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There’s a lot to be said for team traditions. Home run dances, cooler dumps of ice and Gatorade, playoff beards—you get the idea. They encourage inclusion with the fans, they build community, they cement relationships. They promote team identity and culture. They’re fun.

Or so they tell me.

I’ve spent my entire pitching career with the Tennessee Terrors—ten years immersed in an overindulgent lifestyle that college players dream about, and hustle for, then the last five living a respectable life that would make any Southern mama proud.

One of those first traditions—back when I was new and vain and egocentric, and before I learned it was more a hazing than a team-building exercise—was the Bullpen Brewfest.

The name alone stirs the imagination. Veteran pitchers treating the rookies to a night of keg stands and wicked debauchery, all in the name of a raucous good time. The head-splitting, throwing-up-before-hitting-the-field-for-mandatory-practice the next day is not a favorite memory.

Over the years, the annual pre-season event has gradually tamed, and somewhere along the line, rebranded as the Bullpen Brunch.

Lame, I know. But I haven’t been the life of the party in a lot of years so it works for me.

The size of our event depends on the number of pitchers joining the team, but generally I keep a pretty tight group.

The purpose of our little soiree is for the new arms to get comfortable around the veteran throwers.

We’re all here to do a job—no need for fangirling.

But this year, I abandoned the old format altogether, snagged a wad of tickets to our teammate Tripp Nash’s casino night fundraiser, and warned everyone they better not shit the bed.

Our two rookie pitchers are standing in their rented tuxes, eyes wide and heads on a swivel at the entrance of the most elegant hotel in our home town of Nashville.

I pull up to the valet and climb out of my Escalade.

I’m a one car kind of guy, and while my black SUV may not be as sexy as some of the sports cars that decorate the players’ lot, when my daughter, Natalie, has a dance recital, or when half her high school softball team needs a ride home, the Audi R8 I get hard for in my dreams just isn’t man enough for the job.

A limo pulls in behind me as I step onto the curb.

The driver hustles around to open the rear door and a stunning woman with intricate braids steps out, confident and beautiful in her shimmering silver gown and the rhinestone-studded heels it falls down around.

When she’s standing securely on the flagstone entryway, a feminine arm stretches out through the open door.

“Priya, hey, you just going to leave me here in this sausage casing?” calls out a voice from the back of the car.

I’m intrigued.

The friend seems to be caught up in some sort of negotiation with their driver and oblivious to her request. A satin-covered foot emerges, and next, a very shapely calf peeks through the skirt—the narrow, fitted skirt—of her long navy blue dress.

A riot of blonde curls appears then disappears with the movement inside the car.

I take a lurching step closer and before I realize what I’m doing, I’m at the open doorway. My arm shoots out to take the elbow of the stranded woman’s waving arm, and steady her when her legs wobble as she exits.

“I am so, so sorry!” She wriggles out of my hold but then loses her footing again and oof, not only do I get two armfuls of her soft curves, but I am privilege to the full view of her sumptuous cleavage. Lush female tucked into a dark beaded gown—my night is complete.

“Damn it, I knew I shouldn’t have worn a dress this snug, but, well, it was the only one in my closet I could still get over my hips.

And it’s been so long since I strapped on these pumps, I really should have given them a test ride around the house—for everyone’s safety.

” Her words come fast and breathy, and it’s clear to see the lady is mortified.

Her glorious hair falls back over her shoulders as her gaze travels up, up, up to finally meet mine, and I get the first glimpse of her deep brown eyes.

Her mouth opens as if she has more to say, but .

. . nothing. She gapes like a guppy, and I offer her a benign smile.

I’ve been the target of this damsel in distress con before. And tonight? Hard pass.

“Dude, you coming or what?”

That damn curl flops over my forehead when my gaze diverts to my left, to the two guys waiting for me at the entrance, probably eager to get to the action but still too intimidated to take off before I’m ready. I signal them to wait and return my attention to the blonde.

Disappointed yet harboring some vague hope that I’m misreading her, I scrape my hair back with my fingers, then rub my knuckles over the scruff of my beard.

