Want to meet the men of Rampage rival, The Colorado Smoke? Read on for a sneak peek at chapter one of Slam by Andee Michelle!

S. Sexy

L. Like

A. A

M. Motherfucker

The fans shout it when I’m on the field.

The women scream it when they’re in my bed.

My teammates roar it when I make a great play.

My coach yells it when I’m in trouble.

My first year in the minors, one of the batting coaches started calling me Grand Slam, which then shortened to Slam, and eventually, one of the aforementioned screaming women made it an acronym that stuck.

But here I am today, Bryant “Slam” Nash, a twenty-one-year-old rookie, signing with my first Major League Baseball team, and enjoying every single perk of being a MLB baseball player. I’ve worked hard to get where I am, and I won’t pretend to not bask in every second of it.

Gentleman in the streets, grand slam in the sheets.

Slam doesn’t do relationships.

Slam does women and baseball.

The moment the cold beer hits my tongue, I almost moan out loud. Wiping the condensation from the glass with my thumb, I set it back down before pulling my ball cap lower on my forehead. This is a small sports bar, and I doubt anyone is going to recognize me because the beard I’m sporting is fairly new, but I’m not taking the chance. I need the solitude to lick my wounds and nurse my frosty beer in peace. Scrubbing my hand against my beard, I can’t help but groan when my thoughts drift to earlier today.

If it’s even possible, today will go down as one of the best and worst days of my life. I’ve spent the last ten years of my career playing for the Colorado Smoke as their third baseman. Baseball is all I’ve ever wanted to do. My dad used to say that, from the second they handed me a baseball glove at the age of three, I was obsessed. I don’t have many memories of my childhood that don’t include baseball. It’s what I’ve always done. But at thirty-six years old, and after an ACL repair three years ago and a shoulder surgery last year, I’ve known all year my days are numbered. As much as I hate to admit it, it’s time for me to retire.

But what does a retired baseball player do when he’s done nothing else, ever? I mean, I’ve never even worked at a fast food joint or washed dishes in a restaurant. I literally went from high school ball to less than a year of college, to the minors for a year, to the majors. I was a Major League Baseball player when I was barely old enough to drink. Sure, I have enough money to sit around and do nothing, but that’s not who I am. I can’t imagine having nothing to do. Nothing to look forward too. Retiring doesn’t scare me as much as having no idea what to do next does.

When the owner of the Smoke showed up and asked me to come into the GM’s office, I swear I thought I’d puke. I’d had an idea my walking papers were coming, but we’re more than halfway through the season. They wouldn’t can me before the end of it, right? I’ve played great this year, although a little slower on my snatches than I used to be.

Taking a long gulp of the beer in my hand, my mind returns to my earlier conversation with the GM and owner.

“Look, Nash. I’m not gonna beat around the bush about this,” Trevor, the owner, huffs out. “We won’t be renewing your contract next year.”

My heart thuds in my chest, and I feel like I might be having a panic attack. I’m getting cut next year.

“Before you say anything, I want to explain,” Spencer, the GM, retorts quickly. “We both know you’re tired. Your body is tired. You’ve put it through things most people don’t go through in their entire lifetime.” He steps away from me and takes a deep breath. “The reason we wanted to speak to you about it now is that we think you’d make an amazing addition to our coaching staff.”

The moment the words are out of his mouth, I watch as his face hardens, like he’s waiting for me to blow. The truth is, I knew this was coming. I knew they were going to either trade me or cut me loose. Them offering me a coaching job was not something I’d expected. I don’t get along with Trevor. I never have. He’s in this business for the wrong reason. Money. Not a love of the game like most owners. He’s in it strictly for monetary purposes. How Spencer talked him into letting me stay on coaching is beyond me.

“You don’t have to answer now. Take some time to consider it,” Spencer continues. “We’ve got plenty of time left in the regular season, so it’s not like we need an answer today.”

I nod, heading for the door. When Trevor puts his hand out to shake mine, I almost don’t respond, but truth be told, I may need this coaching job. I don’t know what else I’d do with the rest of my life. I’m not going to screw it up by pissing him off while this all hangs in the balance. Gripping his hand tightly, I shake it with enough aggression so he knows I’m mad, but not enough to show any disrespect.

Spencer claps his hand on my back and walks me the rest of the way to the door. He mumbles, “I’ll call you later,” under his breath as I walk out the door.

