Chapter 8

Brooks

I'm studyinga profile on one of my dating apps at breakfast when Cooper Rock drops a pile of donut boxes on the table in front of me. "Banana pudding donuts, flown in from home. Life-changing. Who's the hottie?"

"She's a pass." Mostly because she's all put together, which means she's probably lying about something. Also, I can't stop thinking about a hot mess in a pink dress and a Fiery Forever button. I shut the app and decline the donut. "You really eat sugar before a game?"

"This here's a once-in-a-spring-training special. Have to have a banana pudding donut to remind me what I'm fighting for. Then it's back to light beer and plain chicken and no butter on my broccoli."

"Eat the donut," Trevor Stafford tells me.

Darren Greene pokes his head in the back door, his pregnant wife, Tanesha, glowing next to him. "Donuts?"

"Donuts, man."

"I love donut day. Elliott, man, lucky you got here when you did, or you would've missed donut day."

Soon, the dining room is crowded with the entire team. The handful of new guys—like me—are being indoctrinated in the donut tradition. Cooper's rationale works on all of us, and even I give in and eat a donut.

Don't usually care one way or another about bananas or banana pudding, but that's a damn good donut.

Cooper's chest puffs, and he pulls out his phone. "Donut selfie!"

We pile in, knowing it'll be on the team's Instagram page within the hour.

"This is tradition?" I ask Stafford, who's next to me.

He nods between moans as he bites into his breakfast.

"Ever think you need a different tradition to win more games?"

"Don't touch the donuts. Touch anything else, but the donuts are off-limits."

"Because they're good luck?"

"No, because they're fucking delicious. Rock brings them in three times a season—once during training, once for the all-star break, and once after a sucky, sucky loss. Then we get together at his place in the mountains after the season and have his family cater for us for a week while we mourn."

I bite into my donut again. Banana pudding oozes out the side, and I lick it off, because it's stupidly good.

I can get any kind of donut I want back home in New York, but even I have to admit that this one's special. It's like you can taste the love baked into it.

Taste the love?

Christ.

It's a wonder I still get endorsement deals for muscle cars, chainsaws, and whiskey.

"Can't do it after the season this year," Cooper says. "My brother's finally getting hitched."

Darren looks up from his own donut. "Thought his wedding was in early November."

"Which means he'll be busy tying the knot and leaving for his honeymoon when we bring home the championship."

Silence falls over the team.

I might not have been here long, but even I can read what's going on here.

Be better this year? Yeah. Probably.

There is all that shit we did at "the club" the other night.

But the Fireballs making it all the way to the post-season?

No way.

We're not Major-League-ing our way to championship rings, plus the analogy doesn't even fully hold. Building this year? Yes. Going all the way?

I'm not betting my virginity on it.

Darren slowly pushes back from the table. "All the way," he says softly.

"All the fucking way," Rossi chimes in.

"All the damn way." Stafford stands and pumps a fist. "We're going all the damn way."

Cheers go up around me, and I get a knot in the pit of my stomach while I join in.

All the way.

Yeah.

Easy for them to say.

They're all getting laid. Or at least have the opportunity.

Me?

All I have are gloriously filthy dreams.

Last night, starring an accidentally hilarious, overly-awkward blonde who inadvertently cock-blocked me from a closet.

Probably because I introduced her to the woman I was making out with by calling her the wrong name.

Jesus.

She must think I'm an asshole.

Actually, I probably am an asshole, even if I know all Ashley—Ainsley—wanted was to sleep with a baseball player.

"Beach run!" Cooper crows.

Everyone groans.

He laughs.

"Fucker does this every year." Stafford shoves me toward the stairs. "Gets us sugared up, then says we need to go for a run together."

"You get a compound every year?"

"No, but donut day is donut day, no matter where we're staying."

I look back in time to see Cooper shoving two donuts into a white bakery bag. "Last one to the beach is a rotten egg!"

Can't help liking the sadistic bastard. Between his brand of crazy and his energy levels, he's too much like my brothers for me to not like him.

Right down to carrying that bakery bag of donuts all through the whole run.

"What the hell are those for?" I ask him as we're all collapsing post-sugar-fueled morning workout. The coaching staff showed up to oversee us, and some of them joined us on the run, but none of them have touched the donuts.

He grins at me while his breathing evens out. "Invited some lady friends for a late breakfast on the beach."

Now that's good news.

"Don't get too excited, Elliott. Not enough time for nooky before weights, but this is just the warm-up, right?"

I grunt.

He lifts a brow like he's waiting for me to say more.

I lift a brow right back. In my decade in pro ball, I've never once asked a teammate if he gets laid the morning of a game, and I have no intention of starting now. Some might talk about if banging is good luck or bad luck, but no one outright asks.

Most of the team are heading the three blocks back to the compound, but a few stragglers are sitting along the beach or taking pictures while the sun makes its lazy trek higher in the sky.

"You don't want to be here," Cooper finally says.

I stare at the water and don't answer.

