Page 59 of Playboy Pitcher

I don’t doubt him for a minute, so I down what’s left of my beer without stopping to take a breath. “Okay,” I yell over an off-key ABBA medley. “Shoot.”

“What’s the beef you had with your old man?”

Damn.Down and dirty. No foreplay or anything. Thinking for a minute, I cross my arms on the table. “Your dad worked a lot, huh?”

“It was his favorite hobby.”

“Well, imagine being a six-year-old child left alone in a thirty-seven-thousand-square foot house one week after your mother died of cancer. You’d think any decent father would be there making sure you were okay and not hiding under the bed crying yourself to sleep every night, right?”

Ben’s gaze softens. “Yeah, of course.”

“Well, mine was in New York for game three of the World Series. Apparently, the Storm couldn’t win unless the owner’s ass was planted in the VIP box.”

“Oh, Willow.” I can hear the pity in his voice as he reaches across the table for my hand.

“Don’t,” I snap, knocking him away. “Don’t do that. Don’t feel sorry for me. He made his choice, and that was just the beginning. I spent twelve years trying to make that man see me. To make him realize I existed. To make him figure out that his wife might have died, but his daughter didn’t go with her.” Everything turns blurry, so I blink, only to my horror to feel wetness on my lashes. I’ll be damned if I’ll cry, so I keep blinking until I can see again. “You know the pathetic thing?” I ask, swiping my hand under my nose. “The only two times he paid attention to me were when I had a baseball in my hand or stood on Drake’s arm.”

“And you didn’t get along with your stepmother, I take it.”

Thinking of my father’s mail order bride dries up every bit of lingering emotion, and I snort. “Brigitte spent their two years of marital bliss with a straw up her nose and the catcher’s dick in her mouth. I was thrilled when he shipped her ass back to France.”

Downing the rest of his beer, Ben shakes his head. “I have to tell you, I’m kind of surprised you moved near her. No offense, but your actions don’t make a whole hell of a lot of sense.”

Every muscle in my body tenses. I watch his expression with an eagle eye, but seeing no forthcoming challenge, I let it go. “Backatcha, Playboy.”

As karaoke hell continues to burn around us, Ben and I sit in a comfortable silence, which is fine with me. It gives me time to stare at him.

Okay, maybe ogle is more accurate.

I dare any woman to find a man as physically perfect as Benson LaCroix. However, Ben is more than just a pretty face and an impressive cock. The real soul of the man lies in his eyes. Those twin pools of blue with so much more beneath the surface than anyone could ever fathom.

And those damn dimples will be the death of me.

“Okay,” he says, breaking the silence. “I have to ask. What’s with the nickname?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Willie. Hoyt keeps calling you that, and judging by your reaction, you’re not a fan.”

Damn it.I’ve been waiting for this to come up. “It’s another curse from my father.”

“I don’t follow.”

I roll my eyes. “Come on. My last name isMays, Ben.”

I can tell he’s thinking hard, which would be cute if the end result wasn’t so embarrassing. When the connection clicks, his eyes widen, which is quickly followed by a sympathetic wince. “Willie Mays.”

“Yep. I’m named after my dad’s favorite center fielder. I was supposed to be a boy, of course. When I popped out with a vagina, Mom and Dad had to improvise.”

“Ouch.”

“Baseball was always my dad’s firstborn.” I lift my glass again, only to remember it’s empty. Sighing, I set it back onto the table and turn to face the stage. These people are horrible. I can’t even call them tone-deaf. That would be an insult to the actual tone-deaf.

But I envy them.

They suck, but they don’t care that they suck. They don’t care we all want to duct tape their mouths shut. They don’t give a flying fuck what anyone thinks of them or their lack of talent. All because they’re having fun.

That kind of freedom? Yeah. I envy that.