Hard Luck (3 page)

Brady

I carry the flower bouquet I bought on the way to my mother’s house up her front steps. She wanted a wide porch with a bench swing and my brother and I made sure her wish came true when we bought her this home. My flowers are a peace offering for the disappointment I’m sure I caused from another round of hookup photos in the paper.

I ring the doorbell out of respect, even though she always scolds me for not just walking in, but it’s her house and I want her to feel this way. She holds the deed and keys, not us.

“Brady,” my mother says after opening the door, her brow knitted into lines of worry. I don’t like this look on her face, especially since it’s now obvious she’s seen the gossip news surrounding me from last night. “Get inside.”

Shit, she’s more pissed than normal. She normally says hello, even if I’m caught with a nameless babe on my arm. This time she didn’t even give me a hug. I hand her the flowers with a broad smile and she raises her brow at me. She’s not overlooking my offense today, and doesn’t look at peace one bit.

“Thanks, dear.” She takes the flowers and reaches up to pat my cheek with a sadness reflecting back at me in her eyes. At least I know she still loves me.

“They’re your favorite. Gerber daisies,” I add, trying to suck up, just a little.

“I’ll go put them in some water,” she says while moving toward the kitchen, and I follow. “Your brother and I have been waiting for you.”

“Oh really?” I ask, aware I’ve likely entered into hostile territory. “Where’s Bryce?”

“Sitting at the table staring at the fried chicken.” I lick my lips, almost tasting my mother’s cooking. “I fixed your favorite cheesy potatoes, too.”

“Thanks, Mom.” I give her a kiss on the cheek as she fills a vase with water. She turns to face me with tears in her eyes and my heart sinks into the wooden floor.

“I’ll to try to behave,” I mutter under my breath, embarrassed and ashamed that I have no control over my dick. I also know my promises will never stand. Saying no to pussy is impossible. I can’t do it.

“Son,” my mother says, brushing a finger below her eye, “go sit down and join your brother.”

I bow my head, unable to bear looking at her right now this close up.

I walk through the kitchen into the dining room, feeling about as big as an ant. Once I’m through the opening to the room, Bryce starts shaking his head at me.

“Brady, you’re one fucked up piece of shit,” Bryce begins.

“Hello to you, too.” I pull out my chair and sit my butt down. We have assigned seats to keep us apart while we eat. My mother learned boys with flying elbows and fists should be separated while eating, so my mom sits at the head of the table with Bryce and I in seats across from each other. Though, we have been known to bruise each other’s shins under the table.

“Your stupid shenanigans are breaking Ma’s heart,” Bryce adds to the pain I already feel.

“I know. I know. I fucked up,” I say, arranging the perfectly set silverware.

“You say this every time.” Bryce hits his fist on the table and I jump. “When are you going to learn to play around out of the spotlight? Let the rumors be just that—rumors with nothing concrete to back them up. You’re killing Ma with practically fucking these women on camera. Leave it for your penthouse or a hotel room behind closed doors.”

“You had college to work out your wild oats. I’m still sowing mine.” It’s my lame defense.

“Poor excuse, bro,” Bryce says, shaking his head. “Quit going out for a while. Maybe try dating a nice girl.”

“Wait, what happened to the whole, ‘don’t settle down until after I retire’?” I ask. That’s been the advice from him since I moved up to the big leagues.

“Well, you’re a dumbass who forgot the second piece of advice. Be discreet.” I have no defense now at all. Discreet isn’t something I do. I like to go out and have the best pick of the hot chick crop. “And this last woman is dangerous.”

“So you say.” I want to know more, but maybe it’s best to pretend the voodoo lady never happened.

“She’s been through most of the offensive line, and sadly, she left a mark on one of them.”

“A mark?” I gulp and place my hands over my dick in a reflexive motion. “What is up with this chick? Does she think athletes cum gold, then get pissed when they don’t give her what she wants?”

“Pretty much. Thomas the Tank can’t play like he used to. He swears she put some curse on him. Did you get any voodoo vibes from her or were you lucky?”

“Lucky, I guess,” I tell him a big fat lie, still freaked out by this morning’s dose of crazy.

“Good,” Bryce says in relief as I try to mentally bleach the voodoo scene out of my brain.

“It’s not like you don’t have hookups all the time.” The stupid remark comes out of my mouth before I can think. I blow out a breath, wishing I could take it back. It’s not the time to challenge Bryce.

“It’s all about being smart. I left my latest’s apartment right before I came for dinner. Some chick who got drunk on too many mimosas at brunch.” Bryce smiles and licks his lips like he’s remembering something delicious.

