Page 10

ten

troy

Did You Like Seeing Me In My Uniform?

I pace along the fence line, watching the kids at batting practice while my dad works with the older kids in the outfield. That’s when I see Toby doing what he’s dubbed as his “home run dance”. It’s a bizarre blend of The Whip and what I can only assume is his interpretation of an inflatable air tube.

Some kids, like Rome, take baseball so seriously, you’d think they were in The World Series, but others . . .? Just yesterday, I watched Tyrese Jones bear crawl to first base because he was “pretending to be a bear”. His dad wasn’t amused, but I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.

“That was great, Toby! Good work leading with your hips on that swing. Next time try keeping that leading elbow closer to your body on the turn, alright?”

Toby nods, jogging to the back of the line as Rome steps up to the batting tee. He adjusts his glasses before lining up with the tee, and I smile at the determined look on his face. Despite the fact that the kid literally talks about space any chance he gets—just yesterday, he explained the difference between gas giants and terrestrial planets to me for twenty minutes—he’s making great progress with baseball.

“Great form, Rome!” I call out. “Remember what we talked about. Stay balanced and aim for the inside seam of the ball.”

He makes eye contact with me, letting me know he heard, and I resist demonstrating a swing for him. My arm might be on the mend—my physical therapist said I’m ahead of schedule, though she can’t tell me what that means for my future in the game—but one wrong move, and I could undo weeks of progress. Sometimes I miss the brace. At least it served as a constant restraint from letting me do anything stupid.

But thank God the last two months are behind us—Pearl and my parents included. The recovery seemed like an impossible uphill climb for the first few weeks, with my parents working overtime to help me with Pearl. And since I couldn’t use both my hands, they had to do a lot of communicating on my behalf with her.

My little girl got it, though. She understood almost immediately that her dad was recovering, taking care of me in her own way. She’d bring her doctor kit to my bed to check my temperature and ears daily, and when I was sleeping, she’d sneak her stuffed animals under my uninjured arm to insure I didn’t wake up alone. She even performed dance routines, complete with multiple costume changes, to keep me entertained when I was awake.

I swear, between the uncertainty of my career hanging over me like a storm cloud, the constant throb in my arm despite the painkillers, and the loneliness that crept in on those long nights alone, Pearl’s smiles and her silent encouragement kept me sane.

That, and the crazy group of guys I’d recently become friends with.

Over the past couple of months, Dev’s friends and their ridiculous group chats have been a welcome distraction. Between them and my team checking in on me daily, the recovery wasn’t quite as isolating as I’d feared.

I also didn’t mind hearing that a certain hairdresser with beautiful shiny curls and almond-shaped, coffee-brown eyes was checking up on me weekly.

The same hairdresser who almost kissed me at her salon three days ago.

Sure, there was hesitation in her eyes and she rejected me outright at my attempt to take her out, but there was no denying the heat radiating off her when I pulled her between my legs. The way her eyes hooded and her entire body swayed toward mine, preparing, expecting. Her mind and words might have said something different, but her body remembered our night together. It remembered the way we fit, clicking like a lock and key, just like I did.

Rome swings at the ball, sending it out into the field and taking me out of my thoughts. His gaze swings my way and I clap, giving him a wide smile. “That was perfect! Good job!”

“I’m getting better!” he hollers back, pride emanating from him.

When he gets to the end of the line, his eyes find someone on the bleachers and he waves. My gaze follows his, my lips turning up on their own accord when I spot the woman waving back at him from her seat on the metal benches.

The burgundy jumpsuit she’s wearing—all clean lines and dangerous curves—paired with a bold red lipstick will definitely have me thinking about things other than coaching this team for the rest of practice. Like how those red lips would look wrapped around my cock.

Even from here, I can see the delicate slope of her neck and the luscious, tanned skin leading toward subtle cleavage peeking out from her V-neck. Cleavage that has me thinking about the best set of full-sized breasts I’ve ever seen. Touched. Tasted.

And just like that, I’m sporting a fucking steel pipe inside my pants.

Dragging my gaze from her lips, I take a few long breaths, hoping to hell my hard-on isn’t visible and focus on coaching the team through the rest of practice.

As soon as practice is finished, Dad and I lead a chant with the team before telling them we’ll see them next time.

Sarina makes her way down the bleachers and I follow Rome toward her, when another parent stops me to speak about his son’s progress. By the time I’m done answering his question, Sarina and Rome are halfway to her car.

I jog over, catching them right as Sarina is loading Rome’s gear into the trunk. “Hey,” I start, a smile already forming on my lips at the closer sight of her. Goddamn, she looks like a vision up close with her waist-length curls waving in the warm early evening breeze. “I see you finally figured out where the bleachers were.”

She presses the button to close her trunk, turning her dark eyes toward me and wrapping her arms around her chest. The burgundy fabric she’s encased in clings to every delicate curve, and the movement only accentuates the cleavage I’m trying not to blatantly ogle.

“I knew where they were. I’d used them for his first few practices.”

I slip my hands into the pockets of my athletic pants, stating her unspoken words, “And then you stopped when I showed up.”

She chews on the inside of her lip but doesn’t disconnect our gaze. “Maybe.”

“Maybe,” I repeat, taking a step closer, drawn to her lilac scent. “So what changed today?”

She shrugs. “I had the day off and finished my Unsolved Mysteries marathon earlier than I expected, so I thought I’d watch.”

I nod, letting my gaze dip to her red-stained lips before letting it slide further down the graceful curve of her neck. “Do you always wear jumpsuits like that while binge-watching true crime shows, or were you planning on coming here just to distract me today?”

