Knox (Sexy Bastard #3) (5 page)

An autograph and a handshake later, we’re done for the night. Cooper Knox has established residence in Atlanta, Georgia. Mission accomplished.

“Thanks, Shelby, I couldn’t have done it without you,” I say, forcing myself to keep it light as we get back in the car.

“No problem. As long as you’re still planning on paying up in the form of a double burger with cheese. And a large fries.
And
a milkshake.”

A girl who can handle her junk food.

Now that’s fucking sexy.

S
ix a.m
.

I groan as the alarm on my phone goes off. I was up way too late last night, replaying just about every word Shelby said to me over the last week. And adding a lot more I wish I’d heard in between.
I can’t take it anymore. Fuck me, Knox.

Yeah. That didn’t help with sleeping.

But there’s no more time to waste. I’ve got to get back in the saddle.

Off-season training is some of the most critical work a ball player will do all year. When you’re pitching two to three games a week for twenty-six weeks straight, your pitching arm stays strong, your stride stays long, and your reflexes are primed for maximum velocity. But take even three days off and your fast-twitch muscles start to degrade. A lazy off-season can inflict a lot of damage on your game if you’re not careful.

I pound down a protein shake, hop in the shower, and head over to Turner Field. Time to acquaint myself with the Braves’ facilities.

“Looks like you’re going to have the place to yourself,” the clubhouse manager says as he lets me in.

“That suits me just fine,” I tell him. “Wouldn’t want any of my new teammates ripping off the famous Cooper Knox workout,” I say with a laugh.

I start by alternating a series of outfield sprints and stair runs with reps of burpees, squats, lunges, and step-ups on the bleachers. Distance running isn’t useful to ball players, so we tend to focus on quick bursts of energy that mirror the pace of an actual game. I’m stiff as hell from the move and the last few days of unpacking, so I’m feeling the pain.

After a couple of hours of training, I must be looking pretty rough, too.

“Might want to take it down a notch, Yankee,” says Hunter Erickson, the team’s center fielder and resident pretty boy as he tosses me a towel. “Wouldn’t want you tearing any ligaments before we even get a game out of you.”

“We can’t all be supermodels,” I say, going in for a shake.

“Hey man, someone’s gotta represent the team on camera,” he shrugs.

“Heard you were already up and at ‘em and wanted to say hello. Why don’t you come by the locker room and let me introduce you to a few of the guys?”

“Sounds good,” I say, smelling some kind of trap. Even a seasoned player’s going to be in for a little bit of hazing. Especially when he’s been traded from a legendary team that inspires an equally legendary amount of beef.

“Ladies! We’ve got some fresh Yankee blood in our midst,” Hunter calls out as we enter the clubhouse.

Three of my new teammates are huddled around a laptop. “Don’t worry, Yank,” the biggest one says, walking over and reaching over for a pound. “We won’t bite. I’m Derrick.” Derrick Hernandez, the Braves’ left fielder. Six-foot-four, pure muscle, and a temper that sometimes spills out into the clubhouse.

Johnny Caruso, one of the team’s most dependable batters, strolls over with a really not-convincing innocent smile on his face. “Hey man, welcome to the neighborhood. Let me know if you have trouble finding anything.”

A glance around the room shows everyone watching me at once, their eyes huge and cheerful. Too cheerful.

“Got a feeling I should be keeping an eye on my valuables,” I say with a smirk. “How’s security around here?”

Busting into a player’s locker and messing with his stuff is amateur hour. Hell, the MLB
makes
it child’s play by setting us up with doorless closets and lockboxes nobody actually uses.

I turn to assess the damage when my phone starts blowing up—an avalanche of Twitter notifications.

I click the first. A video. Hot girl in a Braves hat, a cropped sweatshirt, and a tight-as-shit pair of low-rise jeans. If this is what the local fan base looks like, I may be spending some more time signing baseballs this year. I turn up the sound.

An off-camera male voice asks, “Would you ever date a guy in a Yankees cap?”

“Absolutely not,” hot girl responds.

“What if the guy were an actual Yankees player?”

Girl pauses. “Depends how rich he was. But I’d make him take the hat off.”

Derrick Hernandez approaches the girl and turns to the camera . . . in the Yankees cap that’s clearly missing from the top shelf of my locker. “Cooper Knox, consider this a public service announcement. If you’re planning on getting laid in this town, you’re gonna have to ditch the hat.”

Motherfuckers. Three hundred views and counting.

