Sweeping the Series

  Sweeping the Series

  Copyright © 2018 by Kate Stewart

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Cover by Amy Queau of Qdesign

  Edited by Edee M. Fallon

  Proofing and draft editing by Donna Cooksley and Bex Kettner

  Formatting by Champagne Book Design

  Anything But Minor Formatting and interior design by Juliana Cabrera, Jersey Girl & Co.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Once upon a pre-season . . .

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Epilogue

  Preview of Anything but Minor

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Thank You

  About the Author

  And for my best friend, Erica Ann Fischer. I love growing old with you.

  For my dear friend, Donna Cooksley Sanderson. You are my champion. Thank you for the gift of your friendship.

  “You look lonely.”

  “I’m good,” she said as she looked up from the newspaper that partially covered her tan legs. It was the morning of the first game day of spring training; the sun had barely cracked the sky. I always got to the field before anyone else. It was a habit of mine and helped me prepare my mental game. I never expected company, and I’d watched her arrive hours too early for a regular fan. I had assumed she came with one of the players, but no one claimed to know her when they started trickling onto the field. She looked completely at ease as she ignored the bullshit and the banter that surrounded her when we began to warm up.

  With minutes to spare before the stands started to fill, I let curiosity get the best of me and thanked Christ for that as soon as I got a better view of her. I pulled off my hat, ran my fingers through my hair, and flashed her my best smile. “Let’s not fight the inevitable. I think it’s pretty important we get to know each other for the good of the team.”

  Her shoulders stiffened. “In that case, you’re wasting your time on the wrong girl.”

  The scorn in her voice gave me temporary pause. “Not a fan?”

  “Of yours? I don’t even know your name. But if I had to guess—” She crossed her legs playfully before she placed her hands at her sides, tilting her body my way.

  I enjoyed the display, but I would have rather had that look back, the one of discovery we’d shared minutes earlier when I peeked over my shoulder and damned near got nailed with a dinger in the mask. She scrutinized me before she’d flashed me a breath-stealing smile.

  She hid that smile as she looked up at me but kept the scrutiny front and center. “I would say you’re a rookie. First year.”

  “You know damn well who I am,” I chided. My name had been in the papers—including the one she had in her lap—for weeks. It wasn’t every day a catcher got a contract the size of mine.

  “You,” she mused as her eyes trailed down my body. “Well, you’re trouble with a number.” I was dismissed. She gripped her paper and shook it out, determined to brush me off. Her words behind the wall of paper and ink between us confirmed as much. “I’m flattered, really, but I don’t date ballplayers.”

  “Oh, well, then I fucking quit.” I threw my glove. She chuckled dryly as she looked up wistfully through thick lashes. That look told me my chances were slim to none.

  “If only it were that easy, right?”

  She was like a mirage sitting in the stands with her raven black hair and vibrant brown eyes. I’d kept my neck craned for half of warm-up. Getting distracted by beautiful women while I was on the field had never been an issue, but I couldn’t stop staring. I needed to look at her. I needed to have another hit of that smile.

  “What do you have against baseball?” I asked, taking the seat next to her.

  She wrinkled her nose. “Everything.”

  “You want to tell me what you’re doing perched up like hot-shit hours before the first game? Unless—” I nodded over my shoulder “—you’re here for someone?”

  “I’m definitely not here for any player on that field.”

  “Ouch. You can’t mean that. Baseball is America’s sport. A national pastime. It’s worthy of your attention.”

  She quirked a brow. “Are we still talking about baseball?”

  “Maybe,” I said, brushing my shoulder against hers. “Let me take you out tonight. I bet I can convince you we’re both worthy of your attention.”

  “Absolutely not, Makavoy, but I’m flattered.” She picked up her paper and resumed her reading, and I stuck a finger in the crease then lowered it.

  “Ah, caught you in a lie. You do know my name, and if you play your cards right, I’ll let you chant it as often as you like.”

  “That’s disgusting. Never going to happen for us, Ren.”

  I bit my lip at my piss-poor choice of words. This girl wasn’t even close to the type that line would work on. If she wasn’t a fan, she damn sure wasn’t a groupie. But she was a beautiful mystery that I wanted to solve.

  “I’m not changing my mind,” she sighed as she shot a wary glance my way. “It’s not in the cards for us.”

  “Now there’s an idea,” I said, standing.

  “Makavoy!”

  Without turning in the direction of the field, I flipped the bird toward the shithead fuming at the mound then sank back into my conversation.

  “You’re wanted on the field, number two,” she muttered.

  “You know my number, too. Now I’m flattered,” I teased, my lips twisting into a satisfied smile. I could see the barest hint of a blush beneath her sun-kissed complexion. She was a hard sell, but I knew just the trick. “Wait right here, okay?”

