Page 10 of Playboy Pitcher

Everyone stills and turns toward the entrance where Hoyt Montgomery, the Storm’s field manager, stands in the open doorway, his arms folded across his chest like a disappointed parent. If possible, he looks even more tired, with less hair and more wrinkles than yesterday.

Rightly so. His job isn’t any more secure than ours. “News” means a decision about the team’s future has been made, and by the look on his face, we’re screwed.

I straighten. “What’s the verdict, Hoyt?”

Walking further into the locker room, Hoyt pulls out a chair from the long table running down the middle and props his foot on it. He rubs his hand over his gray goatee before bracing it on his thigh. “Good news. The Storm won’t be goin’ up for auction.”

Curious murmurs filter around the room as Kyle grinds his teeth so hard, I’m surprised he doesn’t crack a molar. “What’s the bad news?”

Clenching his fist, Hoyt bares his nicotine-stained teeth. “No bad news. Roger’s will readin’ was this morning.”

“And?”

“And he left ownership of the Storm to his daughter.”

Dead silence fills the room. In all the years I’ve been with the team—hell, as long as I’ve known Roger—I had no idea. “He has a daughter?” I yell, a surge of repressed emotion pinging off the walls like a defective bottle rocket. When I turn to see Hoyt staring at the wall, I’m hit with the truth. “You knew.”

He scrubs a hand down his weathered face, averting his eyes. I don’t give a shit if he’s tired; we’re all tired. We’re all wondering if come April, we’ll be playing major league ball or bagging groceries.

“They were estranged, Ben,” he admits. “They had a fallin’ out, and the kid took off ten years ago. Nobody’s seen her since, includin’ Roger.”

“Bullshit. She could’ve launched her ass to the moon, and Roger would’ve still left her everything.” That was just the kind of man he was. I know it, and he knows it.

Sighing, he finally faces me. “I didn’t tell you because the suits weren’t sure they could find her in time.”

“In time forwhat?”

Instead of answering, he lowers his gaze to the floor.

“I heard she’s been living in France,” Cruz pipes up.

“I’m sorry,” I say, turning toward him with a hardened stare. “I must have had a stroke. Did you just imply thatyouknew too?”

He just shrugs.

“And you didn’t think at any time in the last seventy-two hours that might have been useful information to share with the rest of us?”

He pins me with a cool stare and lifts one shoulder. “Not my business to tell.”

I swear, if he fucking shrugs again, I’m going to rip his arms off.

Luckily, Tuck opens his mouth first. “Wonder what she’s gonna do?”

My gaze shifts to Hoyt just in time to catch his wince. “Sell, I assume.”

Three words.Three little words that detonate a testosterone-infused bomb.

Shouts, curses, and roars echo off the walls as league veterans throw cleats, jerseys, baseballs, and whatever else they can get their hands on. Kyle punches the wall, Tuck grips two handfuls of his long hair, nearly jerking the shit off his scalp, and Cruz, as usual, stands like a statue observing the carnage.

But me? I lock eyes with Hoyt. The man’s face is coated in guilt like cheap aftershave. There’s something he’s not telling us.

“All right,” he grumbles. “Calm down before I turn the hose on you.”

Kyle shoves a hand in his hair. “Hoyt, if Roger’s kid sells, we’re fucked. You know as well as we do a sale usually means trades.”

“What do you want me to do, Abbott? Convince her what a goldmine she has? It’s not like the team has won a lot of games the past few years.” At that, Kyle shuts his mouth and drops his arms, and Hoyt shakes his head. “Just be nice and hear her out.”

Everyone either agrees or else has nothing left to say. However, after being shot down by a blue-haired emo chick, having my ass handed to me by a bunch of rookies, and being jerked around for three days, I have plenty to say.