Heat works its way onto her cheeks, and she’s about to respond when Rome bounds between us. “Mom! Coach Troy said to ask you if I can go with him to watch the Blazers play this weekend.” His framed eyes swing between us. “Can I? Please, Mom.”

Sarina looks from me to him quizzically. “But you have that junior golf tournament your dad wanted you to play this weekend.”

“But I don’t want to play in the junior tournament! I don’t like golf. I’m not even good at it, and when I don’t do well—” He abruptly stops himself from speaking further, then mutters softly under his breath while looking at his cleats, “When I don’t do well, Dad makes fun of me.”

Unexpected anger sparks under my skin, causing my hands to fist inside my pockets. But before I can say anything, Sarina bends to look into Rome’s eyes, grasping his forearms in her hands. “You’ve never told me he makes fun of you. Does he do that every time he takes you out to play?”

“Not every time . . .” Rome looks sheepish, as if he’s regretting what he revealed. “It’s not a big deal, Mom. Maybe I just need to try harder?—”

“Rome,” Sarina interrupts. “If you don’t like playing golf, you and I can talk to your dad together, okay? But if he is saying mean things to you, then I need you to tell me from now on. Understand?”

Rome nods reluctantly. “I don’t want him to be disappointed, though. I told him I’d be there.” He looks at me, his expression sullen. “I’m sorry, Coach Troy. Maybe we can go to a game some other time?”

Leaning back on my heels, I make my voice sound calmer than I feel. Because what I really feel like, not having met his douchebag father, is punching him. “What time is the golf tournament?”

Sarina runs a hand through her son’s hair as if she knows he needs reassurance before she answers, “It starts early in the morning and ends around three PM.”

“Incidentally, the Blazers are playing a night game this weekend.”

Rome’s entire face transforms and he bounces on his feet, looking up at his mom. “Mom, a night game! Can I go, please? I’ll play the tournament during the day.”

“I was planning on taking Pearl. The team’s been begging to see her again. I figured Rome would want to come, too.” My brows lift, my face not even attempting to hide my hopefulness. “Would the both of you want to come with us?”

Rome tugs on his mom’s wrist. “Come with us, Mom! It’ll be fun. And now you know all the rules, too.” Rome looks at me, pride swelling his chest. “My mom learned all the rules by watching you play, Coach Troy. While you were getting better from your surgery, she made us watch recordings of so many of your games?—”

“Uh . . .” Sarina quickly slides her palm over Rome’s mouth, her face going pale. “Sweetheart, we’ve taken so much of Coach Troy’s time! We really should leave?—”

“No!” I interrupt, my smile practically splitting my face. “No, please. I’ve got nowhere to be. Go ahead, Rome, tell me how many of my games your mom watched.” I clear my throat and flick my gaze to her. “You know . . . to learn the rules .”

Sarina gives me a glare that could melt the polar ice caps.

“Oh gosh, like twenty! Maybe more!” Rome explains, completely unaware of his mother’s plight.

“It was not twenty!” Sarina scowls. “It was maybe twenty minutes of one game .”

“Nah uh!” Rome argues. “It was not!”

I’m shaking with laughter when Sarina takes an exasperated breath, turning to her son. “Sweetheart, will you go buckle up inside the car? I’ll be right there.”

“But can we go to the Blazers’ game with Coach Troy on Saturday?” Rome asks again. “Please.”

“Okay, fine.” Sarina sighs. “We’ll go to the game on Saturday.”

“Yes!” Rome reaches out to fist bump me. “Thanks, Mom! You’re the best!”

Sarina turns to find my smile on her once Rome is settled inside the car, the twitch of her lips betraying her exasperated tone. “Oh, don’t be so smug.”

“Me? Smug?” I ask innocently. “I was just going to . . . commend you. Twenty games is some serious dedication, Ms. Spicymustard.”

I take a step closer, noticing the way her breaths quicken at my proximity.

“It wasn’t twenty—” She stops herself, those coffee-colored eyes narrowing. “You’re clearly enjoying this way too much. Exactly what your bloated ego needed, I’m sure.”

“I am. Almost as much as you enjoyed watching me pitch, game after game.” I let my fingers drift along her forearm, watching a flurry of goosebumps rise on her skin. “Tell me. Was it purely educational or . . . did you like seeing me in uniform?”

She rolls her eyes, though her cheeks are practically the color of her jumpsuit. And the knowledge that I affect her as much as she affects me feels like a hard-fought victory. Her body’s reactions tell me everything her mouth won’t admit out loud—that she wants me as much as I want her, even if she’s determined to stick to her “rules”.

“Get over yourself, Winters. And don’t think I’m not on to you. This whole game thing on Saturday . . . You didn’t have to ask Rome; you could have taken one of the other kids you coach.”

I grin. “Rome, and now apparently, his mom, happen to be my biggest fans. Of course I’d want to take them.”

“I am not your—” She presses her lips together, drawing my eyes to them. The same lips I’ve wanted on me since the last time I tasted them. The same lips that traced fire down my chest. “I’m going to leave now.”

“Sure, but did you maybe want a private viewing of me in my uniform sometime? I’d be happy to plan that.”

“Goodbye,” she clips, turning to her car, but not before I see the way her lips twitch. A long strand of her curls flies in the breeze with the movement, and I have to stop myself from reaching for it.

“You know,” I call after her. “Since you’re such a superfan now, it’s only appropriate that I bring you my jersey to wear. Admit it, number twenty-eight is the only one for you, sweetheart.”

The look she throws over her shoulder—equal parts ice and heat—has my blood rushing south. The woman makes me feel untamed, borderline feral. Like I’m one tension-filled exchange away from backing her up against her car and making her remember how she moaned my name.

Like I’m caught between taking what’s mine and giving her everything.