Batter Up: Up Series Book 2 Read online

  “Okay. So I want you to really think about what you will do if you can’t play anymore. Make a list. You can still work in baseball as a coach, become a sports commentator,” she grinned goofily at me, “start that boy band. Or you can try that superhero option you had if baseball didn’t work out.”

  I smiled in spite of my anger. “I was five.”

  “Well, your other unrealistic childhood wish came true.” She turned into my driveway and put the car in park. “I could make you a costume.”

  I laughed and turned to face her. “I think that was in the top five ass chewings I’ve ever gotten from you, Mom. Shit, that was brutal.”

  “Eh. You’re older. And famous. I had to step up my game… knock you down a peg.”

  “Mission accomplished.”

  “So, your brother is going to take you to your appointment tomorrow. In the meantime, make that list. Think really hard about what you would be happy doing. Jacob can help you. Don’t give up on being able to play again, but you need to have a backup plan.”

  “Wait, you’re not going to come in and cook me dinner?” I raised my eyebrow and grinned at her. “After that vicious verbal abuse you just made me suffer through?”

  She pulled me toward her and kissed my forehead. “Nope. I’ve neglected my new husband long enough. Your brother told me he will be home by six to hang out with you. Besides, I already left you boys a casserole. 350 degrees for 30 minutes. And I want my dish back. Washed this time.”

  I laughed as I got out of the car. “I love you, Mom.”

  She smiled knowingly. “Damn right you do.”

  Three

  October 17, last year

  “Sorry for bailing on dinner with you last night, Man,” Jacob said, breaking the silent ride to my appointment. “Ashley called and…”

  “You don’t need to apologize, Jake.” I waved him off dismissively. “It’s cool.”

  He rubbed his chin. “I was trying to tell you something, and you just cut me off. I kind of need my big brother right now.”

  Stab to the chest.

  At almost two years younger, but only one year behind me in school, Jacob had always been really close to me growing up, best friends as well as brothers. I always thought he was slightly better looking than me. He had sandy brown hair, a couple of shades lighter than mine, and his eyes were green like Mom’s. In high school, he shot up two inches taller than my six foot frame. Dad tried to get him involved in baseball, but it was clear from the beginning that Jake wasn’t born with the talent or the love for baseball that I was. He was the brains of the family, so I excelled in baseball while Jake hit the books. I was smart enough to get into Rice University on a baseball scholarship, but he just had more time to broaden his knowledge. His full-ride academic scholarship to Baylor was much more impressive to me. Dad spent more time with me developing my skills for baseball, but I never felt an ounce of sibling rivalry from Jacob. He was my biggest fan all his life, and lately, I’d only been treating him like a fan, not a brother. Our relationship was yet another I’d let suffer. I had to try to make it better.

  I turned to face him. “I’m really sorry, Jake. I’ve been wrapped up in my own bullshit lately.”

  “Yeah, I noticed,” he muttered bitterly. He pulled his mouth into a tight line. After a long stretch of silence, he continued. “Mom called this morning and told me she ate your face pretty well yesterday. She wanted me to ask about your list?”

  “I didn’t get around to it.” I opted to change the subject. “You were going to tell me something about Ashley?”

  “Yeah.” He paused. “You sure you wanna hear about this?”

  “Yes. I’ve been a sucky brother to you lately. It’s time I stepped up.”

  I met Ashley shortly after moving back home. She had been over to the house a lot in the last six weeks, but I hadn’t paid much attention to their relationship. I’d been too busy stuck in my hole.

  He told me they met over two years ago and became friends. Things started getting serious for him, but she wasn’t interested. He started asking her out, but she said she would only go if they stayed friends. He stopped dating other women and lived for these ‘friend dates’ with her. They started spending more and more time together. He said he thinks about her all the time, that she’s funny and they like the same things. I watched him talk about her, and his face transformed. He looked all mushy and dreamy. I kinda spaced for a second because I couldn’t get past the eerie parallels.

  I held up my hand to stop him. “Do you love her?”

