Hard Luck
Authors: Liv Morris
Copyright © 2016 Liv Morris
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product 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.
Table of Contents
ONE
Brady
August…
Mean Joe Sanders eyes me while holding the ball hidden away in his glove. He shuffles his feet and a dust cloud surrounds his legs. His solid, angry stance reminds me of a bull right before it charges—and Joe’s a true bull in this league. His stats top all the other pitchers and he has a wicked inside curve ball I fucking love. It’s the best pitch for my swing.
Joe brings his glove to his chest, then winds his arm over his head. Twisting his body at the waist, he lifts his left leg, unwinds, and releases the ball with lightning speed. The pitch is gonna be low and inside, so I pull back my arms and lean toward the plate while letting her rip. My bat connects with a glorious crack and the ball heads out of the damn park.
A booming roar from the crowd follows as I toss my bat to the side and start my victory lap around the bases while watching the ball sail over the ivy-covered wall.
In a measured stride, I make my way around the diamond. No need to hurry, so I might as well bask in this intoxicating spotlight while I can. I raise my hands and pump my fists in the air, motioning for the crowd to yell louder.
“Lucky! Lucky!” the fans scream their nickname for me, their coordinated shouts echoing around the stadium as I head for home plate.
This hit is my second grand slam of the night, and we’re winning against Saint Louis eight to nothing. I raise my hands over my head and pump my fists into the air. Stopping just short of home plate, I hop onto the bag and the crowd goes fucking ape shit.
My other three teammates who scored on my homerun are waiting for me just outside the infield line. I run over to them and they hoist me up on their shoulders.
“This is our year,” one of my teammates shouts.
“We’re fucking unstoppable,” I respond as they carry me to the dugout.
The fans join in the celebration. I can’t imagine any high being better than the experience of having the crowd screaming after my grand slam. It’s like a baseball player’s fucking nirvana.
The last two innings go by in a blur and the guys gather in the locker room after the game. Everyone can feel the hope in the air that this may be the year Chicago finally wins the World Series, but I need to stay lucky and keep on this winning streak.
I was on a Sports Illustrated cover last week with the headline “LUCK: The Answer to Chicago’s Bad Luck.” The franchise hasn’t won a World Series in over one-hundred years. Our team has the dishonorable title of North America’s longest sports drought. I should feel the pressure of winning like a two-ton weight on my back, but I don’t. It’s like I can see the future ahead of me—and it’s all winning.
Getting ready to hit the shower, I see coach in the distance. He catches my eye and his pointed stare tells me he’s got something to say.
“Luck,” the coach calls out. “Got a minute.”
He turns and heads to his office before I can reply, obviously not asking. I follow him in and he closes the door. Next thing I know, I’m in some awkward bear hug, but he lets go of me before I can react.
“I’ve never been prouder of a player than I am of you.” He’s facing me now at a comfortable distance for two straight dudes. “I didn’t want to get all sappy in front of everyone, but seriously, you are the best I’ve ever coached.”
“Wow,” I say, running my hand through my hair. Coach isn’t one to disperse such compliments, so I’m struggling on how to handle this. “Thanks.”
“We’re off tomorrow and I want you to go out with the guys tonight and have some fun.” He waggles his brows. Fun to him means getting my dick wet. Usually we have a self-imposed curfew and I try to refrain from going out too much during the season—or if we have a game the next day, at least.
“Happy to follow your orders.” I flash him a knowing smile and he laughs.
“I remember what it’s like to be young.” Coach pats his paunch of a belly. “I can only imagine the women tripping over themselves to get with a good-looking hotshot like you.”
“Yeah, they want the D. This one time, these three chicks were climbing all over me, practically humping my leg and acting like my dick was the secret to eternal life. So, my solution? The Luck train! All three girls at once—boom!”
“Get the hell out of here, kid,” he says with a twisted grin. “And I’ll deny that hug until I die.” I throw him a quick nod and leave. I have a shower to take and a hole to drill…with my dick.
