Throwing Heat: A New Adult Sports Romance (The Baymont Bombers Book 1) Read online

  “Are you gonna go find him?” she asks as we snake through the crowd in front of the house.

  “Yeah,” I tell her. “I might as well get it over with right away. He’s going to say no, then say something shitty to me, then it’ll be over. I can go into the paper on Monday and say I tried and we can all move on.”

  “Maybe he’ll say yes.”

  “He won’t,” I tell her. “Guaranteed. He never says yes. It’s his thing.”

  “His thing?”

  I frown. “Just his arrogance. He doesn’t talk to the school paper. As if he’s too big for it. Or we’re not big enough for him. Whatever. I’ll ask because I said I would, then I’ll never have to look at him again.”

  “I could look at him all night,” Shea says. “Preferably without clothes.”

  She reaches for my hand and pulls me into the house. People are shoulder to shoulder, holding their red cups up just high enough so they won’t spill when they get bumped into. The bass from the speakers is shaking the walls of the house.

  Shea turns and grabs both of my wrists, leaning into my ear. “Okay, look. Just go do it. Maybe it won’t be like that one time four years ago. Or maybe it will. But whatever he says, just don’t let it ruin your night. Promise you’ll stay and have a drink and take a picture of me fucking whichever lucky boy I end up with.”

  I swat her on the arm. “Stop!”

  “Promise me!”

  “I will stay and have a good time and a drink,” I tell her. “But I’m not taking pictures of you!”

  She kisses me on the cheek. “Go find him.”

  I watch her sashay across the room and watch all of the male eyes rotate in her direction. Denim skirt, knee-high boots, and a killer black top that I wish I had the guts to wear. Shea will have her pick of guys tonight. Just like every other night.

  I make my way through the crowd and find a cooler full of beer in the kitchen. Beck Winslow nods at me as he heads the other way. As far as baseball players go, he’s probably the coolest. Not as big of a dickhead as the others. Can be downright nice when you get him away from his teammates and he doesn’t have to pretend to be as cool as the rest of them. We were in a class together last year and he was smart. It surprised me.

  I get the top off my beer and squeezed past a couple who were maybe ten seconds away from ripping off their clothes and doing it on the island. The slider to the patio is open.

  And I see him standing out there.

  Houston Cade.

  God’s gift to baseball.

  Just ask him, he’ll be happy to tell you.

  Six foot four with a body that looks like it was created by a sculptor. Dark hair, killer blue eyes, a chin that is unfairly square.

  And a rocket right arm that throws fire.

  You can’t help but notice him when he walks across campus. It’s like everything comes to a standstill. Ridiculously good-looking with talent to match, he’s going to be the best player in baseball some day. He’s the best player at Baymont and probably the best college player in the country. He’s going to be rich and famous and all of the things that come with being a professional athlete.

  He’s also a massive dick.

  He’s wearing a royal blue T-shirt with “BAYMONT” scrawled across the front. The shirt is stretched tight across his broad chest. His white basketball shorts hang almost to his knees and his blue Nike running shoes are unlaced. He hasn’t shaved in a day or two, a fine layer of stubble across his chin and cheeks.

  There’s no denying how great looking he is. He’s the kind of guy you think about both marrying and having the smoking hot one-night stand with.

  But I can’t forget what a jerk he is, either.

  At least this will be the last time we have to have this stupid conversation. He can go his way and I can go mine.

  Time to get it over with.

  Chapter 3

  HOUSTON

  Lila Oakley has been on my ass for almost four years.

  Not like that.

  The kind of on my ass that’s a complete and total pain in the ass.

  To be clear, if she’d really been on my ass in the good kind of way, I wouldn’t have minded. She’s beyond hot. Long black hair. Gorgeous green eyes. Killer body. Any guy on the team would hit that. In fact, there’d been some talk of a pool last year about seeing which guy on the team could close the deal. I’d killed that, though, because it was gross and was the kind of thing that could blow up in a hurry.

