Bring The Heat: A Bad Boy Sports Romance (Bad Boys of Summer Book 1) (2 page)

I rolled my eyes and flopped back against the seat. Three months ago she had set me up on a blind date with the brother of one of her WWC pal’s brothers. I’m not really sure how she managed to get me to agree to it. I was in a good mood, having just received funding to build my new game. Anyway, the guy had shown up for the date twenty minutes late. Strike one. He smelled of another woman’s perfume. Strike two. And before we even finished our first drink, he was groping my ass and whispering all the things he wanted to do to me in my ear. Strike three.

Now, I was far from being a baseball expert, but I do know that three strikes and you’re out.

And that’s exactly what I’d done. I threw a drink in his face when he tried to get under my dress and stormed out before I could do permanent damage to his man parts.

Paris had been banned from setting me up ever since.

Or, at least that’s what I’d told her. She was apparently playing by her own rules.

I was sitting in my seat, debating whether to grab my purse and make a run for the closest exit—Paris was wearing five inch heels and had already downed two beers, there was no way she’d catch me—when the loud speaker crackled to life.

“All right Warriors fans, let’s all give a warm welcome to our newest member of the team. Making his Major League debut, please help me welcome Cody Wright to the mound!”

The stadium erupted in cheers and I marveled at how excited people got. All around me, people were jumping to their feet, throwing their hands in the air, hollering at the top of their lungs.

“Go Cody! Make us proud!”

“Warriors! Warriors!”

Paris was on her feet like everyone else, and I pushed up from my chair to join in with a mild round of applause. It was weird to be the only one sitting, and I didn’t want to get thrown out on my ass by the zealous fans.

The man of the hour stepped out onto the field and his picture flashed up on the electronic billboard between the scoreboard and the one showing non-stop advertisements. Cody Wright was a bonafide hottie.

And damn it if he didn’t make those baseball pants look even more tempting.

Well, hello there Mr. Wright.

Cody

To say the circumstances of my grand entrance into the Majors weren’t ideal would be a Texas-sized understatement.

The Oklahoma City Warriors were on a whopper of a losing streak having bombed six of the last seven games they’ve played. And apparently that’s not a streak that’s going to be broken anytime soon. I was a last round draft pick and immediately sent packing to Holdenville to the minor leagues to develop a year before rejoining the team in Oklahoma City. My year in Holdenville had taught me a lot, but mostly that I wasn’t meant to be a big fish in a small ass pond. Most of the time I was bored and off getting myself into trouble. I was halfway convinced the reason I’d finally been called back to join to Warriors was because the coaching staff was sick of me messing with shit just to have something to do.

In any case, I was a full-fledged player for the Warriors now, and marching onto the field mid-way through the ninth. I don’t know why the fuckin’ coach trotted me out like some kind of trick pony to save the team when we’re seven to one, the bases are loaded, and the Coyotes have the five-time home run champion and former league MVP, Trey Delgado, at the plate.

No pressure or anything.

Fan-fuckin-tastic.

At least the crowd was cool. The overwhelming roar of cheers and chants was the only thing capable of getting through my piss-ass attitude.

Coach Robinson’s instructions resound in my ears as I sized the batter up. “Nothing fancy, son. Give him the heat and work the lower corners. He never swings at the first pitch and loves a high fastball. Keep it low okay?”

With the continued rumble of the crowd behind me and my lucky number on the back of my shirt, I took my place on the pitcher’s mound and met my catcher’s eye. I locked my jaw in place and gave the catcher a firm nod. Let’s rock this party.

“Play ball!”

I knew Trey Delgado wouldn’t swing at my first pitch. And I was about to show him—and the crowd—what Cody fuckin’ Wright was made of. I was carving out my place on the team, and one way to do that was a nasty fastball that would scare the shit out of Delgado so when he took his first swing—it was with a healthy dose of fear. I laughed to myself and set my feet on the mound.

Fastballs were my signature and the reason I’d been scouted for the majors in the first place. I’d rocked the hell out of it in the minors, but there was no way some stuffy MVP like Delgado would know that. He wouldn’t think I could strike him out. So that was exactly what I was going to do.

Low, fast, dirty.