“Brady,” Lance calls out as I exit the shower. I give him a tip of my head. “Wanna go to The Wit with us?”
“Is that even a question?” Lance gives me a thumbs up. “I’ll get my driver to take us. Cool?”
Lance walks over and gives me a high five. “More than. No game tomorrow bro. P. A. R. T. Y.”
“Damn right.” I leave off the fact that Coach is endorsing my time out tonight, which is a first.
Thirty minutes later, the three of us arrive at The Wit. It’s like we’re the single dude posse, since we’ve been wing-manning it for two seasons. We gather on the sidewalk before entering the bar.
“Okay. Our VIP spot should be ready.” Lance is the social director of the group. He’s got the owners of all the hotspots on speed dial. The biggest problem we face is crowd control, but the owners make sure their staff handles things for us. “You all ready?” he says with a smirky grin and a raise of the brow.
“See these fingers.” I hold up my hands and wiggle my digits. “They’re needing two things. Shots of Jameson and pussy.”
“I hear you, man,” Shaun says, clapping me on the back. “Let’s do this, and a few of them.”
We all laugh and head for the entrance. Shaun opens the door and the guys let me lead. I duck under the doorframe and stand tall once inside.
Heads turn and the normal buzz in the busy bar stops. You could almost hear a plastic stirrer hitting the floor.
“Gentlemen.” A smoking hot blonde whose blouse is open to her navel greets us. My eyes trail over her assets—and damn, she’s fine. “I’ll show you to your table.”
The three of us look at each other and smile. It’s the beginning of our unspoken wingmen language for the night. We tend to communicate with our eyes, subtle brow movements, and tilts of our heads.
We walk past a table on the way to the VIP area when I spot a pretty brown-haired girl. She looks smart, and professional—an unlikely candidate for a one-night stand. More like the kind of girl my mother would love to see me date, marry, then pop out a few kids with. She’s not a pump and dump. She’s the forever kind. Well, that ain’t gonna happen, but this girl’s as cute as can be, and her eyes and mouth are opened wide in shock as she stares at me.
Maybe it’s cruel, but I give her a quick wink and she brings her ringless hand to her throat. I tap her on the nose and she jumps from my touch, loses her balance, and falls for me, literally. She ends up on the floor in a heap in front of me after sliding off a barstool.
Being the sometimes gentleman my mother raised me to be, I scoop her up and sit her properly back on her vacated seat. She’s tiny—hell, I’ve lifted equipment bags that weighed more. She’d be easy to fuck against a wall for sure.
What the hell? I mentally slap myself. She’s looking up at me with sweet eyes of innocence and that’s not what I’m after.
“You okay?” I ask to the now red-faced beauty.
“Fine,” she says in a whisper while inspecting her clothes. “Just…horribly embarrassed, but I’ll live.”
She turns up toward me again, bringing us a few inches from each other, face to face. She tilts her head and goes all dreamy-eyed on me. I’ve seen this look a thousand times and need to leave the scene before I commit a moral crime and try to make this good girl bad.
“Glad to hear it. Have a nice night.” I give her one more wink and she sighs.
I feel a nudge in my side and turn to see Shaun. He’s shaking his head and laughing.
“Come on, buddy,” he says, signaling Lance to move on. I twist around one last time to see Ms. Brown Hair again.
“What’s your name?” I ask before I’m out of hearing distance.
“Cali,” she replies, but my friends keep pushing me toward our reserved table and the moment is gone—probably for the best.
“Californication,” I mutter under my breath, because that’s exactly what I’d like to do with her.
“Who was that girl?” Lance asks.
“No clue. There was something different about her, though,” I say more to myself than the audience of players walking with me.
“Yeah, if you like the virginal girl next door type,” Lance says, and he’s right. “Besides, who wants to date when we can fuck a different piece of ass each night?”
