Three Years Later

Ren

My throat burned with the bitter aftertaste of the woman wrapped around me. I didn’t have to glance down at her to know that I had once again fucked up. If the non-stop buzzing of my phone wasn’t already a sign, the state of my head was a further reminder.

The woman in my bed was one of Hollywood’s elite, and she’d just slummed it with the “black tar” of baseball. I think that was what that prick journalist had labeled me. These days I couldn’t keep up. It was one flying insult after another.

It didn’t matter that I had earned the golden ticket to play for Denver. All that mattered was who I was fucking. And I was to blame. Still, the amount of attention I was getting was staggering.

Just to spite the tempting ass-lashing messages I had waiting for me on my buzzing phone, I knocked it away from the nightstand and grabbed another condom. Nothing felt better than sinking into warm, sleeping pussy. No conversation needed, no foreplay, and I knew she was still dripping from last night. I’d fucked Natasha six ways from Sunday, and I would do it again this morning before any words were uttered about expectations I wouldn’t meet. Her blue eyes—wrong color—popped open as I buried my cock deep, thrusting her awake. Her swollen lips formed an ‘O’ as I kept our conversation nil and our fucking filthy. Her orgasm rolled through her within a few minutes, and I smirked down at her as she looked up at me in a daze.

I impressed her, but she depressed me. Just another woman willing to deal with the abominable bastard I’d become because she thought I had a pretty face.

“Ren,” she moaned as I twisted my head, avoiding her morning breath and any connection she needed because it wasn’t there.

We’d met at a party the night before, and we’d part this morning no closer than we were the second her eyes spoke to my cock and it answered. I had a “reputation” according to her, and that was all I heard about as I slid my fingers through her wet heat going a hundred miles an hour on the way back to my hotel.

She knew what to expect, and I didn’t disappoint with the sex. I wouldn’t be changing that reputation any time soon because every male in the country stripped their cock-skin to the sight of her on the big screen.

She wasn’t a conquest; she was temporary warmth. Another night of blurry comfort. And she would get the respect that she deserved for it.

Ripping the condom off with a grunt, I fisted myself over her as she gazed up at me with surprise. It was easy to tell she’d never had quite as dirty as me, and her pupils dilated at the sight of herself soiled.

Too bad I opened that box for her because I couldn’t satiate her appetite.

I was no longer hungry.

And so it went. We showered together. I faked the half-assed grin I flashed her during the breakfast I ordered. And I only found a breath of relief when she was safely on the other side of my hotel door.

Sitting on my borrowed bed, I finally answered my phone to avoid a knock on my door.

“Yeah?” I grunted out.

“Ren! I can’t keep doing my job if you’re going to act like a goddamned lunatic at every function and defile high-profile actresses.”

“Then don’t do it,” I snapped before I popped the aspirin waiting in my palm and followed it with some water.

“What?” I heard Walter’s voice deflate. He’d been in charge of my PR for the last six months. And that was the longest relationship I’d been in for years.

“Listen, I appreciate all you’ve done, but I just really don’t give a fuck. I think it’s time we parted ways.” I hung up and killed the ringer before I checked my texts.

Andy: Natasha Arden. Are you fucking serious? Get out of your own way, asshole.

Then one from Rafe.

Rafe: Jesus Christ, you’re a fucking idiot. This isn’t high school man. Jake is going to cut your dick off.

Rafe was referring to our assistant coach. He’d handled enough of my headaches in the last year. I had no doubt when the incident after the party last night—my fist connecting with a reporter’s face who didn’t respect boundaries—hit the papers. I was going to be on paper-thin ice. I’d been warned far too many times to play dumb. In my defense, said reporter stuck his head inside the damn limo with his camera and scared Natasha. Still, whatever picture he took before I dented his teeth was sure to damn me with management and the public. Again. But I was the one who kept my private life separate from ball, while media and management were the ones who forced them together. It was still my fault because I’d started the circus my damn self a few years ago with a night similar to the one that I was currently paying for.

Playing for Denver had been my goal in the year I was a catcher for Atlanta, especially when the dream pitching team included Rafe Hembrey.

My mentor and old bullpen coach, Andy, had worked with Rafe in the Minors and helped me sharpen my calls when he coached me in Atlanta. Together, Rafe and I ruled the MLB. There was no denying it. Last year, we’d come close to winning the pennant. This year we would win. And we’d sweep the series. Regardless of my behavior, there was no way my club was parting with either of us. So, while a small part of me felt like a dick for telling Natasha I would call her, the eight-year-old kid in me who made up his mind he would win the World Series didn’t flinch.

I flipped on SportsCenter just as a fist landed on my door. Despite my shitty attempt to handle my indiscretion, I knew exactly who it was.

I opened it to see the shit-eating grin of one Rafe “The Bullet” Hembrey. He pushed past my outstretched arm and surveyed the hotel room.