And the video keeps going. Next on screen comes an animated GIF of me throwing my mitt on the ground after losing to the Red Sox. Caption? “Cooper Knox ain’t getting none.”

Then a few more team members pass my hat around to random chicks, all of them saying similar things as the first girl. The bastards turned my hat into a traveling meme.

Gotta hand it to ‘em: It’s a step up from amateur level, with a few bonus points for viral content. Even as the butt of the joke, I can admit it’s kind of funny. Guess I should just be grateful I’m not enough of a rookie to warrant the ice-bath treatment.

But fuck. That hat was my lucky charm. I
need
it before the season starts. I have a habit of keeping my first ever issued hats from each team I played . . . even down to high school. They keep me grounded, and each time I look at them, I remember how far I have come.

I toss my phone in my locker and stride off to the gym without giving my snickering teammates the satisfaction of seeing my face. “Nice,” I call out over my shoulder as I flip them the backwards bird. “You pieces of shit better get my goddamn hat back by the end of the week.” Not even the dumbest ball player would be dumb enough to permanently remove a pitcher’s good-luck charm from his bag of game-day tricks.

Or at least, I fucking hope so, if they want me pitching well for them now.

In the weight room I meet my new strength coach, Mikey. We’ll be following the regimen I’ve been using in New York, adding a few modifications here and there. The workout changes and evolves depending on the day of the week and the needs of the player. Today it’s a mix of weightlifting, pilates, and plyometrics—an explosive jumping series designed to teach your muscles to work quickly at their highest intensity and to bring back up whatever solid breakfast you were stupid enough to consume. I learned that lesson early on and now take my workouts on a near empty stomach.

I’m close to finishing up when Mitch Everson, the team’s head pitching trainer, walks in. He watches without comment for a while and then introduces himself and asks if I’d like to do some practicing. We do a few warm-up catches in outfield, then head to the bullpen for a targeted review session.

I’m definitely not on my game, but I try to shake it off. New team, unfamiliar facilities, new staff . . . and a missing good-luck hat.

“How are you feeling, Knox?”

“Stiff, but starting to warm up.”

“We’ll get you there, buddy.”

I whiff the next few pitches and Mitch pulls out his iPad to review the playback in slow-mo. “You’re leaning a bit right during your wind-up. Let’s see if we can course correct.”

I tweak my stance and that seems to solve the problem. Mitch’s reputation is well-deserved.

“Let’s try five more like that just to make sure it gels.”

“Sounds good, Coach.”

But on the next pitch I feel a twinge in my pitching shoulder. Maybe my lean was a form of compensation? A few rotations and neck rolls seem to set me straight, and I decide not to worry about it. Positive thinking is a time-tested form of injury prevention.

“You all right, Knox?”

“Yeah, Coach, I’m good. Nothing some time in the whirlpool won’t fix.”

Back at the gym I sign up for a session with one of the sports therapists. A couple of hours of deep-tissue work should get me back on track.

“
N
obody told
me about the shareholders’ meeting,” I call out as I walk through the door of the Library in the late afternoon lull. Jackson, Ryder, and Cash are huddled together at the end of the bar with a stack of paperwork in front of them.

“I’ll help myself, thanks,” I say as I grab the open bottle of Patron on the bar.

“Hey man, you want take on some administrative duties, you say the word,” Ryder says.

“Nah, I’m good with an open-bar policy and a piece of the action.”

“Speaking of action,” Cash says, pulling out his phone. “Looks like you’re going to have a hard time getting any in this town.”

I groan. “I hate to admit it, but those sons of bitches got me good.”

“You’re a meme. Looks like your hat’s made it all the way across the county line.”

“Quite the welcome committee,” Jackson says, clapping me on the back. “Speaking of which, we’ve got a housewarming present for you.”

Jackson crouches down behind the bar and brings out a flat package wrapped in brown paper.

“For your new place, hope you like it.”

“Holy shit,” I say as I tear off the paper. The guys went all out with this. It’s an autographed photo of the Atlanta Braves, 1966. That’s a historic year for the Braves—the year they moved from Milwaukee to Atlanta, and after shaking off a few years of bad luck, went on to win the Western League division playoffs.

“How did you even find this?” I ask as I ogle it.

Among other players, that year the team got Joe Torre, who needs no introduction, Hank Aaron, one of the greatest hitters in the history of the game, and Phil Niekro, a pitcher with a knuckleball that was downright unhittable.

Some goddamned legends on that roster.

“All Jackson’s idea,” Cash says with a laugh.