And here I am, at a sports bar on the opposite side of the city, trying to get my thoughts straight. I watch as a new bartender arrives, chatting with the guy she is replacing. He says something to her under his breath as he passes toward the door, causing her to throw her head back and laugh loudly. Her laugh is honest and throaty. Whatever he said must’ve been truly funny because her laugh is genuine and lights up her face. I can’t tear my eyes away from her. She’s breathtaking. Her dark, chocolate-colored hair is pulled up into a messy knot on top of her head, little pieces falling around her face. Every so often, she reaches up, pushing them behind her ear. She’s wearing white skinny jeans that show off her figure and a coral-colored tank top with the bar’s logo and name across it, Scott’s Sports Bar & Grill.

I watch her move around the bar with such familiarity that I know she’s worked here a while. She restocks the beer bottles in the cooler like she’s done it a million times, and when she walks through the swinging doors in the back, I can’t help but watch the sway of her hips. She pushes through the doors and into a small kitchen area. A few minutes later, when she returns, she’s got a large tray of glasses teetering on her shoulder. I start to stand to help her because she looks like she’s about to drop it, but I freeze as I watch her hoist the tray down and onto the counter with ease. She’s strong for such a little thing. I almost feel like I’m hitting the creepy stare limit since I haven’t taken my eyes off her since she walked in the door. Tearing my eyes away from her, I look down at my almost empty glass before throwing it back quickly, knowing it’s on the verge of being too warm to drink.

I flinch at its now warm temperature and swing my eyes to the chuckle I hear a few feet away. When my eyes meet hers, my stomach clenches. Her eyes are the most amazing shade of green I’ve ever seen, and they’re alive with amusement. Yep. Breathtaking.

“Warm, is it?” she asks as she continues in my direction.

“Close enough,” I retort with a smile. “Can I get a new, please? Blue Moon. They go down better cold.”

She turns to the cooler to grab a frosty glass. Her movements are fluid, like maybe she used to be a dancer. She is confident in herself, but not in a bitchy “I’m better than you” way. She self-assured and it’s refreshing.

She pours a perfect glass of beer and sets it in front of me before turning and walking back to the cooler to finish loading the glasses.

The front door slams loudly behind me, and I spin around to see what the hell is going on. A guy shuffles toward the beautiful bartender, his eyes trained only on her, and every nerve in my body is on high alert. I stand immediately because something about this guy puts me on edge. He looks homeless with dirty, disheveled clothes and hair sticking up everywhere. He slows as he reaches the bar and a huge smile spreads across her face.

“Hi, Jimbo,” she says to him gently, leaning her arms on the bar and pushing forward toward him. I watch as he reaches his hand to her face and touches her nose with the tip of his finger before pulling his hand back and sitting down at the bar. She taps her hand on the bar and holds a finger as if to say “just a minute,” before she disappears through the swinging doors again.

Jimbo doesn’t look around; he stares down at the bar in front of him. He looks nervous and doesn’t seem to like being here.

A few minutes later, she returns with a plate of food and a big bottle of water. She sets the meal and drink down in front of him before reaching under the bar for a fork and napkin, which she hands to him. I watch as Jimbo smiles lightly before taking a bite. She is talking to him quietly, but he responds only with nods and shakes of his head. Her smile never falters, and she looks at ease with this man. I watch their interaction as I drink my beer. Way better cold, it doesn’t take me long to suck this one down.

She leaves him alone to go and refill drinks for the few others seated around the bar area. A waitress comes up with drink orders, which she fills. I notice the waitress gives Jimbo a wide birth and doesn’t even glance his way.

When the waitress walks away, Jimbo wipes his mouth before picking up the bottle of water and heading for the door. I saw no money exchanged, and when his back is to her, I look up to see if she realizes he’s leaving, and my stomach drops when I see the look of concern on her face. She doesn’t go after him, and I’m about to say something when she turns to me and shakes her head like she knows I was going to intervene.

She walks to me slowly, grabbing my now empty glass. “Refill?” she asks without addressing what happened.

“Sure,” I retort. “Friend of yours?” For some reason, the question comes out sounding snotty, which I totally didn’t intend for it too. It’s like my voice has a mind of its own.

She jerks her head my way, and her eyes narrow at me. “Mind your own business, dude.”

Her response causes me to chuckle. When she returns with my beer, she sets it down loudly, and before she can walk away, I blurt out, “I’m not trying to be an asshole. I actually was a little concerned for your safety when he first came in.”

“Well don’t be. I trust him more than I trust you,” she barks before turning and walking away.

I can’t help the smile spreading across my face. She’s definitely a spitfire. I know when my welcome has been worn out and it’s time for me to go. I drink the rest of my beer faster than I normally would and throw a couple of twenties on the bar before heading out.

As I open the door, I throw one last look at the beauty behind the bar, and my eyes collide with hers. She gives me a small smile before turning and disappearing behind the swinging doors again.

I’m definitely coming back here. There is something intriguing about this woman.