Page 15 of Playboy Pitcher

He shakes his head. “Come on, Willie-girl. This is me you’re talkin’ to. Your Uncle Hoyt. Shoot, I’ve known you since you were all knees and elbows.”

It’s true, which is why I refuse to have this conversation. Over the years, I’ve built a fortress around myself. Behind it lies a locked place I keep weapons like emotion and love hidden away. In ten years, no one has ever broken its chains. I plan to keep it that way.

I shrug, flipping a piece of my bright blue hair. “I’m not that girl anymore.”

In one giant step, Hoyt is in front of me, pointing a wrinkled finger in my face. “You can paint zebra stripes on your head and waltz around in a tutu; it still won’t change what’s underneath.”

“A pissed off woman?”

“A lost little girl.”

I clench my teeth, the lock on the fortress rattling so hard, it rings in my ears.No.I won’t let him get to me. I won’t let this place get to me. Not again.

Glancing at him over my shoulder, I bring my glass to my lips, filling my mouth with orange juice and champagne. “A pleasure as always, Mr. Montgomery.” Shoving my empty glass in his hand, I turn to leave when he steps in front of me again.

“You’re mad, I get that, but think about what you’re doin’, kid. You’re gonna regret this. This team is your legacy. Don’t throw it away to get back at a ghost.”

“I’m not.”

Flinging his arm out, he motions toward the buffet table where Ned and his herd of legal sheep stand smiling from ear to ear. “Then what do you call this?”

“Revenge.”

He exhales a heavy sigh. “Your dad is gone, Willie.”

There it is again.That name.The one currently stirring a hornet’s nest of suppressed rage. “It’s Willow,” I remind him between clenched teeth. “And I didn’t say it had anything to do withhim.” Once again, my eyes draw toward the window.

“I’m sorry, Willie. I can’t. The team made the wildcard playoffs.”

“I’m sorry, Willie. I can’t. It’s Spring Training.”

“I’m sorry, Willie. I can’t. The team has a doubleheader in Milwaukee.

“It always came first,” I whisper.

Hoyt’s brow knots. “What was that?”

“Nothing.” Straightening, I blink the action on the field back into view.

Adding fuel to the fire, Hoyt moves beside me and nods his chin toward the window. “Kid’s got one hell of an arm. Even after havin’ Tommy John surgery, I clocked him two days ago at ninety-eight miles per hour.”

Tommy John surgery.

Three words worse than death to a pitcher. No player endures physical abuse like a baseball pitcher. One hundred and sixty-two games a season. Nine innings a game, of which starters pitch at least five. That’s eight hundred and ten innings of repetitive motion, minimum. Most will strain their elbow ligament. Some will tear it. If the injury goes on so long it snaps, by the time they reach surgery, the outlook isn’t too good.

Benson LaCroix should have retired last season.

Fucking men and their egos.

“He could turn things around for us this year,” he adds.

I snort…loudly.

Hoyt grins. “He gets you all wound up, doesn’t he?”

Yeah, like a damn Jack-in-the-box. The guy has a split personality, and I’m not sure either of them knows the other exists. Ben from the bar gives off an arrogant player persona, but it’s just a surface layer. Underneath, he’s a funny, interesting guy. Then there’s Benson “Playboy” LaCroix—an egomaniacal douchebag who seems to think panties disintegrate at the mere sound of his voice.

Well, maybe not his voice.