Bad Boy Prospect (Alpha Bad Boy Book 2)

Bad Boy Prospect

(Novella #2 in the Alpha Bad Boy Series)

By: Sloane Howell

Bad Boy Prospect

Copyright © Sloane Howell

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Cover Design by Sloane Howell

www.sloanehowell.com

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This ebook is a work of fiction.  Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

All rights reserved.  No part of this publication can be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, photocopying, mechanical, or otherwise—without prior permission of the publisher and author.

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Novellas In This Series (these are standalones that can be read in any order):

Bad Boy Revelation
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Novels:

The Matriarch Trilogy:

Book # 1: The Matriarch: An Erotic Superhero Romance

Books # 2 and 3: Coming in 2016

Short Stories and Novellas:

The Panty Whisperer Series:

The Panty Whisperer: Volumes 1 - 5

The Panty Whisperer: Volume 6

The Payne Capital Series:

Payne Capital

GAVIN

Coach walks out of the dugout and heads toward the mound. He taps his right arm as he glances out to us in the bullpen beyond right field. It's the bottom of the ninth and there's one out. This is the shit I live for.

The outfield wall swings open and I jog out onto the field. The smell of stale beer and hotdogs cuts through the dirt kicked up all along the warning track. I make my way through the outfield, scanning the stadium from left to right as it grows larger in my vision and the faint cheers slowly turn to a roar.

Coach and Jackson — our catcher — are standing on the mound waiting for me, most likely discussing scouting reports and how to approach the next batter. It doesn't really matter. He's not going to touch a fucking thing I throw. This is my opportunity to shine. This is my shot at getting called up to the show. The only thing that can fuck this up is me.

My feet pound the grass in right field as I near, my cleats ripping up the bermuda as the wind rushes over my face. Some loud screams pierce through the din of the crowd. I'm dumb enough to glance over to two girls who couldn't be more than nineteen or twenty as they turn and flip their shirts up, revealing my name on the ass of their shorts.

My cock tries to grow against my cup, an impossibility that's bound to have me walking like a goddamned cripple.
Focus motherfucker! Think of something to take your mind off fucking those girls. Aspertame. Dung Beetles. Marla Hooch. Robert Plant.

Fortunately, my dick gets some relief. I want to look back at them, but it will only end in a dick disaster. I'll fuck both of them after the game, so I'm not too worried about depriving them of my attention.

I finally reach the mound and Coach looks like he is trying to explode my brain with his stare.

"Done admiring your goddamn hooker harem? Can you give us a few minutes of your time, superstar?" He folds his arms across his chest, and I realize he's still holding the ball. It pisses me off. This mound is my domain and he's intruding on it. He's not welcome here. I lean down — way down — and stare him in the eye.

"Give me my fucking ball, and go to the dugout while I make you look good." It's more of a growling order than a simple request. I can see Jackson eyeing me with caution. Coach eyeballs me long and hard. It's an admirable play on his part, and I respect him for it. But he needs me way more than I fucking need his ass. I flip my glove out and he slaps the ball into it, but he doesn't let go.

"This guy crowds the plate. You need to work him off of it. Then bring the slider and make him chase."

"We got runners on first and second. I'm not trying to work his ass in. What if he decides to lean into one? Then we got bases loaded."

Coach chuckles and releases the ball in my glove. "He ain't leaning into a goddamn thing you throw, son. Not if he wants to survive."

This is why I love baseball. Two seconds ago we were at each other's throats. But Coach always says something, in some backhanded way, that gives me a dose of confidence. Not that I need it, but it probably works great on the other guys.

I belt out a laugh that probably has the other team's hitter pissed off. I make sure to turn and look at him while I finish chortling at his expense. "Touché coach."

I hear the familiar footsteps coming toward us, letting me know it's time to go to work. The three of us turn to face the home plate umpire.

"Let's go fellas. Break it up," says the ump.

"No worries, blue." Coach turns back to me. "Go get 'em, son." I get a thumbs up and then he walks back to the dugout, hands in his back pockets. I don't know why every coach on the planet does that shit. It looks ridiculous.

Jackson is standing there seemingly catatonic and staring before he snaps out of his daze and looks up at me. A moment passes and his face still holds a blank stare. It baffles me that he always does this. He knows how Coach and I operate.

"You're gonna need to go behind the plate if I'm gonna finish this shit."

"Oh, umm, yeah right."

He trots back behind the plate and crouches down as I throw my warm up pitches. When that's finished, I mosey around the back of the mound, tuck my glove in my arm pit, and rub some dirt in my hands. I bend the bill of my cap so that it's tucked tight around my face, old school, none of that flat billed shit everyone does nowadays. My back is to the batter as I slip my glove back on and pound the ball into my mitt.
Let's do this shit.