“Not me,” Shaun says as the hot blonde shows us to our table by the back wall. “I’ll save those boring dating days for after retirement. I’m all about getting laid now.”
The instant we take our seats, another busty blonde sets drinks down in front of each of us. Clinking our glasses, we toast each other for the game we played earlier and the hookup games still ahead for the night.
***
My head is pounding and my mouth tastes like ass. Opening my eyes, I see the dark wood of my dresser and my framed poster of Kate Upton. I sigh in relief, realizing I’m in my own bedroom. The shades are drawn, immersing the room in darkness. And thank fuck for that. The sun would be a killer for my headache.
I stretch out in the bed and my foot touches something—or, more likely, someone. I glance over at the pillow beside mine. “
Fuck
,” I curse under my breath.
The chick from last night didn’t leave after our hookup.
Shit!
This is just fucking great. I’m breaking rule number one: never let them stay past the last orgasm.
The minor leagues were the last time I woke up to find a woman in my bed the next morning. I sure as hell don’t need that kind of trouble again. I grab my phone on the nightstand to check the time and see it’s only eight o’clock, which is early for me on a no game day.
I look closer at the girl sleeping next to me. Long, raven hair hides her face. I search my mind for a face from last night, but honestly, all I remember are black eyes matching the color of her hair.
Damn, I was pretty wasted, but I do remember two unforgettable details about the woman lying next to me: her tits were awesome and real. Make that three: they fit perfectly into my eager hands.
“Hey,” I say to her in a soft voice while tapping her sheet-covered shoulder. “Time to wake up...” I have no clue what her name is, so I go with my usual standby, “baby.” The chicks dig it.
She doesn’t stir on the bed next to me. Instead, I listen to the even pace of her breathing. The chick is zonked out. I decide it won’t harm anything if she sleeps a little longer, so I hop out of bed and take a quick shower—five minutes, tops.
When I open the locked bathroom door, the raven mystery woman is nowhere to be seen.
Tossing my towel on the floor next to the dresser, I pull out a pair of sweats, put them on, commando style, and head out of the bedroom to see if she’s left. God, I hope she’s gone. Seeing her now will be all kinds of awkward—mostly because I have no clue what the fuck her name is.
As soon as I enter the hallway, the smell of bacon cooking gives away her location. Helpless to stop myself, I follow the ambrosia filling the air like a starving animal—which I am, despite my horrible hangover.
I pause before I walk into the kitchen, peek around the corner wall, and see the raven chick standing over the stove, flipping bacon in a skillet.
She’s wearing a black dress that pushes her boobs out of the top. If she sneezes, I’m sure they’ll pop out. Her black hair is braided and still reaches down to almost her waist. Her pale skin contrasts with the dark hair, and in the light of day, it gives her a spooky sort of look, like the mother on
The Addam’s Family.
I have a flashback from last night when I met her at the bar. She sat on my lap with her raven hair cascading around her shoulders. I thought she was exotic then, mysterious. But in the light of day, she looks more like a gothic vamp walking around modern day Chi-town.
Avoiding the fact that she’s here in my house will not make her disappear, so I walk into the kitchen and she lifts her head at my movement.
“Morning, handsome.” She has a distinct accent—kind of southern and kind of Spanish. Hearing her voice triggers another memory. She whispered dirty promises into my ear that made me bring her home, which was a big mistake. She stayed over and the women I fuck never do. I can blame plowing her on being plowed.
“Morning,” I say, shifting from side to side. I check out the bacon in the skillet and decide I can at least wait until she’s finished cooking. After that, she’s gone.
“Feeling hungover?” she asks.
“Maybe a little.” I move around the farthest end of the island, purposefully keeping my distance from her, and reach the coffee maker on the opposite side of my kitchen. “Little java will help, though.” Taking a cup from the cabinet, I look over my shoulder. She’s looking at me with her brow raised, so I grab another cup for her.
Fuck me!
Getting her to leave my apartment is going to be beyond awkward.
