Chapter 7

7

Grady

It's the bottom of the fifth, and we're still tied at goose eggs. Sloane, a relative newcomer to Shipwreck who works as Doc Adamson's nurse during the day and plays center field for us now, is up first.

"Knock it out of the park," I tell her, offering a fist bump.

She smiles wryly, because she hasn't had a single hit all season, but she keeps trying. "Yeah. You got it."

Tillie Jean and Georgia cheer loudly while she makes her way out to the plate, and I step out of the dugout to warm up.

Annika's just a few feet away, playing third base, legs spread wide, knees bent, glove dangling, ready to charge or dive or move any way necessary to get the ball.

If she had to go away to the Army for a decade and then come home to open a bakery just up the road from me, she could've at least come home ugly.

But not Annika.

She came home with more fire in her dark eyes than she left with, her body a honed temple of subtle curves, so much determination etched in the stubborn set of her slender jaw that I can't stop thinking about what she'd do with all of that focus and drive if we were naked in the bedroom.

Or on the kitchen table.

Under the stars up in the mountains.

Down by the creek that runs behind my brother's place.

Up on the roof of Crow's Nest.

In a fishing boat out on the lake.

Covered in cookie dough.

It's the cookie dough fantasy that gets me, but thank fuck, Sloane actually hits the ball just as I'm getting to the good parts of the fantasy with me licking dough out of Annika's belly button, snapping me out of the daydream.

Sloane's momentarily stunned, then she drops the bat and takes off running for first base.

"Go, Sloane!"

"Run! Run! "

Annika's charging the infield, because it's a slow-roller. She snags the softball bare-handed and fires it to first with the most beautiful throw I've ever seen on this softball diamond.

It's neck and neck.

Sloane versus Annika's throw.

And that throw— fuck , that throw is perfect.

Utterly perfect.

It lands in the first baseman's glove—and then rips it right off the dude's hand.

He yelps and doubles over.

The Shipwreck stands go nuts.

Sloane hits first base.

The ump calls her safe while the first baseman is shaking his hand, their second baseman running after the ball, Dad playing coach and hollering at Sloane to run run run!

She does, turning sharply to dash toward second, and the infield turns into pandemonium. The pitcher's yelling and charging first to help find the ball. The right fielder's running in. Both Annika and the shortstop are racing Sloane to get to second base first. The second baseman reaches the ball behind first base, digs it out of the glove, turns, and throws it to second.

The shortstop misses, Sloane trips and falls right into the base and hugs it, and Annika snags the ball before it can roll out to center field.

"Safe," the umpire calls again.

Our dugout's going wild, cheering and yelling and whooping for Sloane, who's trying to stand up without letting go of the base.

Our cheering section is so loud that Long Beak Silver squawks and flies off Pop's shoulder to go hide behind the concession stand.

"Throw it a little harder next time, Annika," the first baseman yells. "You didn't take my whole hand off. Fu—udge. Why aren't you pitching?"

"Pitcher wasn't sick," she replies. "Third baseman was."

"Elijah. Get sick so Annika can pitch."

The pitcher flips him off, and I stroll to the plate.

There's a runner on second. That's scoring position.

"Get ready to run your ass home," I call to Sloane while I step into the batter's box.

She gives me a thumbs-up, grinning from ear to ear and covered in dust.

"Going down, Rock," the pitcher calls.

I don't answer.

I just smile.

I let his first ball go past me, because I'm not making the same mistake I did last time.

Annika's watching. I can feel her eyes on me.

I shake my head while I get back into my stance. Of course she's watching me.

I'm batting .

It's her job to watch me.

The second pitch is inside, so I let it go by and I steal a glance at Annika while the catcher tosses the ball back.

She's ready to pounce.

And it pisses me off that I want her to pounce on me .

The third pitch is it .

A gorgeous straight-shooter just on the outside of the plate, which is right where I love it.

My bat connects with a crack! , and I haul ass. I'm rounding first base before the center fielder reaches the ball.

Everyone in the dugout is screaming.

" Run run RUN! " fills my ears from all angles. Sloane is dashing around third, heading for home, and I see the ball flying back my way as I'm approaching second.