“The team made a lucky move that year by coming to this city,” Jackson says, “And this year they’ve made a lucky trade.”

“To new beginnings,” Ryder toasts, and I raise my shot glass to these friends who feel more like family.

But as I slug back my tequila the word “family” catches in my brain. At least one of my “family” members would not appreciate what I’ve been doing—or at least, thinking about doing—to his real flesh-and-blood family member. I pour another shot to push away the nagging feeling that I might have jeopardized one of the relationships I value most.

“
L
adies’ night has officially begun
!” Savannah pops the cork on a bottle of Merlot as she kicks off her shoes. “Speaking of which. Shouldn’t Ryder be off running a fight club or tending a bar?”

“Don’t worry, Savy, I’ve got my prize fighter well-trained,” Cassie responds as she curls up in Ryder’s lap. “He knows he’s bound to the girls’ night code of secrecy.”

“My lips are sealed,” Ryder says. “Besides, you can’t kick a man out of his house when he’s supplying the booze.”

“Just so we’re clear,” Ruby says as she helps herself to a generous pour. “That means nothing Ryder hears tonight can
ever
be repeated outside of this house. On penalty of . . . “

“Severe public humiliation,” I chime in as I hold out my glass. “I’m sure we won’t have trouble coming up with creative ways to make him rue the day he ever messed with us!”

“You think I’m dumb enough to tussle with a pack of she-wolves?” Ryder says, wrapping his arms around Cassie as he kisses the top of her head. “Your secrets are safe with me. I wouldn’t want to face you ladies in the ring—or in the deep woods under a full moon.”

Avery attempts a wolf howl that quickly dissolves into a fit of contagious giggles. “To the she-wolves,” Savannah calls out laughing as she holds up her glass.

A kitchen timer goes off in the distance, and Cassie hops up to fetch us some sustenance—a piping hot tray of fully loaded, cheesy nacho goodness.

Avery and Ruby are heading down to Miami for our friend Sadie’s bachelorette party this Saturday night. And I won’t be there—instead I’ll be manning the blackjack tables at the charity event. I’m a little grumpy about the timing, though it’s nothing a little Merlot and some greasy snacks won’t fix.

“Lady wolves love their finger foods,” I say as I lift a pile of cheese-covered chips to my mouth. “What could be more dainty?”

“Shelby Masters, junk food queen,” Ruby says as she swipes a chip off my plate. “I swear it’s gonna catch up with you someday.”

“Seriously, Shelby,” Cassie says. “What’s your secret?”

“Try running around after fifty-two NFL players. Cleaning up their messes is a great form of exercise—it’s like taking care of a bunch of preschoolers whose apple juice has been spiked with testosterone.”

“Speaking of exercise and testosterone,” Avery asks, absentmindedly twirling a lock of her dark hair between her fingers. “Ruby, how are things going with that personal trainer?”

I whip around to fix her with a glare—she hasn’t told me anything about this yet. But the half-sheepish, half-proud smirk on her face tells me everything I need to know. “Ugh, you’ve been holding out,” I tell her, aiming a playful swat at her shoulder.

Ruby’s grin widens. Typical redhead, she’s as fiery as they come. “He’s quite good at motivating his clients,” she says with a twinkle in her eyes. “I’ve never been in such good shape!”

“I bet,” Savannah says with a snicker. “Care to share your training regimen?”

“Let’s just say that for every extra rep I complete without moaning about it, I get rewarded with a bit of additional post session TLC. Then I get to moan all I want.”

“Genius,” says Cassie. “You’ll burn off a couple extra hundred calories that way. I’m in full support of this relationship.”

“There’s a business model in there somewhere,” says Ryder. “Join our gym. Get ripped. Get off.”

“We should seriously consider trademarking that,” says Savannah, laughing as she pulls her curls up into a messy bun. “I’ll get the paperwork going.” Having a lawyer around on a drinking night never hurts. Gotta keep track of all those million-dollar ideas we come up with.

“Hell, I’ve even got video footage if you guys want to see if we can take this thing viral.”

“Is that footage from before or after he makes you do downward facing dog?” I interrupt.

Laughter all around. “Hey look, everybody, Avery’s blushing again,” Cassie calls out. Doesn’t take much to make our sweet, fair-skinned friend turn scarlet.

“Oh please.” Avery rolls her eyes. “You think I’m not used to this TMI factory over here?”

“There is no such thing as TMI on girls’ night,” Savannah says solemnly, and we all crack up again.

