Page 49 of Playboy Pitcher

He throws his head back and laughs. “Wait,you’regoing to tell an entire team of professional athletes what they’re doing wrong?”

“You have a problem with that?”

He takes another huge bite and grins. “Nope. Just wishing I’d bought a lot more snacks.”

“Why?”

“Because watching this is going be better than the World Series.”

Chapter Sixteen

“Don’t handme that shit, Ben,” Kyle scoffs.

I throw a hard glare over my shoulder before swinging the medicine ball in a figure eight. “I’m serious,” I grunt, rotating my hips and slamming it into the wall like it’s his face. “Doc pulled me aside yesterday and asked how my elbow was doing. I told him I felt a few pins and needles, nothing major.”

Technically, it’s not a lie.

Picking up the ball, I split my stance and ground my core before swinging again. “Since you pussies can’t survive without me, he sent me back to the clinic in Miami to have it checked out.” Another loud crack echoes throughout the indoor training facility as the ball smacks into the wall again.

Okay, nowthat’sa lie.

“Switch sides, LaCroix.”

Wiping the sweat off my forehead with the back of my hand, I glance across the gym to where the team’s strength and conditioning coach stands with his arms folded across his chest.

“Balance out that left arm, or that right one’s going to be so big you’re going to look like you spend all day jerking off.”

Kyle lets out a snort as he grips the top of a kettlebell. “Coach is right, Popeye,” he says, sinking into a squat. “Then again, youarestrong to the finale, ’cause you eat poon—”

“Shut the fuck up.” Leaving him smirking, I move on to the weight section for some trap bar deadlifts. Stepping inside the double bars, I grab the handles on each side and lift, the lie I just told weighing heavier than the bar in my hands.

It’s not total bullshit. The team physician did ask me how my elbow was doing, but the answer I gave him was different than what just came out of my mouth.

Fine. I told him it felt fine.

“And that took all day?” Kyle grunts, hiking the weight like a football.

This fucker doesn’t quit.

Answering him will only encourage more questions, so I retrieve my water bottle from the edge of the mat and drink while avoiding his accusing stare.

“And all night,” a voice pipes up behind me.Jesus, now what?I glance over my shoulder to see Tuck standing there with a wide grin, his long hair twisted up in some stupid ass man bun. “We know you didn’t come home last night.”

I roll my eyes. “Our new boss put me up in a hotel.”Again, technically not a lie.“The owner can do shit like that.” Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a flash of gray hair and motion toward the man who has avoided me all morning. “Don’t believe me? Ask him.”

Hoyt stalls on his way out the door, his hands fisted by his side. It was a risky move I hope doesn’t blow up in my face. Willow said she’d handle him. Considering the way he’s walked around all morning like someone shoved a baseball bat up his ass, I hope she wasn’t lying.

The gym goes dead silent, all eyes turning toward the man who could crush my balls with one word. Sweat rolls down my temples as he scratches the back of what’s left of his thinning hair and sighs. “He’s right. If we have any hope of crawlin’ out of last season’s shithole, we need LaCroix pitchin’ at a hundred percent. Doc didn’t want to take any chances, and I backed him up.”

The breath I’ve been holding whooshes out in relief.

And my balls live to hang another day.

“Yeah, but a whole day?”

Hoyt snaps a sharp stare at Kyle. “Better a whole day than a whole season. I’d stop worryin’ about what LaCroix’s doin’ and start workin’ on your fieldin’. You want a rundown of how many triples you gave up last season?”

That, along with a few scattered snickers, shuts Kyle up. I give Hoyt an appreciative smile, which he returns with a stern look before shaking his head and heading toward the door.