Page 12 of Playboy Pitcher

Hoyt’s eyes widen as he spins around. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” he snaps, flinging his hands in the air. “There’s a lady present, and you assholes have just been standin’ around with your dicks hangin’ out?” No one answers him, which sets him off even more. Still muttering to himself, he palms the top of his balding head. “Bunch of classless fucks.” Wincing, he glances back at Willow. “Pardon the language.”

She waves her hand. “Please. I’m a New Yorker. It takes more than a few curse words and bare asses to offend me.” I assume she’s going to have her little press conference right there, but then a flicker ignites in those creamy brown eyes, and she struts toward me with confidence as bold as the red staining her lips.

That’s not the only thing different from last night.

Her drenched teal hair now bounces like a bright wicked halo around her face. Gone are the ankle boots, mini-skirt, and T-shirt. Instead, professionally high-waisted black pants collide with black suspenders near the bottom of her ribcage.

That’s where business ends, and the damn party begins.

Because those suspenders lick up bare skin, disappearing under a black half-shirt. But not just any half-shirt. Not this girl. She has to wear one with long sheer sleeves adorned with pissed off white dragons.

The whole look is topped off with steel claw-heeled black stilettos. If possible, this version of Willow is even deadlier.

She can dress in a barbed wire bustier for all I care. Looking like a wet dream doesn’t give her a free pass for running out on me last night knowing damn well she’d have to face me today.

“Sorry, Ben. I don’t date baseball players.”

Of course, she doesn’t. She eats them alive and spits out the bones.

Stopping only a few inches in front of me, Willow cocks a hand on her hip. “Benson LaCroix.” Lowering her eyes, she indulges them in a slow perusal down my body. However, instead of lifting them back to my face, she settles them on my jockstrap.

“See something you like?”

She arches an eyebrow. “Not particularly.”

Right.That mouth may talk a big game, but her eyes are still glued to my dick. “You’re staring, Puddles.”

Instead of reacting, she taps her index finger against her pursed lips. “I’m just trying to figure out why they call you Big Ben.” Glancing up, she offers the barest hint of a smile. “Now I know.” I’m about to tell her she has no fucking idea, but I’d be more than happy to enlighten her, when she trails that damn finger up my chest. I bite back a groan as she leans in and presses her lips to my ear. “It’s obviously because of your ego.”

There’s a wave of snickers behind me along with a collective, “Damn…”

“Shut the hell up,” I growl.

Willow retreats on those dragon queen heels, a victorious smirk smeared across her face. “Allow me to introduce myself, gentlemen,” she says, addressing the rest of the team. “My name is Willow McBaine. I’m Roger Mays’s daughter, and as of six hours ago, the current owner of the Miami Storm.”

The announcement is followed by a few catcalls. Obviously, these morons have taken one too many fastballs to the head. It’s the only excuse for getting off on a woman we were told not five minutes ago would sell us to the highest bidder.

“Pipe down,” Hoyt grumbles, glaring around the room. “This is major league, not little league.”

Exactly.A major league team with an expiration date. A fact I assume sinks in as blood flow finally redirects back to their brains. No one says a word. No one even breathes. We’re all waiting for someone else to ask the question.

There’s a shuffle of movement behind me before a hard kick drives sharp cleats into the back of my calf. Swiveling around, I glare at Tuck, who furrows his brow while flicking his eyes between Willow and me.

Real subtle, asshole.

I could be a dick and let them fend for themselves, but this is my team. I’m the leader—the ace pitcher. If anyone has a hope in hell of defusing this bomb, it’s me.

Taking one for the team, I step forward. “So, what do you plan to do with your shiny new toy, Miss McBaine?”

Okay, that might not have been the best approach.

Judging by the hellfire in her eyes, Willow agrees. Mirroring my movement, she edges closer. “Have you been elected the team spokesman?”

“Yeah, I guess I have.”

“Someone should’ve fixed the votes.”

This time, there’s an alternating rivalry between the “Oh shit…” section and the “Damn, son…” cheap seats.