Page 4 of Hit For Six (Balls and Banter #1)

CHAPTER TWO

Monty

Everyone except for Tim. But Tim was Tim. And Tim’s days would be numbered if he carried on being a jerk.

Monty’s relief soon turned to irritation, though.

How dare she make a mockery of such an important moment in his sporting career?

Admittedly, she possessed a glorious pair of tits.

His dick still twitched thinking about them.

But just because streaking across the pitch in the traditional sense was a criminal offence, it didn’t mean she had to take efficiency to the extreme by finding another way around it.

Thankfully, the jumbotron had cut to the commentators who were desperately trying to change the subject in that typically English way, by talking about the inclement weather forecast for the upcoming West Indies fixtures.

Eventually, security gave the nod to the umpires and the game restarted, Monty picking up from where he’d left off, somehow managing to stay in for five overs, despite the fact that he couldn’t get the beautiful woman– and all right, her beautiful body– out of his head.

Talk about a white-knuckle ride of a match.

It should have been a lolly after that, but Bath had needed eight runs in the final over, putting Monty under enormous pressure when it was his turn to bowl.

The first ball was a Yorker, hitting the batsman’s foot so he had no chance of a stroke.

The second delivery was an off-cutter and top edged to square leg.

Thank god for Seth who took the catch perfectly.

The crowd went wild! Three balls later and a run-out concluded the match.

Monty’s blues burst onto the pitch in party mode, turning the tables on York at the very last minute.

He should have been ecstatic with his lot when the hat-trick was in the bag: trophy, inescapable acknowledgement from Pops, and a potential England contract.

But the woman in the crowd had infiltrated his thoughts to such an extent that Monty had found himself feeling curiously defensive over the banter she’d generated from his teammates, and he was unable to join in with the pervy handcuffing remarks when they’d debated her likely fate.

He couldn’t seem to stop the flashbacks of her jet-black hair, those deep green eyes, and that smattering of freckles that bridged her nose when he’d turned to take in the footage on the video display.

What he’d have given to kiss those crazily kissable lips.

Even from afar he’d wanted to taste her.

She’d made a hasty exit, though. He guessed she really would be facing police questioning right now.

Nobody could make allowances for her luscious looks, not even the stadium’s security guards.

The last thing he wanted to do was return to his apartment to scroll through social media all night so he could screenshot the woman’s face.

And yet he knew that’s exactly what would happen.

Like a recklessly infatuated fairytale prince (minus the glass slipper), Monty wouldn’t be able to rest until he found a lead for the stunning stranger.

Which wasn’t to say that he thought she was some pauper who needed rescuing, or that he could condone her behaviour. So what was it to say, then?

For the first time in his life, Monty Beauchamp-Carmichael– the dude with all the answers, the successful businessman, the heir to a vast estate, (and now he could add fêted T20 cricketer to the list)– was well and truly stumped.