Page 33 of Playboy Pitcher

There’s a tense pause. “Why? What do you—?”

“Hoyt…” I sigh, my patience razor thin. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to.”

Five minutes later, I type my newly acquired destination into my GPS, a smile on my face. It’s late. Seeing me show up is going to come as one hell of a shock, probably an unwelcome one.

But as they say, time is money.

Eight-hundred and two million dollars’ worth, to be exact.

Chapter Eleven

My blood pressurekicks up a notch as I stand in the middle of my kitchen glaring at a pizza box. “New York style, my ass.”

I’m a born and bred New York kid. Just because I grew up on Park Avenue doesn’t mean I don’t know real pizza when I see it. Slapping the Italian flag on a cardboard box along with some guy with a big-ass mustache doesn’t make itNew York style.

I don’t screw with fake pizza. If the cheese doesn’t drip and the crust doesn’t fold, it’s not a New York pie. Don’t believe me? Fuck off. I’ll die on this hill.

Now I’m offendedandhungry, which irritates me even more because I don’t know whether to rip open the box or whip out my dick and piss on it.

Considering the only other things in my kitchen are a bottle of ketchup, a block of Velveeta cheese, and a six-pack of Sam Adams, the scales tip toward option number one. Tossing the cardboard box onto the kitchen floor, I shove the frozen pizza inside the oven and slam the door.

Grabbing my beer bottle off the counter, I tip it back as a wave of resentment washes over me. I shouldn’t have to settle for shitty pizza. Not when I had a thick steak sitting in front of me back at the restaurant. But I couldn’t eat it with my stomach all twisted up like a goddamn pretzel.

Because ofher.

Willow McBaine.

Turning toward the counter, I slam both the bottle and my palm down. Hearing them talk about her tonight like she was a baseball slut, some stupid Annie, made me crazy.

Shemakes me crazy.

Ever since she stormed into that damn flamingo bar looking like she’d just been shit out of a hurricane, I haven’t had a moment’s rest. If I’m not thinking about her, I’m arguing with her. Sometimes, the shit gets all mixed up, and I spend the night thinking about arguing with her.

See? No rest.

“You need to get your shit together, LaCroix,” I mutter, pushing off the counter. Together, as in yesterday. Luckily, the guys haven’t put two and two together and figured out Willow is my West Palm girl. However, if I keep acting like a pussy-whipped asshole, it’ll only be a matter of time.

My reputation is bad enough already. The last thing I need is a rumor floating around that I’m pitching balls by day and pumping the boss by night. That’s a guaranteed way to drive the final nail in my career.

Wandering back into the living room, I flop onto my favorite part of my Spring Training condo—my couch. Sprawling out, I grab the remote off the side table and turn on the TV, when my phone rings. I don’t have to look at it to know who it is. It’s who it always is. Who it’s been every week for the last two years.

By the fifth ring, I side-eye the screen to catch a glimpse of my mother’s smiling face. She doesn’t deserve my silence. Elodie LaCroix is a saint. Unfortunately, she’s guilty by association, and I’m a stubborn asshole.

Sighing, I tighten my grip on the bottle and balance it on my leg while scrubbing my other hand down my face. Guilt is a powerful thing, and mothers hardwire that shit into you at birth. It’s like a time bomb implanted into your brain that detonates little by little every year.

I feel like a dick ignoring her calls, but I know what she wants, and the answer is still a hard no. I’m not going down that road again. Turning my ringer off, I flip my phone over and place it face down.

There. Problem solved.

Well, one problem, at least. The other is still a damn jigsaw puzzle

“What the hell were you doing with Prescott?” I wonder out loud. Thinking about it still riles me up. I’m pissed off that asshole had his hands on her, but more than that, I’m pissed off I even care.

That’s a lie.

Icarebecause I know his story. An average rookie called up from the minors, he played for the Storm a couple of seasons before Roger put him on waivers for being a brainless fuck and screwing underage fans on property.

Icarebecause it made my blood boil to see him near Willow.