Want to see where Lexi and Ian got their start? Read on for a look at chapter one of The Off-Season!

I’ll never forget where I was the day my world came crashing down around me.

I wish I had a better story. Something like, I was volunteering at a hospital, visiting sick children, when the news first hit. Or, I had just finished saving an old woman and her forty-two cats from a burning building when my agent called.

But no. I was sitting in the fucking drive-through at McDonald’s, waiting for my daily fix of salty goodness, when the radio newscaster interrupted coverage of the Seahawks game to drop what would turn out to be the most defining moment of my life thus far.

“Charges have been filed against MLB star Ian Taggart, better known as Tag Taggart, of the Washington Rampage. Our sources say a young woman has come forward with allegations that Taggart sexually assaulted her after their division win last season.”

I didn’t hear what he said after that, my Bluetooth kicking on in my truck as I answered the call from Ray, my agent.

What had started as a simple stop through a pick-up window ended up being the catalyst to the worst period of my entire life. And, now, six months and hours and hours of turmoil, frustration, and a hell of a lot of anger later, it all comes down to this moment.

My career.

My life.

My future.

Coach Peters is sitting across from me with Nathan Shelton, the Rampage’s GM, to his left.

Lucky for me, Mr. Lane couldn’t be here today. As the owner of the team, he generally tries to stay abreast of anything involving his players. He’s a little too involved, if you ask me. I’ve had far more meetings with the man in the past few months than I ever cared to have in my life. Add in the fact that he’s a class-A douche canoe, and…well, let’s just say, there are times when I’ve had to wonder if this is my punishment for the crime I didn’t even commit. Having to deal with Tyler Lane on the regular has to be worse than any prison cell could ever be.

And that’s right; you heard me correctly. I know that’s the standard answer all assholes give when they’re hit with a rape charge. And I know, ninety percent of the time, they’re lying through their teeth. Being a professional athlete seems to make some guys think they’re untouchable—a fact I can attest to from the hundreds, if not thousands, of times I’ve witnessed unwanted advances, unpaid tabs, drugs, and dozens of other less than savory activities. But I digress.

The fact is, I am not that guy. I love women. I respect women. Fuck, if I could build a shrine to women and worship at the altar of femininity, I would. Because, if there’s one thing in this world I love more than baseball, it’s the female body. But I would never touch a woman in any way that was unwanted or untoward.

The night I met Angela Hancock was the best night of my life.

We’d just won our division championship—a first in my seven years with the Rampage—and I was riding high. And I could think of no better way to celebrate than a night out with my teammates, a few bottles of Jack split between us, and a couple of willing females to keep us company.

I set my sights on Angela the moment I spotted her on the dance floor, her short black skirt and low-cut red top too mouthwatering to resist. When she took a break from her friends and headed to the bar to refresh her drink, I made my move.

Now, I’m not going to lie and say I had to work to get her attention. To be totally honest, I’ve never had any trouble finding a woman to warm my bed. With my muscular build, tan skin, and fucking adorable smile—you try to tell me dimples aren’t cute—I know I fit the mold of what women consider hot. And, before you start to think I’m a cocky asshole, let me stop you right there. There’s a difference between conceit and confidence. My teammate, Simon Weaver, is an arrogant fuckwit. Me, on the other hand? I radiate a smooth assurance women can’t help but be attracted to.

To say getting Angela back to my room was easy would be an understatement. After one quick dance—if you could even call it that—we basically just dry-humped the shit out of each other for three minutes and another shot of Jack for the road, we were on our way.

I might have had a few drinks, but I wasn’t drunk. And I can say with absolute certainty that everything that happened that night was completely consensual.

Angela slammed the door behind us and had my shirt off and her hand down my pants faster than you could say, Do you have a condom? I’ve always been a sucker for a girl who knows what she wants and isn’t afraid to take control.

But, even in my lust-fueled state, I wasn’t too far gone to stop for protection and to make sure she understood what this was.

