Page 1 of Stalked By the Umpire

CHAPTER

ONE

Jake

I call 'em like I see 'em—that's my creed. No gray areas, just the clear-cut line between strike and ball, and it's my sharp eye that draws it. But as I stand there on the edge of the field, whistle around my neck, cap shading my eyes from the glare of the afternoon sun, I can't shake this gnawing feeling in my gut. It's not the usual pre-game jitters or the lingering aftertaste of last night's beer. It's emptiness, a hollow pang that not even the roar of the crowd can fill.

"Strike!" My voice cuts through the stadium's din, decisive, a reflex honed over years in umpire's gear. The batter scowls, but the call stands. Life's full of strikes and balls, and lately, it feels like I'm caught in a count I can't win. The game moves on, players slide and swing, and cheers erupt. They're here for the thrill, the love of the game.

Me? I'm just the guy making the tough calls, invisible until they disagree.

"Out!" I signal with a confidence I don't feel inside. Funny how you can be at the top of your game, respected, even envied, and still come up empty when the lights go out and the stands empty. It's like every time I walk off the field, I leave a piece of me behind, buried in the diamond dust.

"Good call, Reynolds!" someone shouts from the dugout, but the praise feels distant, like applause for someone else. What am I doing here? Where's the rush, the passion I used to have? I've got friends, sure. Nate Hawkins, the golden boy with his mansion and his carefree laugh—he thinks I've got it made. If only he knew how much I crave something...more. Something real that makes my heart pound harder than any close play at the plate.

"Time!" I call out, signaling a brief pause in the game. I use the moment to steal a breath, to remind myself why I do this. For a split second, the field blurs into a canvas of green and brown, players mere smudges under the bright lights. The scent of fresh grass, the taste of dust—it's all part of me, yet I'm apart from it, an observer in my own life.

It's time to face it: I'm Jake Reynolds, master of the diamond, yet a rookie when it comes to figuring out my own damn desires. I can spot a foul a mile away, but happiness? That's one call I can't seem to make.

***

The sun scorches, but the water in Nate's pool glimmers like some kind of oasis. I'm leaning against the bar, nursing a cold beer when she bursts into the scene—Kaitlyn, Nate's kid sister, now not so much a kid. She's all grown up, and damn, does she make an impression.

"Hey Jake!" she beams, that same bright smile I remember from when she was knee-high to a grasshopper, but everything else...everything else is different.

"Kaitlyn," I say, pushing my voice to sound casual, cool. But inside? Inside's a whole different ballgame.

She's laughing, tossing her head back, and her blonde hair catches the light like spun silk. Her skin's got this glow, like she's lit from within, and it's hard not to stare at the way the water clings to her curves as she steps out of the pool. She's a vision, no two ways about it, and my body's reaction is primitive, immediate.

"Long time, no see," she says, and there's an edge of something like flirtation in her voice that sends a shockwave straight through me.

"Too long," I manage to get out, even though every alarm bell in my head is ringing 'no way, no way, no way.' She's Nate's sister. She's eighteen. That's a line you don't cross, especially not with your best friend's family.

"Enjoying the party?" she asks, her hazel eyes sparkling with mischief.

"Sure," I reply, but I'm not really seeing the party, not anymore. It's like she's the only one here, the rest just background noise.

"Come on," she urges, grabbing my hand with a wet, cool touch. "Let's go for a swim."

"Can't," I say quickly, too quickly maybe. "Gotta keep an eye on the game." What game? There's some sort of volleyball thing happening in the pool, but hell if I can focus on that now.

"Your loss," she teases with a pout that should be illegal, and then she dives back into the blue, leaving me standing there feeling like someone's cranked the heat up another ten degrees.

I take another long gulp of my beer. But it doesn't help. Not one bit. Because Kaitlyn Hawkins has done the impossible—she's made me, the professional umpire and master of self-control, completely and utterly lose my cool.

My cock is so hard I’m sure I could split wood with it. My breathing hitches as I watch her swimming in the pool. She’s not wearing a skimpy bikini like the rest of the girls here. No, she’s got on this little one-piece that I swear is somehow more alluring than all the other bathing suits in the pool.

My face starts getting red as I worry my erection is noticeable. I try to think of anything else to make it go down.

Peanut butter and jelly. Baby kittens.

Jesus Christ, the way the water trickles down Kaitlyn’s belly button…

Fucking hell.

I head to the bathroom.

Once inside the dimly lit bathroom, I lock the door behind me and lean against it, trying to catch my breath. The cool marble under my hands does little to soothe the heat raging through my veins. My heart is hammering, pounding loud in my ears as images of Kaitlyn in that enticing swimsuit play on a loop in my mind.

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