Page 84 of Off Limits: The Firsts

“Looking good out there, Hot Shot,” Scout says as I walk into the training room.

“Felt damn good.” I roll my shoulders and smile at her.

“I can tell,” she laughs. “You got your swagger back.”

“My swagger?”

“Yep. That cocky little smirk you used to get before you stepped into the batter’s box was there today. It’s the first time I’ve seen it since I started training you.”

“I don’t get a cocky little smirk when I step in the box,” I say with a chuckle as I slide onto the table. Do I? She steps up behind me to work the muscles in my shoulder as I try to think of my batting routine and smiling is not something I do.

“Yes, you do. It says, you better bring your best stuff, Mr. Pitcher, or I’m gonna take you downtown,” she murmurs. And there’s no way I should find what she says sexy, but the fact that she can talk baseball terms while her fingers slide over my shoulder is definitely a turn-on. It doesn’t matter how many times she touches me—here in a rub down or at home in my bed—because every fucking time she does just makes me want her more.

It doesn’t hurt that that murmur of hers reminds me of when she climbs on top of me, straddles my thighs, leans forward, and says in my ear to get ready before she takes my cock for a ride.

“You’re all kinds of swagger and arrogant when you play. It kind of turns me on,” she says under her breath, but I catch every damn word.

“You know what I like more than hearing you say that?” I reply with a groan as she digs her knuckles into the knot in my shoulder.

“My magic hands?” she laughs.

“Well, those, too, and that’s not the only thing on you that’s magical . . . but I like knowing that before you were my trainer, you were watching me. That you knew I had a cocky little smile.”

The hitch in her movement tells me she didn’t realize she just gave that little fact away. “You also wiggle your ass two times.”

“I do not,” I deny, but know damn well that I do. It’s unintentional but always there.

“Yes. You do. Everyone knows your routine.”

“Oh please.” I roll my eyes, even though she can’t see it.

“I’m serious. Everyone stops and watches you when you walk to the plate, Wylder. They can’t wait to see what you’re going to do next. The lightning in the bottle you create. You’re just that kind of player.”

“The player,” I murmur more to myself than her, remembering that first week we worked together.

“We’ve come a long way since then,” she says, knowing where my thoughts have gone.

And yes, we have. I laugh, though, playing it off, because just like she gets spooked easily, I am, too. This has been too easy, how we’ve fallen into sync with each other, and I don’t want to jinx it.

Don’t want any bad juju fucking this up.

I tilt my head back so I can look at her. “I’m still waiting for that lap dance, Kitty.”

“If you play your cards right,” she murmurs under her breath, “you just might get one tonight.”

Hot damn.

“You looked good out there today, East.”

I glance back to the doorway of the press box where my dad stands, arms braced on both sides of the doorjamb with a proud smile on his face.

He’s looking old. It’s my first thought when I see him. The lines in his face are deeper, his eyes serious, his trademark cheer muted.

“Thank you. It felt good.” I angle my head and study him closer.

“You looked stronger than I’ve seen you. The time you’ve put into your rehab has paid off.” I wait for the ‘but’ from him—in classic Cal Wylder backhanded compliment fashion—but it doesn’t come. He just stands there for a beat, shoulders square, with pride on his face. “I’m proud of you and how you’ve handled everything.”

The implication behind everything is there, and I smile softly and nod my head, knowing he went to bat for me against Cory, even though I never asked him to and knew nothing about it until after the fact. The Iron Giant, Cal Wylder, tried to throw his weight around and let it be known that you don’t run a front office or win a pennant by making a trade that divides a team when they’re mid-season.