had come in later, the same year my parents had split up and we’d finally rid ourselves of the likes of my father. Before then, every game had concluded with an inning-by-inning, pitch-by-pitch critique alongside my father.

“I have to protect my investments,” he would tell me and anybody else who asked. “It’s up to you to carry on the family name.”

So much for that archaic notion. I’d swapped his surname for my mother’s maiden name before the ink had dried on their divorce papers. His calls and visits had slowed after that. He’d stopped coming around altogether the second I’d had him barred from my high school’s athletic center.

Belles and I hadn’t heard a peep from dear old Dad since.

My coach at the time had suggested that I keep up my postgame ritual with one minor adjustment—namely, a notebook—so I did. I recorded everything. What worked, what didn’t, what I needed to work on with our pitching staff—it all went into the book.

And the best part was once it was written down, that was that.

My notebook didn’t berate me or call me names. It didn’t make me do drills until my knuckles cracked or drop me off six miles from home to walk off my “bad attitude.” The only person who could bad-mouth me and my performance—the only person who mattered anyway—was me and me alone.

And why would I do that? I fucking rocked.

“Got a minute, Jared?”

The sudden slam of my notebook echoed across the lockers. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust my teammates—my best friends, really—but these notes were for my eyes only. I wasn’t willing to share them with my coaches and teammates, so I certainly wasn’t going to show them off to the Portlandia Press ’s senior sportswriter.

“Brock Heller,” he said, introducing himself. Not that he needed to. Every athlete within a thousand-mile radius knew Brock Heller by name, face, and, surprisingly, sultry voice. “Good to officially meet you, man.”

“You, too.” I met his outstretched hand with my own but winced when he shook it up and down.

“Sorry about that.” His lips kicked up to one side. Between his tousled blond hair and layered necklaces, the guy looked more like a beach bum than the Pacific Northwest’s most notable sports reporter. “That was one hell of a hit you took.”

I shrugged, but fuck, even that hurt. “Hazard of the trade.”

He nodded. “I won’t take up much of your time. I just wanted to make sure you and your agent went over all the details for the profile?”

“Yeah. Everything sounds good to me.”

Based on the terms laid out by my agent, Brock would be traveling with the team during our away series next week. The entire team had been briefed . . . and bribed. I may or may not have promised to cover the costs for our post-season trip in exchange for my teammates talking me up. After months of deliberation, we had finally settled on a team cruise to Alaska.

Just what everyone needed—twenty-six grown ass men on a boat with unlimited alcohol and nightly karaoke.

“Perfect. I’ll follow up with your team next week.” His eyes fell to the notebook in my lap. “I’ll let you get back to your—”

“Songwriting,” I blurted out.

“Uh-huh.”

“It’s true. Kendrick has nothing on me.”

His smile unnerved me.

It was difficult to get a read on Mr. Heller. Brock was no stranger to the press room, and aside from his surfer bro aesthetic, he was best known for his hard-hitting questions—pun intended. Having him write an article about me was both thrilling and terrifying. The guy could make or break a player’s career with a few clicks of a keyboard.

“Wow, I’m sure our readers will be interested to know that.”

Welp, that’s what I get for lying.

With that, he turned his Birkenstocks toward the door. I had just finished scribbling a reminder in my notebook to write a song before next week when he added, “Oh, and Jared?”

I looked up from the paper. “Yeah?”

“I look forward to hearing you spit some bars.”

It took me another forty minutes to make it out of the locker room, half of which I spent standing under the shower spray. My muscles bordered on Jell-O, a stark contrast to my bruised ribs.

Fuck, I could go for some Jell-O and ribs now.

I was halfway down the tunnel from the locker room to the staff parking lot when a voice shouted, “Jared, over here!”

Nessa caught my attention first, as she always did. She waited at the end of the tunnel, like a beaconing light calling me home, only this light looked none too pleased to be there. Tattoos dotted her bare skin, peeking out from beneath her overall shorts and sleeveless top. Tattoos looked great on most women; on Nessa, they were perfection.

She cocked her hip to one side and crossed her arms over her bountiful breasts. Such a shame.

As I got closer, my cock nearly burst out my pants when I spotted the hat on her head. A Roasters hat. Fuck. Why did that turn me on so much? I feared to think what might happen if I ever caught her in my jersey.

“We weren’t sure whether we should wait for you or not,” Kaylani added. I barely spared her and Ryan a glance. “But Ness insisted.”