My catcher, Pete Jennings gets set and I take a moment to glance at the three base runners. You SOB’s ain’t going anywhere so sit tight and watch the show.

With a crooked grin, I turned my attention back to Delgado with his cock, stick-up-his-ass stance.

“You ready to go, big shot?”

The cheers quieted down and I could feel the shift in the energy. Everyone was sitting on the edge of their seat.

This was it.

The big moment. The Warriors’ big moment.

My
big moment.

I wound up the pitch and threw the ball. The release felt good. I would be shocked to see it clock anything less than 100 mph.

The crowd took a collective gasp and then I heard it.

Crack!

Mother fucker swung at it! And hit it!

The crowd groaned and then the groans turned to gasps. The ball was gone, long fuckin gone. Delgado was running, an arrogant smile on his face as our eyes met across the field, and the rest of his teammates bolted out of the dugout to meet him at home plate.

“Fuck!”

I looked up and my stomach sank. The ball was gone, streaking through the sky so fast that I lost track of it. The outfielders were scrambling for the back wall but it didn’t matter. My eyes stung from the glare of the sun as I searched the sky for any sign of the ball.

With a horrified gasp, I spotted the ball flying over the upper deck seats in right field. The damn thing was gone. As Delgado rounded third and headed for home, I thought I heard the faint sound of a car alarm blaring off in the distance.

The announcer gasped along with the crowd, the sound unpleasant over the sound system. “It’s outta the park, ladies and gents! I hope y’all have good insurance cause that baby’s headed to the south side parking lot! Holy guacamole! Have you ever seen anything like it? We need to get the measurement on that one Hal, we might have ourselves a record there. Trey Delgado just hit his first grand slam of the season, and I’m thinking that may be a record for the longest hit ball on record!”

I winced at the announcement and the booing of the crowd that followed. I gripped the bill of my hat and ducked my chin. I took a swift kick at the mound. “Fuck!”

Chelsea

“The south side parking lot?” I whined at the announcement.

Paris shook her head. “Damn. That was a rough first day.”

I followed her gaze and saw Cody Wright kicking the shit out of the pitching mound. “Paris, focus, our car—correction,
my car
—is in the south lot!”

“Cool your jets, babe. There’s no way that ball actually made it that far. All right? Now, come on, let’s go down to the tunnel and wait for Robby. He’s gonna be pissed off and I’ll need to cheer him up.”

Before I could object and insist that we go see whose car got smashed, Paris was tugging me into the crowd of disappointed Warriors fans.

“Fuckin’ Wright. Why the front office even picked him up is beyond me,” one fan grumbled to another in front of us.

The guy to his right nodded in agreement as we all shuffled towards the exit. “I heard he can pitch a one-oh-two fastball though.”

The first fan shrugged his meaty shoulders. “Don’t matter if he pitches it to the wrong guy! Did you see that swing? Dayum!”

I tuned it out and stuck close to Paris as she led the way out of the bleachers and down a hallway, a couple flights of stairs, and after flashing an ID badge at a cluster of security guards who all looked to be too busy bitching about the game to care, we walked down a deserted hallway that smelled like sweat and stale ballpark peanuts.

“This way,” she said, grabbing my arm before I walked right past the right hallway. “The locker room is at the end of this hall and when they’re done with their post-game shit, they all come this way. You’ll get to see the whole team!”

“Swell.”

Paris shot me a dark look. “Come on, let’s sit over there.”

“I’ll stand. If I do any more sitting today I think my ass is going to go into a permanent hibernation. Baseball games are too damn long.” I massaged my ass cheeks through my dark wash skinny jeans.

“Says the woman who spends eighty hours a day at her computer…”

“I have a standing desk, thank-you-very-much,” I retorted, resisting the urge to shoot my tongue out in her direction.

My first year as a full time programmer, I’d packed on fifteen pounds from too much snacking and lack of exercise. When I got the funding for the new game I was building, the first investment I made was in an adjustable desk so I could stand up and work. Between that and one of those horribly complicated home gym machines, I’d melted off most of that weight gain and was back in my normal jeans.

