Page 50 of Playboy Pitcher
The mixed signals he’s throwing out makes me wonder how much he knows. However, that look spoke volumes, so I’m not going to push my luck right now.
He gets a pass. My new bride doesn’t.
She has a few questions to answer tonight.
* * *
Even in February, the Florida sun is brutal. Two hours into field practice and a few rookies have already dipped out to see Doc; a decision which all but guarantees a one-way trip back to the minors. Spring Training isn’t for the weak. The workouts are savage, the practice goes on for hours, and the rest…
Well, there is no rest.
I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. Nobody said life is fair. But it does have a way of weeding out the pack.
Crouched behind home plate, Tuck drops two fingers by his crotch. Nodding, I shift my hold, rotating my thumb upward while snapping my middle finger downward just before the pitch releases.
“Nice curveball.” A grin spreads behind his face mask as the ball lands in his glove. “So, have you seen the new boss around lately?” he asks, throwing it back.
I pin him with a blank stare, forcing myself not to react. He does the same, refusing to take his eyes off me as he taps his left shin guard, then drops one finger.
Fastball low and to the inside. You got it, asshole.
“No, why would I?” Hooking my index and middle finger over the top of the ball, I hold it in a loose grip, then make him eat a trail of backspin.
Tuck’s knees hit the dirt trying to get his glove to the ball. Raising his face mask, he cocks an eyebrow. “Dirty four-seam? Someone’s in a mood.”
“Because you’re acting like an idiot. Are we going to practice or gossip?”
“Hey, I’m simply making conversation. You’re the one snapping at everyone with your jockstrap up your ass.”
“We have an expo game against the Astros in two days and all of you are acting like it’s no big deal. Like getting our asses handed to us won’t set the tone for the whole season. Personally, I’d prefer not to be a loser for once.”
“What’s the use in putting all this work in if the whole franchise is in jeopardy?” Kyle mutters, gritting his teeth as he steps into a hard overhead throw straight into the pitching net. Dropping his glove onto the equipment bag, he turns to face us, his hands slung low on his hips. “Roger’s bitch daughter is just going to dump us for the highest bidder and walk away.”
“You don’t even know her.”
“Nobody does!” he laughs. “That’s the point.” Then, to add insult to injury, he lifts up on his cleats as if he’s wearing high heels and sticks his chest out as if weighted down with a pair of nonexistent tits. “I’m sure you’ve heard rumors, and they’re true,” he says, mimicking Willow’s locker room speech in a cartoonishly high voice.
Which is ridiculous. Willow’s voice is low and sultry.
His act garners a few laughs, which eggs him on. “I do plan to sell,” he continues. “I have no interest in running a third-rate team.”
I see her first. No, I smell her. That sweet, floral scent cuts right through the dirt and sweat and grabs me by the throat. “Kyle…”
But he doesn’t hear me. He’s too enthralled with his captive audience. An audience which sees the same thing I do and tries to get him to shut up with various subtle movements. A swipe of the hand across the throat. A discreet clearing of the throat. There’s even a pathetically disguised “boss” thrown into a cough.
Kyle is oblivious to all of it. It’s a good thing the guy has his looks going for him because there’s not a lot going on upstairs.
“I’m a bitch?” Instead of stopping, he launches into another impression as Willow slowly walks up behind him.
I’m both horrified and fascinated at what’s about to happen. It’s like driving by a ten-car pile-up. You don’t want to look, but some sadistic part of you can’t help it.
He cocks a hip. “Well, I’m sorry, boys, you seem to be under the impression I think that’s an insult. On the contrary—”
Willow clears her throat, and fuck, I wish I had a camera because the look on Kyle’s face deserves to be made into a poster and plastered all over the stadium. His eyes get so big, all I see is white.
Slowly, his cleats hit the dirt. “Oh shit.”
Wiping the smirk off her face, Willow catches my eye before locking her hands behind her back and circling around in front of Kyle.
