Swing (Landry Family #2)(7)

Wrapping my hands around the mug so they’re pressed against the clay, I feel the warmth radiate into my skin and focus on that. The here. The now.

My gaze lands on my bag, a file from work poking out. Instantly, I’m out of the here and now and am mentally in my office. With the door closed. With the centerfielder.

A warmth erupts in the pit of my stomach and starts to fan out until it begins to toast my cheeks.

Why does God have to love athletes most?

He does. There are no two ways about it. They’re the hottest, most fit, most calculating and passionate people. They’re delicious . . . and dangerous if you aren’t careful.

Despite the heat roaring through my blood, I shiver. I can only image what it’s like to be on the receiving end of Lincoln’s passion. Feeling his eyes on me today was enough to make me crazy. Feeling his breath hot against my cheek? His fingers caressing my body? The weight of his cock as it sits on top of my ass, waiting to glide into me?

Because I’m cursed, both with loving athletes and having them love me, reality douses the fire as quickly as it starts. The passion, while white-hot and intoxicating, turns steel-cold and suffocating.

It’s why I’ll continue to remind myself just how bad it hurts when they prove, as they always do, that their first passion is, and always will be, the game.





Lincoln

“MOTHERFUC . . .” I STOP SHORT OF saying the rest, wincing as my injured arm is raised up and back as far as it will go. No, farther than it will go. It most definitely doesn’t go this far back.

This guy is a fucking sadist.

“There you go,” Houston says, guiding my screaming arm to my side. “You’re going to be sore tonight and really sore tomorrow. Ice it and be back here in two days for another session.”

I look at him. “Two days?”

“Yes,” he says, turning his stocky body away from me and heading to a big purple ball.

“You do realize I need this thing completely healed in about six weeks, right? And our progress is negligible.”

He nods, eyeing me like I’m the crazy one. No, I’m sane. I’m clear about what has to be done. His blasé attitude about this entire thing is the problem.

“Okay, let’s start over,” I gulp, irritation racing across my forehead. “I have exactly two months to have this one hundred percent. I have less than that to prove to the Arrows owners that I am worth a contract.”

“I understand that.”

Waiting for him to continue his thought, I stand and roll my shoulder back and forth. By the time I’m on my tenth rotation, gritting my teeth through the fire, he still hasn’t responded, and I’m about ready to lose my shit.

“So . . . I’m hoping we can be at one hundred percent by, say, Christmas? End of January at the latest. I need substantial rehab by Thanksgiving, Houston. We need to make that happen,” I insist.

A wide, cheeky grin stretches over his face, his head shaking side-to-side. I’m not sure what he finds funny about this, but if I could raise my arm far enough, I’d be tempted to throw punches.

“Lincoln, listen. Your shoulder needs stretching to regain your range of motion. Once we have that we can build up your strength in several ways. But right now it also needs rest.”

“I don’t have time for rest.”

“Spoken like a true athlete,” he snickers. “You do have time for rest. Give your body time to heal itself. We’ll do the work in here, but when you’re not, you have to let it do its thing.” He walks in front of me, looking me right in the eye. “So tomorrow, no lifting. No stretching. No throwing a ball. Don’t even jack off too hard. Nothing. Do you hear me, Landry?”

I start to fire back, but his gaze steadies.

“I know you’re used to pushing through the pain and making shit go on your schedule, but that’s what got you here. To me. The expert.” He gives that a second to sink deep into my psyche. “Are you following along?”

I grab my hat off the floor and slam it on my head. “I hear you,” I grumble.

“Good. See you in two days.” With a little wave, he and his attitude problem head to his office.

I turn towards the elevator. I need out of here before I explode and damage this thing further. I doubt it would help my shoulder or my relationship with Houston if I picked up a dumbbell and sent it soaring out of the tenth-floor window.

The door dings and I enter, taking a spot next to a woman in a grey skirt and white shirt. She’s cute with her curly hair and golden lips, and she clearly likes what she sees, but I’m so pissed off by this two-day bullshit, I can’t even find it in myself to flirt. That might be the most shocking thing to happen to me all day.

Since when do I not flirt?

That’s it. Graham was right. This injury has affected my brain.

I’m dying.

“Ground floor,” I say with a hint of a smile, trying to find the philanderer I know is lurking somewhere inside me.

She uses a red fingernail to punch in the number. “You’re Lincoln Landry, aren’t you?” She pulls the clipboard she’s carrying towards her body, her lips stretching into a dazzling smile.

“That’s me.” I watch the floor numbers drop, feeling her watch me. The air like the dugout before a game in July—stale and hot with the promise of more if you’re willing to make it happen.