  But none of that changes the fact that she is a first-class bitch.

  I met her freshman year and she shut me down before I’d gotten maybe more than ten words out. She just assumed that every baseball player was an asshole and after that, I was more than happy to give her all the ammo she needed to keep that assumption going. The best part is that she’s a writer for the school paper and every year, her editors make her come and ask me about doing a profile. About my career, where I’m headed, that kind of shit. Normally, I wouldn’t care. Any publicity is good publicity, right?

  But I love turning her down because she gets so aggro about it and I just get to laugh in her face.

  Now, she’s standing in my house, looking at me, and I don’t give a shit how awesome she looks in her white jeans and purple top that hugs every delicious curve on her body.

  I can’t wait to do this for the last time.

  “Surprised to see you here,” I say. “Figured you were too busy being Lois Lane to go to parties.”

  She steps outside, and we both move away from the door to let people move in and out of the house.

  “I’m way more Lois Lane than you are Superman,” she says. “Who’s the lamest superhero of all time? Robin, maybe? Maybe you’re Robin.”

  “Hardly, sweetheart. I’m Superman and Batman with a little bit of Aquaman.”

  “Dream big, Houston,” she says. “Dream big.”

  I look around. “You here looking to get lucky? After four years maybe it’s time you found yourself a man.”

  “Think I’ll wait until after I graduate. You know, so I can find an actual man rather than a pretender.” She makes a point of looking around. “Because all I see are a bunch of little boys.”

  I laugh. She’s always funny. And, look. If I wanted a relationship? If I wanted a girlfriend? Lila would definitely be on my list. She’s smart and she’s funny, even if she’s a bitch. And I have a feeling that maybe she’d be a little different if it was just me and her.

  But it never is, and you can’t pay me enough to get into a relationship right now.

  I might reconsider my celibacy for the night, though, if she’s up for it.

  She’s that hot and I can’t deny that every time I see her, I think about what she might be like in bed.

  “Then what are you doing here, Oakley?” I ask. “You just come to gawk at me?”

  “Hardly,” she says. “You know why.”

  I grin and nod. “I do. It’s become my favorite tradition at Baymont.”

  “Really? I would’ve assumed looking down on everyone was your favorite tradition. My mistake.”

  “I don’t look down on anyone.”

  “Right.”

  I spread my arms wide. “Well, here I am, honey. Ask away.”

  She folds her arms across her chest, irritation flashing in those green eyes of hers. “I can’t believe we’re here again.”

  I laugh. “I can. I didn’t know it would be tonight, so this is like a kick-ass surprise for me.”

  “Why do you get off on this?” she asks. “Is it a power trip?”

  “I’m not getting off on anything,” I say, then walk closer to her. I get a whiff of something—her shampoo, her perfume, I don’t know what—and damn, she smells good. “I mean, if you’re offering, though…?”

  She rolls her eyes. “In your dreams.”

  “Can’t deny I’ve had them,” I tell her. “But I’m sure you have, too.”

  “Nightmares. Fucking nightmares.”

  “But you ad
mit to having them?” I grin. “Cool.”

  Her cheeks turn pink.

  And it surprises me.

  I guess she has thought about me like that.

  And that turns me on a little more.

  “Save your bullshit lines,” she finally says. “And let’s get this over with nice and quick.”

  I lean down so my mouth is next to her ear. Heat is radiating off of her, and the scent of her is intoxicating.

  “Just so you know,” I say. “This is the only thing nice and quick about me.”

  Chapter 4

  LILA

  His lips brush my ear as he says it.

  It’s both gross and sexy as hell.

  Dammit.

  I hate this.

  It happens every time.

  I know what I have to ask him and he know what he’s going to say. And every time, I get all hot and bothered by his looks and his attitude and his…everything. He’s so sure of himself and I swear he actually does know that I dreamt about him that one time and…well, I haven’t forgotten that one.

