Chapter 13

Brooks

I should not have kissedMackenzie.

But I did, and now I have to deal with the consequences.

First consequence?

I should tell you it's forcing myself to meditate on all the ways I'm going to smack the shit out of the ball today despite kissing a woman I'm insanely attracted to. Home run every at-bat. Diving grabs at third. Firing rockets to first. Being the leader in the dugout for the Fireballs that I was for New York.

But it's not.

No, the first consequence is that as soon as I finish rubbing one out in the shower the next morning, I remember the feel of her lips on mine, that subtle taste of cotton candy and Cracker Jacks, the beat of the background music flowing through me, the snap and crackle in her eyes, and I'm hard as steel once more.

I groan and fist myself again while the hot water pummels my back.

Why is it always the crazy ones that are so damn hot? I'm starting to understand what Rhett sees in Eloise.

Which should be a turn-off, except I'm not picturing my brother and my sister-in-law while I pump my dick.

No, I'm picturing a blond vixen with a dragon splashed across her gorgeous breasts. And I'm not just picturing her throwing daggers with her eyes at me while I left the drag club last night, which, yes, is hot as fuck too.

The daggers, I mean.

Why is it so sexy when a woman's pissed? Is it the challenge of making her un-pissed? Or is it the passion?

Fuck.

Passion.

What's harder than steel? Because that's my dick right now as I picture Mackenzie naked, riding me, her breasts jiggling, losing all control at the feel of my cock inside her. I jerk harder, gripping myself to the point of pain, while my balls squeeze so tight that I can feel it in my toes. Can balls permanently cramp from getting too tight?

I've never been inside a woman, but I've read a few romance novels. I can imagine it. And right now, I'm imagining Mackenzie's pussy as a hot, tight, silky, wet channel wrapped around me from root to tip, gripping and stroking me with her body, and I groan out loud while a second orgasm rips through me, leaving me panting and sagging against the cool avocado green tile of my shower wall.

How?

How is she the one that I can't stop thinking about?

And why?

What the hell's wrong with me?

Probably that you've never gotten laid, idiot.

Whatever it is, I need to get out of this shower before I have to jack off a third time. I've never not taken care of my own needs with my hand, but at this rate, I really will be dealing with a lopsided forearm problem before long.

Coco Puff prances around my ankles when I step out of the shower and dry off. The bathroom's so steamed up, I can't see even a hint of my reflection in the mirror.

Not that I want to.

It would be all self-loathing and bitter disappointment.

I push the door open, and why does it smell like pumpkin spice and bacon in my apartment?

Coco Puff goes nuts, yipping like Santa Claus came in March, his fucking collar spewing profanities since he won't let me take it off, and he takes off down the hall. Maybe my puppysitter reconsidered dating. Or she got here early. Or maybe my mom's in town.

"Oh, sweet puppy! Look at you in your jersey! You're all ready for the game tonight, aren't you?"

Coco Puff barks, and his collar screams out a good "Motherfucker, damn right!"

I freeze.

That voice.

My cock leaps to attention. Again.

And fuck the clothes.

She wants to be here? Just as good that I'm only in a towel. Hell, I should drop it.

I pause.

Huh. That's brilliant.

Dropping this towel is the best idea I've ever had.

I finger-comb my hair, fluff my junk, and stride out of the bedroom buck naked. My toes squish in the brown shag carpet, and the scents of pumpkin spice and bacon get stronger as I emerge into the kitchen, where Mackenzie's bent over, rubbing Coco Puff's belly.

All I can see of her is her ass in brown dress pants, and despite the fact that her pants match half my linoleum, the sight of that heart-shaped butt is definitely causing more blood to surge to Mr. Happy.

Fuck.

My hand and my dick are well-acquainted, and it's probably good that I wouldn't have a hair trigger if she decided to jump my boner right now, but I don't know if I'd be able to finish the job after two rounds of choking the chicken.

Her ass wiggles, and never mind.

I would absolutely be able to finish the job.

Even if one of those candles she's lit around my apartment was singeing my ass hair, I'd be able to get off with Mackenzie.

I clear my throat. "Morning, sexy pants."

She squeaks and leaps up, sending her long hair flipping back over her head.

Her gaze goes down to my morning salute.

Snaps back up.

Pink floods her cheeks, matching the tones in her patterned blouse and the tips of her fingers, which are flying to her lips. She spins, turning her back on me, and fuck.

She's in pink stilettos too.

Pink. Fucking. Stilettos.

I'm dead.

Pick me up off the floor and send my body back to New York.

Those stilettos killed me, and if my dick strains any harder to get close to this woman, it's going to fall off.

Coach is right.

I need a fucking therapist.

"Morning," she sputters. "I wanted to make sure you ate a good breakfast this morning, because champions should start the day on a good note. There's bacon in the oven. How do you like your eggs? Coffee? Or tea? There's not enough about your personal information on any of the sites I found for baseball groupies, and your cabinets are a little bare."

I don't bother asking how she got in. Crazy does what crazy does.

But I do make sure to brush against her as I head to my freezer for my protein pancakes.