  “I was getting to that part. Thanks for ruining it.” I rolled my eyes and motioned with my hand for him to continue. “Anyway, the other night, I decide to lay it all out on the table. I planned this romantic date where I went to her apartment and cooked, lit candles, wine, the whole nine. She loved it. Said she had been waiting for me to make a move. I start to say it, but she puts her hand over my mouth and says, ‘I know. Me, too.’ Then she takes me to her room and screws my brains out.” He parks the car and we get out. “Three times, Nate. Three friggin amazing times! She did this thing where…”

  I really didn’t want to hear this. “Okay, Jake. I get it. It was good. So far I don’t see the problem.”

  “So last night, she asks me to come over. When I get there, she says she needs a break. Things are going too fast, blah blah blah. She wants us to take time away from each other. Needs us to make sure this is real.”

  “What did you say?” I ask as we open the door to the clinic.

  He shrugged. “Nothing. I left.”

  I reached the desk and told the woman my name. She handed me some paperwork and asked me to have a seat. I filled it out quickly and handed it back to the receptionist. No one else was in the waiting room, so I spoke.

  “Jake, are you deficient?”

  He looked like he was fighting a smile. “Why?” he asked, and I could tell it’s not what he wanted to say.

  “Well, first of all, you never told her you loved her out loud. And secondly, you left.” I shook my head. “You’re a dumbass; you need to fight for her.”

  “Mr. Slaughter, we’re ready for you,” the receptionist called. I stood up to head back and Jake stood up to come with me.

  “Hey, Nate.” My brother smiled at me sheepishly and whispered, “Remember what you just said. We’ll come back to it when you’re done.”

  That comment confused me, but to be honest, I loved the distraction. I found myself actually looking forward to talking more about him and Ashley. Thinking about someone else’s problems was comforting. Not that I was comforted by my brother’s pain. It just gave me something else to think about other than the shit storm that was my life. I was actually starting to feel like I might be useful to someone. Finally.

  I rounded the corner and came upon a seemingly empty room filled with training equipment and some devices that looked like they could inflict some serious torture. I limped in further and stopped dead so that Jake almost crashed into me. A woman stood facing away from me rolling up some sort of mat. She moved with such familiarity. It couldn’t be. But the ass that was pointed toward me was the most perfect ass I’d ever seen. It isn’t her. She stood up, and I noticed she was dressed in athletic shorts over tight, knee-length yoga pants and a sports bra covered by a tank top, her workout clothes. It’s not her. The hair is wrong, slightly lighter, longer. This woman’s shoulders are a bit more toned and more defined. Just a fluke. A similar happening. Not her.

  Then she turned around.

  I looked into the eyes that haunted me for seven years, eight months and three days.

  My mouth fell open. I was fucked.

  “You might wanna close that mouth.”

  Her comment instantly brought back the memory of when I first saw her.

  Four

  March 5, 9 years ago

  I was still reeling over what a dumbass move that was yesterday. I wasn’t paying attention to my base coach, who was telling me to hold up at second, until I was
rounding the base in question. I had to put on the breaks and go back. Then I caught the corner of the bag and my ankle rolled. To make matters worse, when I rolled off the base, I got tagged out. The guy batting behind me tied up the game with a homerun, which would have been a walk-off homerun had I not been a bone head. My mistake cost us the game. We lost in the tenth.

  Coach spent the better part of this morning reaming my ass out for my stupid mistake. I breezed out for most of the speech, but I got the gist. One more mistake like that and I’d be benched permanently.

  “You better not ever let me down again, Slaughter. Now, go get that ankle taped,” Coach instructed. “I know you are supposed to rest it today, but I may need you. Franklin’s knee is still bothering him.” I stood up, and he patted me on the shoulder. “This shit keeps happening to him and you may be our lead catcher. Go get it taped before the game, just in case.” I moved toward the door. “Oh, and Slaughter?” I looked back at coach. “Don’t fuck up again.”

  I muttered, “Yes, sir,” before walking out the door.

  Coach had been rotating me in at the end of games. Franklin had seniority, which is the only reason why I was his back up. I knew I was the better player. I just had to show them I was. Yesterday, I had my chance to play the whole game and screwed it up in the fifth inning. I’d hoped to prove myself. Instead, I looked like an amateur.