“You good?” My smile, such as it was, has been benched, and replaced with one raised brow. My hold is much looser now, barely there but hovering. The warmth of her soft skin remains in my memory, though. I expect it’ll be there all night.

She snaps her lips closed and gulps. Then jerks a single nod.

“Right.” Nothing more to do here. I shove my hands deep in my pockets and turn to lead the boys inside.

Despite being a veteran at hosting these affairs for his foundation and hiring top-notch event planners, Tripp’s been banging hard to get this event pulled together.

He’s a seasoned catcher, and if anyone is my closest friend, well, I guess he’s it.

I spot him cruising the ballroom as we enter, the din of upbeat music, conversation, laughter, and cheering from the gaming tables filling the air.

He spies me and comes over, bumps my fist, then mocks a sad face when I tuck my hands into my pockets.

“What man, no bro hug?”

I snort. “Dude, I just saw you, like, an hour ago. I’m good.” I point my chin toward Judd Samson, one of the rookies still taking in the sights from the open doorway. “Samson looks like he could use a little lovin’.” Tripp laughs and gives my shoulder a slight shove. I don’t budge.

The other rookie, Griffin Barrett—nicknamed Baby Bear by the team because he stands a oh-so-impressive five-foot-eight—tips his head to the side and takes the lead.

They both step into the fray, purchase their play money from the cashier station set up nearby, and head directly for Texas Hold ’Em.

Tripp and I follow along like a pair of fucking nannies, then veer off like the grown adult men we are, stopping every other step to shake hands with some banker or CEO looking to improve their street cred.

They crave face time with a celebrity, and it’s unavoidable—even necessary in this environment.

When big money for the kids is on the line, you do what you gotta do.

“Who the fuck chose this dump?” I ask Tripp drolly in a low voice. I’m messing with him and he knows it. Even I can see that whoever decorated this event space had good taste—and a shitload of money to back up the plan.

“Fuck you. The place is dope.”

I give him the side-eye. “How come you’re allowed to use that word? According to Natalie, I’m too old.”

“Dude, you are too old.”

I sneer at him. I could remind him that he’s closing in fast, but I’ll let him have his night.

“How’d she get roped into photographing this gig?” I tip my chin toward the throng around the craps table—and the chick he’s got a secret hard-on for. “She looks good tonight.”

Cheyenne Meyer is a live content creator, mostly catching us as we enter the tunnel to the locker room with quick, fun interviews for the team socials.

Tripp follows my line of sight until he sees Cheyenne skirting the crowd in a sparkly black dress, her bigass camera strapped around her neck. He grins.

“She always looks good.”

“That’s a hell of a dress.”

“Doesn’t need the dress, but?—”

Bear and Samson sidle up in time to hear that last remark, and both of them hold back laughter with their fists. Fucking newbies.

Tripp gestures toward the rookies. “Hey, grab a table, yo. Meet you there in a sec.”

When they’re gone, Tripp moves closer, out of earshot of anyone else, at least for the moment.

“So, you’re a little off tonight. Distracted maybe. My girl Natalie okay?”

I turn to face him, startled. Because yeah, maybe I do still have images of blonde curls and blue fuck me heels dancing around in my mind, and that shit needs to evaporate . “Yeah, sure. She’s good.” I lift a shoulder nonchalantly.

He chuckles, then glances at his phone when a beeping notification interrupts our conversation. “Dude, I gotta see to a thing but I’ll be back. You okay here?”

I slap his shoulder. “Yeah, man, good. And the place looks great. Really.”

“Fuckin’ A,” Tripp says, then he takes off toward the silent auction table. I head for a bar before finding a spot at a craps table. I play long enough to ensure a sizeable donation, then set my sights on Samson and Bear.

No way they went straight for a table as Tripp requested.

These two are more like Mario and Luigi, bounding all around the room and not lighting for long.

I spot them halfway across the room, actually moving toward an empty high-top table.

Tripp is back already, following along behind them at a casual pace, and I lengthen my stride to take up the rear of our procession.