1. Riggs

ONE

RIGGS

"Let's fucking do it, boys!" I yell to my team, bouncing on the balls of my feet. It's our home opener, and after losing early in the playoffs last season, I'm ready to head straight through to the World Series. This is the Daytona Fury's year.

We take the field, and as soon as I make my way toward the mound, I notice that something is off. Where the fans would normally be hyped up and cheering, all I hear are loud boos as they fill the stadium.

"What the fuck?" I grumble, looking around.

"Tough crowd," our second baseman, Jackson Blake, says with a chuckle. "Makes sense, though, since we're playing the team from the same city as the dude you knocked out on the field last fall."

Okay. I can explain.

I grew up with Tanner Lake, quarterback for the Boston Blizzard and America's fucking sweetheart. When I found out that he slept with my sister behind my back and broke her heart, I lost my shit. I ditched a very important playoff game, hopped on the first plane from Florida to Massachusetts, and laid his ass out right in the middle of a game.

Sorry, not sorry.

In the end, Tanner and I made up, and he's now my brother-in-law. He and Grace got hitched in Vegas a couple of months ago. I was his best man, and despite the fact that we've done an annoying amount of media appearances to clear the air, apparently the fans of Boston have kept me at the top of their shit lists.

"Football season is over," I say quietly, scrunching my nose in disgust. "They need to move on. Their precious golden boy is fine. They should be focusing on baseball."

Jacks takes his spot on the bag while our catcher, Ace Mathers, squats behind home plate. As I go to throw my first warm-up pitch, the jeers intensify. I get why the Boston fans are pissed at me, but when I look into the crowd, I notice that everyone is booing—even the Daytona fans.

The fuck is going on?

I stiffen and roll my shoulders in an attempt to loosen my tense muscles. But the sound only gets louder, making it hard to focus on anything else. My throat goes dry and sweat beads at the base of my neck as I unsuccessfully attempt to drown it out.

"C'mon, Valentine!" Ace yells, punching his hand into his mitt and extending it out in front of his body in invitation. "What are you waiting for?"

I tell myself to calm down, but when I see a bright purple blur in my peripheral vision, I whip my head toward the batter's box, where our mascot, Friggle, is leading the crowd in a chorus of boos. His arms, which are entirely too long for his body, shoot up over his head, giving two furry thumbs down before he points at me and shakes with laughter. I turn my head, trying to ignore him, but he runs back into my line of vision before resuming his taunts. My heart beats a heavy cadence behind my rib cage, and I take another look into the stands, where all the angry faces begin to blur together as their loud sounds of disapproval ring in my ears. And when I see that Friggle has begun to creep even closer to me, waving a hand in front of his bulbous nose to indicate that I stink, that's the last goddamn straw.

I yank my glove from my hand, flinging it into the dirt on the mound before I take off toward the hairy motherfucker at full speed. He stands there frozen as I tackle him to the ground, slamming my fists into his big, googly eyes. Squeaking noises that resemble a dog's toy come out of his nostrils with every strike as I continue raining punches down on whatever the fuck he is. The Fury's mascot is supposed to be a dragon. But Friggle?

Not a fucking clue.

It's not until I feel a set of arms yank me back that I realize what I've done.

"What the fuck, dude?" Jackson says as I stare down at the crumpled-up costume on the ground. I know there's a guy inside it, and I'm afraid I might have knocked him out. I bring my eyes up to the crowd, who are stunned silent as they look onto the field in horror. Backing away slowly, I irrationally hope nobody saw me just attack our mascot, but I only get about two steps before our manager Clyde's voice jolts me back to reality.

"Valentine!" he yells. "Get your ass in the locker room, now ! "

Eyes wide, still in shock, I walk toward the dugout as angry fans throw their food and drinks at the netting that separates the field from the stands.

"I hate you, Riggs Valentine!" shouts a small voice. I look up to see a little girl with tears streaming down her cheeks, obviously concerned about Friggle's well-being.

Fuck my life.

"Come on in," Taylor, the team's public relations manager says, holding the door to her office open for me. I stand from the chair, wiping my sweaty palms on my pants before heading into the room with my tail between my legs. I was tossed from the game by my own manager and was forced to watch on a TV in the locker room as the Boston Tide embarrassed us on our own dirt.

Apparently, the meeting started before I got here, because the office is already full. I look around, nodding sheepishly in greeting to Clyde, Taylor's assistant, and of course, Friggle. Well, the guy who wears the Friggle costume. He can't be more than nineteen years old, which makes me feel like a total dick. Poor kid just got his ass beat on national television with nothing to defend himself with except his four-foot flappy arms.

"Sorry, man," I grunt as I sit down in the vacant chair across the room. He just gives me a disgusted look, shaking his head.

"Okay," Taylor says, plopping down at her desk. "Respectfully, Riggs, what the fuck was that?" My eyes widen and I look around the room to see everyone's reaction to her language, but they're all just staring at me as they wait for an answer.

"Ummm," I say, trying to stall. I'm a pro athlete. I'm used to being heckled on the field and should be able to block it out after being in the majors for this long, but I'll admit that my fuse has always been a little on the shorter end. "I lost my temper. I was wrong. It won't happen again."

Friggle scoffs quietly, and I clench my hands tightly over the armrests of my chair so I don't launch myself at him again.

"I have to be honest with you," she begins. "The fans have been calling for your head for months. You leaving the playoff game that ultimately cost us a shot at the pennant so you could attack the most beloved quarterback in all of football wasn't a good look. The owner was ready to make a trade after last year, but I talked him into keeping you. This little stunt may have been the final nail in your coffin here. Unless you have one hell of a reason for what just happened, I can't do much to save you."

