Cleat Catcher (The Cleat Chaser Duet Book 2) (6 page)

He hugged me, and I buried my face in his neck. His clean scent and woodsy aftershave washed over me, and as always, any tension drained from my body while I was in his strong arms.

“I think you did great out there.” I nipped at his ear, and his hands eased down my back to my ass that was barely covered with a pair of shorty-shorts. I squeaked when he gave a hard squeeze.

“That makes one of us.”

I didn’t like his reply at all, so I bit down harder on his lobe. “I’ll reward you tonight.”

He laughed, the sound rumbling from his chest and into mine. “I can’t wait.”

“Get a room!” Easton called from the bar.

Braden slid me slowly down his body, his erection pressing into my stomach. I turned around and planted my ass on his crotch.

“Jeez, Nik, that could kill a man.” He grabbed my hips and started walking me through the crowd, each step rubbing my ass on his tented jeans.

Several teammates said hi, their voices barely audible above the din of chatter and the old rock song playing over the speakers. The team bar felt like home—the smell of beer, freshly showered men, and an unrestrained lust for life all crammed into a small space.

Braden’s hard dick stayed wedged between my ass cheeks the entire way. By the time we made it to Easton and Kyrie, I was a giggling mess.

Easton gave Braden a grin. “Stop using Nikki as your boner garage. We have some celebrating to do.” He looped an arm around Kyrie and kissed her, bending her back as if he wanted to devour her.

Braden sat on a bar stool and pulled me into his lap, his chest to my back. “You like teasing me, don’t you?” His hands slid down my thighs, sending goosebumps rising along my skin.

“I don’t know what you’re talking—”

He squeezed a fistful of my hair and pulled me against him. When his lips hit my neck, I squirmed, his cock growing even harder beneath me. Growling against my skin, he sucked on my throat as his team milled around us, paying no mind to the two make-out sessions going on at the bar.

I jumped when Braden slid his hand up between my thighs. His fingers delved to my panties. I grabbed his bear paw and pushed it away, but not before his fingertips brushed the fabric over my pussy and sent fireworks skittering across my skin.

“Braden, not here.” I fidgeted more, and he released me.

“Just wait until later. I’m going to turn your ass bright red for teasing me.”

My pussy heated up another notch, and I wondered if he knew how wet he made me. I looked at him over my shoulder and batted my lashes. “Promise?”

He kissed me softly, his lips barely brushing against mine. But when he spoke, his voice was hard and low. “Count on it, baby.”

“So, when is this dinner-with-the-parents thing supposed to happen?” Easton had come up for air as Kyrie poured our glasses full of beer.

“Saturday.” I clapped like an idiot, but I couldn’t stop the wave of excitement that rushed over me.

Braden stiffened beneath me, and not in the good way.

“What?” I turned so I sat across his lap, my right arm wrapped around his neck.

He shook his head. “Nothing. I’m just, just looking forward to it is all.” He plastered a smile on his face. It was the fake, toothy smile I didn’t like.

Easton snorted. “Yeah, you really look like you’re raring to go.”

“Shut up.” Braden took a swig of his beer.

When he set his mug down, I put my hands on his cheeks and stared into his puppy-dog eyes. “My parents will love you. Dad loves all things baseball—”

“We know,
Nokona
.” Kyrie snickered.

I sighed. As if I didn’t get enough teasing about my name. My father had named me after a type of baseball glove. Love of the game was in my blood. My attraction to baseball players wasn’t the least bit coincidental. I’d spent my youth watching my brother’s high school baseball team—all those hot young guys in tight pants. It was no secret I was a cleat chaser through and through. But I’d never been caught up in a player until I’d met Braden.

“I think your dad has excellent taste in names.” Braden smiled and clinked his mug to mine. We both drank, the usual foam coating my upper lip. I set my glass down and waited. But nothing happened. Braden kissed beer foam off my lips every chance he got, and he was so good at it. Those lips were a religious experience. But this time, he didn’t.

