Page 27 of Pitcher Perfect (Big Shots #4)

Two Hours Earlier

Robbie couldn’t put a puck in the back of the net to save his life.

Either he was off his game, or someone had shrunk the goal to fuck with him.

His skates were too tight. The arena was warmer than usual, right?

Waiting for Coach to shut up and blow the whistle, he almost threw his stick in a burst of impatience. Come on. The only way to stop thinking about her was to play. Why did everything have to move in slow motion today of all days? He

ground his teeth down hard into his mouthpiece, closed his eyes, and gave in to the inevitability of Skylar’s face and voice

and scent materializing in his mind.

Today was the first Page Stakes where I felt like I was on a team.

All the trophies and medals and cups he’s won throughout his life and that might be the most memorable honor he’d ever been

given. Having that girl tell him she liked having him on her side. That she felt less alone.

And he’d left.

He’d left with no intention of going back.

“Wake up, shit for brains,” one of his teammates made the mistake of saying on his way past Robbie, a cheap hit from behind nearly causing a distracted Robbie to lose his balance.

Apparently, the whistle had blown to resume play—and now he was about to blow, too.

He’d always been taught to keep his anger suppressed.

To laugh everything off. But nothing was funny today. Not a goddamn thing.

His gloves and stick were on the ice before he could register his own actions. It took him three seconds to catch up with

the teammate who’d hit him, grab him by the back of his jersey, spin him around, and sucker punch him in the jaw. Everything

exploded into motion at once. The whistle blew, shrill and prolonged, skates moved in their direction, hands twisting in Robbie’s

jersey to pull him back, but not before the guy returned the favor in the form of a right cross.

God, it felt incredible. The pain, the distraction, the well-deserved punishment.

He wanted to bleed.

Sig was suddenly in front of Robbie, holding him back, his expression one of pure confusion. Of course, it would be. Everyone

laughed at Robbie and he never took offense. He locked down the disappointment, grinned, and kept moving.

Not today.

Maybe not ever again.

Skylar would be cheering him on, too, wouldn’t she? Wasn’t she the one who encouraged him to stop suppressing his anger and

discontent? To demand respect from his teammates? Punching someone probably wasn’t what she had in mind, but this was hockey.

They had their own methods of getting a point across.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Sig gritted, wrestling with Robbie.

“Call me shit for brains again,” Robbie shouted over his shoulder. “You’ll be watching the playoffs from your hospital bed.”

“Hey.” Burgess skated between the struggling players, block ing Robbie’s view of the offender. “He’s your teammate. That’s enough.”

“Oh, really? Am I on the team, too?” Robbie growled, pushing Sig off and ceasing his attempts to get past him and land another punch. “That

doesn’t seem to keep everyone from fucking with me .”

Sig rolled his eyes. “You fuck with everyone , Corrigan.”

“It’s good-natured! I don’t question anyone’s intellect. I don’t disregard anyone.” He took his helmet off and threw it against

the glass. “Roll your eyes at me one more time, Sig, I swear to Christ, you’re next.”

Sig’s eyebrows disappeared into his own helmet.

You could have heard a pin drop.

God bless Mailer, though, he finally made it from the other side of the ice and now stood shoulder to shoulder with Robbie,

throwing his stick and gloves down, ready to take on the whole team if his roommate asked. “I’ll fight anyone but Burgess,”

Mailer said out of the corner of his mouth. “That’s the man.”

“Obviously,” Robbie spat.

Burgess sighed. “In the locker room, Corrigan. Now.”

“Great. Fine. Gods don’t need to practice anyway.”

“We’re talking about practice ,” Mailer drawled, giving Robbie a subtle elbow in the ribs. “Listen, we’re about to lose this fight, but that’s fine. I’ve

got, like, fifteen girls coming over tonight and the fridge is full of whipped cream cans.”

Nausea rolled in Robbie’s stomach.

Since when did a whipped cream party sound so fucking horrible?

Daydreaming about all the dents he was going to put in the lockers with his fists, Robbie skated off the ice while giving the teammate who’d punched him the middle finger and headed down the tunnel, leaving stunned silence in his wake.

That was the one thing that sucked about hockey—skates preventing him from stomping.

As soon as he reached the team rooms, his skates came off and Robbie was in the middle of bashing his left one up against

a cinder block wall when Sig and Burgess arrived, looking grim, but kind of... sympathetic, too—and sympathy was the last

thing Robbie wanted from anyone tonight.

“Couldn’t you guys have let the fight go on a little longer?”

