Page 14 of The Third Baseman

She hadn’t changed a bit.

She spun around at the sound of my voice, thick dark hair flicking into her face as she did. My fingers itched to run through it again, just like I used to.

It had once been my favorite thing in the world… it probably still was.

Yet one look at her face and I knew I had my work cut out for me if I ever wanted to do it again. Fourteen years, and the fire that burned in her eyes could have been lava if I didn’t know better.

Then came the slap.

Another thirty seconds of being the recipient of her death stare, and she’d run off. I’d been left alone in the boss’ office, standing there with a grin you could have seen from space.

That was six days ago, and I hadn’t figured out what to do next.

My mind was still firmly on Marnie when I picked up the remote and turned off the TV. It was still on her as I took a hot shower and fisted my cock. And just like every other night, Marnie Matthews, owner of my heart, was the last thing I thought of as the tiredness I was drowning in engulfed me.

It dawned on me as my eyelids closed that I was nothing more than a lovelorn teenager.

* * *

I counted twenty-seven billboards with my face on them between my apartment and The Lions Stadium. No wonder the Yankees were pissed.

Penn Shepherd had taken over the entire city with the black and gold team colors.

I avoided Times Square at the best of times, but until the giant screens played something other than Lions interviews, and Lions social media on loop, not to mention the official team photos, I would be avoiding it forever.

It wasn’t like all the images were of me. My twenty-five teammates were also included, but if I didn’t know better, I’d say all mine had more airtime. If I could be bothered to prove it, I would. The New York Lions PR juggernaut was hurtling down the highway, and heaven help anyone who got in the way. This included said billboards, as well as social media presence, print interviews, and interviews across broadcast and network television. I’d had a request to go on The Tonight Show, but responded with a hard fucking pass.

Billboards were my limit, and that’s only because I could hide among the rest of the team.

I was also plenty used to billboards and ad campaigns featuring yours truly. I could handle billboards. But since I’d moved to this city and my face was somewhere new, the interest in it had dialed up somewhat, to put it mildly.

For the first time I gave a slight fuck, because I now had a mission bigger than baseball:

Marnie.

There was a reason I lived in a very secure and gated community in Los Angeles. Thank fuck my apartment came with underground parking and security in New York, so I could avoid anyone waiting outside the main entrance for me; something that happened way more than it ever should. I wasn’t sure if anyone had discovered where I lived yet, but it was only a matter of time before women started lining up outside and throwing their panties at me whenever I walked out, evidence of which was right here as I pulled up to the security entrance by the players gates.

I could hear my name being chanted over and over, and in fairness, New York had been incredibly welcoming to me. Less fair, I wish they’d stop hitting my car with each cry of my name. The atmosphere on game days was always heightened, but that didn’t mean I wanted to send my SUV to get fixed every week.

“JUPITER! JUPITER! JUPITER!”

Bang. Bang. Bang.

I eased the car just beyond the barricades and out of reach. Flashing my pass at the security guard on the gates, I hit the gas to get through as quickly as I could, and into the quiet parking lot by the entrance the team players used.

I got out, removed the bra which had stuck under my wiper blade, and grabbed my bag from the trunk. Each step toward the building was spent squinting into the distance at the executive parking lot two hundred yards away, to see if Marnie was here.

Then I realized I didn’t know what car she drove, or how she traveled, period.

I knew where she lived – a little further north than my loft – but that was only because I’d overheard Lowe Slater and Beulah Holmes talking about it at the Opening Day celebration last week.

“Hey, Reeves!”

A cry from behind had me spinning round to find Stone Fields, the left fielder, jogging toward me.

“Hey, man,” I tipped my chin when he caught up, “You good?”

He didn’t answer my question; his wide eyes were focused on my left hand. “You had a good night or what?”

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