Page 3 of Pitcher Perfect (Big Shots #4)

If only Redbeard would stop grinning at Skylar, she could enjoy pitching into the steady glove that belonged to Madden, the

man of her dreams. Taking out the hockey player’s teeth with a line drive would be effective, too, but violence would probably

only give the Bearcats what they wanted. Brawling was likely their comfort zone.

So, she’d pitch.

That’s what Skylar did. That’s where she found her answers, her solace. By mentally running through a list of strategies,

based on an abundance of factors, mainly the hitter’s preferences and strengths. Had they swung at her last fastball? Were

they desperate for a hit after striking out during their first three at bats? The mechanics of her windup were like a needle

falling perfectly into the groove of a record; her pitch was the music. Her form never changed. She had it down to a science.

There were no unknowns or last-second changes.

Sure, this morning, she was pitching a baseball, which meant a different windup, an overhand throw, but she knew baseball

almost as well as she knew softball. After all, she’d grown up playing with the boys, and later, at age twelve, when her long-divorced

mother had met her recently single soon-to-be stepfather at a youth baseball tournament, she’d learned to play ball with her

new fourteen-year-old brother. And down the road, Madden.

Athletics were what had bonded her newly combined family. They never stopped moving, training, trying out for the best travel teams. Performing, competing, winning.

That’s what she did. That’s how she belonged.

Lean forward. A practiced intake of breath.

Straighten. Judge the distance, the position of the hitter.

Another breath.

A twist of her foot on the mound.

Knee up, arm back, ball into the strike zone.

Sound filtered in from both dugouts. Elton’s friends—at least, the ones who didn’t know her prior to this morning—were slack-jawed.

The Bearcats punched one another in the shoulders, shouting variations of “oh shit.” Madden nodded at her in approval, stood,

and threw back the practice pitch. Skylar tried not to be obvious about savoring the vibration down her arm, but it had been

a while since she’d received a throw from Mad.

It hit different, okay?

“Has anyone here ever played this godforsaken sport?” shouted one of the hockey giants to the rest of his scruffy teammates,

who all definitely looked like they’d rather be on the couch scratching their unmentionables. “All right, one of you lead

off. The other goes second. Just get on base and I’ll bat you in.”

“Gauthier with the baseball lingo,” someone said. “I think I just sprouted wood.”

“Really? Because I fucking lost mine.”

Redbeard’s grin finally, rapidly, dropped and he socked the guy who’d lost his boner in the shoulder. “There’s a lady present,

jackass.”

“Sorry, Chloe,” yawned his friend.

“What? Nah, Chloe is used to our bullshit.” She could feel Redbeard staring at her from the assemblage of hockey dudes. “I

was talking about the pitcher. She’s feeling me.”

A jolt of surprise ran from Skylar’s shoulder down to her fingertips.

He was... talking about her ?

She’d been the target of myriad intimidation strategies, but this one took the cake.

Skylar resented being taken out of her pitching zone, but this shithead needed to be put in his place. “No, I’m not,” she

called sweetly.

Redbeard went back to smiling. “You will be.”

“Only if I have to check for a pulse after the game,” Skylar said, doing her best to sound bored. “Because we’re about to

murder you.”

“Trust me, I’ve got a pulse, sweetie. You’re making it race.”

Heat scaled the sides of her face, forcing Skylar to yank down the brim of her cap to hide her complexion. If her brother

caught her blushing, the absolute roasting he’d deliver after the game would be the stuff of legends. It wasn’t that she found the hockey dickhead attractive or anything,

she’d just never had someone show her this kind of blatant interest.

Or any interest at all, to be honest.

Her resting bitch face probably wasn’t encouraging anyone, either.

Still , this guy’s overtures were all to get in her head. Don’t fall for it.

“Are you just trying to psych me out?” she asked. “You are, aren’t you?”

“Holy shit.” Redbeard frowned. “It’s almost like... she doesn’t know she’s hot.”

A teammate slapped him on the shoulder, though he barely flinched at the assault. “You better marry her before she finds out

she could do way better.”

“I know, right?” Then to her, “Can’t wait to tell the grandkids how we met, Skylar.”

“Hey.” Elton strode past her toward first base. “Stop talking to my sister.”

Redbeard’s head dropped back on a loud groan. “Why does every attractive woman have to be somebody’s sister?”

What exactly did that mean?

Skylar shook herself, refusing to spare this man another thought. She had a batter to strike out—and her first victim went

down easy. It wasn’t polite to revel in another player’s walk of shame back to the dugout, so she settled for trading a smirk

with Madden.