I don't stop.

Because we need to score more than I need to stay on base. Can't win if you don't score. They won't try to throw me out before they try to throw Sloane out, but I can at least be a distraction to the ball getting home, and also set myself up for Tillie Jean to bat me home.

My lungs burn. My knee pops. But I keep flying around second base.

This is why I run every day.

So I can score.

And keep the pounds off that come from working in a bakery.

But mostly so I can score.

I'm halfway to third when Sloane crosses home plate a split second before the catcher scoops the ball up three feet from the plate. Without hesitation, he turns and fires the ball at third base.

I crank up the afterburners and put everything I have into making it those last ten feet. Annika has one foot on the base and her left hand extended. The ball's coming in high, so I go for the dive, because she has to tag me to get me out, and I am not getting tagged out.

Not by Annika.

Not after she tagged out my love life ten years ago.

And came home and didn't call.

She shouldn't have opened a bakery.

And she should've called.

I hit the ground harder than I mean to, and my fingertips brush the edge of the base just as her glove connects with my ass.

I get tangled in her feet, and the next thing I know, I'm straining to keep a finger connected to third base and she's sprawled across me with a knee in my back yelling, "What the hell do you mean, safe ? He's not even on the bag!"

"Am too," I grunt out. "I'm touching it."

"If that's your version of touching , then high school makes so much sense," she snaps back.

I crawl closer to the base so I'm fully touching the whole damn thing and grunt while I try to roll her off of me. " Your rules. I'm Annika Williams, and I don't date, so don't even try it ."

She grinds a knee deeper into my back. " I'm Grady Rock, and I don't have a pair ."

"I have a pair. I have the equivalent of six pairs. You're the one who couldn't bother to tell me you came home because your mama went blind ."

"And it never occurred to you to ask what I'd been up to and what brought me home before jumping to all the ugliest conclusions you could, did it? I thought we were friends . Friends give each other the benefit of the doubt."

"Get his pitching arm while you're at it, Annika!" someone yells from the dugout.

" Maaaaa! " my goat suddenly cries right above me. " Maa baaa MAAAAAAAAA! "

"Better get off before Sue eats you," I tell her.

She snorts a disgusted snort that should be followed by hawking a loogie, but instead of going for the manly—or womanly—show of pounding her chest and spitting the farthest, she shoves off of me, leaps out of reach of my goat, who is most definitely gearing up for a good head-butting, or possibly a leg-humping, and marches the ball back to the pitcher while I stand and dust my pants off with the help of the only pet I know who's more unhelpful than Pop's cussing parrot.

Because I swear to god, the goat is trying to push me toward Annika.

And, yeah, I'm also trying to convince my boner to go home.

Why can't I be attracted to a woman who doesn't want to rip my balls off? Or who at least wants me back?

I reach out and pat Sue on the flank. "Good goat. Stop shoving me. Who let you loose?"

My mom comes trotting out onto the field with Sue's leash. "Gosh, I don't know how that happened. Good slide, honey. Your brother would be proud."

"I got it on video!" Pop calls. "Right down to you belly-flopping in the dirt."

"Eat that pussy!" Long Beak Silver calls. "Eat it good!"

Annika jogs back to third and the game resumes. Tillie Jean's up to bat, and she can kill it. We both spent hours playing with Cooper—who's between us in age—until I left for culinary school.

I clap my hands. "C'mon, TJ. Bring me home."

"Always leaving a woman to finish up a man's work," she calls back with a cheeky grin and a wink.

Our dugout hoots and hollers in amusement, but as soon as Sarcasm's stands start chuckling, the boos turn to hisses.

Annika doesn't say anything despite standing two feet from me.

There are a million things I've wanted to say to her the last ten years, and I can't put voice to a single one right now, while I'm mere inches from her.

I don't want to.

I don't want to let her back into my head.

Or anywhere else.

She's already playing games with my body, even if she doesn't know it. And I don't want her to know, so I lead off the base, mouth firmly shut.

She plants a foot on the bag, glove at the ready for the pick-off toss from the pitcher.

