Page 9 of Playboy Pitcher
A chorus of laughter ripples across the room. The sound eases some of the tightness in my chest, and I join in. It’s like whatever quicksand we’ve all fallen into the last few days evaporates. Although it’s at Kyle’s expense, a hint of a smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth as he returns my middle finger.
The silence returns, but this time it isn’t strained.
Well, that’s until Tuck opens his mouth again.
“So how many this time?” Standing stark naked except for a towel around his waist, the Storm’s catcher grins while running a hand through his long platinum blond hair. “Threesome? Foursome?” His grin fades as his eyebrows draw together. “What’s after that?”
Kyle snorts. “An Ace bandage and Gatorade.” He gestures to the man standing beside him and then props his forearm on his shoulder. “Come on, Playboy. Don’t hold out on us. It’s the closest Serrano will ever get to a woman.”
Cruz’s jaw ticks, his dark eyes narrowing. “Pinche cabrón.”
That’s the extent of Cruz Serrano’s anger, despite Kyle spending four seasons trying to set him off. Unflappable and reserved, our first baseman is like a machine.
However, my shoulders draw up at the nickname. Kyle isn’t going to let this go.Playboyhas a reputation, and telling these guys I not only got shot down but got so drunk I had to take a cab home alone would blow a crater-sized hole in it.
Image is everything in professional sports. You can be the team hero or the league bad boy; it doesn’t matter. What does matter is keeping your name in fans’ mouths. These days, it’s not enough just to play ball. You have to play the game.
I force a smirk. “One was enough.”
“Let me guess, blonde, blue eyes, and big tits.” Tuck demonstrates by cupping his hands at his chest, as if the words aren’t clear enough.
Even though I told myself I wouldn’t, I think of Willow—all wrong in every way with her bright, shoulder-length teal hair and countless tattoos. When it comes to my type, she’s at the opposite end of the spectrum. I usually gravitate toward the vapid Barbie dolls, unable to hold a conversation or find their way back to my condo the next day.
Then Willow stomped into that bar and everything went to shit.
“More like edgy,” I answer honestly. “Let’s just say it’ll be a long time before I forget that mouth.”
It’s the God’s honest truth. And not just for those plump lips, but for the sharp banter that rolled off them. But again, image is everything, so I stick my tongue against the inside of my cheek and mime a blowjob. As expected, the guys whistle and make crude gestures.
I know I’m an asshole, but as I said, nobody said life is fair.
Thankfully, as uniforms get tossed and most of the rookies disappear into the showers, the focus shifts off me and returns to the shitshow of a practice game we just played. The one where we got our asses handed to us by a bunch of minor league hopefuls vying for our jobs.
Tucker Collins, Kyle Abbott, and Cruz Serrano are the only men I started this journey with who are still standing. Everyone else either left for better opportunities or more likely, ended up casualties of Roger’s and our general manager’s mess of a revamp—the reason we’re in this damn situation in the first place.
Then he went and died, sending everything up in flames.
Facing his locker, Tuck grips the strip of wood at the top and blows out a frustrated breath. “Looks like another year at the bottom of the rankings.”
Kyle huffs. “If you even make the team.”
“Says the asshole taking a nap in right field.”
Growling, Kyle slingshots his jockstrap, hitting Tuck in the forehead. “Shut up, Collins. It’s not my fault the only thing you can catch is herpes.”
Tuck is on him before anyone can move. With a grunt, Kyle’s back slams into his open locker. Impressive, since he’s six foot three of solid muscle. Not that Tuck is a small guy, but hitting Kyle Abbott is like punching a tree trunk.
“Bad move, pretty boy.” Kyle comes out of the locker like a demon from hell, fist swinging. Any other time, I’d let them sort out their own shit. However, none of us are ourselves right now.
“Jesus Christ, will you two grow up?” I yell, storming across the room while the rest of the team encourages them.
Kyle swings again, catching Tuck’s chin. “Back off. This isn’t your fight, LaCroix.”
Tuck curses and swings back just as I go to push him away, my shoulder taking the brunt of the hit. I’m no pussy; I can take a punch. However, Spring Training turns even the strongest of muscles into cream cheese.
I grit my teeth. “Fucking hell.”
“If you girls are finished dancin’ in here, I’ve got some news.”