“I should kick your ass with training starting in two days. That’s all we need is more press hounds interested in your cock instead of the team,” he mused, glancing over at me. “You’re looking sincerely remorseful,” he said dryly.

I shrugged. “I did us a favor. No such thing as bad publicity.”

“Hamlin is going to cut your dick off,” he assured as he pulled an apple off the room service cart, shined it on his T-shirt and took a healthy bite.

“Save me the theatrics.” I waved my hand in dismissal and grabbed my jacket.

“Where you off to now? Are you thinking you might take down a nun and impregnate her?”

“I’ve got shit to do.”

“Look, man, I’m no stranger to pussy,” he said, matter of fact. “I enjoy it. I eat it regularly as part of a healthy diet. But, said pussy is attached to my beautiful wife. I don’t have to sniff around for it while I catch a drunk and disorderly or an assault charge. Choosing one pussy is not that bad, I assure you,” he said, taking another bite of his apple.

“Look, I respect you, but this isn’t necessary. I’m going to hire new PR.”

“PR isn’t the problem,” Rafe said pointedly. “Seriously, Ren, you’re getting kind of fucking old to be holding the rattle.”

I squeezed my temple, willing the aspirin to kick in. “Not that I owe you a damn explanation or shitty reassurances,” I said through gritted teeth, “but I’m over it. All of it.”

Rafe glanced at my bed. “So, cold turkey? No more women?”

“Fuck no,” I grinned, “Never. But I’m ready to focus on ball.”

Rafe looked at me skeptically. “I don’t know man. You seem so much smarter than this. I don’t get why you’re choosing this. It’s not like you love the attention. You’re no socialite. But it seems to me you want to make sure the bullseye is on your back. What gives?”

I let out a heavy sigh.

“Look, Ren, I’m not much of a fucking girlfriend to talk feelings with, but if something is going on, you can run it by me. I’ve had my fair share of shit storms.”

I knew that to be the truth. Rafe had disowned his dad due to a stunt he pulled trying to strong-arm Rafe into a League team by taking bribes. Rafe’s track record wasn’t exactly clean, but he was nowhere near the target I was. His drama happened even before he threw his first pitch in the Minors. His reputation in the Majors was nothing less than stellar, despite his stance on backing me when my shit hit the fan.

I kept my mouth clamped as Rafe studied my packed suitcase and then me. I couldn’t stand the slight amount of pity in his eyes.

“Right,” he said, shoving his hands in his jeans. “You know you’re always welcome over at my place? I mean, I know hanging out with my family might be weird for you at first, but I didn’t see it as a future for myself until I met Alice. You’ll get used to it.”

I’d been to Rafe’s little piece of paradise in Denver, met his beautiful wife and little girl. It wasn’t weird for me. But it was fucking torture. Because what Rafe didn’t know, what nobody knew, was that I had been a centimeter away from having that life a few years ago. Still, I didn’t want him to think his invitation didn’t matter. Rafe had become one of the only people I trusted. We were professionals on the field, but friends off of it. We fought like hell in the heat of the game at times and even got a little bloody once or twice, but it didn’t mean shit. We were better teammates for it. No one fucked with our dynamic. He was a pitcher worthy of respect, and he had mine.

“I’ll get to your house more when we get back to Denver.”

Seeming satisfied, he picked my buzzing phone off the floor and handed it to me.

“Handle your shit. This is the year we’re going to win it, and you know it.” Rafe wasn’t one to bust balls or make house calls, or in my case, hotel calls, but he had the same dream I had, and he didn’t want anyone fucking it up.

I deadpanned, “I’m just as sure as you are.”

Rafe eyed me carefully, a warning beneath his calm exterior.

“Don’t fuck this up.”

I ran my hands through my hair. “You didn’t have to say shit.”

He shrugged. “I’m just wondering which one of us you are going to listen to.”

Irritation started to simmer. “Tell me how who I stick my dick in changes our game? Tell me why it changes any damn thing.”

He tipped his chin toward the ceiling. “It shouldn’t, but then again, you are a world class dickhead and well on your way to becoming a cliché.”

“Thanks for the talk.” Translation: Get the fuck out. Despite the fact he was one of the very few who I spent my time with, something was gnawing at me, and my patience was non-existent at this point. I didn’t do lectures about self-conduct. There was only one god I answered to, and he reigned baseball.

Rafe read my posture. “See you at camp.” He hit my shoulder with a friendly bump as he passed me.

I shoved my hands into my jeans with a smirk. “You aren’t going to ask me how she was?”

“Hell no, I’m married to my daydream,” he said as he closed the door behind him.

I grabbed my wallet and took the buzzing phone out of my pocket and threw it in my open suitcase. I had no issues with cooling my shit. In fact, last night had been the last hurrah of sorts. I had a series to win and over a hundred games to play to get there. For the next two days, I would pay penance for any misgivings that my game was a gift. Physically, I was ready, but my mental game had to be razor-edged, and that meant I had work to do.