I glanced to him and wiped the back of my hand across my mouth. He had a thousand-yard stare, his mouth drawn down at the corners. Worry tiptoed up my spine.

“Hey, baby.” I ran the back of my hand down his cheek. “What’s the matter?”

He came out of his daze and took another long swig. “I’m good. No worries. Um, so what am I supposed to call your parents?”

“My dad’s name is John, and my mom’s is Catherine, but she goes by Cat.”

Easton spewed beer across the bar. “Kitty Cat?” He could barely get the words out, his whole body shaking as he laughed.

“What? No. Just Cat.” I raised an eyebrow at Kyrie, but she was laughing into her hand, clearly in on the joke.

Easton locked eyes with Braden. “You motor-boating son-of-a-bitch!” He dissolved into peals of laughter as Kyrie shook her head and tried to hide her grin.

Braden shook beneath me. His lips were pinched together, and his eyes were about to pop out of his head from trying to contain his laughter.

“Oh my God, what is the joke, you idiots!” I stabbed a finger into Easton’s chest.

“Have you never seen
Wedding Crashers
?” Easton wiped a tear and tried to settle down.

“No, why?”

“There’s a character… Well there’s a scene where …” Easton glanced at Braden again, who slowly shook his head. Taking the hint, Easton shrugged and grabbed his beer again. “It’s, ah, it’s not important.” He put the glass to his lips and drank, and kept drinking as I glared at him.

“I’ll tell you about it later.” Kyrie patted my arm and tucked a lock of hair behind my ear. “
After
the dinner.”

“Go ahead and tell me now—”

“No way.” Braden finally spoke, the sound like a gunshot as he released his held breath.

“It’s better this way.” Kyrie smiled, mischief dancing in her eyes.

“Fine.” I could wait until after, or I could just ask Professor Google when I got home. Either way, it didn’t matter. The dinner would show my family that Braden was the perfect guy for me.

Braden finished his beer in record time and poured another. All four of us chatted and joked for the rest of the night. Braden and Easton even pranked the rookie by ordering him a pitcher of O’Doul’s. The poor kid couldn’t tell the difference.

Despite the fun, I caught Braden staring off far more than usual. Was it because of the dinner or something else? There was no point in asking. Braden wasn’t known for opening up, not even with me sometimes. But the niggling worry in my stomach began to grow each time I noticed his mind was elsewhere. I resolved that the dinner would soothe all his concerns, because my parents would have no other option but to love him like I did. Problem solved.

Ives opened the door for us as we walked into my parents’ home. Every time I came here, a sense of nostalgia washed over me. I’d grown up on the lush green lawns, playing on the wide front porch, and inside the large white house that sat atop a gentle rise. The green shutters looked exactly the same, and the wide front door gave the same slight creak it always did when it swung inward.

I hugged Ives, perhaps a little too hard.

He patted my back. “Good to see you again, too, Miss Nikki.”

“Did you like Florida?”

He smiled, deep wrinkles around his mouth and eyes reminding me of his age. “I like it here at home better. But I think the air down there does something good for my joints.”

“Spring in your step?”

He shook his bald head. “It doesn’t do
that
much good, Miss Nikki.”

Braden cleared his throat. I pulled him off the front porch and into the house. “Ives, this is my boyfriend, Braden Bradford.”

Ives inclined his head slightly and studied Braden. “Nice to meet you, young man. Come on in. Dinner is almost on the table.”

Braden’s hands couldn’t stay still the entire way here. He would rub his nose, scratch along his thigh, drum on the steering wheel—do anything but relax. I took his damp palm in mine. He had nothing to worry about. In his light blue button-down shirt, open at the collar, and pressed khakis, he looked as handsome as ever.

I ran my hand down his smooth face and whispered, “Don’t worry.”

“You aren’t, perchance, doing any hunting while you’re here, are you?” Ives had laughter in his voice as he led us past the music room and my father’s wood-paneled study. Baseball mementos lined the walls and shelves.

