Cleat Chaser Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Quote

  Chapter One - Kyrie

  Chapter Two - Easton

  Chapter Three - Kyrie

  Chapter Four - Easton

  Chapter Five - Kyrie

  Chapter Six - Easton

  Chapter Seven - Kyrie

  Chapter Eight - Easton

  Chapter Nine - Kyrie

  Chapter Ten - Kyrie

  Chapter Eleven - Easton

  Chapter Twelve - Kyrie

  Chapter Thirteen - Easton

  Chapter Fourteen - Kyrie

  Chapter Fifteen - Kyrie

  Chapter Sixteen - Easton

  Chapter Seventeen - Kyrie

  Chapter Eighteen - Easton

  Chapter Nineteen - Kyrie

  Other Works by Celia

  Other Works by Sloane

  Celia Aaron

  Sloane Howell

  Celia Aaron & Sloane Howell

  Copyright © 2015 Celia Aaron & Sloane Howell

  All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the original purchaser of this e-book only. No part of this e-book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from Celia Aaron. Please do not participate in piracy of books or other creative works.

  This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  WARNING: This e-book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language and may be considered offensive to some readers. Please store your files wisely, away from under-aged readers.

  “How can you not be romantic about baseball?” -Billy Beane

  KYRIE

  THE CRACK OF the bat echoed around the half-full stadium. Nikki hissed. I looked up from my Kindle and caught a glimpse of the runner speeding toward first base as every head on the field craned up to watch the ball’s flight. It soared into the stands beyond the left field wall, and the runner slowed his pace, taking each base with unabashed swagger. I returned to my book.

  “That guy has been talking shit about the Ravens for the entire off season and now he gets a homerun?” Nikki took an angry bite of her hotdog, getting mustard and ketchup in her blonde locks. This was on top of the beer she’d already spilled on my jeans. The scent of fresh dirt, green grass, and popcorn mixed with the hops to create a smell that could be bottled and sold under the label “eau de ballpark.”

  “Nik.” I shook my head and clicked my e-reader off. “Here.” I grabbed a napkin and wiped the condiments from her hair. “You eat a hotdog like a third-grader.”

  “That’s not what Braden said last night.”

  I stared at her. “You just turned a grade school insult dirty.”

  She grinned and wrinkled her nose at me. “You loved it.”

  I returned her grin. “I did.”

  “That’s why we’re besties.” She turned back to the field.

  I followed her stare as the runner rounded second base. He slowed even more as the spectators quieted. Easing down the white chalk line in the dirt, he rounded third base wide, his feet skirting the flawless emerald grass. He raised his arms in the air, egging on the crowd as he showboated his way around the field. Boos erupted from the stands.

  Braden, the catcher, tossed his helmet and stepped forward, blocking home plate. The runner finally sped his pace, dashing toward the catcher.

  “Oh shit, Braden’s about to get in trouble.” Nikki squealed with excitement.

  My eyes widened as the runner charged right into her boyfriend, who turned at the last second and threw a shoulder into the runner’s chest. Both men tumbled to the ground.

  “Get him, baby!” Nikki dragged me to my feet.

  They fell into a tangle, kicking legs and swinging arms as the crowd roared. The pitcher sprinted from the mound and grabbed Braden, pulling him up and away from the angry runner. Braden was still swinging and cursing as the larger man wrapped his arm around his chest and wrenched him backward. The runner got to his feet and saw an opening. Shoving the shouting umpire aside, he swung at Braden, connecting with the side of his head.

  Nikki screamed and I leaned forward, lacing my fingers through the net behind home plate. The pitcher—tall, broad, and extremely pissed off—shoved Braden aside and landed a haymaker on the runner’s jaw that sent him flying back into the dirt. His arms were still straight out when he fell. He was out cold. The crowd cheered and Nikki grabbed my arm, forcing me to jump up and down with her as she crowed.

  “Way to go, Easton!” Nikki screamed.

