Text copyright ©2017 Lani Lynn Vale
All Rights Reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Dedication
To my husband, who gave me an appreciation for baseball pants. Your butt will always look the finest, no matter how old we are. I love you!
Acknowledgements
Michael Stokes. BT Urruela. Y’all make a fine team! I love this picture!
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Epilogue
Other titles by Lani Lynn Vale:
The Freebirds
Boomtown
Highway Don’t Care
Another One Bites the Dust
Last Day of My Life
Texas Tornado
I Don’t Dance
The Heroes of The Dixie Wardens MC
Lights To My Siren
Halligan To My Axe
Kevlar To My Vest
Keys To My Cuffs
Life To My Flight
Charge To My Line
Counter To My Intelligence
Right To My Wrong
Code 11- KPD SWAT
Center Mass
Double Tap
Bang Switch
Execution Style
Charlie Foxtrot
Kill Shot
Coup De Grace
The Uncertain Saints
Whiskey Neat
Jack & Coke
Vodka On The Rocks
Bad Apple
Dirty Mother
Rusty Nail
The Kilgore Fire Series
Shock Advised
Flash Point
Oxygen Deprived
Controlled Burn
Put Out
I Like Big Dragons Series
I Like Big Dragons and I Cannot Lie
Dragons Need Love, Too
Oh, My Dragon
The Dixie Warden Rejects
Beard Mode
Fear the Beard
Son of a Beard
I’m Only Here for the Beard
The Beard Made Me Do It
Beard Up
For the Love of Beard
There’s No Crying in Baseball
Pitch Please
Hail Raisers
Hail No (coming 9/27/17)
Go to Hail (coming 10/27/17)
Burn in Hail (coming 11/17/17)
Baseball is life, the rest is just details.
Everyone who’s played the game has heard those words a time or two. But Hancock has heard them his entire life from his parents. His family has lived and breathed baseball even before he started Little League.
Hancock “Parts” Peters has a name that inspires grins across many faces, but the moment those faces get their first look at him, those grins slide away.
Hancock is gruff, filterless, and doesn’t give a crap who he offends. He is the only man in baseball who doesn’t care if he gets an endorsement or not. He’s there to play the game. He’s there to win. He’s there because baseball is his life.
People think he’s a jerk.
And maybe he is. But if that’s how he has to come off to get people to leave him the hell alone so he can play in peace, so be it. The less people he has to worry about offending, the better.
***
Don’t let the fear of striking out hold you back.
Sway Coffman didn’t mean to rock the boat. She was just there to do her job.
Sure, she was a woman in a man’s world. Yes, she beat out several of those men to get the job as head athletic trainer for the professional baseball team, The Texas Lumberjacks. And yeah, she now got hate mail from those men.
But she’s good at her job, and she earned the position.
What she is not good at, however, is talking to men.
Men seem to see her curvy hips, large breasts and thick thighs and automatically think she is incompetent. Because surely a fat girl couldn’t get the job treating some of the most fit and athletic men in the world, right?
Wrong.
This fat girl got the job, and she is proud of it.
What else did she get?
The attention of the sexiest bearded man she’d ever had the pleasure of laying eyes on.
It was enough to bring her down to her knees…in front of that man, the hot and grumpy baseball player, Hancock Peters.
Chapter 1
Hockey gives me a zamboner.
-Text from Rainie to Sway
Hancock
Season opener at home
Texas Lumberjacks v. Michigan Marauders
“You’re in my seat,” I said to the beautiful woman. “Get up.”
That beautiful woman, with her long brown hair and her nose stuck in the book she was currently reading, tilted her head up with a startled look that began to tug at my heartstrings before she even opened her pretty mouth.
I couldn’t give in to it, though. She was in my seat. I had to sit there.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, grabbing her bag and scooting over like I’d grabbed her by her hair and physically yanked her out of my spot.
I hadn’t done that, of course. Not that I wouldn’t want to wrap my hand around her luscious, long locks and kiss the fuck out of her startled mouth.
“Parts,” someone called.
I turned to find our starting pitcher, and my best friend, Gentry Green, staring at me like I’d grown a second head.
“What?” I snapped, wondering just what in the hell his problem was.
His mouth twitched, and I sighed.
“What?” I repeated, this time a little friendlier than the time before it.
The chick was fucking with my routine.
I was a superstitious guy. So, sue me.
I had to have my seat.
“I’m sorry,” the woman whispered hastily as she resettled herself way away from her previous seat. “I didn’t know it was taken.”
“That one is taken, too,” I muttered. “Brakes sits there.”
