I start reading the naughty novel, and finally, the professor tells his student to lock the door behind her as she enters his office. I bite my lip as he rises from his desk and tosses his jacket onto a leather chair. In just a couple strides, he encircles his arms around his startled and—dammit! My cell phone rings and an unknown number with a Chicago area code pops up.
Hitting “ignore,” I wait for a voicemail, but nothing comes. I roll my eyes at the stupid interruption, drink what’s left of my first mimosa, and refill the glass nearly to the top before reaching into my nightstand for my favorite self-care toy. My phone better not ring again. I plan on having both hands busy.
Two
Brady
My teammates are sitting at tables in the hotel private dining room, stuffing their faces with breakfast fit for a king. Me? I’m trying to figure out why my life is shit. Even the smell of bacon doesn’t hit me right. I’ve moved over to the wall of windows looking out over the Saint Louis skyline. Dark clouds threaten, and I really hope a storm gets our afternoon game called off. I’ve been playing like hell and letting my team down.
My entire body is strung tight, and my mind is a million miles away from the ballpark down the street. All I can think about is my dick and its inability to perform. Hell, it’s never let me down before. I have one hope left: Cali Jones. She’s the only woman my dick likes for some reason, and she’s refusing to see me or take my calls.
My friend, who happens to be a Class A hacker, found her personal cell number, so I called her a few minutes ago. She didn’t answer, and I didn’t leave a message. I had no idea what to say anyway. I can’t think straight. Maybe it’s because I’ve never had to beg a woman for sex. Who knew getting laid was this tough?
I stuff my phone in my back pocket and rub my palms over my face. Someone places a firm hand on my shoulder, and I turn around. Shit. It’s Coach. His levels me with a stony expression as he slowly shakes his head.
“Brady, what the hell’s going on with you?” he asks with a heavy sigh. “You’re acting like your puppy died.”
“Well, you’re close.” I give him a bitter smile. I might as well play “Taps” over my dick.
“Listen, you ate anything yet?”
“Nah. I’m good.” I brush off his question and stick my hands in my pockets.
“Like hell.” He rubs the back of his neck and breaks eye contact with me for a beat. “Eat something and come up to my suite. We need to talk. See you in fifteen.”
He lowers his head and walks out of the dining room. A few guys call out to him when he passes, but Coach ignores each one, and all eyes focus on me. I shrug my shoulders and flash my trademark cocky grin, but they look back at me with worried eyes. Smiles aren’t going to be enough to calm the tension. I need to execute on the field. It’s like they want me to tell them everything’s going to be okay. If only I could.
Fuck.
I’m used to being the guy with all the answers—the player who lights up the scoreboard and jokes with everyone in the dugout. Chicks dig me. Guys want to be me. People don’t know this other version of me: the one who’s striking out at the plate and making rookie errors. I don’t either.
My mind can’t get past the last three hookups that ended with me as limp as a manicotti noodle. I blamed it on cold medicine each time and fled the scene with a cough and sneeze, but I doubt the girls were fooled.
After my failed attempt last night, I don’t know where to turn…well, other than Cali. Even the sound of her voice works to get things up and rolling.
I stuff a donut into my mouth, grab a water bottle, and make my way to Coach’s suite. I knock on his door and wait. For what, I have no clue, though I imagine it’s a king-size grilling.
“Brady, come in.” He opens the door, and I follow him toward the living room area. A brown couch and two matching chairs make it look inviting. I can’t say the same for the glare on Coach’s face. “Have a seat.”
I sit in the middle of the couch. He stays standing.
“It’s Sunday morning, so we’re going to church right here. Have a little come-to-Jesus moment,” Coach says, taking the chair across from me. “Enough of this ‘nothing’s wrong, everything’s fine’ bullshit. Spill.”
Coach leans back in the chair and places his elbows on the armrest. He brings his hands to his face and rests them under his chin. He might as well be wearing a priest’s collar, because I see no way out of this confession.
“My spark is gone,” I sigh.
“Well, you need to find it. Chase it down the street, wrestle it to the ground, and carry it home if you have to. Snap out of it, Brady.”
“Believe me, it’s not that simple.”
“Something else is going on. You’ve turned into a powder keg. No one turns on a dime like this without a reason.”
“How’d you get so smart?” I ask him.
“Years of dealing with knuckleheads like you.” Coach laughs.
I take a deep breath before I begin. “My game’s off because of this girl I hooked up with. She’s a voodoo princess or some shit. Anyway, I slept with her one night…” I don’t mention not having any memory of the actual fucking part. I just woke up with her in my bed. “She thought we were a thing or something. She became wild-eyed and crazy when I handed her a wad of money for a cab ride home. Before she left, she pulled a voodoo doll out of her bag and stuck a pin in its…” I point to my crotch. “And now...” my mouth goes dry, and I pause. This is even worse than the confessional booth.
“My mojo isn’t just off in the batter’s box. It’s messed up in the sack. I can’t get it up,” I exhale the words like a weight’s been lifted off my shoulders. “Well, except for this one chick.”
I decide to leave out the fact that she’s my dick doctor…or was. That’s creepy.
“So, what’s the deal with the girl? Not the psycho one.”
“Her name’s Cali Jones, and she doesn’t want anything to do with me.” My shoulders slump back into the couch. I feel like the biggest pussy. Maybe this happens to dudes with my condition. No wonder my game’s all fucked up.
“This has to be a first,” Coach huffs. “Brady Luck getting a no.”
“Yeah. I’ve tried calling her. Putting on the Luck charm. Still, she refuses to speak to me.”
I leave out the fact that I’ve been stalking her delicious ass all over Chicago. He doesn’t need to know that.
“Got your phone with you?” he asks, and I nod my head.
“Pull up her number and give me your phone.” Coach holds out his hand.
“You’re going to call her now?” I swallow and blow out a quick breath.
“Is she a baseball fan?”
“I think so?”
“Let’s hope she takes one for the team,” he says with a bristling chuckle.
I hand my phone over to Coach. From what I’ve dealt with firsthand from Cali, I have a bad feeling about this, but what do I have to lose?
Three
Cali
I’m on my third mimosa and the professor has pushed his student up against the wall. He grabs her ass, and on instinct, her long legs wrap around his waist. I check my peen replacement device on the bed next to me. I don’t want the batteries to be low when it’s time to take off…
As I refocus on the book and dive into the sex scene, my phone rings. A Chicago area code, but different than the last one. The fact that it could be someone from the office trying to reach me has me going against all the rules of self-care and answering the call.
“Hello?”
“Is this Cali Jones?” asks a man with a very deep voice. He seems older, more like my father’s age. Bill collector? Publisher’s Clearing House? Well, I’m about to find out.
“Who’s this?” Yeah, I need details.
“This is Jimmy McDermott, coach of the Chicago—”
I stop him there. “Right. Like Coach McDermott is just going to call me out of the blue on a Sunday. Are you a friend of Brady’s? If you are, I have some choice words for you to pass on to him.”
“Actually, I am Brady’s coach. Friend is taking it a little far,” he laughs into the phone.
“Okay, say you are Coach McDermott, why would you be calling me?” I glance at the clock. The first pitch in Saint Louis is only four hours away. “You have a game today. One would think you’d be busy.”