  I hustled to the dugout, grabbing a stick of gum and my lucky deck of cards. I made my way back and sat next to her, my hip touching hers as she scanned her article, doing her best to seem indifferent.

  She slowly shook her head. “You know, you’re probably about ten seconds away from having your ass handed to you, and quite publicly.”

  Just as she predicted, my name was barked from the field. “Makavoy!”

  “They can wait,” I said dryly. I pulled my cards out and began to shuffle. She glanced over at the working of my hands before she pressed her full, glossy lips together. She was dressed in an old, faded series T-shirt—not a fan, my ass—and shorts, but the sight of her had my breath coming out ragged. I had the innate need to touch and taste, but more than that, I wanted to know what her laugh sounded like.

  After a few minutes of shuffling my deck, I had her full attention.


  Her face lit up as she watched me manipulate the cards. “Wow, that’s—that’s awesome.”

  I let out a dry laugh as I flicked the deck with precision; the cards flew toward her, and I caught them before they hit her in the chest.

  Wide brown eyes scrutinized me. “Holy shit! How did you do that?”

  I chuckled. “I’m one of the best defenders in the League, and this is what impresses you? They don’t call me the ‘Tin Man’ for nothing.”

  Another wrinkle of a perfect nose and an eye roll. “For a second, I forgot you were a ballplayer.”

  I ignored her blasphemy against the greatest sport in history and sliced the deck in half with quick fingers before I thrust them in front of her.

  “Pick a card out of either hand, and if I guess what you pull, we eat dinner tonight.”

  “Ren,” she groaned. “I’m seriously not worth your trouble. Trust me.”

  “I’m pretty good at making calls.” I lifted the cards up again, forcing her hand. She set her paper aside then locked eyes with me. Something raw tore through my chest at that moment and filled my throat. Intuition told me even if I had pulled that trick off over a dozen times, knew it inside and out, I’d be devastated if I fucked it up this time.

  She pulled the card I purposefully but subtly thumbed toward her fingers before she held it up, curling it at the sides so that I couldn’t see it.

  “All right, now put it back in,” I said, spreading the deck.

  She pushed the card in carefully as we kept our eyes glued. For a moment in time, there was no outside noise, nothing to distract me, and nowhere in the world I’d rather be than sitting across from her.

  Another second passed and then another as something inside told me this woman would change every-fucking-thing. Swept away by the feeling of her, I leaned in. Her lips parted, and I knew, without a doubt, she was feeling the same thing.

  I traced her hairline down her cheek with a single finger as I spoke. “So, this is where you come in, huh?”

  We were still caught in the moment when I heard my name growled at my back.

  “Queen of hearts,” I whispered.

  Even with all the static between us, she didn’t miss a beat. “But where’s the card?”

  “Do you like Italian?” I asked, pushing my cards back in the box.

  “You didn’t show my card, Makavoy,” she said, pulling back, doing her best to hide her disappointment.

  “I’ll see you tonight,” I assured, readjusting my hat with a wink.

  “That was so lame,” she protested as she lifted her paper, and the card fell into her lap.

  “Oh my God,” she whispered as she studied her card.

  Appreciative and warm eyes glanced up at me before she rewarded me with her smile.

  “That was awesome.”

  “Goddammit, Ren!” I knew that tone. And I was about to be publicly humiliated.

  “Shit,” I muttered as I glanced over my shoulder.

  “Thought you were quitting,” she reminded, her paper forgotten.

  I grinned down at her. “You’re really going to make me choose?”

  “Never,” she said without second thought. “Because I don’t date ballplayers.”

  “I’ll let you convince me of that over dinner. Oregano’s, eight o’clock. And bring my card back to me, would you?”

  “I won’t be there,” she insisted.

  “I’ve had that deck since I was thirteen years old. I can’t play a game without it, so I’m going to need that card back. You don’t want to be responsible for ruining my career, do you?” Her silence had my smile stretching wide.

  I wasn’t a superstitious man. In fact, when I was young, I never believed in luck, so I decided to make my own. Over the years, I guess life got the memo because it started cooperating. Staring at that beautiful woman, whose name I didn’t know, but whose smile had me practically kneeling before her, I knew luck and I were still in sync.

  Sliding my hand in my glove, I kept my eyes locked on hers until I had no choice but to leave her there.

  “I’ll see you tonight.”

  Three Years Later

  My throat burned with the bitter aftertaste of the woman wrapped around me. I didn’t have to glance down at her to know that I had once again fucked up. If the non-stop buzzing of my phone wasn’t already a sign, the state of my head was a further reminder.

  The woman in my bed was one of Hollywood’s elite, and she’d just slummed it with the “black tar” of baseball. I think that was what that prick journalist had labeled me. These days I couldn’t keep up. It was one flying insult after another.