“This is only for tonight. You got that, right?”

Not exactly the most romantic thing in the world to hear two seconds before some dude shoves his cock inside you, but as I said, I like to make sure a woman knows exactly what she’s getting with me.

She made no bones about my declaration, and the next few hours were pretty fucking amazing, if I do say so myself.

We parted the next morning with a quick hug and a, “Thanks for the fun night.” No awkward lingering or pretending like one of us was going to call when we both knew it would never happen.

Angela seemed like a really cool chick, and I had a brief pang of regret that it was the last time I’d ever see her.

Or so I thought. Just over six months after the night I walked out of that hotel room, Angela came back with a vengeance.

My life has been hell since that fucktastic day. Because, regardless of how many times I say I didn’t do it and despite the fact that Angela has zero evidence against me, just the implication has been enough to almost ruin my career. I lost several of my sponsors the same day the news broke, a few others following suit shortly thereafter. Reporters have been watching my every move, thrusting cameras and microphones in my face the second I step outside the stadium or my home.

The only people who have stood by me through the whole ordeal are my teammates. No matter how hard my name has gotten raked through the mud, they know it’s all a load of bullshit. Without those men, Coach Peters, and Ray, I’m not sure I could have survived the whole ordeal. I sure as hell wouldn’t be sane; I can tell you that much.

As if he can sense I’m thinking about him, Ray reaches over and gives me a pat on the back. He’s been by my side every step of the way—both literally and figuratively. So, it only makes sense to have him next to me as we wait for the call that will either make or break my future.

My lawyer met with Angela’s today in one last-ditch effort to keep this out of the courtroom. If it goes to trial, even if I’m found not guilty, it will be the final nail in the coffin for me. I’d be finished in the MLB, and I probably wouldn’t even be able to get a job coaching little league to underprivileged kids in the projects.

I’ve worked too damn hard to let that happen.

Leaning forward, I prop my elbows on my knees and start gnawing on my thumbnail, my eyes never leaving the phone on Coach’s desk, as if I can somehow will it into ringing. Coach, Ray, Shelton, and I are silent, none of us wanting to be the one to break the tension filling the room. I have a feeling that, once broken, it might be impossible to repair.

At that thought, a harsh ring shrills through the air, the sound causing a deep tremble to rattle my bones. Coach looks at me, and I give him a stiff nod. The four of us decided earlier he would be the one to take the call.

“Peters,” he answers, his voice gruff and his tone clipped.

His eyes dart to mine after only a few seconds, but I’m unable to read them. There’s concern there, but also something else. Relief maybe? Or is that just wishful thinking on my part?

He grunts out a few responses, never giving any indication as to which way the call is going. By the time he ends the call, I’m ready to rip the damn phone out of his hand and chuck it at the fucking wall.

After setting the handset back on the base, he leans back in his chair and lets out a long, slow breath. “She’s dropped the charges.”

The relief that rushes through me is palpable. It’s as if, to use the most cliché expression on earth, the weight of the world has been lifted off my shoulders. But that’s exactly how I felt over the last six months. A soul-crushing heaviness had settled over me since the day I was first hit with the charges. And, for the first time in what feels like forever, I can finally breathe.

Ray gets up and gives me a hug, Coach and Shelton both throwing in their relieved congratulations. It’s then that the door to Coach’s office flies open, and Brandon Jeffers—my best friend and teammate—bolts into the room.

“For fuck’s sake, can someone please let a guy know what’s going on? I’ve been dying out there.”

I had no problem with Brandon being in the room when the call came, but Coach and Shelton insisted that, since the matter didn’t directly involve him, he didn’t need to be here. B wasn’t even supposed to be in the building at all, but he’s never let a little thing like rules stand in his way.

Coach shakes his head. “Should’ve known you wouldn’t stay away, Jeffers. Don’t know why I even bothered trying.”

