Page 20 of Playboy Pitcher
I’ll let that one slide.“That’s a hundred-thousand-dollar suit.”
“So?”
“So, ten years ago you were a bullpen pitcher with a bank account as small as your dick.” His eyes darken at the insult, but I’m too wound up to care. “Now you’re sitting here in a handmade, diamond-encrusted suit, throwing around eight hundred million dollars like you’re playing penny slots in Vegas.”
“Eight hundred and two million.”
I let that go too because it’s not worth my time. “So, you go from bumming twenty bucks off me for gas money to paying nearly a billion dollars for a major league franchise?” Narrowing my eyes, I cock my chin. “What did you do, rob a bank?”
“No. I married one.” When he sees my eyebrows shoot up, he laughs and holds up his left hand where—I’ll be damned—a gold band sits on his third finger. “Sorry to break it to you, princess, but I’m off the market.”
“I’ll try to control myself.” He’s so satisfied with himself that I add, “From laughing.” All traces of amusement fades from his face and transfers to mine. “Didn’t anyone tell you that roofie’ing women is illegal?”
He clicks his tongue. “Always did love that mouth.” I slam the pen on the table and scowl, a reaction that brings a smile back to his face. “No drugs needed. Rebecca married me all on her own free will.”
Rebecca…Math equations fly around in my head as numbers add up and puzzle pieces fall into place.Married a bank…When the last one clicks, my jaw drops. “Rebecca George? As in the daughter of Samuel George? The CEO of SWGeorge Corp?”
“Rebecca George-Prescott, actually.”
“Does she know what a lying shitbag she married?”
Ned jumps to his feet. “Willow, please.” Pulling another plastic pen from his pocket, he slides it across the table. “As entertaining as this has been, we’d all like to go home.”
“Willie.” Hoyt’s Southern drawl hooks my attention, and my eyes travel down the length of the table. I expect to see him leaned back in his chair, appraising everyone as usual. Instead, I find his gaze firmly locked on Drake, fire brimming in his eyes. “I don’t care what that piece of paper says. Your dad would never do this.”
Drake holds his stare. “Yet, he did. So why don’t you keep your opinions to yourself, old man? They’ll be irrelevant soon anyway.”
Just like every pot of water has a boiling point, every person has a breaking point. Both start as a slow simmer, but once that threshold is crossed, there’s no turning back. A flame ignites, steamrolling everything and everyone in its path.
That boiling point—that breaking point—is Drake’s thinly-veiled threat toward Hoyt. A man who has always been like a father to me. A man who has always done right by me even when I didn’t deserve it. And even though my dad and I had our differences, Hoyt is right. This clause doesn’t sound like him.
He’d never leave the Storm in the hands of someone like Drake.
I imagine a future where the man sitting next to me owns a franchise my father loved more than anything on Earth. The man who drove me from my home and across its borders. The man who ruined my life.
Grasping the contract in both hands, I rip it to shreds, letting it fall onto the table like confetti. “Go to hell. I’d rather die than sell to you.”
Drake gives me a condescending laugh. “You don’t have much of a choice, sweetheart. What are you doing to do? Move here and run it yourself?”
“Yes.”
The room falls silent.
“Don’t be stupid, Willow,” he seethes, white-knuckling the edge of the table. “You can’t manage a major league team. For Christ’s sake, you can’t even manage your own life.”
My vision goes red. “Get out. Your presence is no longer needed here.”
Relaxing his grip on the table, he holds up his palms as if I’m an errant child throwing a tantrum. “I get it; you’re a woman acting on emotion. You’ll calm down and realize how foolish you’re being.”
“I said get out!” I settle a dead stare on him. “Or do I need to have you escorted out?”
A vein in his temple pulses with restrained anger as we glare at each other. Seconds feel like hours until finally, the silent room fills with the sound of a chair scraping along the marble floor. Rising from his seat, he stands stiffly, his hands fisted by his side. “You have twenty-eight days to accept my offer. After that, the regular season starts, and you’re on your own.” Reaching inside his suit jacket, he pulls out a piece of paper. Unfolding it, he holds it in front of me for inspection.
“What’s this?”
“My copy of the contract. Maybe you didn’t read the fine print. If I can’t buy, you can’t sell.” Folding the contract in half again, he tucks it back into his jacket. “Twenty-eight days, princess. I don’t suggest making me wait.” Without another word, he crosses the room and slams the door behind him.
Holy shit. What just happened?
