The Trade(90)

“Not even a little.” He releases my hair and grips the back of my neck, bringing my mouth to his where he lightly moves his lips across mine, a sweep of lust, a whisper of what could be something so much more. A tease. When I try for more, he keeps me where I am. “Patience, Natalie,” he whispers.

“I’m about to fuck your patience.”

He moves his head to the side and laughs so hard, his forehead falls to my shoulder.

I sigh. And roll my eyes. I want him so desperately, so I definitely want to fuck his patience. But then I consider his words. The only frame of reference I have is Ansel, and I know without a shadow of doubt, that Ansel never felt this intensity for me. But what Cory feels . . .

Dread. Dread of having to leave you. Dread of not being able to see you whenever I want. It astounds me. I’m lucky in more ways than one.

Yes, I want his cock. Patience be damned.

But I’m learning that it’s actually his heart I truly want more. So patience is what he’ll get. Glad he finds it funny.





Chapter Twenty-One





CORY





POTTER SPOTTED IN THE PALMS

Have you been on Potter Watch this preseason? We have, and look what just came in. Featured below is Potter still on the beach, basking in the sun, while his Rebel teammates are hard at work, getting ready for the season. Looks like a preview into what spring training is going to be, Potter stretched out in the outfield while his teammates put in the hours.

Latest poll in the Rebels horrible acquisition of Cory Potter is:

Send the waste of money back to Baltimore.

I close out of the article and rub my hand across my forehead.

Fucking clever, very low, but clever. Why not use a picture of me alone at the hotel beach in St. Croix to make it seem like I’m lounging about when in reality, I’m at the stadium every goddamn day working my ass off, getting stronger? I’m the first guy there every goddamn morning, putting in the time, and the guys are noticing my work ethic and have started joining me. Pitchers and catchers have already reported to spring training, so Jason is on his own in Florida, but the position players, they’re hitting up the cages, warming up their bats just like me. But the thing is, I’m two weeks ahead of them, and I will continue to be one step ahead because I know they read the articles. I know they’re not fully on board with me yet, especially after my performance last season.

What I still don’t get is why. Why the personal vendetta against me? If Rebel fans want to see their team win, why continue with the divisive vitriol? Who hates me that much here? It’s what I don’t understand. Have never experienced before. Am completely disappointed by.

As I’m stretching on the training table, Marcus Gomez, our third baseman, walks into the training room fresh from the weight room. He came in when I was halfway done with my workout.

I don’t know much about him other than he’s more reserved than the other players on the team, is married with two girls and a little boy with a hearing problem, and he’s dedicated to his position.

He sees me on the table, nods, and walks to the table next to mine.

“How long have you been here?” he asks, taking a seat and picking up a Theragun to start massaging out any tight muscles with me.

“Hour in the cages, half hour cardio, hour lifting,” I say. “Was thinking about going for another round in the cages but my hands are starting to feel the wear. Don’t want to push it.”

He casually nods. “Have you always trained like this during preseason?”

“It’s the only thing I know,” I answer honestly. “I found out at a pretty young age if I wanted to earn a spot on the team, I had to put in the work.” I look over at Marcus and say, “Trying to earn that spot.”

He chuckles. “Pretty sure you don’t have to earn it. Your paycheck is going to put you at first base whether you feel like you earned it or not.”

“Earn it among the team, the fans. I couldn’t care less what the front office thinks.”

Marcus nods knowingly and winces when he says, “Been reading the articles?”

“Hard to miss them,” I answer, working on my left quad, watching the muscles bounce and wave with the pressure of the gun.

“You know none of the guys believe that shit, right? They see you in here; they see your hard work.”

“That’s not what Maddox—”

“Maddox has a strong opinion until proven wrong,” Marcus says with a tired expression. “In all honesty, he’s a good guy, but he’s always tough on the new players. We have a hard road here in Chicago as a Rebel player in a city full of Bobbies fans. Maddox has been a Rebel since the day he was drafted from high school. He didn’t go to Brentwood like you or your friends. He spent countless years in the minors trying to climb his way to the top and now that he’s there, he takes his position as homegrown Rebel to heart. His goals for this team are to pitch a winning game, and make sure every player is loyal to the core.” Marcus shrugs. “It’s who he is. He gives me shit because I’m not the first to jump over the dugout fence and join in the fistfights he enjoys so much, but that’s not who I am, and I’m gathering from watching you for the last ten years, that it’s not you either.”

I shake my head. “Never will be. That’s something they’re going to have to deal with. Don’t get me wrong, I’ll be the first to pull someone off one of my players, but I’ll never join in the fight. I respect the game too much to demean it by fighting on the field.”