"I get it, man. Sucks to be traded to the worst team in baseball. But this team isn't the same team it was last year. New owners, new management, new coaching staff, new fans…fuck the curses. Fuck the haters. Last year, the year before—none of it matters. We're gonna fucking win."

He's so insistent, it's hard to not believe him.

There's power in belief.

Somuch power in belief.

I stare out at the surf rolling in. "You've never wanted to play for another team?"

"I grew up an hour from Copper Valley. I was born a Fireballs fan, and I'm gonna die a Fireballs fan. They're gonna scatter my ashes in the infield one day, and say I was the greatest Fireballs player that ever lived. I get a ring out of my time here, that's the icing on the cake." He shrugs. "Guessing you feel the same about New York. Home team love, right?"

"Something like that."

"I get it, man. I'd be fucking broken if I got traded away from my home team. But give us a chance." He looks behind us, grins, and leaps to his feet. "Hey, Mac. Thanks for coming. You ready to try this for luck?"

I scramble to my feet too, shoving my hands in the sand as I do, leaving me with sandy hands that I can't dust off fast enough while Mackenzie approaches.

She's in skintight jeans, a Fireballs jersey, and a Fiery the Dragon hat, complete with her Fiery Forever button. Her lips are painted pink again, her hair tied back in a ponytail, and her feet are bare.

My dick immediately leaps to attention, and I go from semi-hard to uncomfortable and having to block my junk when she shoots me a hesitant glance and a small finger wave after she hands Cooper a bag of buttons.

Fiery Foreverbuttons.

I might not be happy about playing for her team, but I've gotta admire her dedication. She loves baseball and she loves her team.

How can you not respect that?

Fuck, when's the last time I would've handed out New York team buttons to people because I wanted to, instead of because management put them in my locker and suggested I do it?

"Mac's good luck," Cooper tells me. "She's gonna eat a donut during warm-ups today too."

"And take one to Beck." Her voice is small and hesitant, and she keeps dropping her gaze like she's staring at the sun.

Fuck.

She is staring at the sun.

I shove Cooper and make him move until the sun's not behind us so she doesn't have to squint anymore. "You're coming to the game today?"

She nods.

My heart does a boogie dance, and I cringe to myself, because boogie dance?

No wonder I've never been laid. "Good seats?"

She nods again.

"If security gives you trouble about the donuts—" Cooper starts.

"I know. Call Lila."

He beams and holds out a fist. "You're talking, Mac."

"Trying new things."

"Superstitions, man. Gotta stick with what's working and take the leap to change when it's not. Appreciate all the help we can get."

She nods again. "I like winning."

"Right? Whatever it takes." He turns to me. "You got any superstitions?"

I stare at him a beat. Is he hinting at something? Does he know? All I've ever said to my teammates who get too curious—and few do—is that I don't date during the season.

Cooper's grin is turning into a smirk. "You do. C'mon, Elliott. Spill. What can we help you with? What gets your bat swinging?"

"Nothing I can talk about without cursing myself."

"Jarvis says the same thing, but I got eyes. And I've got his back. You need help with anything, say the word. That's what teammates are for."

I will not be asking Cooper Rock for help with my virginity.

Keeping it or losing it.

He glances at his bare wrist, where a normal person would keep a watch. "Whoa, gotta run. Have to ask Coach something. Thanks for taking Beck a donut, Mac. You're a peach."

He turns and jogs off like we didn't already do three miles on the sand.

And now it's just me and Mackenzie.

And my hard-on.

And the near-certainty that I've been set up. Maybe Rock's a good wingman after all.

She brushes her ponytail out of her face as a gust of wind picks up. "Play good today."

"You busy after the game?"

Smooth? No.

But then, neither is she, and I like that about her.

She's real.

It's not like I'm going to take advantage of her and push myself on her if she's not interested. Annoying as it was that she interrupted me and Ash—Ainsley last night, even I can admit that doing it by humming "Take Me Out To The Ballgame" was freaking hilarious.

I like hilarious.

Gonna need a lot of hilarious to survive this year.

She's not answering. Just squinting at me, even though the sun's more behind her, lighting her up like she's the all-star baseball god and I'm an awkward geek trying to score with a woman out of my league.

Let's be honest here.

If it weren't for my bat, she would be out of my league. Pretty? Check. Friends with actual stars? Check. In possession of two delicious breasts and one most likely smokin' hot pussy? I'm gonna go out on a limb and check that box too.

Her silence has me clearing my throat uncomfortably as I realize she doesn't want to have to turn me down on an offer to hang out. "Right. You're hanging out with your friend. I?—"

"I'm free. But I don't know—aah!"

She suddenly dives out of the way as a frisbee whizzes past inches from her ear. The donut bag goes flying, and she lands on her shoulder in the sand. I spin around as a group of guys in their early twenties come hustling our way. "Hey! Watch out, numb nuts."

"Cranky-ass," one of them mutters as he darts past me.

"Go get laid," a second says.

Mackenzie squeaks, and I leap into action, squatting beside her and reaching out to help. "You okay?"