“Yeah, she was worried about you,” June added.

“Is that true, angel?” I teased. “Were you worried about me?”

Nessa’s cheeks flushed in response. That was the only answer I needed.

I threw my bag down and tugged her into my side, linking our hands together and resting them on her stomach. She had set her boundary for kissing, and fake relationship or not, I didn’t fuck with people’s boundaries. If she wanted me to kiss her, she was going to have to say so. For now, I settled on resting my head against hers.

“Thanks for coming,” I told her friends. “Glad you guys could make it.”

“Thanks for the tickets, man,” Ryan said. “Seriously, best view I’ve ever had at a game.”

“My pleasure.”

“I’ve got an early morning call, but we wanted to say hello and congratulate you on the win—”

“And make sure you were okay,” Kaylani quickly added.

“Never better,” I assured her. “Nothing an ice bath and some cuddles can’t fix.”

Nessa’s hand clamped down on mine, her fingers digging into my palm. I brushed the curls away from her neck and leaned down, pressing my lips just behind her ear.

“Play nice, angel,” I warned. Goose bumps peppered her skin.

She looked like she wanted to argue with me; a part of me hoped that she would. Nessa challenged me in a way that nobody ever had, and fuck if that didn’t turn me on.

“Perfect!” June exclaimed. “Ness can ride home with you then.”

I didn’t miss the conspiratorial smile she shot my way. Apparently, everybody was rooting for Nessa and me . . . except for Nessa.

“No,” Nessa answered quickly. Too quickly. “My workbag is in your car.”

“I’ll drop it off tomorrow,” June fired back.

“No, you have that thing tomorrow.”

“What thing?”

“That garden thing.”

My ears perked up. “What garden thing?”

Nessa sighed, her back vibrating against my chest. “We’re partnering with a few local farms and gardens for the festival this year. Some are providing produce, and some are offering flowers for décor. June and I are supposed to tour them tomorrow.”

“That’s cool. You could have a bouquet or flower crown making setup, too,” I suggested.

June’s eyes lit up. “What a fantastic idea, Jared. Maybe you should go with Ness.”

“No, he—”

“Would love to,” I finished.

Her head snapped around. “Don’t you have a game?”

“Not until tomorrow night,” a gruff voice said from behind me.

Soren and Clarke sidled up next to us, hand in hand. It was still hard for me to wrap my mind around them as a couple sometimes. Their love story, though, was a tale as old as time—the Southern beauty and her grumpy beast.

“Mind if we tag along?” Soren asked, surprising everyone, even Clarke.

“ You want to go tour some gardens?”

He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “No, I want to spend some quality time with the woman I love.”

Save some rizz for the rest of us, old man.

“Babe, can we go, too?” Kaylani pleaded with Ryan.

He kissed her forehead. “A triple date with Jared Pink and Soren Sinclair? Fuck yeah, we can go.”

“Yes!” Kay wrapped her arms around Ryan’s waist, resting her head against his chest. “Ness, this is perfect. We can catch up more, and I can get to know Jared better.”

She raised her brows, issuing a playful challenge. One I met with equal fervor.

“Works for us,” I answered for both of us, even though I knew Nessa would hate it. “Right, angel?”

My hands slid from her waist, roving over the thick, fleshy hips I had spent countless hours dreaming about, though all those dreams had involved a lot more privacy and a lot less clothing.

The things I wanted to do to this woman, for this woman. They started with worshiping every inch of her body (twice) and ended with making her mine.

Preferably while she wore that Roasters hat and nothing else.

“Sounds perfect,” she chirped far too enthusiastically. The high-pitched squeal might have sounded natural coming from Clarke or Kaylani, but not from my sardonic sass queen.

I stole a glance toward our captive audience. June seemed utterly enthralled by the action, almost as if she were enjoying Netflix’s latest K-drama. Ryan and Kaylani seemed none the wiser, Clarke was too caught up in the idea of another friend falling for a Roaster, and Soren was too caught up in Clarke.

Damn, is that what people see when I’m looking at Nessa?

Wonder and reverence colored his half-mast eyes. The tension in his jaw promised something a bit more feral. Clearly, the old man still had it, and something told me that later tonight, he was going to give it to his live-in girlfriend.

I’d give it to Nessa if she let me. If she asked for it.

Until then, I’d settle for fake dates and flower crowns.