Bring The Heat: A Bad Boy Sports Romance (Bad Boys of Summer Book 1) (5 page)

Chelsea

“Damn him!” I bellowed to myself after I shut the door and snapped the deadbolt into place. I got tangled in my purse as I tried to get it off over my head and the struggle to get free only pissed me off all the more. When I got it off, I threw it onto the bench seat under the front window and then stalked down the dark hallway, not bothering to turn on the lights until I got into the kitchen. I flicked on the light over the island and went to the fridge. The door crashed open so hard that the condiments in the door rattled, the glass bottles bouncing off each other. The cool air from the fridge brought my body temperature down from boiling to flushed.

I grabbed a pitcher of iced tea and then slammed the door shut. I stomped over to the cupboard, ripped a glass down, and poured the tea up to the brim. “Cocky, arrogant, bastard!” I shook my head, still fuming mad.

The worst part was that I was angrier with myself for almost getting caught in his carefully crafted web.

“Stupid girl. Let some fast talking charmer get into your head.”

I took three sips of the cold drink and then returned the pitcher to the fridge and took the rest of my drink to the living room. “Hey guys,” I said, tapping my nails lightly on the glass aquarium that dominated most of my living room wall. The tank was a saltwater habitat and housed fifteen different fish as well as lots of plant life and anemones. “You would not believe the night I’ve had. Let me tell you…just be glad you’re fish.”

Some people talk to their cat or dog. I talk to my fish. It’s totally normal.

I watched the fish follow my fingers for a minute, full well knowing they were just waiting around to see if food would magically fall from the sky into their tank. With a sigh, I set down my glass on the coffee table and returned to the tank long enough to dole out everyone’s dinner. Then tracked back to the kitchen to wash the fish food smell from my fingers and swiped my laptop from the dining room table on my way back.

It was late, but I was a night owl, and wouldn’t be able to sleep for at least another couple of hours. Especially with the amount of irritation and fury still coursing through me. Getting dragged to the baseball game had been bad enough. Between the ball demolishing my window, the dinner with Cody, and even worse, whatever the hell happened on the porch, I was in desperate need for a distraction. And work always provided an easy escape. When I was programming, hours flew by like minutes. On particularly deep work binges, I’d have to set a timer to remind myself to get up and do normal people things. Pee, eat, sleep.

I settled into the couch with my laptop and gulped down some more iced tea while I waited for the screen to load. Cody was still running the bases inside my head. I glanced at my glass and wondered if I should switch to something stronger and force Cody from my mind.

“See you later, Chelsea.”

I shivered at the words and the dark look in his eyes when he said them. The way he smelled still lingered in my nose. As my eyes dropped to the seat next to me on the couch, I wondered if that’s where we would have landed if I let him inside. I pictured a tangle of limbs and could almost hear the echoing moans of pleasure we’d make as we crashed together like horny teenagers.

I blinked hard twice, clearing the images away. I had no idea why he’d been able to get so deep under my skin. It wasn’t like me to obsess over men in general, but especially not to have latched onto one so tightly after two or three hours in his company. It didn’t make any sense.

I guess it’s true what people say. Men love bitches and women like dogs.

“I do
not
like him,” I insisted to myself. Case closed. I jerked my laptop onto my lap and entered my login info. Cody was banished. From henceforth on. No more. I had too much work to do after a day and night wasted on ballgames and ball players.

My first game, a children’s game that helped kids learn geography was called Lucky’s Big Adventure and had grown in popularity since I released it as a part of my final project at MIT. The popularity had surprised me and led to a lot of doors being opened. A top-notch technology firm invested in me for a new game, this time aimed at teaching children basic math skills. It was supposed to star Lucky, the fish who happened to be modeled after my own little clown fish. But so far, I hadn’t managed to come up with the right idea for the backdrop of the educational game.

Which was a pretty big problem considering I needed to have something to show the investors within a month. If I couldn’t deliver I’d lose my funding and I’d have to resort to polishing off my dwindling savings account to supplement the first game’s revenue until I could take a corporate job.

Which I really didn’t want to do.

I opened my design studio and stared at Lucky’s comically animated face. It was almost like he was waiting for me to drop him into his next adventure. Which, of course, was ridiculous since he was a cartoon.