“Real talk, though.” Ruby makes an exaggerated huff of a sigh. “Can I really bring Chet home to meet my parents? I think the most complicated decision he makes all day is what kind of supplement to put in his smoothie.”

“Girlfriend, ain’t nothing wrong with fitting in some horizontal reps with Mr. Right Now until Mr. Right comes along,” says Savannah. “Anyway, you never know. Pretty boy Cash Gardner was supposed to be a distraction, and look at us now. Even sexy bastards get tired of playing the field at some point.”

Retiring Cash from bachelorhood is a miracle none of us will ever cease to marvel at. The man was basically a local legend. To say he was with a different girl every night of the week was an understatement—because sometimes there’d be two. But whatever he was looking for, he found it in Savannah.

“Well, call me old-fashioned but I’m waiting for Mr. Right.” Avery slides from the couch into a cross-legged position on the floor as she looks wistfully over at our hosts.

An unlikely match for domesticity, but it works. Their limbs casually intertwined, Cassie and Ryder are clearly at ease with each other, their lives merged into a seamless whole. What started as an illicit back-room fling has turned into a bona fide relationship. Even now, as Cassie tilts her head to listen to our gossip, and Ryder has his nose buried in his cell phone, probably checking scores on one game or another, their hands remain clasped tightly, fingers interwoven. Such a simple gesture, but it says so much about them now.

And to think, their fling started because Cassie’s brother Jamie had an outstanding debt, and to pay it off, Cassie turned into an indentured servant for the first few weeks of their romance.

“What about you, Shelb?” Cassie asks. “How’s work going after the big promotion?”

Relieved not to be asked about my nonexistent love life—
No, illicit ex-flings with your brother’s BFF do not count,
I tell myself firmly—I launch into a litany on the many evils of Karl Blake.

“And he’s not even that smart,” I conclude after telling them the mini saga of my latest conference room frustration.

“Sounds like a classic case of corporate dick swinging.” Cassie grimaces at me.

“There’s only one remedy for that.” Savannah puts on her dead-serious, don’t-even-try-to-object lawyer face. “You’re gonna have to swing yours even harder.”

Somehow, the mention of swinging dicks has awoken Ryder from his inattention. He glances up with a shit-eating grin. “Gotta get just a little bit more
cocky
, Miss Shelby.”

Cassie punches him in the arm without missing a beat.

“Seriously though,” Savannah says. “I wouldn’t have gotten through law school or my first few years as an associate without a healthy dose of good old-fashioned bluster.”

I roll my shoulders nervously. “Easier said than done, though.”

“Channel your inner she-wolf.” Cassie gestures at me with her wine glass, so pointedly the Merlot nearly splashes out onto the carpet. “Act like the queen of the jungle, the most terrifying creature in the forest. Even if you’re terrified inside, on the outside you’ve gotta show that fear—and everyone else in the room for that matter—who’s boss.” Something about the way she says this, with a hard edge to her voice, makes me think Cassie knows a few things about fear. Maybe that dark side is what brought her and Ryder together.

“What you don’t want to do is be seen as Little Shelby,” Savannah continues.

I groan. “They even
call
me Little Shelby, you guys. This whole damn town knows that nickname by heart, I swear. And . . . I don’t know. It’s annoying, but I mean, that’s who I’ve been my whole life. How am I supposed to change it now?”

Baby Shelby.

Always the little sister, the tagalong, the kid you have to take care of and watch out for. Never the woman in charge, the one people actually notice in her own right.

“Maybe you need a personal trainer too,” Cassie says, with a suggestive glance in Ruby’s direction.

“Hey, great sex is a serious confidence booster.”

“Pretty sure we already knew that’s where
your
mojo comes from, Ruby,” Avery interrupts with an eye roll.

“Nothing like sitting around a conference table replaying tawdry scenes from the night before to give you a little bit of edge. You know it’s what ninety percent of the guys in the meeting are doing already.” Savannah smirks in Ryder’s direction, but he’s buried in his phone again, oblivious. “Besides, it’s a great way to get through boring client meetings.”

“Don’t rub it in,” I groan. “I’ve got exactly nothing going on in that department.” Nothing that anyone in this room can know about, at least.

Right on cue, Ruby pours herself a new glass of wine and shoots me a pointed look. “Whatever happened to that New Year’s fling you were acting so shady about?”

Well shit.

At that, even Ryder looks up from his phone, engaged in the conversation for the first time in ten minutes.