  But it’s like he can see right into me and I hate it.

  But I’m not caving this time.

  Suddenly, I’m more determined than ever.

  I put a hand on his chest and push him away so I can look at him. His chest feels like a steel wall and his blues are bluer than last year, like the ocean and the sky merged into one.

  I clear my throat. “The paper wants me to do a story on you. A profile. And they want me to write it.”

  “Just like every other year,” he says. “And just like every other year, my answer is no.”

  “Why?”

  “Because.”

  “That’s not an answer. It’s a two-syllable word.”

  “Because I don’t want to,” he says. “That enough syllables for you?”

  “That’s a cop out,” I say. “Tell me why you won’t do it.”

  “Because I don’t have to and I don’t want to,” he says, shrugging. “Pretty simple.”

  “I can go to the SID,” I say, thinking of the Sports Information Director in the Athletic Department.

  He laughs. “Go right ahead.”

  “It would be good for you, you know,” I say. “A solid profile would make it’s way to the scouts. It’ll make you look good.”

  “You think I need help with that?” he asks. “You think my performance needs help?”

  “Not what I meant,” I say, shaking my head. “I meant it could fill in some holes. Give them something about you that they don’t know. And don’t try to tell me they don’t care about that stuff because they do. So it can work for you, too.”

  For once, he doesn’t have a comeback.

  “And don’t act like I can’t convince the SID’s office to make you talk,” I continue. “It worked when I wanted to talk with Tommy Dixon last year.”

  He frowns. “Yeah, great profile of a shitty quarterback. He came off whiny.”

  “But you apparently read it,” I say, smiling.

  He smirks and looks away.

  Which is a win for me.

  Now I know he’s read my stuff.

  And I’ve got him on his heels.

  I can get this done. I know it. I can sense it.

  “You aren’t whiny,” I say. “At least, I don’t think you are. Or maybe you are and that’s what you’re afraid of.”

  He glares at me, his eyes narrowing. “I’m not afraid of anything, Oakley.”

  “Well, okay then, Cade,” I say, using his last name, too. “Prove it. Let me follow you for a week and do the piece.”

  “You wanna follow me everywhere?” he asks.

  “I want to get a sense of what life is like at Baymont for its biggest athlete and a guy whose name is going to be known to every baseball fan in the country in about two years,” I say, trying to suck up a little to him. “I want to see what your life is like.”

  “My life is pretty great.”

  “Then let me see that.”

  He stares down at me and I can’t read anything into his expression. I imagine it’s the same look he gives batters before he buries them under a barrage of fastballs. It’s unnerving.

  Thought I doubt any of the hitters he faces find it as sexy as I do.

  “Come on,” I say. “Just do it.”

  A grin spreads slowly across his beautiful face and I hold my breath, waiting.

  “I don’t think so.”

  My heart sinks. I knew this was going to be the answer and, yet, I let myself think that maybe he was up for it this time. Maybe I’d convinced him.

  I’d let him get to me one more time.

  But this time?

  I wasn’t as willing to let it go.

  “You’re afraid,” I announce.

  He frowns. “Told you. I’m not afraid of anything.”

  “You’re afraid of this,” I say. “It’s totally obvious. You have something to hide?”

  He looks away. “Fuck off.”

  “Or are you just afraid you won’t come off looking as great as you think you are?” I say. “Maybe everyone will see a fraud instead of the real deal? Is that it?”

  “You’re way off base.”

  “Then give me a shot. Let me do the story. Don’t be a fucking chicken.”

  “I’m not a chicken,” he says.

  “Then prove it. Do the story.”

  He shakes his head. “Nah. Not doing it.”

  The anger is welling up inside of me, but I’m not willing to give up just yet.

  “You too scared to make a bet then?” I ask.

  “A bet?”

  “Yeah, a bet. Or does that terrify you, too? I mean, what aren’t you afraid of? Does Beck have to check under your bed at night for monsters?”