She stood, this time upending her book onto the floor as she did.
I reached down and plucked it out of the spent sunflower seeds, handing it to her as I got a good look at the cover.
“You like baseball?” I asked teasingly, taking in the title of the book, Baseball for Dummies.
She blushed a harsh shade of red, and I immediately felt bad for teasing her.
The next minute, though, she yanked it out of my hand and turned to face forward, not looking back at me again.
Grinning like the shithead I was, I walked over to Gentry, AKA Brakes, and held my hand out f
or the paint.
“That’s number thirty-nine’s sister.” Gentry said. “The short stop on the other team.”
“Really?” I asked in surprise. “Kid was a fuckin draft pick, right? Golden Glove.”
Gentry nodded, and I swiped two stripes of paint. First under the right eye, second under the left.
Gentry took the paint and followed suit, only he did his left first, then the right.
It was always like that.
Baseball was a superstitious game. It was rare that we ever deviated from our routine.
“Why’s she not their AT, then?” I asked.
Gentry shook his head and tossed the paint down into the stack of shit on the ground underneath his seat.
“Not a fucking clue. Girl’s hot, though. I love that she’s our athletic trainer.”
I agreed with that. One hundred and sixty-nine percent.
She was thick and curvy, in all the right places, and I wanted to wrap my arms around her and kiss the hell out of her.
Crazy enough, I didn’t think she’d be receptive to that.
Not yet, anyway.
She had on a Longview Lumberjacks team shirt, the tight khaki shorts that all the trainers wore, and a fucking ribbon in her hair.
She looked like my high school wet dream come true.
“You ready to warm up?” Gentry asked.
I nodded my head and started up the steps of the dugout, picking my bat up along the way.
I hefted it in my hands, tightening my grip around the wood, and breathed deeply.
“You first,” Gentry nodded his head.
I walked ahead of him to the plate, nodding at the coach.
The coach nodded back, and I took my place at the plate.
Once I was there, I dropped the bat onto the plate so it rested against my thigh, put my gloves on, and pulled my pants up above my calves.
Routines.
All of it routine.
Once everything was perfectly in place, I fixed my hat, picked my bat up, tapped it six times on the plate, and lifted it to my shoulder.
Chapter 2
If you keep a baseball bat in your car, also be sure to keep a glove. Your lawyer will thank you.
-Word to the wise
Sway
Rainie (7:02 PM): This baseball game sucks. There’s absolutely no cock sucking or pussy licking going on at all on third base.
I nearly choked when I read that message from my best friend.
Sway (7:02 PM): Why are you here again? And the game hasn’t started, how do you know it sucks?
I looked up when I felt eyes on me, and nearly dropped my phone when I saw the bearded man who’d practically barked at me earlier staring me down. He’d just finished hitting, and I wasn’t even aware he was back.
For such a big guy, he moved like a freakin’ ninja.
His intense gray eyes, rimmed with beautifully long, dark eyelashes had me nearly choking on my tongue.
Why was he looking at me?
And oh, God. His beard was amazing.
Pairing that beard with those eyes, and the green hat pulled down low over his head—breathtaking.
That was before you even took in the rest of his body.
The man was covered in tattoos.
Not that you would be able to tell.
He didn’t allow them to show for the first couple of games. As of right now, they were covered up with a long sleeved Under Armour compression shirt that fit him like a second skin.
Covering his tats was one of his superstitions—and it made me want to cry.
I loved his tattoos.
I wanted to lick every single one of them.
I had a Fathead sticker of him on my wall at home.
He was literally my favorite player on the Longview Lumberjacks, and would be in the entire league had my brother not played in the MLB as well. Though, it was a near toss-up.
I’d have a tough call today seeing as the Lumberjacks were playing his team
My brother was the short stop for the other team, and I loved him like crazy. But the Longview Lumberjacks–they were my team. Had been my team since I was old enough to sit in front of the TV with my dad and watch them play.
I think it’d broken my dad’s heart a little bit when my brother had signed with the Sparks, but he was proud, nonetheless.
Parts took his hat off, readjusted it, and then put it back on. Five times.
Just like he always did.
I bit my lip and turned my head away, unable to look at that thick, dark hair and not orgasm.
It was beautiful, too.
I’d always had a thing for the tall, dark and dangerous look.
Bearded, tall, dark and dangerous…well…that was just my personal kryptonite.
My phone buzzed in my hands again, and I jumped.
Ember (7:22 PM): OMG! I can see you! Wave!