“No. Hope not.” Braden pulled at his collar even though it wasn’t touching his throat. I glanced down. I wore an A-line summer dress that cut mid-thigh, gathered at my waist, and hugged my bust. The top was sleeveless with a modest scoop, and the white material bore a large floral print. We looked like a perfect pair going to a picnic, or perhaps to watch a horse race. My parents would approve.

My white heels clicked on the polished wood floors as we passed the sun room, and Ives led us into the formal dining room.

I froze. Braden stopped at my side.

“Come in, come in!” Mom waved us toward the head of the table. A cacophony of “oh shits” played through my mind, but there was no turning back.

I forced a smile to my face, despite my burning need to strangle my mother.

“Nikki, you look amazing.” Carter smiled his engaging smile. His blond hair was perfectly styled to fall in elegant waves, as if he’d just come in from a day at the beach.

My mother tittered as my father took a long pull on his glass of red. I walked to her slowly, almost mechanically. I glanced at Braden. He was sweating, and his gaze bounced from one person to the next, as if he didn’t know who to speak to first.

I strode to my mother. “Mom.”

She pulled me close and gave each of my cheeks an imaginary kiss. Her light gray hair didn’t move even a centimeter, and she wore a white pant suit that she likely borrowed from Hilary Clinton’s closet.

Dad wore seersucker pants, a pale gray polo, and a look of distaste as he gave Braden the once-over. My stomach churned, and I had to work to keep the smile on my face. Why was Carter here?

“Mom, Dad, this is my boyfriend, Braden Bradford.”

“Mr. Graves.” Braden shook my dad’s hand. Then he hugged my mother, ass-out as was appropriate. She gave him the air-kiss treatment as well, but when she pulled back, her eyes narrowed.

“And I’m Carter.” He held out his hand. “I’ve heard so much about you, Braden. Wonderful to finally meet you.”

Braden shook his hand. “Thanks, I guess. Are you a brother I didn’t know about or something?”

The acid in my stomach turned into a whirling tornado, and the tips of my ears went cold.

“No.” There was Carter’s too-perfect smile again. “I’m just an old friend of Nikki’s.” Before I could back away, he took me in his arms and gave me a long hug—definitely not ass-out, and definitely more than an ‘old friend’ would give.

I glared at Mom over Carter’s shoulder. She gave a slight shrug and took a drink of wine. This was not going as expected. I’d been ambushed by none other than Carter Falkland, ex-boyfriend and heir to the largest paper products fortune in the world. Worse than that, it was obvious my mother had set it all up.

With more than a little effort, I pulled away from Carter’s embrace and took Braden’s hand. “This is my boyfriend.”

“Yes, dear, you made that clear.” Mom motioned to the table, each place setting arranged with a degree of precision that even a neuro-surgeon would envy. Three centerpieces of blue hydrangeas and yellow roses were placed at intervals along the table, though we only used five seats of the twenty-four.

Carter moved to pull a chair out for me, but Braden grabbed it first.

“Have a seat, babe.” His assertive tone had me tingling in all the right places.

I smiled and said “thank you” before sitting. Braden sat to my right. Dad took the head of the table at my left, a frown firmly affixed to his face—thanks to Mother, I was sure. Mom and Carter moved to sit opposite us.

I glared at her as Carter pulled out her chair. She locked eyes with me, the challenge apparent. She’d been trying to get me back together with Carter for two years straight. She still hadn’t given up, and now Braden was caught in a mother-daughter pissing match. I would win, but I had to be careful. Mom was craftier than a seventy-year-old at a scrapbooking convention.

She waved at the cook, who began serving the salad course. Braden kept wiping his palms down his pants, and a visible sweat mustache had formed along his upper lip. Dad scowled, Mom simpered, and Carter didn’t take his light blue eyes off me. Tense was an understatement.

I cleared my throat. “Braden’s the catcher for the Ravens. They won their game on Thurs—”

“Carter, how’s the paper business going? I heard you’re managing the finances.” Mom began cutting her salad into very particular little squares, her silverware clicking against the plate.