  He’s glaring at me again and I can tell I’m getting under his skin.

  Good.

  That’s where I want to be.

  “Hey, fuck you, sweetheart,” he says.

  “I’ll pass but thanks,” I tell him. “Come on. Let’s make a bet. I win, I get the story. You win, I’ll leave you alone. It’s not hard.” I smile at him. “Even for a chicken like you.”

  Chapter 5

  HOUSTON

  She’s so smug right now and it’s driving me insane.

  And not in a good way.

  “Why the hell would I make a bet with you?” I ask her. “There’s nothing in this for me. If I tell you no now, then I’m done with you.”

  “But everyone will know what a piece of poultry you are,” she says. “Because I’ll tell them you were afraid of making a bet with little, inconsequential me.”

  “I’m not afraid,” I say for the third time.

  “Then make the bet,” she says. “If there’s nothing to be afraid of, then prove it.” She tilts her head. “Or maybe Mr. All-Star Pitcher Guy isn’t so brave after all.”

  I hate that she’s getting under my skin. I should be able to take a deep breath and walk away. It’s like being on the mound in a pressure situation. Take a deep breath, gather, and stick to the plan. Trust myself.

  But Lila Oakley is bugging the shit out of me and I’m not about to let her think she has me beat.

  “I mean, I’m not the only who saw you were afraid to throw a curve against UCLA,” she says.

  And my blood goes cold.

  Because it’s unexpected.

  Because it’s brutal.

  And because she knows.

  The final game of last season. One game away from the College World Series. Two down in the final inning, one guy on second. I just needed to get one more out. Pete Thornton was at the plate. And he’d owned me all season. One of the few. Every time I threw him with some spin, he crushed it. And that last game, I didn’t have good command. I couldn’t throw him a curve because it wasn’t going to be sharp. I was afraid it would bounce away from Beck or Thornton would send it to the moon. He knew it, too. Which meant that’s exactly what I should’ve thrown.

  But, instead, I tried to sneak a
fastball past him on the first pitch. I didn’t have the confidence to throw him that curve to show him I wasn’t afraid to use it.

  And he just smoked it over the leftfield wall.

  I stood on the mound while he rounded the bases. His teammates met him at home plate in a mob, jumping and celebrating, wrestling him to the ground. I watched it all because I didn’t want to forget any of it. I didn’t ever want to forget that feeling. We’d been so close. And it was my fault we were done.

  And fucking Lila Oakley knew all of that.

  What the fuck?

  “Why not a change up on that first pitch?” she asks, tilting her head to the side again. “Throw him off a little, be a little unpredictable. I mean, that ball he hit off you might still be going. He hit the shit out of that thing, Houston. I haven’t seen a lot of baseball, but I’ve never seen a ball hit that far. Is that normal? Do guys normally put fastballs in orbit?”

  My left hand curls into a fist.

  “You pitch like that again this year and you guys will be going nowhere fast,” she says.

  My right hand curls into a fist.

  She steps closer, looking up at me. Her eyes feel like they’re looking directly into my soul. “You were afraid you’d hang a curve to him and instead you threw him a dart down the middle. You were afraid then and I think you’re afraid to bet me now.”

  I force my fingers to uncurl. “Fine. Let’s bet.”

  Her thin eyebrows arch. “You sure? I don’t want to bully you into anything you’re afraid to do.”

  “Let’s bet,” I say again. My jaw is so tight, it’s beginning to ache. “Let’s go.”

  She smiles and I hate that it’s electric.

  “Alright then,” she says.

  “But here’s what I don’t get,” I say slowly. “If you win, you get your story. What do I get if I win?”

  She thinks for a moment. “Anything you want. You name it.”

  I look around, then point to the chaise lounge on the patio. “There.”

  She turns and looks. “You get a chair that’s already yours?” She turns back to m with a smirk. “Do you not know how bets work?”