Our sandy palms connect, then our gazes lock.

Apparently I'm a sucker for blue eyes, because I can't look away. Hers are bright as the sky on an early afternoon game in mid-July, when the heat's on to keep our place in the standings, and while she's jittery, there's unabashed belief in the intensity of her silent plea. You can do it. You can do it for my team.

It's the theme of the day.

We can do it. The team can do it.

I don't want to be the asshole holding everyone back. But after this many seasons in the big leagues, and my entire adolescence before that indoctrinating me in the ways of the game, it's hard not to be jaded, and it's hard not to believe in curses, and it's hard to have to help a team other than the team I was supposed to retire from in another five or ten years.

And it's hard to keep—well, being hard with no relief aside from my own fist in sight.

Her hair whips around into her face again. I reach for it the same time she does, making our fingers connect and sand tumble off both of us.

"Here." I hold her ponytail back from her face in one hand while I pull her to her feet with my other.

Her eyes go round. "The donuts!"

We both turn. I instinctively start toward the bag before she grabs me, and we scramble back.

An angry horde of seagulls is attacking the white bakery bag, ripping it to shreds and fighting over the donuts inside.

One squawks at us. Mackenzie scurries back another three feet, right into one of the guys playing frisbee.

"Watch it, lady," he snaps.

I step toward him, but Mackenzie yanks on my hand and squares up to the jerk with lightning flashing in her eyes. "I hope a seagull poops on your head."

He blinks.

She cocks a hip. "What? You've never heard of karma? You don't own this beach. So quit acting like it. Your mother would be horrified, and if you have no respect for your mother, I hope the crabs on the beach aren't the only ones you encounter today."

I'm grinning as she starts marching away, our hands still connected, leaving me to follow her or make one of us trip on the beach again.

She has sand all up and down one side of her outfit, and I realize with a jolt that she's wearing a Cooper Rock jersey.

Oh, hell.

It makes sense now. Rock wasn't giving me a chance to talk to Mackenzie on my own. He's probably lurking around the corner laughing his ass off watching me try to flirt with a woman he knows I don't have a chance with.

I freeze and glare at her back. "You want to date Cooper."

She turns on me. "What? No. No times a million. I can't date a god."

My eye twitches. "Cooper Rock is not a god."

She gasps and snatches her hand out of mine. "How dare you."

"What? He's not."

She closes the distance between us and pokes me in the chest with a pink-tipped finger. "Do. Not. Insult. Cooper. Rock."

This anger building inside me is probably irrational, but irrationality isn't enough of a reason for me to tamp it down. "You do. You want to date him."

She sucks in a breath like she's about to let me have it, because who the hell am I to have an opinion about who she dates?

I was trying to screw another woman while she was in my closet yesterday. She has no idea I'm even interested, and why should she?

As soon as she opens her mouth, though, she abruptly clamps it shut again. Two big nose-inhales and exhales later, she stops staring at my chest and lifts her gaze to mine.

Christ, those eyes.

They're hypnotizing me.

Or maybe I should've gotten laid years ago. They're just two eyeballs. Every human has them.

Hers are more like soul-sucking windows to another universe where I want to live, rather than simple eyes.

Wow.

I don't know if I have issues, or if my issues have issues, but that was fucking sappy.

"Play good today." She spins and walks away.

"That's it? You're not going to verbally eviscerate me? Not going to defend Cooper the God? You want his phone number?"

She doesn't stop. Not until she reaches the edge of the parking lot, where she bends and picks up a pair of custom Chucks with the Fireballs logo on them, and then keeps stalking to a small coupe.

Something niggles at the back of my brain, something that I can't quite identify, but something definitely suggesting I probably shouldn't get involved with the Fireballs' most obsessed, superstitious fan ever.

But I can't stop watching her.

Who is she?

What does she do when she's not at the ball field?

Is she here for all of spring training?

Does she live in Copper Valley? She must, if she's the team's biggest fan, right?

Is she independently wealthy, or does she have a day job? Does she have nutty siblings like I do? What does she do for the holidays?

I've met a lot of people in my career. A lot of obsessed fans. A lot of superstitious fans. Hell, I'm a special level of obsessed and superstitious too.

I've never met anyone exactly like Mackenzie.

Or maybe that's my dick talking. He's not usually turned on by the uber-fanatical, yet here we are, both of us wanting to get closer to her.

As I start to head back to the compound, I feel something land in my hair.

A seagull squawks overhead, and all the guys playing frisbee crack up.

"Hey, asshole, my bird shit in your hair!" one of them calls.

I grit my teeth and start walking again.

I've gotten cock-blocked two days in a row, and now pissed off a woman I'm inexplicably attracted to. I'm playing for a record-setting team with more losses than practically any other professional club in all of sports history. I'm not where I wanted to be in my career or personal life now.

But you know what I do have?

I have training to do and a game to play.

I have a fucking job.

So that's where I'm going.

I'm going to channel all of this frustration and go do my damn job.