I looked up, startled, and glanced around. Then, for the second time, I dropped my goddamned book on the ground, exposing the stupid Baseball for Dummies to the world.
Again.
Sway (7:23 PM): Please tell me I didn’t look as stupid as I felt.
Ember (7:23 PM): You look beautiful, stop whining.
I rolled my eyes.
Ember and I met at college where we were both studying to become athletic trainers. We met on the first day, and we instantly became friends.
We sort of grew apart for a while because we were going in different directions career wise—and, until recently, it had been a long time since we last spoke.
We picked right back up, as if we hadn’t spent the last eight years apart. I was enjoying having her back in my life again.
Between her and Rainie, I was seriously loving life for the first time in years.
“Hey, anyone seen my fucking bubble gum?” a player yelled. “It was right here, and now it’s gone. Oh, dammit, I’m missing two pieces. I only have five!”
I looked around for the lost candy, and idly wondered what the big deal was. If he had five, then that surely was enough to get him through the game, right?
Wrong.
Oh, how wrong I was.
“Hey,” the player that I was having a very hard time ignoring interrupted my inner musings.
I turned, this time surprised that I couldn’t see his eyes anymore.
He had on wraparound sunglasses that were tinted an intense shade of blue, and I liked them. A lot.
“Y-yes?” I stuttered.
“Can you go to the concession stand and get Manny a couple of Double Bubbles?” he asked.
I blinked, surprised that he would ask me.
“No,” I immediately disagreed. “I’m the trainer. I can’t just leave. What if someone gets hurt?”
His eyes stared at me steadily. “Because if he doesn’t have all of his gum, he might be hurt. You don’t want to be the cause of that, do you?”
I stared at him as if he’d grown seven heads that were all leaking snot.
“You’re serious.”
“Deadly.”
I gave him a disbelieving look.
“I’m not leaving, but I’ll ask my friend to get it for me. She’s in the seats above the dugout,” I explained when he gave me a dubious look. “You might be in luck.”
He looked at me approvingly.
“I like your ingenuity,” he grinned. “Is Bobby not coming back as head AT?”
I shook my head. “Bob had a heart attack about a month ago,” I frowned. “He’s okay, but he’s had to slow down quite a bit. He might be back in an advisory capacity once he’s fully healed; but, until then, I’m your man.”
He chuckled, and I felt that dark, deep rumble in my soul.
“I like you, Half-Pint,” he grinned. “I…”
I stiffened at the use of Half-Pint.
I was not a half pint.
I was a full pint. Maybe even a quart.
And I liked it.
<
br /> Well, I didn’t like it as much as I owned it.
I was curvy, and I knew it. I worked my ass off, ate the right shit, and I was still heavy.
It wasn’t ever going to be different, and I accepted that, but the man didn’t have to point it out to me or make fun of me by using demeaning nicknames.
But before I could snap at him, a coach yelled from the front of the dugout.
“Parts! You’re up!”
Parts got up, leaving me with nothing else to do but text Rainie and ask her for two pieces of Double fucking Bubble.
Sway (7:30): Will you go buy me two pieces of Double Bubble? One of the players needs it.
“Did anyone find my gum yet?” Manny, number 11, called out. “Seriously, guys. One of you motherfuckers better not have eaten it.”
Nobody answered, and I chose to ignore him as well.
My eyes staying on Hancock “Parts” Peters. Number 49.
He did his whole ritual.
Once he was there, he dropped the bat onto the plate, put his gloves on, and started his routine as he pulled his pants up above his calves, continuing on to adjust his hat and tap the plate with his bat.
Did he pull them down each time he was done hitting?
The thought made me smile as I watched the pitches start flying.
The first two were balls. The second two Hancock fouled.
The next one went straight at Hancock’s head, and he dropped to the ground to avoid being hit.
Hancock got up, dusted himself off, and glared at the little fucker who’d nearly hit him.
And I do mean glare.
If there was a definition of glare in the dictionary, the look Hancock just sent the pitcher would be directly under it for emphasis.
He bent down and picked up his glasses that were laying in the dirt next to home plate, blew them off, then resituated them on his face.
Then he did his whole routine again with his bat, gloves, and pants. Followed by the hat adjustment, bat tapping and swinging it up to his shoulder.
Once when he was ready, he took his bat and aimed it high over the fence, indicating he was about to hit it over the fence.
My mouth dropped open at his audacity.
“Damn showoff,” the coach muttered.
I hid my smile as I continued to watch.
The pitcher, Ramirez, sneered, and I knew what he was about to do.
He was going to hit him.