Page 2 of Wild Pitch

As soon as I’m out from under him, I rush around the room, picking up my clothes. My shirt and bra are right by the door, where he pulled them off of me as soon as we walked inside, unable to wait another second. I get them on, spinning quickly to look for the rest of my belongings. The pink linen micro skirt I wore to the bar last night is tossed over by the window. I run over, swiping it and sliding it up my legs before tiptoeing to where my panties lie bunched up by the bed. But when I go to put them on, I realize they’re completely ruined. Memories of Val literally ripping them from my body flood my brain and I want to swan dive right the fuck back into the bed with him for another round. But I’m just going to have to settle for keeping last night’s festivitiesin my spank bank for future use, because this can’t be anything more.

I grab my clutch off the back of the armchair, moving to the door and taking one last look back at Val before reluctantly leaving him without saying goodbye.

Forty-five minutes later, I pull into the parking lot behind Praya, the luxury boutique where I just got hired. The drive from Boston to Hope Harbor wasn’t too bad since I made it through the city before rush hour. I had to touch up last night’s makeup and steer with one knee while I brushed the wild knots out of my hair, but I managed to make myself presentable.

And keeping an emergency pair of panties in my glove box?

What a power move.

I rush to the door with about ten minutes to spare before the store opens, smoothing my clothes down and walking in like a normal, confident individual who has her life together, even though I definitely don’t.

“You must be Monroe!” an adorable blonde girl says as she stands and comes my way. “I’m Grace. I’m the assistant fashion buyer here. It’s nice to meet you.” I take her extended hand, returning her smile. She can’t be more than a couple of years younger than me, if that, and I have a feeling we’re going to get along really well.

“Likewise,” I say, looking around. “Where is everyone?”

“Oh!” she replies. “The ladies always meet for tea on Monday mornings before they come in, so they’ll be a little behind. It’s just us for about an hour. Until my brother gets here. He’s a professional baseball player and his team isplaying in Boston tonight, so he’s dropping in to say hello before he has to be at the stadium.”

“Oh, that’s cool,” I offer. “What’s his na?—”

“Riggs!” she squeals, cutting me off as she runs to the door. She jumps into her brother’s waiting arms and I turn around, smiling as I watch them embrace.

“Hey, Bunny,” he says, and my blood goes cold when I hear his voice. As soon as she steps back, my eyes lock onto his. Eyes that I was just looking into hours ago as he ripped orgasm after orgasm from my exhausted body.

This lying motherfucker.

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 playoffgame, 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 thateveryoneis 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 areentirely 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?

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