I sighed and pulled open the document where I’d stashed my ideas for the game.

All three of them.

The first was crossed out. I’d thought maybe having Lucky learning to dance would give an opportunity to count dance steps but the idea had quickly been shot down by Paris. The other two ideas were pretty terrible too. Lucky goes to the zoo and counts the other animals. Or Lucky learns karate.

“Good lord.” I groaned and clicked out of the document again. It was too depressing.

The only sound in the living room was the ticking of the giant antique clock hanging on the wall above the fireplace and the quiet, steady hum of the fish tank filter. It was too quiet to think. If that was even possible. I dug into the couch cushions beside me and retrieved the remote control. I clicked the TV on and flipped through the channels until I found some cheesy wedding reality show. I wasn’t itching to get married but wedding shows were a gold mine for mindless drama.

My fingers hovered over the keyboard, not sure what to type, when autopilot took over and in the blink of an eye and a few clicks at the track pad, I found myself lost in a Google search on a particularly cocky baseball player.

Cody Wright

6’1 210 pounds

Drafted late and sent to the minors in Holdenville for a year.

The son of a former MLB star, James Wright, retired.

I scanned through the rest of the public profile but didn’t find anything juicy. The Images button was calling my name but I held off, choosing to click on a link that detailed his time in Holdenville. “Well, well, well, Mr. Wright, you’re a little bit of a troublemaker aren’t you?” The article attached to his picture stated his contract was in jeopardy after a series of bad decisions and too many missed practices. “Gee, a real winner.”

I went to close the link, but my eyes snagged on his handsome, stubble coated face and his green eyes popped out at me from the picture. They were more engaging in real life but I still found it hard to tear myself away from the picture version.

“What’s your deal, Cody?” I muttered to myself. How was he so cocky when he literally
just
started in the majors? Where did all that come from? I didn’t know much about baseball, or sports in general for that matter, but being picked late in the draft and immediately sent to the minor division didn’t scream All-Star potential. So why did he think he was God’s gift to women? You’d think with a pro for a dad he would have a more grounded attitude about the whole thing. Was his dad a partier too? I almost Googled him as well, but stopped myself. Deciding that was too far down the rabbit hole.

I knew all I wanted to know about Cody Wright and if I was lucky, I wouldn’t see him again.

Unfortunately, he showed up—uninvited—into my dreams later that night after I finally called it a day and trudged up to bed. I woke up in a tangle of sweat soaked sheets, my heart racing, and my skin tingling with the all-too-vivid remnants from the seductive, damn near wet, dream.

“Ugh!” I flopped back against the hot pillows and rolled my eyes.

My thighs were clenched together, every nerve strung tight like a bow about to release an arrow. With my eyes still halfway closed, I reached into my bedside table and dug around blindly until my fingers found the soft, silicone coated vibrator that always helped me out in a situation like this.

“If I’m going to obsess about him, I might as well get something out of it,” I muttered to myself, powering on the small pleasure device.

Permission granted—just this one time—I let my thoughts wander back to the dream and started to tease myself slowly. It had started out on the porch, his green eyes dark and sparkling with wicked delight under the soft light. He placed his hand above me, pinning me to the front door, but in the dream, instead of pushing away, he leaned forward and his lips took mine. And it wasn’t the gentle, PG, network TV kind of kiss. No, it was a toe-curling, hair pulling, demanding, heart-stopping kind of kiss.

I moaned softly and imagined what those full lips of his would be like on mine. The taste of him. The smell of his cologne. And that body…oh em gee. It was enough to drop jaws and turn heads in jeans and a t-shirt. Stripped down it was probably hot enough to ruin me for all other men. Layer upon layer of muscle, smooth skin, and powerful force. His pecs were probably firm with tiny little nipples that would brush against my skin and make me lose my damn mind. His abs were likely to be just as perfect with deep v-lines at his hips that would lead all the way to the treasure between his legs.

Despite my crack about the size of his truck, there was no way Cody Wright wasn’t packing some serious heat.

And I wanted it. In my hands, against my skin, deep in my mouth, and even deeper inside me.