The second batter managed to get on base, but only because a teammate advised him to bunt. That Bearcat, the third to approach

home plate, confused Skylar, just a touch, because while he appeared to be incredibly cocky, he also gave her the almighty

chin dip of respect. Interesting. Actually, she recognized this one from television. Sig Gauthier, right? Yeah. Cool. It wasn’t

every morning she got to strike out a celebrity.

Her first pitch found its target.

Unlike the last guy, however, this one adjusted his stance, dropped his elbow slightly, clearly having studied her first throw.

You want a piece of me, hockey boy?

Skylar toggled the ball behind her back, preparing to throw a curve, took a breath, and went through motions that were second

nature, pitched—

And he actually caught a piece of it.

Everyone looked up as the ball sailed into the right outfield and Sig took off.

But as Sig was rounding first base, all hell broke loose.

The English bulldog accompanying the blonde named Chloe streaked like a rotund comet across the diamond, his pretty owner hot on his heels, crying out the name Pierre . As if that wasn’t odd enough, Sig abandoned his run for second base and sprinted after them, all the way into the outfield,

the trio disappearing into the tree line and leaving everyone in attendance speechless.

Almost everyone, anyway.

Redbeard probably couldn’t even pronounce the word “silence.”

“I’ll pick up where he left off,” he shouted, swaggering to home plate and picking up the discarded bat, tapping it against

the white diamond, before settling it on his oxlike shoulder. “Next batter, right?”

“Doesn’t anyone want to go check on them?” Skylar asked.

Redbeard glanced back at his dugout for a consensus, getting a handful of shrugs and headshakes in return. “Nah.” He gave

a practice swing. “If Sig can’t handle that problem, none of us can.”

As a fellow athlete, she appreciated teammates knowing one another so well, but she didn’t allow that to show on her face.

“Fine.” She started to drop into her stance. “I’ll happily demoralize you.”

Some appreciative ohhhhh s carried over from the baseball player dugout.

“Yeah. About that.” Redbeard lowered the bat and straightened, taking Skylar out of her rhythm—which he seemed to realize.

Had he been watching her so closely? “I was thinking, Rocket. Why don’t you and I place a little side bet?”

“No.”

“At least hear me out,” he said, chuckling.

“I’ve heard more than enough from you.”

“I’m better one-on-one.” He winked. “Happy to prove it.”

“Earlier, it sounded like you prefer one on two .”

Another chorus of ohhhhh s from his teammates.

He inclined his head, eyes twinkling, yet verging on regretful. “Touché.”

“Take his head off already, Sky,” complained Elton.

Redbeard was undeterred. “Permission to approach the mound, Your Honor.”

Skylar came very close to launching a pitch into the man’s eye socket. This whole situation was infuriating, right down to

the sexism and entitlement. Could she handle herself? Yes. That didn’t mean she should be required to. Odds were, he wouldn’t

be giving this same flirtatious treatment to a male pitcher, would he? Singling him out in front of everyone for his own amusement?

If it wasn’t for Madden standing up and slowly removing his catcher’s mask, appearing on the verge of decking Redbeard, she

would have whittled the hockey player down to size in front of both teams and gotten on with her day. But her pulse started

to race with reckless joy at the possibility that Madden was jealous. Over her.

Could he be? Like, actually , actually?

Hope almost caused her to float.

Was giving this insufferable hockey player the time of day worth getting Madden’s attention? After years of pining in silence?

Bet your butt.

“Permission granted to approach the mound,” she blurted, finding her voice.

“ What? ” Elton sputtered behind her. “Skylar, I have an appointment at the groomer’s this afternoon. Don’t drag this out.”

“For you or the dog?” she hissed back at her brother.

“Very funny.”

“Give me one second!”

When she turned back around, Redbeard was standing directly in front of her, his shaggy hair waving in the wind, that mouth in a lopsided smile.

Tall and thick as one of the trees she used to climb in her backyard during the summer.

And all right, fine, he was... handsome.

Very handsome. In a shit-eating, takes-nothing-seriously jock kind of way.

Not even close to her type. Light-years away.

But when she leaned casually to one side and found Madden glaring at them, a new game plan started to take shape. Instead

of waiting for Madden to notice her, maybe she’d give him a tiny nudge, even if allowing this douche to get away with his

antics was irritating, to say the least.

“What is the side bet?” Skylar tilted her head back to meet his eyes—a rarity for her at five nine, but this guy had to be

over six foot four. “Be quick.”

