Page 76 of Playboy Pitcher
“Willieis going to have a change of heart very soon.” He winks as if he knows a damn thing about Willow. “Count on it. So, get ready, old man. I’ve been waiting a long time to take out the trash.”
I swing my head over my shoulder. “Why don’t you shut the hell up, asshole?”
The fucker laughs as if I amuse him. As if I’m not a heartbeat away from throwing him into a wall. “What’s wrong, Playboy? You worried your ass is right behind him?” He leans in with a superior smirk. “Because it is.”
I can feel the flush crawl up my neck as I rise from my chair. “You talk a lot of shit for a guy who couldn’t hack it more than two years in the big leagues,champ.”
His smirk turns cold and deadly. “At least I made it there on my own. I paid my dues in the minors. I didn’t have Daddy pay my way to the top.”
A haze of red blinds me as I lunge, only to be pulled back. I curse and fight, but Kyle and Tuck have my arms in a firm hold.
Prescott throws his head back and laughs, his expensive white veneers shining under the fluorescent light. “Touched a nerve, huh? Does your new girlfriend know you’re nothing but a fraud? How your family stands for everything she hates? How you rode that almighty dollar all the way to the top? How when it all comes down to it, you’re just a watered-down, pathetic substitute for me?”
I struggle again, my chest heaving with rage. “Son of a bitch…” He’s enjoying himself, and my stomach churns with the need to see him bleed.
“I’m the one she wants, LaCroix,” he taunts. “It’ll always be me. Why do you think she’s with you? You’re a placeholder. Let me guess, after you fucked her, she split.”
There’s no way he could know.
I must have stopped struggling because Prescott’s eyes flash as his smile widens. “She did, didn’t she?” He pats my chest. “Don’t worry, LaCroix. When I get the team and bury your career, I’ll be sure to treat that pussy right.”
Something inside me snaps. Conscience. Sanity. Control. It all splinters and cracks into dust.
“Motherfucker!” Breaking Kyle and Tuck’s hold on me, I lunge forward, grabbing his throat and busting his nose before he even has a chance to react, much less throw a punch. Stunned, he stumbles back into a bar table. I hear my teammates behind me calling my name, yelling for me to stop, but it’s too late. I’ve already tackled him to the table and am laying fist after fist into his face. He manages to get in a lucky shot, but it only fuels me. “Touch her, and I’ll fucking kill you,” I growl, blood dripping off my fist. “Do you hear me?”
“Ben!” Kyle yells, tackling me from the side. We both go crashing to the floor as tables flip and chair legs break. “Stop, man! This is what he wants! Look at him!”
When he finally rolls off me, I sit up, expecting to see Prescott laid out cold on the table where I left him. Instead, he’s on his feet, bloody and in need of a hell of a lot of stitches, but still smiling.
The bastard issmiling.
That’s when I see the flash of the camera, and it’s not from a cell phone.
“Oliver!” he calls out to the man behind him as blood sprays from his mouth. “Call the police.”
“Sir?”
“Tell them I’ve been assaulted.” His smile widens, causing his lip to split, erupting into a waterfall of blood down his chin. “And I’m pressing charges.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
They’re everywhere.
Paparazzi. Tabloids. National news. Local news. Entertainment news. Sports news. They’re wrapped around the entire perimeter of the stadium like leeches. I thought by sneaking around to the side entrance, I could avoid them, but obviously, that’s not going to happen.
I’m trapped, only in reverse. Like a rat stuck outside the maze.
My hands shake as I drop my keys in my backpack, so I stop and take a deep breath, securing all emotion inside that locked place that keeps me safe. Exhaling, I paint on a mask I’ve molded to perfection and walk toward the employee entrance. My gait exudes confidence while my posture commands respect.
It doesn’t take long for chaos to erupt.
“There she is!” one calls out, igniting a flurry of movement. My foot barely hits the sidewalk when at least two dozen more shout for my attention. “Miss McBaine, over here!”
Shoulders back and head held high, I meet them with a stone face. “Please move, I’m late for work.”
“Miss McBaine, what’s your reaction to the assault charges filed against Benson LaCroix? Did the Storm post his bail? Will he be put on waivers for his conduct or for his poor performance?”
“No comment.” On instinct, I start to curl my fists by my side, then catch myself. They feed on weakness. The moment they see the slightest slip in my facade, they’ll go in for the kill. I can’t afford that. Not now.