And Tillie Jean connects with the first ball.

I take off, but have to head back to third when it goes foul up the first base line.

My boner isn't cooling down.

And this dropping sensation in the pit of my stomach is making me realize it's not just my dick that's upset.

It's my heart.

I'm a sappy asshole right now, but fuck it.

She was my best friend for four years, when we shouldn't have been friends at all. Not with the age-old rivalry between our towns.

"You bust everyone's balls in the Army?" I grunt as I start to lead off again.

"Only when they stole my donut recipes."

"Who'd want brick donuts?"

"The same guys who wanted a piece of my tits and ass."

I swing around to face her as I dimly register a cracking noise somewhere behind me, and in the midst of trying to suppress my rage at the idea of anyone touching Annika, I realize Tillie Jean's hit the ball.

I'm supposed to run home.

So I do.

I turn without a second thought and run my ass to home plate…

Where the catcher's waiting with the ball in his glove, because Tillie Jean barely got the tip of it.

I'm out.

I'm fucking out when I didn't have to run.

All because Annika had to mention her tits and her ass and other guys getting a piece of them.

Fuck.

Fuck .

I glower at her while I make my way back to the dugout.

She studiously ignores me while she smooths the dirt out around third base with her sneaker, but I swear, she's watching me.

Yeah.

Watching me while she's ignoring me.

I have a problem.

"What the hell, Rock?" Georgia asks when I step into the dugout.

"Too much beer," I grumble, which is a total lie, and she knows it.

But I vow to get Annika back.

She's going down next time she's up to bat.

And dammit all over again, now I'm thinking about her sucking my cock.

While she's out there ready to play ball.

Like I don't exist at all.

"You have a problem," Georgia informs me.

" Maaa! " Sue agrees from the stands.

I stifle a good ya think? and concentrate on the game.

"Everything okay, son?" Dad calls.

I give him a thumbs-up. Pop makes a note in his Jolly Roger notebook—the one he keeps his matchmaking notes in—and Ma blows me a kiss.

Her way of saying I still love you even though you screwed the pooch on that play .

I make myself remember the last time Long Beak Silver gave me a play-by-play of Pop and Nana in the bedroom, and I have my cock back under control by the time the inning's over.

With us up by a single run that should've been at least two.

My head's solidly in the rest of the game, and I don't give up a single hit through two more innings.

We don't score again either, but a win is a win, and dammit, we're gonna win this game.

The crowd's getting rowdy, because it's a tight game and everyone's boozed up like we're at a frat party instead of a softball game.

Pretty sure Sue's been sneaking some beer when Ma's distracted, because he's maa ing a little loopy too, with his head tilted to one side, and can goats get hiccups? Because I swear that goat has the hiccups.

I take the mound at the top of the sixth, knowing what's coming.

Annika.

She's leading off.

She strolls to the plate swinging her bat like she doesn't have a single care in the world. My pulse starts playing some Apocalyptica—that's Metallica, as done on strings, and it's hardcore—and my palm gets itchy.

Just another batter, I remind myself.

One more strikeout.

She squares up to the plate, flexing her wrists to put the bat in constant motion, small back-and-forth movements as she shifts her hips in anticipation.

Her thighs are solid under those black leggings, her booty curved and toned, and now I'm sporting a pirate mast behind my cup again.

Her dark eyes stare me down.

Daring me to try to strike her out.

I know it's bravado. I struck her out last time, I'll strike her out again.

I toss the ball casually in my hand a few times. Show her I'm not affected by her either. That I'm bored. And this will be easy.

And then I wind up for a killer curve ball that she won't see coming.

I release it, and it flies as fast as a softball ever flies, with a perfect arc, heading into a curve that would make my brother proud, and then it happens.

There's a punctuated tink! , and before I can move, I catch the ball.

Right in the crotch.

Pain explodes in my hard-on, radiating out to the pit of my stomach and shooting down my thighs and rendering my lungs impotent balloons.

Darkness clouds my vision.

And somewhere, in the deepest recess of my mind, behind the internal howling, I imagine Annika standing over me.

Smirking and muttering something about donuts.