I glanced at Paris as she sat down. She was incredibly dressy for a day at the ballpark. She was wearing a short, black mini skirt that was suction-cupped to her ass and a low cut red top—the Warriors’ signature color—that was just as tight. I wondered if the outfit was like one of those space saving bags they show on late night infomercials. Did it require a vacuum cleaner to get into?

Robby’s mansion had a full-size gym basement with everything he needed to stay in tip-top shape and Paris obviously used it just as religiously. That girl couldn’t pack on a pound if her life depended on it. Me on the other hand…

We waited for thirty minutes and finally, footsteps and voices sounded at the opposite end of the hallway. Paris shot to her feet and smoothed her hands over her skirt and then fluffed her waves before plastering a broad smile on her fiercely red lips. “Baby!” she shouted, before flinging her arms open wide and shuffling in the direction of her man.

“Hey, sexy mama,” Robby growled, gathering her into his arms and planting a wet sounding kiss on her lips.

“How are you?” she cooed, wiping the trace of her second hand lipstick from his mouth.

He shrugged. “I’m fine. This is just our year, I guess.” He paused and nodded at me. “Hey Chels. How’d this one convince you to tag along?”

“Oh…she promised me we could go have sushi.”

Robby laughed. “Aha. Well that sounds awesome to me. I need to go finish a couple of things but I’ll meet you there, okay?”

“Of course, baby!” Paris pressed another lingering kiss to his lips, repeated the clean-up job, and sent him on his way with a firm slap to his backside.

* * * *

“Oh. My. Gawd! Paris!”

Not only had the grand slam ball made its way out of the park, into the parking lot, but it had flown as far as row C, parking space 321. AKA where
my
Mazda was parked. The ball had blown right through my windshield and was chilling on the driver’s seat—taunting me.

“Oh shit!” Paris said, coming up behind me. She had stopped to chat with another one of the team wives but caught up at the sound of my rattled cry. “Chelsea, I’m so sorry! I had no idea…wow.”

I ripped the door open and gasped at the smattering of safety glass spread all over the front seat. “This is a fucking train wreck! I knew I should’ve stayed home.”

“Oh, come on. We’ll call AAA and they’ll come tow you to a shop. Windshields go in just like that,” she made a pop sound with her lips. “Easy peasy. In the meantime, we’ll go get some sushi and take your mind off of it.”

My temples pulsed and I rubbed lightly at my forehead. I was starting to get a headache.

“Besides, just think about how much this ball could be worth.” She reached past me and plucked it from the glittering pile of glass. She shook it off and handed it to me. “Delgado was the MVP of the league last year. You could throw this thing up on eBay and make a bundle. Some crazy fan will want it.”

I dropped the ball into my oversize shoulder bag. I would deal with it later.

“Come on, babe. I’ll get this sorted out.” Paris grabbed her phone from her little black purse and flipped through her contacts. “Here are my keys. I’m in the next row over. Go crank up the AC, put on some tunes, and I’ll be there in a hot minute.”

I knew I was an adult and should be able to deal with the situation myself, but her offer to do it for me was too tempting. God knows she had the time and the money.

I took her keys and sauntered over to her enormous SUV in olive green that Robby had gifted her on her twenty-fifth birthday. I climbed inside and turned on the AC and retrieved a water bottle from the cold climate compartment under the glove box. I downed the bottle in four chugs and relaxed my head back on the smooth leather.

As promised, Paris joined me a few minutes later and told me it was handled. A tow truck was on the way and would take the car to a local shop that could replace the windshield and drop the car off at my townhouse the next morning before ten am.

“Wow. How’d you wrangle that?” I asked.

“I threw in tickets to tomorrow night’s game if they put a rush on it.” She tossed me a wink and threw the SUV into reverse. “Now let’s go get some Saki!”

Forty minutes later and we were parked on posh stools around the bar of our favorite upscale sushi spot. We each had a drink and I was finally starting to relax. The car would be taken care of, and I’d escaped a day at the ballpark without getting a sunburn.

Small victories.

“There they are!” Paris announced, as though addressing the entire establishment.

They?
Aww, shit.

In the chaos over my smashed up car I’d forgotten all about my impending set-up. I should have insisted on going to the car shop. Surely the outdated magazines littering their waiting room would prove to be more interesting than whatever meathead Robby scrounged up for me to double-date with.