  The pitcher glanced up, took a look at Nikki, then moved his stare to me. My breath hitched. Even though he was too far away for me to see the color of his eyes or pinpoint the exact shade of his hair, I knew he was attractive. He didn’t look away, just kept his eyes on me, ignoring the yelling umpire and the bloodied Braden.

  Surrounded by thousands and with Nikki screaming like a banshee at my side, it was only he and I for a brief, stolen moment. Goose bumps rose along my arms, and I dropped my eyes, breaking our connection.

  The pitcher flexed his hand as the players cleared the benches. They streamed out onto the field in an angry river, spitting obscenities and sunflower seeds. Another small scuffle erupted as several players got into a shoving match. The umpires tried to break it up. The opposing coaches trotted out and argued with each other and the home plate umpire.

  After several tense moments full of aggression on both sides, the umpires separated the teams. The runner was ejected from the game and it looked like Easton was about to get the boot, too. After some particularly heated words between both coaches and the home plate umpire, he was allowed to stay. The home crowd cheered as Braden and Easton bumped gloves.

  Once the players and the coaches scattered, the crowd settled and the game began again. I tried to keep my eyes on my Kindle, even as the Ravens scored and the pitcher, Easton, gave up no more hits. But I kept making furtive glances to the pitcher’s mound and stared for a little too long at the enormous screen along the side of the stadium when it showed a close-up of him.

  Even more handsome than I thought, he had deep blue eyes and light brown hair. He never smiled, just stalked from the dugout and did his job. The tension rose in the crowd every time he threw a pitch.

  Throughout the top of the ninth, Nikki was digging her gel nails into my arm and shaking the hell out of me after the first two batters struck out. I gave up reading, especially since I’d been going over the same sentence since the bottom of the eighth. Easton drew my gaze, his form calm and collected as he nodded at Braden.

  He exploded in a burst of speed and movement, his arm whipping around, the ball hurtling toward me. What was it about a primal display of strength and skill that sent a rush of heat up my neck and between my thighs?

  The umpire shot his right hand out, one finger extended as the crowd roared. Two more strikes and the game would be over.

  “They got this.” Nikki wrapped her arm around my waist as we stood, the crowd taunting the batter with some creative yells. Nikki stuck to “batter, batter, batter! Batter, you motherfucking dickface!” Classic, timeless, inappropriate—her in a nutshell.

  Easton stared down the hitter. Something in me wished I was the one he was looking at instead of the guy in the batter’s box.

  “Hot, isn’t he?” Nikki bumped my curvy hip with her petite one.

  “You know I don’t date players.” I tried to sit down but she tightened her grip.

  “I know, but I’
m going to change your mind on that.” She smiled. “Braden has certainly broadened my horizons. Really stretched them, you know?”

  I rolled my eyes and returned my focus to the mound. “You are the worst.”

  Nikki had been seeing Braden for all of two weeks. They’d met at a bar frequented by the baseball team. An unrepentant cleat chaser, Nikki could smell a player from a mile away and have her mouth on his dick in under sixty seconds. Braden was her latest, possibly her greatest, conquest. Since it had lasted two weeks—a record—I’d finally agreed to go to a baseball game with her to see him play. Even though I hated players.

  And now Nikki wasn’t the only one drooling over a guy in baseball pants. Easton was magnetic, his intensity making it impossible for me to look anywhere else.

  He gave a nod and gripped the ball in his glove, eyeing Braden. He took a step back, turned on the mound, and exploded toward the plate, his throwing arm nothing but a blur. I found myself jumping up and down with Nikki as the ball made a satisfying slap on Braden’s glove and the umpire shot his right hand out again, two fingers extended. The crowd was amped up, still buzzing from last week’s opening day excitement.

  “That’s it, Kyrie!” Nikki giggled and finally released me. We both leaned forward, our hands on the net, as we watched the next pitch.