“And risk injuring two players, right before playoffs?” Burgess methodically removed his gloves. “I don’t think so.”

Sig straddled the bench and sat quietly for a handful of seconds, watching Robbie break the blade off his skate and throw

the remaining boot down on the ground, kicking it into a locker. “This is about the pitcher, isn’t it? You didn’t listen to

us.”

“I’m not required to listen to you,” Robbie bit off. “Jesus, I’m sick of being spoken down to because I’m a rookie. How about

you people give me the respect I should have earned just by getting here? Getting here is hard enough.”

Burgess shrugged. “Fine.”

“You could have just asked for some respect sooner.”

Robbie stared. “I hate you both.”

“No, you don’t,” Sig countered patiently. “What happened? Did you tell this girl you’re down bad for her yet?”

“You told me not to!”

“You’re not required to listen to us,” Burgess pointed out. “You just said so yourself.”

Robbie picked up his other still intact skate and slammed it against the wall.

It was either the skate or his head.

The two veterans sat in silence while he got the frustration out of his system, waiting for an explanation, which didn’t come for another full minute, when Robbie exhausted himself, slumped against the wall, and slid down the cinder blocks onto his padded ass.

“She’s in love with someone else. I can’t compete with their... history. I can’t compete with him. He’s like you two. He’s

someone people take seriously. I’m nothing but some immature player to her. She knew all the worst shit about me before we

even met. She’d never go there. She shouldn’t. Even I want better for her... than me.”

Burgess looked kind of pissed. “Where is the man from five minutes ago who claimed he deserved respect for getting here because

just getting here is hard?”

“He wore himself out. He wants a bath and a lasagna.”

“Okay, let’s start over.” Sig raked both hands through his hair. Man, that guy had such good hair. A normal color, too. So

unfair. Life was so unfair. “You went there to pretend date the pitcher so she could catch this other guy’s eye. How is that going?”

“I’ve noticed him noticing her a lot more. Checking her out. How could anyone not check her out? She’s drop-dead gorgeous, even in sweats.” He thought for a second. “Maybe especially in sweats. God. ”

“Do you only want her because he wants her?” Burgess asked. “That’s a thing.”

“Nope. I’d much rather he didn’t. I’d saw off an arm.”

“Okay.” Sig chuckled. “You’d saw off an arm for this guy not to notice her, but you’re willing to just accept defeat? Get

back up there and win , man. At the very least, give it everything you’ve got. Unless you want to see their marriage notice in the Globe and wonder what would have happened if you’d tried.”

Marriage notice? “I feel sick.”

“Deep breaths.” Burgess had been acting a lot fatherlier lately. He was a father, but ever since he’d hooked up with his daughter’s au pair, he’d been more... nurturing. In like a super grudging kind of way, but still. “In through your nose, out through your mouth.”

Robbie did as he was instructed, eventually calming the storm in his belly caused by the mental image of Skylar and Madden

walking down the aisle of a church together. “Is it always this hard when you meet the one?”

“Yes,” Sig and Burgess said in unison.

“Did you ever think life would be easier if you’d just never met her to begin with?”

“No.” Again, in unison.

“Yeah, me neither. She makes me feel like me. The me that isn’t pretending to be someone or something else. Is that stupid?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. “It’s like she’s showing me... who I am. And I’m just really scared she’s going to leave once she’s done. Once she’s done making me fall in love

with her... oh fuck.” That four-letter word—“love”—hit the back of his head like a sack of bricks and he dropped his head

into his hands. “Fuck. Fuck. ”

“Really sneaks up on you, doesn’t it?” Burgess rumbled.

“Damn right.” There was a shadow of something nostalgic, possibly even wistful in Sig’s eyes as he stood up. “I’m only going

to talk about this once, all right?” He let out a breath. “Whenever I doubt myself with... a girl, I ask myself one question.”

“What is it?” Robbie croaked.

“If there is anyone else in the world who’d work harder to make her happy. As long as the answer to that is no, you’re the

right man.” He cleared his throat hard. “So what’s your answer?”

Robbie had no clue. At first, anyway.

Until now, he hadn’t allowed himself to think that far ahead.

Did he know how to make a woman happy? In bed, yeah.

He knew very well how to do that, though he didn’t exactly love thinking about being in the sack with anyone anymore.

He’d rather sleep on the hard floor beside Skylar’s bed without a chance of sex than accept a sure thing from anyone else.

Eye-opening, to say the least, but he’d felt that way since the morning they’d met. Just... boom .

He’d been hit by some irreversible magic. Permanently down for the count.