Brandon plops his ass down on the corner of Coach’s desk, picking up a stapler and tossing it in the air. Had it been anybody else, Coach would’ve reamed their ass for touching his shit. But, like I said, Brandon’s never been one for following orders. I think Coach has pretty much written him off as a lost cause at this point. Good thing he’s a damn good player; otherwise, the dumb fuck might be out on his ass.

The good mood continues though, Coach letting B join in on the celebration of my newfound freedom and even goes so far as to pop open a bottle of champagne he had stowed in the bottom drawer of his desk. This is a locker room though, so we have to make do with paper cups instead of crystal stemware.

Ray is the first to break up the party. “Not to be a downer—I’m truly happy she dropped the charges, Tag; I am—but we’re far from out of the woods here. She took the cash, which, to a lot of people, will make her look like a money-hungry fame-seeker. Three mil isn’t exactly chump change. But, to others, well, they’re going to wonder why you felt the need to pay her off in the first place. If you had nothing to hide, why not let the case run its course, you know?”

My mouth drops open. “But you’re the one who suggested we pay her off in the first place!”

“I know, I know,” he replies, his tone even, almost placating. “And I still think it was the best possible solution. Now, she’s gone, and we can work on getting you back to where you were before all this broke loose—the golden boy of the MLB.”

I scoff. “You know I don’t give a shit about that. I just want my good name back.”

“And that’s precisely what I’m talking about, Tag. We need to work on tamping down these rumors that are sure to start flying as soon as the story hits the press. And, as crazy as this might sound, I think it might be best if you weren’t there in the spotlight for it all.”

My brows furrow in confusion. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means, I think you should lay low for a while. Take a vacation. God knows you’ve earned it after the last six months. Take a break. Relax. Let us do the talking. We’ll tell everyone you’re on sabbatical in order to find yourself after this whole ordeal.”

“I’m not a fucking professor. I’m pretty sure baseball players don’t go on sabbaticals. Besides, I need to be here, getting ready for next season. Tell him, Coach. Tell him what a stupid idea this is.”

I turn my gaze over to Coach Peters, waiting for him to back me up. When his eyes don’t meet mine, instead falling to a stack of papers on his desk, I know I’m not going to get the support I’m looking for.

“Sorry, Tag, but I think Ray is right. You need a break. You need to get your head on straight again. It’s no secret that your mind wasn’t exactly in the game this last season. Not saying I blame you,” he quickly interjects when he sees I’m about to protest. “I don’t think any of us gave it one hundred percent this year. Our boys care about you, Tag. None of them liked seeing you go through what you did. You’re one of the best players and all-around people I’ve ever had the privilege of coaching. This might have affected you the worst, but believe me when I say, we all felt your pain.”

And he’s right. I played like complete dog shit this entire last season. As shortstop, I have one of the most pivotal roles on the field. My quick hands and ability to catch and tag a runner are what earned me my nickname. No, it’s not just a play on my last name. Though that might have helped inspire it.

But, this last season, I had more errors than outs. My batting average was virtually nonexistent. And I didn’t score a single run. All. Season.

Maybe they’re right. Maybe I do need a break. A few months to myself to clear my mind and get my head right. But where in the hell would I go? Seattle is my home now. My hometown is out of the question. The thought of going back after the events of the last six months and facing all those people who were so proud when I was drafted is unbearable. My dad has called once a week, like clockwork, since this nightmare began. But I always manage to keep the conversations short and sweet. Hearing any sort of disappointment in his voice would crush me.

So, where? I can’t hide in my house for a few months. Not only would I go stir-crazy, but there’s also no way the paps wouldn’t get wind of it eventually. I need to go somewhere nobody has ever heard of me.

An idea pops into my head.

“Hey, B, you still got that cabin in Bumfuck, Colorado?”

A slow smile spreads across his face. “Sure do, buddy. Perfect place to get away for a while. Nobody will find you there.”

Looks like I’m going to be spending some time at the lake.

I’d better learn how to fish.