I should never have mentioned anything to Ruby. But at the time I was still buzzing from my night with Knox, and it was too damn juicy not to share with at least one person. Besides, I thought it’d be years before I saw him again, if I ever did. Jackson never exactly invited me along on his NYC trips to hit the town. How could I know that Knox’s team would sell him back down here so soon?

“News to me.” Savannah sits up so abruptly she nearly spills her drink. “What New Year’s fling? Who, what, when, where, how, and how many times? Miss Shelby Masters, you hypocrite. Telling Ruby off for hiding stories, when you’ve got a juicy one yourself. Spill the beans, STAT.”

Here we go.

I glance over at Ryder, buying myself some time.

“I can’t spill the beans in the presence of an enemy combatant.”

Ryder raises an eyebrow and wraps his tattooed arms around Cassie like he’s resisting. “What, just when it’s actually getting exciting?”

“Time to retreat to the man cave, honey.” Cassie kisses him on the forehead.

“If you ladies don’t think I can handle your PG-13 conversation, you’re one hundred percent wrong.” But he stands and stretches all the same, pausing to run a hand through Cassie’s hair before he goes. “But I know when I’m licked.” Then he leans in to do just that to her cheek, and we all wolf-whistle at them.

“Licked is the operative word, honey,” Cassie calls after him as he heads up the stairs. “And try R-rated.”

“Depends how this hookup story goes. Shelbs could get us all the way to NC-17, right?” Avery grins at me.

Really? Even Avery? Et tu, Brute?

“All right, the room’s been cleared,” Cassie says, leaning toward me impatiently. “So spill, Shelby.”

Shit, there’s definitely no getting out of this. Ladies
do
kiss and tell, and my friends won’t be denied their post-game analysis.

“We met on the roof at the Library on New Year’s Eve.” Not a lie. The best lies start with truths. “I was pissed at Jackson for cockblocking my New Year’s date and needed some air.” Another full-fledged truth. “And then . . . I went up to the roof and met this incredibly hot guy.” True fucking story. “I crashed into him, like, drink-spilling collision, whole nine yards. Which resulted in him catching me, and . . . ” I shut my eyes and groan, still totally sincere but the crashing part is a bit embellished.

“Honestly, I’ve never had anything like that happen to me before in my life. You guys know me, I’m pretty cautious. I only usually go for guys I’ve known forever, the ones who are safe, sure bets. But this guy . . . one minute we’re making small talk, and the next, the clock is counting down and we’re launching into a full-on makeout session.”

“That’s my girl.” Ruby snaps her fingers. “She gets sassy when she’s pissed off at her brother.”

Ha.
Ruby doesn’t know the half of it.

“Then what happened?” Avery reaches for a chip and nearly misses her mouth, she’s so busy staring at me.

Now I’m the one whose face is reddening.

“Then I took him back to my place and proceeded to have the hottest sex of my entire life,” I answer. Still one hundred percent true. Okay, so I skipped the stop in the field.

“Damn, this story keeps getting better and better,” Savannah says. “All right, who is this magical apparition? Please tell me he’s gainfully employed.”

I feel my shoulders tightening as the story starts to close in around me.

Shit
. Jobs. What do I tell them? “He plays sports,” I say.

“Sports,” Cassie deadpans. “Really, that’s all he told you? You sure he doesn’t like, coach little league while living in his mother’s basement?”

I grimace, even as the others burst into laughter. “No, it’s not, I mean, he plays . . . ”
Think of something, anything.
“Basketball.”

Basketball? Really, Shelby? That’s the best you could do?

“Like, professionally?” Ruby’s eyebrows rise. “Is he seven feet tall?”

“He’s pretty tall,” I say, hedging. I mean, he is pretty tall compared to me. And most guys I know. “And yeah,” I add belatedly. “He’s a pro.”

“A pro basketball player, huh. That’s a new one.” Savannah swirls her glass of Merlot, but from the way her eyes linger on me, I can tell she’s not totally buying this story.

Probably because my cheeks are still red-hot, and not from sharing naughty details this time. This is such a huge breech of girl code, lying to them all like this.

But if I told them the truth, I’d be putting them in a worse position, wouldn’t I? They’d all need to lie to Jackson. Probably for the rest of their lives. I don’t want to put that burden on them. It’s eating me up badly enough as it is.

And as long as I’m being honest, at least with myself . . . if I told them everything, they’d watch Knox and me like hawks. We could never pull off a repeat performance.

Not that we plan to, of course. We’re just friends now. Very good friends.

But, you know, it never hurts to leave the stage open to an encore.

Or two. Or three.