  Easton rolled his shoulders and brought his glove up, his eyes boring into Braden until he nodded.

  “Last pitch.” I breathed in and whispered something like a prayer. I hadn’t been invested in a game in years. But now, watching Easton play, I wanted a strike. I wanted a win. I wanted a lot of things I’d sworn off of a long time ago.

  His powerful wind-up had me holding my breath. The ball shot forward, noticeably curving and thwacking into Braden’s glove. The umpire gave the signal—his fist to the side. Strike out.

  The stadium erupted in raucous cheers, and someone threw popcorn on Nikki and me as we hugged. The players trotted to the middle of the field as Braden and Easton bumped gloves. After yells and high fives, the crowd began to scatter from their rows and out into the falling night.

  I draped my cross-body bag over my shoulder and grabbed Nikki’s elbow. “Come on.”

  “What?” She raised her eyebrows and gestured to the mass of testosterone in the middle of the field. I couldn’t help but notice Easton was there, still on the mound, his head turned in my direction.

  “We have work tomorrow.” I crossed my arms over my chest. “Final proof before printing. You know we have to be on our toes.”

  “Teen Sparkle could do with a few typos. Remember that time when we were interns and we hid ‘dildo’, ‘lube’, and ‘anal’ in the crossword at the back?”

  “How could I forget? We would have been fired if you hadn’t been fucking the managing editor.”

  “You can thank me anytime.” She turned back to the field and squealed. “Oh my god! He’s coming over and Easton’s with him.”

  I looked up and couldn’t make out Braden in the mass of bodies in socks and stripes, but the one that was a head above most of them certainly caught my eye. Easton, and he was walking sure and straight right toward us. Panic rose inside me.

  “I have to go.” I took a step up the stadium stairs. “Tell Braden I said congratulations.”

  “But, I need a ride,” she protested.

  “You have one… On all fronts.” I took another step, too afraid to turn around and see him behind me.

  “True.” She called. “Carpool tomorrow?”

  “Yeah. I’ll be at your place at 7:30 sharp. Be ready.” I picked up my pace, practically running up the stadium toward the concourse. Once in the shadow of the stadium, I stopped and looked back down toward the field. A few fans walked past, blocking my view, but when they cleared, I saw him. He stood staring right at me, as if he could see me.

  My heart constricted and I couldn’t tell if I wanted to rush back down to meet him or turn and run. A few years earlier, I knew which emotion would have won out. Not anymore. I gave him one more look, locking his handsome face in my memory, before turning my back and melting into the crowd.

  EASTON

  BRADEN AND I fought our way through a sea of reporters and cameras to get to our lockers. The media were relentless vultures, not caring about the fact we just won. Every question was about the fight. I’d hoped the dingy locker room smell would ward them off, but it seemed to have no effect.

  “Look guys, can you give us a few minutes?” I untucked my jersey and noticed a few drops of blood soaked into the fabric along the shoulder. Must be Braden’s. I shrugged.

  A reporter elbowed through the pack. “Do you regret throwing a punch, Easton?”

  “I regret using my pitching hand. Give us a minute, okay?”

  Braden stared at me. “Since when do you shy away from reporters?”

  “Come on guys, back it up.” I tried to wave them away, but they hovered like flies on shit. “I’ll talk to you in a minute.”

  Coach came barreling through the clubhouse, fists clenched, a fireball as usual. The reporters scattered toward him, giving us a brief reprieve.

  I turned to Braden still clad in his catcher’s gear. His uniform was caked in dirt from the scuffle. “Who was the girl with Nik?”

  “Who?”

  “Nik’s friend. She was reading a fucking book the whole game.” I tossed my bag and glove into my locker.

  “Since when do you pay attention to the crowd, Mayweather?” A wide grin spread across his face, despite his split lip and blood crusting at the corner of his mouth.

  “I wasn’t.” I glanced to his bloodied lip. “Fuck man, you should put some ice on that.”