  It didn’t matter that I had earned the golden ticket to play for Denver. All that mattered was who I was fucking. And I was to blame. Still, the amount of attention I was getting was staggering.

  Just to spite the tempting ass-lashing messages I had waiting for me on my buzzing phone, I knocked it away from the nightstand and grabbed another condom. Nothing felt better than sinking into warm, sleeping pussy. No conversation needed, no foreplay, and I knew she was still dripping from last night. I’d fucked Natasha six ways from Sunday, and I would do it again this morning before any words were uttered about expectations I wouldn’t meet. Her blue eyes—wrong color—popped open as I buried my cock deep, thrusting her awake. Her swollen lips formed an ‘O’ as I kept our conversation nil and our fucking filthy. Her orgasm rolled through her within a few minutes, and I smirked down at her as she looked up at me in a daze.

  I impressed her, but she depressed me. Just another woman willing to deal with the abominable bastard I’d become because she thought I had a pretty face.

  “Ren,” she moaned as I twisted my head, avoiding her morning breath and any connection she needed because it wasn’t there.

  We’d met at a party the night before, and we’d part this morning no closer than we were the second her eyes spoke to my cock and it answered. I had a “reputation” according to her, and that was all I heard about as I slid my fingers through her wet heat going a hundred miles an hour on the way back to my hotel.

  She knew what to expect, and I didn’t disappoint with the sex. I wouldn’t be changing that reputation any time soon because every male in the country stripped their cock-skin to the sight of her on the big screen.

  She wasn’t a conquest; she was temporary warmth. Another night of blurry comfort. And she would get the respect that she deserved for it.

  Ripping the condom off with a grunt, I fisted myself over her as she gazed up at me with surprise. It was easy to tell she’d never had quite as dirty as me, and her pupils dilated at the sight of herself soiled.

  Too bad I opened that box for her because I couldn’t satiate her appetite.

  I was no longer hungry.

  And so it went. We showered together. I faked the half-assed grin I flashed her during the breakfast I ordered. And I only found a breath of relief when she was safely on the other side of my hotel door.

  Sitting on my borrowed bed, I finally answered my phone to avoid a knock on my door.

  “Yeah?” I grunted out.

  “Ren! I can’t keep doing my job if you’re going to act like a goddamned lunatic at every function and defile high-profile actresses.”

  “Then don’t do it,” I snapped before I popped the aspirin waiting in my palm and followed it with some water.

  “What?” I heard Walter’s voice deflate. He’d been in charge of my PR for the last six months. And that was the longest relationship I’d been in for years.

  “Listen, I appreciate all you’ve done, but I just really don’t give a fuck. I think it’s time we parted ways.” I hung up and killed the ringer before I checked my texts.

  Andy: Natasha Arden. Are you fucking serious? Get out of your own way, asshole.

  Then one from Rafe.

  Rafe: Jesus Christ, you’re a fucking idiot. This isn’t high school man. Jake is going to cut your dick off.

  Rafe was referring to our assistant coach. He’
d handled enough of my headaches in the last year. I had no doubt when the incident after the party last night—my fist connecting with a reporter’s face who didn’t respect boundaries—hit the papers. I was going to be on paper-thin ice. I’d been warned far too many times to play dumb. In my defense, said reporter stuck his head inside the damn limo with his camera and scared Natasha. Still, whatever picture he took before I dented his teeth was sure to damn me with management and the public. Again. But I was the one who kept my private life separate from ball, while media and management were the ones who forced them together. It was still my fault because I’d started the circus my damn self a few years ago with a night similar to the one that I was currently paying for.

  Playing for Denver had been my goal in the year I was a catcher for Atlanta, especially when the dream pitching team included Rafe Hembrey.

  My mentor and old bullpen coach, Andy, had worked with Rafe in the Minors and helped me sharpen my calls when he coached me in Atlanta. Together, Rafe and I ruled the MLB. There was no denying it. Last year, we’d come close to winning the pennant. This year we would win. And we’d sweep the series. Regardless of my behavior, there was no way my club was parting with either of us. So, while a small part of me felt like a dick for telling Natasha I would call her, the eight-year-old kid in me who made up his mind he would win the World Series didn’t flinch.

  I flipped on SportsCenter just as a fist landed on my door. Despite my shitty attempt to handle my indiscretion, I knew exactly who it was.

  I opened it to see the shit-eating grin of one Rafe “The Bullet” Hembrey. He pushed past my outstretched arm and surveyed the hotel room.

  “I should kick your ass with training starting in two days. That’s all we need is more press hounds interested in your cock instead of the team,” he mused, glancing over at me. “You’re looking sincerely remorseful,” he said dryly.

  I shrugged. “I did us a favor. No such thing as bad publicity.”

  “Hamlin is going to cut your dick off,” he assured as he pulled an apple off the room service cart, shined it on his T-shirt and took a healthy bite.