Page 10 of Sideline Play

Feeling her touch move around the socket of my hip, down my inner thigh, and over toward my ass, I groan again. The sound almost a grunt until it shifts into a moan. My spikes of pleasure increase with each pass as is my vocal response to her. My eyes rolling back as my breath stutters. Face screwing up tight as I start to grip the sheet between my fingers.

It’s only when she whispers, “If it’s too deep, Remi, let me know. This isn’t something you should try to grit and bare,” thatconscious thought rushes back to me, though not fast enough to hold my tongue against my runaway mind.

“Trust me, baby girl, it feels really good,” I answer, my voice rough with sexual tension even to my own ears.

Her hands stutter in their path but just as quickly continue on, her words even quieter as she murmurs, “I like making you feel good.” That steals the fine threads of resolve I started to gain as my traitorous cock jumps to life.

I didn’t want to push her into finishing her thoughts about the douche canoe she dated, but desperate for something to break the growing problem between my thighs I almost bark at her, “So what was wrong with Reece?”

“Reeves,” she laughs. “And nothing. He was a perfect gentleman. He never pushed for more, never tried to steal anything extra, it was all just so…”

“Dull?”

“Exactly! I mean I have likezeroexperience,” she shyly chuckles, making me instantly regret picking this conversation back up. “But I imagine it shouldn’t be so comfortable all the time. Like, shouldn’t there be passion and desire and a visceral need to touch and kiss? An impulse to, for lack of a more modern word, be far moreamorousthan is socially appropriate in public. The pull so strong that you have to fight against it only to lose from time to time.”

Fucking hell, this was a terrible idea. Why of all the fucking topics in the world, did I have to continue with the one that has me thinking about showing her just how little restraint I want to be in possession of when around her?

I start to segue things to something else, anything else, only for her to add, “I don’t know. I just feel like I should get to be both: a good girl and agood girl,” her words utterly destroying me as my dick officially pops an undeniable semi through the sheet, and I have to grip the the table’s edge even harder toprevent my hand from yanking on her hair and telling her to bemygood girl and get her ass up here with me.

Thankfully oblivious to the dirty thoughts rolling full steam ahead through my mind, Scarlet chuckles, “And Reeves Dawson, while an utter horndog with everyone else, did not act as if he would die without touching me. In fact, he treated me like I was made of spun glass, which was rather annoying.”

“Wait, Dawson? As in the catcher for Minnesota? The one who lives with y’all in the offseason?”

“Yep. He played for Knoxville at the same time as Roman.”

“He lived with you and still managed to keep his hands off you?” I scoff incredulously. “What a fuckin’ tool.”

“Be nice,” she scolds, driving her admonishment home as she digs her knuckles a bit deeper, the sharp lick of pain working to deflate my dick. “He’s a good person. He just wasn’tmyperson. At least not like that.”

Reaching up to tuck the errant strands of hair back behind her ear, I defend, “I’m just sayin’, if my girl is begging for me to kiss her, you can fuckin’ bet I’m going to every chance I get and that I won’t stop until all she can remember is my name.” Letting my hand linger in place for a short moment as she leans into my touch, I add, “Anything less would make me a damn fool.”

Dropping my hand, I clear my throat as I say, “Well, if there's nothing keeping you tied to Chattanooga, why not come with me to Gatlinburg? As much as I love the city, I’m always ready for a break in the mountains by the time the season’s over. It’s about the same distance for you if you need to be on campus for whatever reason. And I have most everything we’ll need in the gym. Besides, we already established you need to rest as much as I do if you’re going to be rehabbing my ass from dawn to dusk everyday. There’s no place better for it.”

Jesus, I’m an idiot for suggesting this but the more I talk, the more I really want her to say yes.

All I could think about last night as I was scanned for MRIs and the trainers and doctors discussed my prognosis, options, and length of recovery for each, was what I had accomplished in life versus not. It isn’t arrogance to say I’ve had an excellent career thus far. Eight seasons in the League and all of them with the Nighthawks. Three World Series appearances and two wins. Four time All Star player, two Golden Gloves, a Silver Slugger, MVP, and consistently ranked in the top ten, if not the top five, amongst all active catchers.

My career’s been marked with accolades that assure everyone that one day, I’ll be in the Hall of Fame and probably see my number retired in The Nest right alongside my idol’s. That I’ll be more than a footnote in the Nighthawks’ team history. But as I had lain there, only partially listening to the odds of me making a full recovery and returning to play at my current level and ability, I hadn’t been haunted by what I could miss if this was the end. That particular what if was barely more than a blip on my radar.

What stood out was my empty apartment. No wife, no girlfriend, no dog, fuck not even a fish to come home to. No one to take me to the hospital tomorrow and wait for me. No one to drive me home afterward. With my ma gone, there was no one in my life. I was just as alone outside the sport as Scarlet was.

My entire life had been devoted to baseball, and at the end of the day, as much as I loved the sport, it only loved me back as long as I was of use to it. If I didn’t—couldn’t—return, it would only take a news cycle or two before I completely faded into obscurity. Became a relic only brought out when talking about the illustrious reign of the Nighthawks ever since Boomer Hayes drafted Colt Jones.

And amongst all those realizations that had me spiraling was her. Scarlet Jones. The thing—person—I would miss the most if my career was over. Not suiting up. Not the rush and sting ofcatching a fastball and making it look as effortless as breathing. Not the euphoria of swinging the bat and knowing I’ve just hit a homerun. Not the weight of being handed trophies and plaques and rings.

Her.

I would miss her and the very thought of not seeing her everyday, not laughing with her over her dog’s latest antics, not listening to her talk about her classes and sports medicine journals, not being able to reach out and touch her, however innocent. These were the thoughts that had me in a chokehold. The feeling of dread, fear, and finality over losing her without ever having had her eclipsing everything else.

It’s crazy. Absolutely insane to offer, but if I have any hope of chasing and earning Scarlet, I need to get her out of Nashville. Out of the city, away from the stadium and the sport, and with just enough distance between her and Colt and Roman so she can breathe, think, and act without subconsciously being influenced by their presence and words. So we can be together as us.

“I didn’t saynothingwas holding me back. Just none of the things you mentioned. I have Winnie and with dad and Roman potentially going on the road for the playoffs, no one is around to look after her for me. Even then, she’s a bit skittish and codependent. She gets really bad separation anxiety if I’m gone longer than a few hours. It’s why normally she’s here somewhere even when it’s not Dog Days at the Park.”

Smiling at her as she picks up the sheet and fastidiously looks at the ceiling while telling me to turn over, I shift into place and say, “I’ve always wanted a dog. It was a luxury we couldn’t afford growing up, not in addition to all my baseball gear and travel league expenses. Then when I had the money, it just seemed selfish and cruel since I no longer had the time.”

Moving around to the front and leaning over me to begin a much gentler massage along my shoulders and down my arms, her breasts mere inches from my face, my mouth watering at the idea of closing my lips around one of her nipples that’s drawn taut against her tank, I say, “She’s like your baby. I would never ask you to leave her behind. My invitation extends to youandher. Though I must confess, my offer isn’t entirely selfless.”

“Oh really? What dastardly, self-serving motivations could you possibly have with getting me out to the mountains?”

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