Page 14 of Playboy Pitcher
Now that I know, I prefer the couch.
Ned gestures toward me, a piece of toasted brioche pinched between his chubby fingers. “We missed you at the funeral, Willow,” he says, popping the whole thing in his mouth. Like a herd of sheep, a circle of overpaid sports lawyers stands behind him, nodding in agreement.
Highly unlikely.
Ten minutes ago, most of those idiots had no idea I existed, much less cared if I showed up in a shitty black dress to mourn a man I hadn’t seen in over a decade. Not a damn person heremissedme. Especially Ned Riggins, the Storm’s pathetic excuse for a general manager, who got in my dad’s ear and in less than three years, Yoko Ono’ed the shit out of this team, turning a dynasty into a punchline.
Anyway, it’s not that Icouldn’tattend his funeral. I chose not to. Death doesn’t wipe a slate clean, and being present for my father’s burial wouldn’t have meant the hatchet would’ve gone with him.
“What can I say?” I shrug, lifting my mimosa. “New York City.”
I wait, resting the rim of the glass against my lower lip. Instead of pressing me like normal lawyers, they flash their plastic obligatory smiles as if any of that made a damn bit of sense. Not that it matters. They might hear me, but they’re not listening. And why would they? I’m nothing but a walking, talking dollar sign.
Glad to see some things never change.
Leaving them salivating over the impending buyout, I slip away to the brunch buffet to snag a second mimosa.
Okay, a third, but who’s counting?
It’s a king’s feast and the vultures are picking at it like prized roadkill. Considering the team’s horrific last few seasons, and my father and Ned’s questionable trades, I’m surprised accounting sprang for an expensive spread like lobster hash and foie gras.
I tap my fingernail against the glass nestled in my hand.And champagne, of course. Downing the flute of bubbly orange liquid, I help myself to another one.
Then again, I suppose putting the final nail in the Mays curse is cause for celebration of this magnitude.
I’m on my fourth mimosa when my gaze wanders toward a wall of windows on the opposite side of the room. I know what’s beyond it, and the rational side of me wants no part of it. However, the alcohol-infused side propels my feet across the room before I can stop them.
My hand tightens around my champagne flute as four familiar bases form a diamond in the middle of a field greener than any golf course. Even through the thick glass, I can still smell the newly raked dirt on the infield. I can still hear the crack of a bat as it hits the ball.
Some things are just ingrained in your memory. But that’s nostalgia for you. It distorts reality, tricking your brain into creating comfort out of torture.
“Not for long,” I mutter, lifting the glass back to my mouth. Just as I start to take a drink, a metal clanging sound penetrates the window, followed by a man’s baritone voice. The sound may have been muffled, but his gesture is loud and clear.
Strike.
There’s loud cheering, and althoughagain,I tell myself to look away, some unseen force draws my gaze directly on the pitcher’s mound.
And tohim.
Benson LaCroix.
Six foot three inches of dark-haired, blue-eyed trouble.
Adjusting the brim of his baseball cap, he flashes that dimpled grin, and my stomach flips. I have no idea why. It’s not as if that smile is for me. The windows are tinted. There’s no way he knows I’m watching him like some crazed stalker.
Besides, after our confrontation in the locker room yesterday, I have no doubt the only thing he’d flash me is a middle finger.
What a mess.
Groaning, I bang my forehead against the glass. How did I not see it? How did I sit beside BensonfuckingLaCroix in that godforsaken bar—let him hit on me, no less—and not realize who he was? Was I blind, or so desperate to ignore reality I also ignored the truth?
“That was some show you put on yesterday,” a familiar voice drawls from behind me.
On instinct, I stiffen, straightening my shoulders and tightening my jaw. “It wasn’t a show.”
Hoyt lets out an unapologetic snort and holds up a cracker topped with caviar. “That was an Oscar-worthy performance, and you know it.” Staring at his hand in disgust, he tosses the fish eggs onto the window ledge and shoves his hands in his pockets. “That’s not what you’re about.”
“With all due respect, Hoyt, you don’t have the first clue what I’m about.”