“Nice to meet you, too. I’m Robbie.”

“I didn’t say it was nice to meet you,” she scoffed. “Name the terms.”

Robbie, apparently, narrowed his gaze, giving the briefest of looks back over his shoulder. “Why are you suddenly humoring

me?”

“Maybe I like to gamble.”

His eyes tracked down to where the ball was fisted in her grip. Stayed there a beat. When he met her gaze again, he was a

hint more serious than before, giving her a glimpse of what he might be like in a hockey game. Focused, driven, competitive.

“You’ve got a whole operation going on here and you don’t like anything or anyone getting in the way of it. Definitely not

the gambling type.”

“Good baseball players can’t be gamblers? Ever heard of Pete Rose?”

An appreciative spark lit his moss-green eyes. “Fair point.” He studied her for a beat longer, before shifting to the opposite

foot. “If I make it on base, you let me take you out for coffee after the game.”

Skylar pretended to choke. “After what I heard you say about last night’s date?

No way. I’m not interested in being your next one-night stand.

” Insecurity got the better of her within a split second.

“Not that... you’d want that. With me.

I wasn’t implying you were interested like that.

” He looks so confused. Shut up. “Anyway, I don’t even drink coffee, I drink orange juice. ”

“Okay, Tom Brady,” he said slowly. “I’m sure we can manage to track down some OJ. Are you saying yes to the bet?”

She was already regretting this. Why not stick to the original plan and wait for that magical future moment when Madden eventually

saw what was right in front of him?

So what if it took another decade?

A sad trombone slide came from the direction of the parking lot.

Or possibly her mind.

Face the facts, Skylar. Her plucky tagalong role wasn’t working.

And yearning this hard, this long? It hurt.

Perhaps she could make the bet. But still win and avoid the date.

That alone could be enough to nudge Madden.

“Fine.” She coughed into her wrist. “Whatever. You’re on.”

A few seconds ticked by, his eyebrows steadily drawing together. “Are you only agreeing to this bet because you think I don’t

have a snowball’s chance in hell of getting on base?”

She shrugged. “Maybe.”

With a wink, he walked backward a few steps, before turning and jogging the remaining distance to the batter’s box, picking

up the bat again. “Gentlemen, please serve as witnesses,” boomed his obnoxiously deep voice. “If I make it on base, me and

the pitcher have a coffee and orange juice date at a TBD location.”

Madden spat, yanked his face mask back into place, and dropped to his haunches.

She wasn’t imagining this, right? Mad was jealous over her.

“I’m not worried,” Elton drawled. “She won’t let you make it on base.”

No. She wouldn’t. She had far too much pride for that.

But Redbeard had done her a favor by being so publicly annoying. He’d declared her datable to anyone who would listen—including

Madden—and maybe, just maybe, gotten her brother’s best friend to see her in a different light.

No one expected Robbie to lean into her next fastball.

Which, she realized afterward, was a huge miscalculation on her part.

Of course, this hockey bruiser didn’t mind a fastball to the shoulder.

In fact, he seemed to enjoy having his strength tested.

“Nope.” Elton threw down his glove and strode toward the batter. “That was fucking cheap. You are not taking out my sister.”

Robbie ran his tongue along the inside of his bottom lip, smiled. “The terms were clear, man.” His attention ticked to Skylar.

“Pulp or no pulp, Rocket?”

Elton landed the first punch.

Robbie’s head whipped back, but he stood his ground.

And socked her brother square in the nose, staggering him back several yards.

Everyone converged at once, fists flying.

Including Skylar. No one punched her brother, except for her.

Before she could enter the ruckus, Robbie ducked his way out of the brawl with a supreme air of nonchalance, as if he hadn’t

been the one to instigate it. He bent his knees, tossed her into a fireman’s hold over his shoulder, ignoring the way she

pounded on his concrete-reinforced back, trying to free herself so she could get a piece of at least one Bearcat. “Put me

down,” she shouted through her teeth.

“Let me save you,” he called up to her, making an oof sound when she punched him in the butt. “If someone accidentally hit you, this would go from a friendly Saturday morning brawl to an emergency room visit for a lot of baseball players.”

“You started it!”

“Your brother threw the first punch.”

“You deserved it.”

“Maybe so, Rocket, but let’s focus on what’s important.”

“Like what?”

“Look where I’m standing.”

Skylar twisted around to judge their location.

His feet were planted firmly on first base.

He’d won the bet.

She sagged in defeat.