Page 8 of Playboy Pitcher

They lied.

Chapter Three

Most people thinkSpring Training is about preparation and practice. A team’s time to pad a roster, sharpen players’ skills, and gear up for the main event.

Those people would be wrong.

Spring Training is a four-week detox. Once February rolls around, most major league baseball players don’t come Florida to condition. They come to sweat out four months of booze and debauchery.

The only ones truly invested in preseason are the rookies and the fans. Unfortunately, after a month of busting their asses and possibly even outperforming a few vets, most rookie hopefuls find themselves back in the minors.

It’s shitty, but nobody said life was fair.

If it was, I would’ve spent all morning nestled between a pair of pale, inked thighs instead of sweating out half a bottle of whiskey. From the stench coming from all four bases, I wasn’t the only one who tied one on last night.

There’s been a current of tension and uncertainty running through these walls the past week. The team is on edge waiting for word to trickle down from the top about the future of the team. However, in the three days since our owner’s funeral, all we’ve gotten is radio silence.

Nobody says shit as we walk single file into the locker room. Maybe it’s because we’re all hungover, or maybe it’s because, with Roger gone, nothing is guaranteed. Any of us could be placed on waivers and end up traded, sent back to the minors, or outright released.

Nothing kills morale quicker than having your career on the line.

Well, other than having Hollis LaCroix as a father—a Park Avenue business mogul who’s perfect at everything.Especially buying people and their dreams.A man I haven’t spoken to since realizing the cold, hard truth, four years too late.

He wanted a protégé, not a son.

“Hey,” Tuck says, breaking the silence. “You suppose they have ESPN in heaven?” Balling up his jersey, he tosses it in his open locker.

Groaning, Kyle flings his stained white pants off one foot. “If they do, I hope Roger watches porn.”

I tense, shoving my hat in the top cubby with more force than necessary. “Have some fucking respect. The man is dead, not kicking back at Club Med.”

Kyle, the Storm’s starting right-fielder, glances over his shoulder and rubs his dirty blond beard, a knowing smirk peeling across his face. He doesn’t have to say a word. I know what that bastard is thinking, and I’m not in the mood. He knows my attitude has nothing to do with Roger. It has to do with having to call him for a ride to practice this morning because my car is still in West Palm Beach.

Something I have yet to explain and honestly, don’t care to.

Flipping my middle finger high in the air, I reach over my shoulder with my opposite hand and pull my jersey over my head.

Wearing nothing but a jersey and a jockstrap, he leans against the thin piece of wood separating our lockers and folds his arms across his chest. “So, where did you go last night, LaCroix?”

This motherfucker.

Gritting my teeth, I shove my pants halfway down my legs and glare up at him. “Somewhere you weren’t.” Which isn’t a lie. Things have been so intense, after practice ended, everyone went out to blow off some steam.

Except me.

I bowed out with an excuse of a headache, then drove my ass to West Palm Beach to drink my nerves away in peace. Everyone in Jupiter, Florida knows the Storm is in town for Spring Training, so I knew exactly what showing up in a mass herd at a local bar would entail. Indiscreet camera flashes, incessant autograph requests, and irrelevant pussy. With practices being open to the public, I spend all day being “on.” I needed to get away and be just another guy in a bar.

Seems simple, but in my world, privacy is a rare commodity.

Especially since all the tabloids can seem to talk about is my season-ending ulnar collateral ligament tear last year, and how bets in Vegas are one-to-nine I’ll pitch at all this year, much less start.

Hell, with those odds,I’dbet against me.

“And put on some fucking clothes,” I add, kicking off a cleat. “Nobody wants to see your dick.”

Kyle’s smirk widens. “Tell that to the chick who sucked it in the bar bathroom last night.”

“Did you tell her they also come in adult sizes?”