  I was busy mentally berating myself when I walked into the training room. I locked eyes on her, and I froze. All thoughts vacated.

  She was standing in front of shelves, restocking something, facing away from me. A slightly wild mass of light-brown hair with hints of gold and auburn, that hung in loose curls swinging around her shoulders. Her tight shirt showed her small waist that gently curved into the best ass I’d ever seen, round and firm. She wore running shorts, revealing long, toned legs. Her hips swayed as she stocked the tape on the shelves, and I was mesmerized. I couldn’t tell her height, but she wasn’t tall, probably around 5’4” or so, since she had to stretch on her toes every so often to reach the shelf she stocked. Magnificent. I got flashes of her profile when she turned to grab more out of the box, cute nose, long eyelashes and full, pouty lips. I caught sight of her chest, one with two perfect, handful-sized breasts, and I had pretty big hands. She was pretty, but the way she moved is what drew me to her. I unconsciously moved toward her, mercilessly pulled in by her tractor beam. A siren. That’s what she was.

  “Slaughter!” Jackson, the head student trainer, called, startling me out of my trance. I was never really sure if Jackson was his first name or his last, and I never asked. I only knew him as Jackson, post-grad student and head student trainer. But fortunately he spoke to me, which was a good thing because if he hadn’t stopped me, I may have done something really stupid, like touch her or pin her up against the wall and kiss her. “Coach called and said you needed your ankle taped. You ready?”

  “Oh, hey, Jackson. Yeah, I’m ready. Where do you want me?”

  He pointed to the left. “Pick a table.”

  I walked over and sat on the table that would afford me an unobstructed view of my new obsession while Jackson assessed my injury. Instead of getting to watch her, Jackson intervened.

  “Sullivan.” She startled and removed the ear buds from her ears.

  “Yeah, Jackson?” Her voice was deep and husky, like Scarlett Johansson, my celeb crush. I often wondered what it would be like to call ScarJo for a little phone sex.

  “Tape up Slaughter. Left ankle, compression on the lateral malleolus.” I watched her gather the supplies from the shelf she was just stocking when Jackson leaned in to me and said lowly, “You’re welcome.”

  “For what?” I asked, pulling my eyes from her and focusing on Jackson, who grinned at me.

  “Since you came in, you can’t take your eyes off her,” he whispered. “Watch out. She’s a feisty one. Don’t screw it up.” He laughed, smacked my shoulder, and walked away.

  She walked toward me, concentrating on not dropping the two rolls of tape, scissors and something that looked like a thick piece of felt in her hands. She walked to the left of me, setting the stuff on the table behind me. She picked up the felt and scissors and began cutting a horseshoe shape.

  I realized I was gawking, but I couldn’t stop.

  Then she looked up. Damn. Those eyes. Friggin unbelievable. Smoky greenish-blue. Time-stopping, mouth-hanging-open, deer-in-the-headlights, “Dream-Weaver”-playing-in-the-background beautiful. She looked down. No. Don’t do that. Look at me again. Forever. Please.

  “You might wanna close that mouth,” she said with a smirk. She spoke, to me. Unreal. That voice was like Viagra. The movements, the ass, the eyes, the voice. This girl was sheer perfection.

  “I just… I’ve never seen you in here before. I’m Nathaniel Slaughter.”

  She put down her scissors and held out her hand. “Etta Sullivan.”

  “Etta? Like Fitzgerald?” I asked stupidly.

  She chuckled. “No, Etta like James. Ms. Fitzgerald was Ella, not Etta. But my dad does love the sixties’ divas.”

  “Oh.” I reached out to shake her hand. Her handshake was firm, and it sent a jolt through me that lit my insides on fire. I hoped she didn’t notice my tension.

  “You’re an athletic trainer?” Yes, everyone. Suave, lady-killer Nathaniel Slaughter is trying to break the record for the most stupid questions ever asked in one sitting.

  She cocked her head and smiled at me, looking like she was debating whether or not to say something.

  “What?” I asked.

  She sat the scissors down and grabbed the foam tape. “Well, after watching you play, I’d have guessed you’d be a lot cockier than this.”