“Fuck!” I gasped as I hit the top and tumbled over. Imagining his cock buried balls deep inside me was enough to make me come right there.

The reality of it would probably kill me.

I panted and clicked the vibrator off. “Damn it. I am so in trouble…”

Cody

The alarm rang long after I woke up. After dropping Chelsea off at her suburban princess palace, I hadn’t been able to function properly. Which included sleeping. The night was just a series of tossing and turning and every time I woke up, my mind went back to her round tits, pouty lips, and the fire in those dark eyes of hers.

Not surprisingly, when I woke up and finally rolled my ass outta bed—I was sporting some pretty serious wood.

If only Chelsea was here with her sweet little mouth to help me out…she acted like she was all nerdy and innocent but she had a sassy, smart mouth and knew how to handle herself. There wasn’t a doubt in my mind that she’d know just how to handle me as well.

Damn. That was a hot idea. I stalked naked from the bed to the bathroom, my cock rock hard like a damn flag pole. I jumped right into the shower and lathered up, letting my nasty thoughts about Chelsea carry me away while I rubbed one out under the jet of hot water. It didn’t take long, imagining Chelsea on her knees, her tits covered in suds, her little pert nipples brushing my thighs while she worked her sweet mouth over my fat cock.

Damn!

Reluctantly, I got out of the shower, toweled off, and got dressed. I needed to report to the practice facility by ten am and the clock was creeping towards nine thirty. Before I went back into the bathroom to put on some of the goopy shit that kept my hair in place, I checked my phone, on the off chance the ice queen had melted overnight.

Was it too much to hope for some late night bad decisions? Like a couple topless snaps?

Apparently. The phone was loaded with messages, most of them trash talk from the fuckers I paled around with in the off season.

Nothing sexy about any of it.

“Damn.” I threw the phone into my inside jacket pocket. I’d have to get her number from Robby and make sure his girl gave Chelsea my number, if she hadn’t already asked her for it that is.

I tousled my hair and then strut out of my room, down to the expansive lobby, and out to where my truck was parked.

Only when I slipped in behind the wheel did it hit me just what I was getting ready to walk into. After yesterday afternoon’s epic disaster on the field, I was facing a rough day. Best case scenario, I put up with some more shit slinging and trash talk, maybe a slap on the wrist from Coach. Worst case? Dismissal from the team.

That sobered me up big time. I could hear my dad talking in my ear already.

“Lazy, selfish, undisciplined.” Just a few of his favorite words to describe my…
ethics
.

My dad was a pro baller as well. Baseball had been my life since my first breath. No, really, my dad showed up to the hospital in his uniform complete with grass stains. He’d been playing a game when my mom went into labor and had to wait till it was over to race over and witness the last few minutes of my grand entrance to planet earth. So, it was only natural that as a small child—up through my high school years—I lived, slept, ate, and breathed the sport. For a lot of years, I thought it was the only thing I was good at, until I realized it was the only thing I’d ever tried. However, by that time, my course was set and deviation wasn’t an option. My dad was hell-bent on me going pro and I had the skills to back up those ambitions.

I loved baseball too, but only a fraction of how much my dad loved it.

What I loved more were the women, cars, and cash that came with being a pro.

Some would call it shallow and vapid but I didn’t care about those people. Call me a hack. I don’t give a fuck. The opinions of haters would never buy me a boss crib or a private jet with my name spray painted down the sides.

Damn, Chelsea would look hot in a stewardess costume…

“Focus, Wright.” I shook my head and turned the engine over. There would be plenty of time to fantasize about Chelsea doing all kinds of nasty, dirty girl things.

Just as soon as I clawed my way off Coach’s shit list and back into his good graces.

* * * *

Coach Robinson’s office was just as impressive as the man himself. I arrived while he was still out, finishing a meeting with the front office according to his frumpy assistant. Why didn’t Coach get himself a hot piece of ass to fetch his coffee and write his emails? That’s what I would do if it were me sitting behind the massive oak desk that probably outweighed most cars on the freeway outside. Besides the substantial furniture, he had a wall to wall display case that showcased his obscene amount of awards, trophies, placards, and ribbons. Most of them had his name on them but it looked like he also collected the medals and achievements of players under his wing or whom he had previously had under his wing.