Page 16 of Playboy Pitcher
My mind drifts back to yesterday. To the image of him smirking at me, wearing nothing but a jockstrap like he was daring me not to look.
Oh, I looked. How could I not? The man could walk up to the plate and hit a home run with that thing.
“Not even a little,” I answer, discreetly rubbing at the flush I know is climbing up my neck. “He’s not worth the energy.”
Hoyt chuckles as we both watch Ben pull off his glove and high-five his catcher. “He’s a charmer, that one.”
I roll my eyes. “More like a liability. LaCroix can’t keep his name out of the tabloids long enough to keep a sponsor.” He didn’t get the nickname “Big Ben” by accident. That came courtesy of a dick pic posted by a lovely Storm slut who proceeded to go into graphic detail about his size, length, girth, and stamina.
And as if that weren’t enough, then it went viral.
The media dubbed him the Playboy Pitcher. Because why have one public relations nightmare when you can have two?
“He’ll calm down.”
“Yeah. If you shoot him with a tranquilizer dart. Maybe sending the ace pitcher to the bullpen would calm his ass down.”
When Hoyt doesn’t say anything, I cock my chin to see his attention is no longer on Ben, but across the room. I take a step back to see what he’s staring at, and that’s when I realize it’s not a what, but awho.
Ned Riggins.
“Or we’d lose our only draft pick still standin’ after that jackass’s waiver disaster,” he growls. Hoyt’s laid-back Tennessee feathers are hard to ruffle. However, judging by his clenched fists and red face, I’m guessing the Storm’s general manager not only ruffles them, but he’s also plucked a few.
“What the hell was my father thinking?”
He doesn’t get the chance to answer before one of the lawyer sheep who appears to be in charge claps his hands and instructs everyone to take their seats. People scurry from all four corners of the room to gather around the long conference table.
Sighing, I take my seat near the head as Hoyt wanders toward the end. I guess it doesn’t matter what he was thinking. In a few minutes, it’ll be someone else’s problem.
The head sheep, whose name I either already forgot or never bothered to learn, stands beside me and clears his throat. “I’d like to thank everyone for coming on such short notice. I know the training facility is somewhat of an unorthodox place for a meeting, but these are unorthodox times. As most of you know, six days ago, this team suffered a great loss.” He pauses to place his hand over his heart. When no one responds to his theatrics, he continues. “Roger Mays, the team’s longtime owner, and someone many of us considered a friend, passed away.”
This time, murmurs filter around the table, and more than a few eyes glance my way. If they’re waiting for a reaction, they’re in for a disappointment. I’m better at this game than they are. Folding my hands in my lap, I keep my expression blank and my eyes trained on the window.
“It’s tragic and heartbreaking,” Head Sheep says, redirecting their attention back toward him. “However, Roger always planned for everything, and his passing was no different. Yesterday, the senior vice presidents and I attended his will reading. A will where he bequeathed sole ownership of the Miami Storm to his daughter, Miss Willow Mays.” Flashing a smile, he gestures toward me.
I guess that’s my cue.
“McBaine,” I correct, rising from my chair. At his bewildered expression, I sigh. “I legally changed my name years ago.” Luckily, no one asks for an explanation. Not that they’d get one anyway. “It’s no secret my father and I didn’t have a close relationship.” I laugh softly. “We didn’t have a relationship at all. When I left ten years ago, I cut ties with Miami and everyone in it.”
“Why?”
The question catches me by surprise, and I shift my attention across the table where a middle-aged female sheep sits chewing on the end of her pen.Why?She wants to knowwhy? Why would I walk away from an empire? Why would I give up a multi-million-dollar trust fund? Why would I move from a waterfront mansion to a five-hundred-and-fifty-square-foot studio apartment?
Easy.
Because I could never compete with a team of twenty-eight men, and simply stopped trying.
But I don’t say that. Instead, I stare into her overly-lined eyes, gesture a hand down the length of my tattooed body, and lie. “Isn’t it obvious?”
That shuts her up.
“As I was saying, I have no interest in the Mays name or anything attached to it.” Pausing, I steal a glance at Hoyt who just shakes his head. “Including this team.”
The murmurs return, this time even louder. Head Sheep stands, not for my benefit, but because he’s a narcissistic douchebag who can’t stand not being the center of attention. “So, you have an announcement, then?”
Ugh.If I roll my eyes any harder, they’ll fall back into my skull. He knows exactly what I have to say. This is a conference room, not community theater.
“Yes,” I bite out between clenched teeth. “I’m selling the franchise.”