  “You’ve seen me play?”

  “Yep,” she retorted. “Yesterday in fact.” She moved to the end of the table and grabbed my foot, placing the U-shape around my ankle bone. She smirked and nodded toward my ankle. “Pretty cocky move, wasn’t it?” I would have answered her, but her careful and deliberate movements, which might have really impressed me if I could have dismissed the fact that was she touching me, disabled my speech. Touches like fire.

  She began wrapping the foam tape around my foot before she spoke again. “But to answer your question, yes, I’m currently in the athletic training program. I started it in high school and it sparked my interest. I thought I wanted to be a doctor, but I am considering other options.”

  “Well, based on the way you are wrapping my ankle, I think you’d probably be a great doctor.”

  She looked up at me and smiled slowly. “Thanks.” She grabbed the white tape and repeated the process of wrapping. “But I really don’t like innards. Or puking. Or blood,” she shuddered a little. “Or any bodily fluids, really.” She stopped wrapping and looked at me. “Tolerating fluids is kind of a requirement to be a doctor.”

  “I would guess.” All my charm must be on the other side of that door, because right now, I feel like a spaz. “So what other options do you have then?”

  “Physical therapy, athletic trainer, personal trainer, various other options. I thought I might want to be a physical therapist, but I love sports. Personal training is an option, but they make jack crap.” She cut the tape and patted it into place. “I thought I’d try this and see if I like it. Professional athletic training is a really tough industry for girls though.” She indicated for me to stand to check out the tape job she did. It felt fantastic, but I was a little let down that she worked so quickly. I didn’t want this conversation to end.

  “It feels a little crooked, like the compression is off a little.”

  She looked at me skeptically for a second. I hoped my face didn’t give away my lie. Finally, she grunted. “Sit down. I’ll fix it.” She grabbed the scissors and began cutting the tape from my foot.

  “So, what draws you to athletic training?” I asked, finding myself addicted to her voice.

  “I’m not sure that I’m actually drawn to athletic training. But I have always lov
ed sports.” More points in her favor. “And I am really interested in how the body moves.”

  I watched her bend to pick up the tape that had rolled off the table. I leaned back on my arms, confident that she would like seeing my arms flexing. Yep, this is why I worked out. I tried my seductive tone. “I recently developed an interest in that myself.”

  She laughed again. “And there he is. There’s my cocky boy.” I felt myself get red in the face, unsure if it was because she called me out or because she called me hers. I was blushing. Guys don’t blush. Fuck. “That was a seriously cheesy line, Casanova.” She repositioned the felt and started to wrap again.

  “Cheesy? Really? I’ll have you know that cheesy lines work for me all the time.”

  “Doubtful. A girl would see through your line of crap anywhere.”

  “Really?” A challenge. Awesome. “What would you prefer? Really cheesy, like ‘I heard milk does a body good, so baby, how many gallons do you drink a day.’”

  “Ha! Not at all. I like,” she deepened her voice more, “‘Hey babe, I wanna tie your shoes, because I can’t have you fall for someone else.’”

  “That was used on you?” She nodded. “Nice one.” She grabbed the white tape and started wrapping. I decided to try to up my game. “Okay, so what about, ‘For a moment I thought I had died and gone to heaven. Now I see that I am very much alive, and heaven has been brought to me.’”

  She looked up from her work to smile at me. “That one is better. But my favorite all time pick up line is, ‘Hey, can I use your phone, because my mom told me to call her when I met the girl of my dreams, and I think I just have.’ That one actually earned my number.”

  If that one earned her number, I thought it was time to go for my kill shot. I reached down and grabbed her left hand in my left. She caught her breath, and her eyes lifted to meet mine. I lifted her hand up to my mouth, palm up, and kissed her lightly on the pulse point of her wrist, tracing where my lips had been with the middle finger of my right hand. My eyes never left hers, and I watched her watch my movements. Smiling my slow smile (the one the last girl I dated called my wet-maker), I lowered my voice, hoping it sounded sexy. “You’re so beautiful,” I touched my lips to her wrist again, “I forgot my pick-up line.”