Page 75 of Playboy Pitcher
Again.
Frustrated, I shove a hand through my hair. But it’s not enough. I’m pissed, more at myself than anyone. I allowed this to happen. I have no one to blame but myself. And now, instead of Playboy Pitcher, tomorrow’s viral video will showcase the newly emasculated Pussy Pitcher.
“Goddamn it!” I growl, slamming my palm against the wall.
That’s not me being a pussy. Sure, a punch would’ve felt a hell of a lot better, but I’m not trying to end my career tonight.
Would a dancer kick a brick wall?
I didn’t think so.
A chuckle rumbles beside me just as a beer slides in front of my face. “Walk it off, LaCroix.”
“Why is she always running?” I ask, accepting the beer with a large gulp.
Hoyt just shrugs, nodding toward the bar as he walks away. “Because no one has ever stopped her.”
I assume I’m meant to follow him. Even if I’m not, I do. Hoyt seems to know Willow better than anyone, and right now I need as much insight as I can get. As we approach, Kacey perks up like someone shot a bottle rocket up her ass. Hoyt grumbles something low in his throat and shoos her away like a fly on shit.
“Nothin’ here for you, girl. Move along.”
I suppose even Annies have their limits, and Hoyt just handed Kira hers. Sliding off the barstool, she stomps back to her table. I feel kind of bad for stringing her along. I’m really not the son of a bitch the media makes me out to be.
“Sorry to waste your time, Kori,” I call out.
“My name is Kenly, you dickhead!” she hisses, throwing a middle finger over her shoulder.
Huh. I would’ve never guessed that.
As the bar starts to thin out, Kyle, Tuck, and Cruz make their way to a few empty barstools. I glare at Serrano, who gives me a knowing smirk. I’m sure they all saw me with Willow, and I wait for their inevitable comments.
Instead, Kyle just claps me on the back. “Hell of a game, LaCroix. You’ll get it back, don’t worry.” There’s no smile on his face. He’s not talking about baseball.
No one else speaks, which is nice. There’s comfort in silence sometimes. For the first time tonight, I don’t feel like I’m running barefoot through a field of broken glass.
Then Hoyt slams his beer down, his eyes widening. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, what the fuck is he doin’ here?”
The rest of us glance over our shoulders to see what has him so worked up, and that’s when my blood turns to lava. The weight on my chest slams through my ribcage just as the green-eyed monster sinks its teeth into my jugular.
Jealousy.
Blinding, rage-filled jealousy.
Drake Prescott stands in the middle of the bar in his pretentious suit, tucking that ridiculous boy-band hair behind his ears. All I see when I look at him is his hands all over Willow by her car, and all I can think about is what she confessed to me.
About what that prick did to her. How he cheated on her. Drove her away. Fuckingchangedher.
“You need that hand to pitch,” Hoyt whispers out of the corner of his mouth. “Don’t do it.”
He’s right. But God, what I wouldn’t give to bust that motherfucker’s nose.
Drake pastes on a smile like he just ran over a bus of preschoolers and makes his way toward the bar, his entourage trailing behind him. “Well, if it isn’t the Storm’s star pitcher. Then again, after watching you choke tonight, maybeshitpitcher would be more accurate.”
Hoyt is on his feet before anyone can move. “This is a Storm party. Now get on outta here, Prescott.”
“Looks like a public bar to me. Besides, in a couple weeks, the team will be mine anyway.”
“Willie already told ya she’s not sellin’.”