She visibly shivers.

I yank open the freezer, grab the box, and turn to face her again. "Cold?"

She focuses her eyes on the ceiling. "Yes."

"Want to cuddle?"

"No. I have to go to work. But since you're wooing me, I thought I'd give you a few tips for getting into my pants. First things first, I like sleeping with winners. So if you want to bang me, you have to hit a home run."

She says bang, and my nuts wind so tight I feel like I've been racked in the jewels. "Work? You have a job?"

"I'm a sanitation engineer for the city."

I blink. "So you're like…smart."

"I can do math in my head, yes. And discuss the city's program to reduce landfill emissions at length. And also handle being yelled at when people get mad that their trash wasn't picked up on Christmas day, because my extension and the customer service extension are very similar."

"Why don't you work in baseball?"

"The restraining order."

I snort. That's easy enough to believe.

She scowls at me. "That was a joke." Her gaze dips to my hard-on, and she jerks her head back up so she's staring at the ceiling again. And then her eyes crinkle as she squints at one particular spot up there. "What…?"

"The dicks on the ceiling?" I study the artwork too. "Eloise said they were here when she and Rhett signed the contract for me, but I think she probably drew them herself. Especially the one with four heads. Speaking of, you planning on stealing the echidna next, or has Duggan Field security foiled you?"

"I don't have a clue what you're talking about." She turns to the oven while the timer still has two minutes on it, bends over—god, that ass—and pulls out a tray of perfectly crisped bacon, which, yeah, is also a complete and total turn-on.

It's bacon.

She flaps a hand at me. "Stand back if you don't want to get hot bacon grease on your pee-pee."

"My pee-pee?"

"I mean, I see why your sister-in-law calls it that, but if you're proud, then you do you."

"You could give up the act anytime."

Coco Puff yips in agreement, and his collar translates. "Shithead!"

He's overexcited and probably needs to go for a walk.

Which means I probably need to get dressed, but I'm enjoying the hell out of making Mackenzie uncomfortable with my nudity.

And the more I think about it, I wouldn't turn her down if she decided she wanted to ride the pony.

It'd be a memorable way to lose my virginity, and while she's batshit crazy, she's not unattractive, even if my original goal was, as she suspected, to make her think I was going to woo her so she'd leave me alone, since clearly, she'd never be able to resist the full Brooks Elliott wooing experience.

Which I'm still planning in my head, because I've spent the last dozen or so years of my life actively avoiding wooing women.

I need to call Knox. Get some advice. Guy's read every romance novel ever written, and he knows that if he tells anyone I'm asking for help, I'll use his nuts for batting practice.

Mackenzie goes digging in my cabinets. I should probably put a stop to this, but I like watching her stretch up on her tiptoes and reach for a plate like she lives here. There's something innately graceful about her movements, and I'm charmed.

I don't want to be, but I am.

She turns, catches me staring, and darts a quick glance at my very happy, very proud dick again before turning back to the bacon. "Do you know the Fireballs have never won a championship and have only gone to the post-season three times? And even then, they've never won a pennant either?"

"Yep."

"Wouldn't it be amazing to be the guy who helped push them there?"

Right. We're the fucking Bad News Bears. "Why does this team matter so much to you? You don't play. You couldn't even talk to any of us on the team without having a stroke a month ago."

She turns and faces me head-on. "You seriously have no idea?"

I lift my brows. "Oh, you mailed me a Mackenzie manual? Security must've thought it was a threat and trashed it. I'll have a talk with them."

Fuck, she gives good glare. It's calling to my hard-on, coaxing it to the breaking point.

"Do you even love the game anymore? Or is it all the paycheck for you now? Baseball is life. It's a place where people aren't trash engineers or bullied kids or weirdos. We're all equal when we're cheering on the same team, and some players still remember that. But apparently not you."

It's been a long time since anyone called me a shit to my face.

I don't like it.

More, I don't like that I probably deserve it, because she's right.

I don't love the game anymore. Not the way I did before it became a paycheck.

Mr. Happy is turning into Mr. Sappy, and one glance south, and she'll know she's getting to me.

But the weirdest thing is happening.

Amidst all the shame slashing through my chest, there's something else welling up.

I want to know who bullied her. And why.

And then I want to make them pay.

She pokes me in the chest. "Duggan Field is my home. We almost lost it last year, and I will not stop until I know it's not in danger anymore."

I ball my hand into a fist to keep from touching her, which is all I want to do. All I need to do.

A person doesn't get as fanatical as Mackenzie about a friggin' game if they're not running away from something else. "You really think the new owners will let anything happen to the team?"

"They traded for you, didn't they?"

Ouch.

She squeezes her eyes shut, then turns away. "I have to go to work. If you don't get a hit today, I'm calling a guy my dads know who knows how to motivate people. And don't freaking fumble an easy line drive again."

She leaves me standing there buck naked in the kitchen, my hard-on drooping, while Coco Puff squats and pees on the brown and yellow floral linoleum, barks, gets translated to "Twatwaffle," and I realize something has to change.

Unfortunately, that something is me.