  “It’s merely a flesh wound.”

  His horrible attempt at a British accent made me chuckle.

  “Seriously, who was she? She disappeared after. I caught a glimpse of her on the concourse for a sec, but she vanished before I got a good look.” Closing my eyes briefly, I could see her—dark hair, round ass, long legs. I snapped out of my momentary daydream, still trying to picture her face.

  Braden’s lips curled to a shit-eating grin under his mussed mop of brown hair, some of it plastered to his forehead from his catcher’s helmet. “There was a girl? What girl?”

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “Braden—”

  “No, no wait a minute. I think…yeah I think I remember a girl. Her name is umm—” He cocked his head sideways. “I’m trying to think here.”

  I threw my hat into my locker. “I’m gonna split the other half of your goddamn lip if you keep fucking around.”

  “Oh, yeah, Kyrie.” He laughed. “Now, I remember.” His light blue eyes turned serious when he noticed me glaring at him. He pulled off his cleats. The spikes clanked against his locker when he tossed them in. “Man, they work together.”

  “So what’s up with you and Nik? She just another conquest? Fuck of the week?” I grabbed my towel.

  “Nah, well, I don’t know. The verdict is still out on her. She’s a wild one though. Fucks like a champ.”

  I shook my head. “Poor girl.”

  “Pfft. She knew what she was getting into. She’s kinda ditzy, but in a hot way. I don’t know. Why the fuck do you care anyway?”

  “I don’t.”

  “Spit it out, motherfucker.”

  “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You want me to arrange a play date with your little pitching muse?” He gave the corner of the lockers a hip thrust in unison with ‘play’.

  “Could you?” Fuck me. The words escaped my lips before I could get them back. I was sure to catch shit for it.

  Braden smiled his ass off while he peeled his chest protector from his short, stocky frame. “I mean, I could make it happen. But what’s in it for me?”

  “Oh, besides me saving you from an ass-raping on the field?” I shook my head with a look of haughty derision and smirked before taking a seat in the chair in front of my locker. “By the way, you’re welcome for making you look lik
e less of a bitch.”

  “Maybe if you didn’t ignore my signals and serve up shit that gets knocked out of the stadium I wouldn’t have been sucker punched by that little fuck boy.” He moved his hand up over his eyes like he was searching for something way out in the distance. “Goddamn ball just passed Mars.”

  “You probably told him what I was throwing. Fucking prick.” I started mocking him in a falsetto. “Easton, why are you shaking off my fastball? Easton your ass looks so good in your pants, the ump is gonna smell how wet my pussy is back here!”

  “You’re a major league cunt, you know that?” He shook his head at me, now laughing where everyone in earshot could hear. The elastic of his shin guards shot around his calves as he unhooked them one at a time. “Yeah, I’ll text Nik and see if they wanna meet for drinks. But I’m warning you, that chick seems kinda stuck up.”

  “So she’s intelligent and doesn’t take your shit?” I kicked off one cleat and then the other.

  “Yeah, pretty much.” He nodded and paused. “She does smart people shit at their work. Editor maybe? At the magazine. But I guess she’s not happy.”

  “The fuck kind of magazine is it?” I’d struggled with my lit classes in high school, so it sounded like I would have to step up my game to keep up with the likes of her.

  “Some teeny bopper mag. Shit you see when you check out at the supermarket. Pictures of Bieber and that hot little Latina girl all over it.”

  “Who?”

  “You know, the teen heartthrob people? Probably pictures of you on there, too.” He framed his hands and held them up to my face. “Yeah, we give you one of those little head set thingies and a v-neck tee and you could be in a boy band for sure.”

  “Dick.” I stared at him, not sure how else to respond to his ridiculousness. “Tell me more about Kyrie. She’s definitely hot. Caught a glimpse of her on the net before I cleaned up your little bitch fight.”

  “You don’t clean up my messes for me, motherfucker.”