Fuck.

If I get traded because of this, the chances of another team wanting me after what I did today aren't great. I'm a hothead, and I literally just attacked an innocent mascot because he pretended to laugh at me. I'm a great pitcher, but those are a dime a dozen in this league. If they shitcan me, there'll be ten guys ready to step in and try to take my place. I need to think of a way to save my own ass or I could be forced to retire at the ripe old age of twenty-seven.

"I…" I say, spitting out the first thing that comes to me. "I'm just really stressed. My girlfriend…I've been trying to get her to move to Daytona and it's been roadblock after roadblock. I guess it finally all just hit me at once."

My fucking what? What the fuck am I saying? I don't have a girlfriend. Not unless you count the cleat chaser who sucked me off in the bathroom of Club Wave two nights ago…and then again in the front seat of my car before I went home, which, I don't .

I am a proud manwhore. I admittedly sleep around, but I'm honest with the women I bring into my bed. They don't want anything long-term with me any more than I want it with them. Their objective is to say they slept with a professional athlete, and mine is to blow my load all over their tits.

Simple. Fun. Uncomplicated.

"Oh," Taylor says with wide eyes. "I wasn't aware that you were in a serious relationship."

I swallow roughly. "It's…new, but when you know, you know. Right?" I ask.

What. Theeeee. Fuck.

The only thing I know when it comes to women is that if you curl your fingers just right when they're buried inside their pussies, it makes them go off, like that . But as far as dating them or knowing when you've met the one ? Yeah…no thanks. Hard pass.

Sweat gathers on my temples as she relaxes back into her chair, steepling her fingers in front of her pursed lips. Maybe my excuse is working, and she understands the pretend pain I'm going through. With any luck, I'll be back on the field tomorrow for game two of the series.

"As you know, Mr. Durst is a family man," she says, speaking of the team's owner and one of the wealthiest men in the state of Florida. "If we can get your girlfriend here and prove that your priorities are changing, that might just be your saving grace."

Well, fuck me sideways. That backfired.

"I don't—" I say on a nervous laugh, but Clyde cuts me off.

"Oh, shut the fuck up, Valentine. You have a two-point-seven ERA. You have a hundred and one mile-an-hour fastball. If you fuck me out of another World Series this year, you won't have to worry about the fans because I'll cut your fucking brake lines myself."

Yikes. Can we get someone from HR in here, just in case?

As if she didn't just witness a blatant threat to my well-being, Taylor continues. "Let me talk to Mr. Durst. I can buy you some time while you get your girlfriend to Daytona. Bring her around the facility, have her come to some games, and show everybody you're better with her here."

My fingers start to tingle, and I pull at the collar of my jersey because all of a sudden, it feels like it's choking me. What the fuck do I say? I can't agree with this plan, because there is no girlfriend. But I can't say no because it could potentially cost me my career. I try one last excuse, hoping I can talk my way out of this.

"She…umm…she's shy," I say, attempting to come up with an excuse for why they can never meet my girlfriend who doesn't exist. "She?—"

"Goddamn it, Valentine!" Clyde roars, shooting out of his seat and slapping his giant hand on the desk. "You better get that girl here before your next start or else! Do you hear me?" The vein in his forehead is threatening to burst as he stares at me with pure rage in his eyes.

I slump in my chair, defeated. "Yes, sir."

"Okay!" Taylor says with a clap. "As long as Brent doesn't have anything to say to you, you're free to go."

"Who's Brent?" I ask, confused.

"Me, you asshole," Friggle pipes up from the corner. "I just want to make it clear that the only reason I'm not pressing charges is because my dad already thinks I'm a disappointment. Pretty sure getting his favorite player arrested would get me kicked out of the house for good this time."

I stay quiet because what do you say to that? Believe it or not, I know when to keep my mouth shut, so I just watch as they get up and prepare to leave. Taylor's assistant escorts the men out of the room, giving the two of us some privacy.

"I'm serious, Riggs," she scolds. "I can't keep pulling you out of these holes you dig for yourself. Get her here and show the Durst family that you're ready to be a positive part of this organization. You're too good of a player to go to waste."

I nod, standing and walking out of the building toward the player parking lot. Hopping into my Jeep, I think about all the things that Taylor said and how right she is. From the moment I picked up a baseball when I was four years old, I knew I was different. Even at that young age, I could feel it. It was going to be my life.

I spent my entire adolescence idolizing professional pitchers. Every time someone asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, there was never a new answer. I never had a backup plan in case I didn't make it to the MLB. Failure was not an option. So, when I entered the draft before my senior year of college, my entire future was riding on whether or not I was chosen. Thankfully, the Fury took me with the third overall pick, and here I am.

I knew coming into this organization that they put a heavy emphasis on being a good person. We're required to attend a certain number of charity events each year and to spend time in the community as part of our contracts. I learned a lot about helping others while growing up in a tight-knit Massachusetts town called Hope Harbor, but I'll admit I haven't done nearly enough of that since I've been in Florida.

When I moved here at twenty-one, I got sucked into the nightlife. Being a professional athlete means getting into the most luxurious clubs and spending nights with the most beautiful women this city has to offer. And even though it's been six years, I'm still having fun with that. I love the freedom that comes with being single. I honestly don't see myself ever settling down for real, which is why I can't believe that was my go-to excuse for losing my shit today.

What the fuck am I supposed to do now? It's not like I can go back to the bathroom at Club Wave and find… whatever her name was . I don't know any women in Daytona that I'd feel comfortable trusting with this dilemma, let alone having as a live-in fake girlfriend for however long it takes to convince the team's owner that I'm ready to settle down and take my job seriously.

I'm fucked.