I turn around and step up to the rubber. The crowd goes ballistic. They love me because they know I get shit done. They came to see their superstar first round draft pick mow down hitters. I dig my cleat in front of the rubber, creating a shallow trench for my foot, and lean in, raising my glove almost to the bill of my cap, so that my glove and hat form a narrow oval and all the hitter sees is my eyes, glaring down at his bitch ass.

This is what baseball is all about. Only one of us can win and it sure as shit is going to be me. I hope his mother is in the crowd to witness her son's failure. Jackson throws down the ol' number one on the third sign he flashes and I oblige him with a nod. Coach wasn't lying. This sack of shit is on my plate, damn near hugging it. It's time to teach him a lesson and establish my dominance early.

I come set and look back to the runner at second to make sure he doesn't try anything stupid. Once I'm satisfied, I kick my left leg to my chest, and explode off the rubber with my right, whipping my arm around and throwing exactly where I want — right at this cocksucker's chin. I hear the familiar whistling of the seams cutting through the air as I follow through and kick my back leg around. It sounds like a shotgun blast when the ball pummels into Jackson's mitt. My opponent is flat on his back, bathing himself in dirt and the chalk outline of the batter’s box. The ball barely missed his head and he does not look happy.

He leaps up from the dirt, bat in hand. "What the fuck?"

I take a few steps toward him, my brow tightening, giving him the glare I give everyone. "Stay off my fuckin' plate, or I'll put your ass down again." I head back up the mound and look out to the scoreboard in centerfield. The bottom right corner flashes "101 mph." I'm just getting started.

The opposing hitter still looks mighty pissed and that gets a smile out of me as he steps back in the box. This time he's not nearly as close to the plate as he was.
Got him.

I can see his weight on his heels. It's time to give him the slider and watch him wave like a fucking clown. Jackson probably sees it too and flashes more signs. I know when he flashes the three fingers on the third sign that he's calling for the slider. I nod once more and come set. I'm thinking about how stupid this chump is about to look when I glance to the runner. He has three fingers on his thigh. I turn my head to the third base coach and see him eyeing his runner closely and then he shouts out the hitter's last name. "Thibodeaux!"
These motherfuckers.

I step off the back of the rubber. I'm not putting up with this Mickey Mouse bullshit. It's an unwritten rule of the game. A complete bitch move to steal someone's signs. Kneeling in the grass, pretending to tie my shoe, I look up to the baserunner. He's staring back at me.

I glance over to the field umpire. He is staring off at the two girls I'll sink my cock into later. I turn back to the runner. "You steal my signs again and he's going to eat this next pitch."

He decides to act stupid. "Fuck you, bitch."

"I'm not fucking around, chicken dick. Throw 'em down on your goddamn leg again and see what happens."

The tone in our voices has grown and we now have the field umpire's attention. "Let's play ball, boys."

"Yes sir." I flash him a smile and the little bitch running his mouth takes notice.

I step back to the rubber and look to Jackson. He gives the same sequence of signs like an idiot, but I don't care. The cocksucker on second base is going to determine the pitch selection, not Jackson. I turn my head back and sure as shit he has three fingers on his leg again. Wrong move.

I shake my head at him and come set. I grip a four seam fastball, kick my leg and fire the goddamn thing right at their batter. He flips around and takes it right between the numbers, arches his back, and hits the deck.

"You motherfucker!" The runner on second is halfway to the mound when I step off and start toward him.

"Oh, goddamn." I can hear coach's voice from the dugout. It doesn't faze me. I can feel my face turning tomato red as I sling my glove off and ball my hands into fists at my sides.

"Fuck you. I told your ass to quit bein' a bitch." The umpire tries to get to us, but he's too late. This son of a bitch sticks his finger in my face and I grab it and twist as hard as I can. I hear the bone in his index finger snap as I throw a right cross and hit him so hard his helmet flies out by our shortstop.

The benches clear on both sides. It's like a sea of red and blue in the middle of the diamond. Both sides in each other's faces, bowed up, just waiting for someone to make a move. The field umpire grabs me by the shirt and I grip his collar and squeeze tight before I know what I'm doing. His eyes get big before I come to my senses and let go.

"You're out of here, Markoff!" He slings his arm around and points to the parking lot out beyond right field.

Fuck!
Coach is going to go ballistic. I walk off the field and into the dugout. Some fans are cheering, some booing. Before I walk down the steps I look up and see a boy who couldn't be older than six. He has tears in his eyes and his parents are glaring at me. I drop my head and walk down the steps. I pummel the water cooler as hard as I can when I storm past. Water explodes everywhere. It's not enough. I need the rage out of my system and I need to milk this situation for all it's worth. I pick up the cooler, knowing cameras are on me, and hurl it into the concrete wall. It rattles around the dugout as I walk to the door that leads down to the clubhouse. I'll never hear the end of this. But rest assured the country will see this on Sportscenter, and hitters will fear me.