Riggs

EIGHT

MONROE

Today is my first game as Riggs' fake girlfriend. He still isn't playing, but he'll be in the dugout with the team, so I'm here doing what we agreed upon this morning. I'm wearing his jersey and I'll be putting on a cute little show for anyone that may be interested in watching us. I plan on throwing a few waves his way, but after the other night in the kitchen, I'm feeling more frustrated than ever that I even agreed to do this.

Although he drives me nuts with his cocky attitude, being near Riggs has made me as horny as ever. Flashbacks of our night together have been playing on a loop in my head, and no matter how much I want them to stop, they just won't. Every time I think I have myself under control, I'll catch a whiff of his lingering cologne and my hormones perk right the fuck back up. I'm convinced the shit is made of one-hundred percent fuckboy pheromones with the way my pussy clenches every time I inhale it.

I'm also convinced that he rolls around in my bed every time I leave the room because while it's faint, I can smell him at night. At this point, it's only a matter of time before I wake up actively humping my pillow. Let's just hope dream Monroe is quieter than awake Monroe. The last thing I need is him hearing me through the wall as I get myself off using a poor, innocent piece of bedding. He'd never let me live that down.

I walk down the cement staircase, double-checking my ticketing app before stopping at the second row of seats. I would've much rather been in a suite because it's hotter than Satan's nutsack out here, but after discussing it, Riggs and I decided that for the first few games, I should be near the field. That way, everyone who's looking will be able to see how we interact, and hopefully it'll give the illusion that he's making changes in his life. Maybe I'll get lucky and it'll only take a couple of these things before we accomplish our goal and I can get the hell out of dodge to begin the next chapter of my life.

Just as I take my seat, Fury players start trickling out of the dugout and onto the field. Some stay off to the side, stretching and jogging along the foul lines. Others run toward the outfield, where they warm up by throwing the ball back and forth to each other. I know pitchers generally stay in the bullpen during pre-game stuff, so I'm surprised to see Riggs walk out in full uniform. My traitorous whore of a body reacts, and I have to clench my thighs together to quell the throbbing between them at the sight.

I've noticed that every player wears their uniform differently. Some have shorter pants with socks pulled up to their knees. Some go all the way down to the ankles and give lots of room to move. But Riggs? Holy fucking fuckballs. They show off every muscle in his toned body, from his round ass down to his thick quads and calves. I can see every one of them firing off under the tight fabric as he makes his way along the baseline toward the stands. I assume he's coming over to me, but he walks right past, stopping where a young boy, no more than six years old, shyly holds a ball and glove in his little hands about ten feet from where I'm sitting.

"Hey, buddy," Riggs says, getting as close as the wall will allow him. "Do you want to help me warm up?"

A wide smile blooms across the little boy's face, and he nods his head quickly, doing his best to hold the ball while attempting to shove the glove over his palm. When Riggs sees that he's struggling, he takes a few steps back before running up and scaling the wall, pulling himself over the railing and landing next to the kid.

"Where are your parents?" he asks. The boy turns and points behind him to where a young woman is sitting with a baby carrier strapped to her chest. What looks to be an infant wearing a big, floppy sun hat sleeps peacefully against her as she waves down to them with a smile. Riggs lifts his hand in greeting, kneeling down in front of the boy and helping him put the glove on.

"Thank you, Val," he says in the tiniest voice, and I swear I want to melt right on the spot.

"No problem, pal," he returns, ruffling his hair. "How about that game of catch?"

The boy nods enthusiastically as Riggs hops back over the railing and onto the field. I watch as they toss the ball back and forth for several minutes, and I have to admit that I'm extremely surprised to see this side of him. This is the same man who gives me shit every chance he gets, loses his temper on innocent mascots, and always seems to find himself in a heap of trouble. But I can't help but think there's more to him than all of that. Maybe there's a reason he is the way he is.

I'm broken from my thoughts when he walks toward the railing, tossing the ball to the kid one last time and pointing in my direction.

"See that pretty girl over there?" he asks. The little boy looks my way and nods, turning back to Riggs with a smile. "I'm going to go say hi to her, but thank you for helping me warm up. I don't know what I would've done without you."

He turns and walks in my direction, and I have to pull myself together so he doesn't see me reacting to the tender moment. I can't soften for him. That's a recipe for disaster with us living together and having to put on a show for the team. I remind myself that that's all this is as I stand from my seat and make my way to the railing.

"I have to say, you look damn good in my jersey," he says lowly, as more of a growl than anything else. "Any chance I'll ever see you wearing it and nothing else?"

I lean down, putting myself a little closer to him, plastering a saccharine-sweet smile on my face so that everyone who can see us thinks I'm being flirty. "Not a fucking chance in hell," I reply quietly, blowing him a kiss as he grins back at me.

"Keep it up, sweet thing," he says so only I can hear. "I'll pull you down onto the field and fuck you right into this dirt. And we both know you'll love every minute of it."

My eyes go wide, and my mouth falls open in surprise. I want to send back a smart retort, but his filthy threat mixed with the way he looks in that uniform is making words really hard .

"And look at you being a good girl for me, opening that slutty little mouth to be filled. I love it when you're agreeable, Mayhem."

Catching me off guard, he hops up and grabs hold of the railing, pressing a quick kiss to my cheek before lowering back onto the field and running toward the dugout. I'm still standing there, gaping like a fish long after he's gone.

RIGGS

"She's pretty," Ace says as we sit on the bench during the bottom of the fifth inning. We're leading the San Antonio Vipers three runs to one, but I've barely been watching the game. I'm too busy focusing on Monroe as she cheers from the second row. As much as I've been begging to play, I'm glad they didn't choose today to add me back into the rotation. Because the distraction of knowing that my last name and number fifty-seven is stretched across her back has made it impossible to focus on anything else.

"Fuck yeah, she is," I say, trying to hold my smile back. "She's funny too. And super smart."

The rookie catcher grins. "She must be if she has the Bad Boy of Baseball all worked up. Damn, Val. You're down bad, huh?"

My instinct is to deny, deny, deny. Come up with some asshole comment about wanting to be balls deep inside her hot body for a night. But then I remember the plan, and I'm thankful I don't have to save face by diminishing her in that way. Here, we aren't enemies. She's my girlfriend and I don't have to act like I'm not a little excited about her being here. I should probably check myself to figure out why I'm feeling anything besides indifference toward her when all we ever do is bicker, but that can be a problem for later.

"I think I am," I say, looking over to see her playing peek-a-boo with the baby brother of my new warm-up buddy. He kicks his feet and reaches out for her, and she waves at him because her seat isn't close enough to touch his chubby hand .

I wonder what she'd look like pregnant.

Whoa. Slow your roll, Valentine.

I shake off the dangerous thought, tearing my eyes off her and returning them to the field just as Hawk Mason steps up to the plate. He grips the bat like he's actually trying to squeeze the life out of it before widening his stance and preparing for the pitch. It's a low fastball, which is the pitcher's first mistake, and before he even connects, I know Hawk is about to add a two-run homer to his tally for the season. The bat makes a loud crack and we watch in silence as the ball sails through the air, over the outfield, and drops into the second deck of bleachers past the wall.

He flips the bat, letting it drop to the ground as he jogs around the bases with no trace of a smile to be seen. He just acts like it's not a big deal as the crowd goes wild and fireworks shoot into the air beyond center field. Even though he's a grumpy motherfucker who barely speaks to anyone outside of his best friend, our second baseman, Jackson, we all line up along the dugout to jump on him when he returns. When I turn away to take my spot on the bench again, I can't stop my eyes from returning to the dark-haired bombshell with my name across her back.