Page 113 of Playboy Pitcher

“Go fuck yourself.”

“That mouth, princess.” Bending down on his haunches, he tips my chin, my skin crawling at his disgusting groan. “It does things to me.”

I knock his hand away. “Touch me again, and I’ll remind you what my fist can do.”

Laughing, he tucks his hands in his pockets and winks. “Ask your husband how that worked out for him.”

As he walks away whistling, I think of my dad. Was this how he felt? Backed in a corner and defeated? Knowing he was sacrificing everything for someone he could never tell? Did he shake that asshole’s hand with a knife sticking out of his back?

Rising to my feet, I stumble along the fence toward the exit, my heart heavy with a truth realized too late.Like father, like daughter.By the time I stumble my way out of the stadium, I’m exhausted. All I want to do is get in my car and go home.

I mean the estate.

Whatever.

But then I seehimwalking a few feet ahead of me, and it’s like the worst pain and the sweetest relief all at the same time. His head is down, and he has what I know to be the contents of his locker slung over his shoulder in a black duffle bag.

I know as soon as he gets in his truck that will be it. There will be no more locker room run-ins or tense moments in the gym. And just like with my father, I’ll never have a chance to make things right with him.

I curl my fingers into my palms as I slow my stride, Emma’s and Hoyt’s warnings ringing in my head like sirens.

“You’ve been using me as a shield. It was never about protecting me. It was about protecting yourself. It’s not me you’re scared of getting hurt. It’s you.”

“You can’t run forever, Willie-girl. Eventually, those legs of yours are gonna give out. What are you gonna do when you’ve run so far no one’s around to help?”

“You can’t keep demanding blind trust from people without giving it back,” I whisper, repeating Emma’s accusing words.

I have no right to speak to him, much less ask him for anything, but this pull, this unyielding magnetic pull that draws us together even when it’s the last place we should be, takes over and we move as one.

He slows his stride. I slow mine.

He stops. I stop.

We’re like a forbidden dance with no music and no structured steps.

“I’ve already signed the papers, Willow. What more do you want?”

Leap. Just leap.

“Your help,” I whisper.

I wring my hands and watch as the man whose smile could melt steel glares at me over his shoulder. “What the hell could I possibly have left to give you?”

There’s so much to explain. So many buried truths to unearth and webs to unweave, but I’m out of time.

I swallow, fighting to speak words that feel as unnatural as they taste. “Ben, you have every right to hate me, but I’m in real trouble. I wanted to ask you—”

“For what?” he growls, closing the distance between us. “You want blood now?” Pulling up his sleeve, he shoves his arm in my face, offering a vein. “Feel free.”

I recoil at his seething anger. Instinct tells me to run, but I stand my ground, shedding my shield and leaving myself exposed and unprotected. “I know I have no right to ask for anything, but I’m in big trouble, and I was hoping that maybe—”

“Maybe I’d bail you out? Agree to another scheme of yours?” He lets out a sardonic laugh. “No, thanks, Miss McBaine. You’ve already taken my career and my pride. I’m not sure there’s anything left for me to offer up.”

“Ben—”

“Did you leak our marriage certificate to the press?”

I blink up at him. Surely, he’s not implying what I think he is. “No. Why would I do that?”