“I guess I’m just unlucky,” I admit.

“There’s this look in their eyes. You’ve just been too drunk to see it when you’re with them.”

“A look?” I ask.

“Lust or longing,” Bryce answers, his tone matter of fact.

“Explain.” I eye him across the table.

“Lust means they’re looking for the same thing I am—a hot as hell fuck.” He raises his brow and nods. “The others have this look in their eyes that says, ‘take me home and I’ll show you why you should keep me there.’”

“Hell, they all want me to take them home.” There’s no way that will help me decide who’s crazy.

“They have this barely hidden hint of desperation. But you have to be somewhat sober to recognize it. My advice: don’t hookup until you know whether she’s a clinger or just looking for a good time.”

“You’re something else. I’m not that calculating.”

“No saints in this house, except Mom,” Bryce states more damn facts. “When Mom comes in here, I want you to throw her a bone and tell her you’ll go out with Charlene, the neighbor girl she’s tried to fix you up with,” Bryce demands, and I cringe.

“The one with hygiene issues?” I ask, shaking my head.

“She’s not that bad,” Bryce states.

“Her teeth are green,” I say, incredulous. No way in hell am I doing more than waving to her from across the yard. “I’ll apologize and keep myself out of the papers, but no dirty girls—and I mean that literally.”

“One more incident and she’s going to be your punishment.” Bryce leaves no room for me to argue, so I nod. Fuck, I hate being the younger brother.

Mom comes into the dining room carrying her vase of Gerber daisies and sets them down in the middle of the table.

“Did you boys have a good talk?” She eyes me while Bryce pulls out her chair for her to sit down.

“We did,” Bryce answers back. “I think it was an enlightening conversation. Don’t you, Brady?”

“Super enlightening,” I mutter under my breath. Reaching out, my mother pats my hand and I glance up, hoping to see the worry erased from her face.

“Good. Now, let’s eat.” She smiles widely as she passes me the platter of fried chicken. I genuinely smile for the first time today, and it’s not just because she let me have first dibs on the chicken. Her forgiveness lifts a huge weight from my shoulders. I just hope I can keep myself together next week when we play the Mets.

More so than any place we play, the chicks in New York City are hot for the opposing team’s players. They practically throw their pussies on us while foaming at the mouth. Yeah, it’s going to be hell to deny them. Maybe I should discuss that look in the eye thing with the guys.

Cali

I’m wearing my trusty, worn Chicago jersey—the one with the name Luck on the back. I might have slept in it a few nights since my short encounter with Brady last weekend, but I washed it yesterday afternoon, so at least it’s clean.

It’s been a stressful week as a Chicago fan. Brady hasn’t hit a homerun since the night I fell at his feet. He’s barely stepped on first base, which has everyone in Chicago holding their collective breaths. The city feels wound up tight, like a coiled spring. It’s a mix of crazy dread and fear that this year isn’t going to be any different than the last one-hundred.

Digging in the top drawer for my Chicago earrings and necklace, I finally locate them hidden beneath my blue scarf. It’s too warm for the scarf today, so I push it to the back of the drawer—my way of organizing.

“Hurry up, Cali,” Taylor shouts from my living room, which is only separated by a thin wall. But it’s a wall, an amenity I’ve earned since my new job as a PA let me upgrade from a studio to a one-bedroom. It’s the little things in life that make me feel like an adult.

“Coming,” I say, inserting my earrings and tying the side of the baggy jersey into a knot. The thing is several sizes too big and I could almost wear it as a dress. I have on a pair of skinny jeans so I don’t get mistaken for a dude.

“Why are you hiding your curves under that tent shirt?”

“You mean T-shirt?” I ask.

“No, tent is more like it. You could be hiding a circus creature under that thing. Go back in your room and change. We have a mission today and it’s getting you a date for next weekend.”

“No! I’m wearing Brady’s jersey, and that’s final,” I shout back at her, stomping my Chicago blue Chuck covered feet.

“Okay, okay. I give up on you. I truly do.” Slinging her purse over her shoulder, we head out my door while I preen about getting my way. Maybe even skip a bit, too.

Winning in the clothing department doesn’t happen often with Taylor, or at all. She has an innate style from shopping at the finest department stores since birth.

Me? I’ve never had enough money to shop much beyond Target, so I kowtow to her suggestions. Only Brady Luck himself could get me out of this jersey, though. The thought of that makes me tingly. Maybe Taylor is right, I do need to get laid—caveman-style.

We exit my building and hear the roar from Wrigley Field, Chicago’s long-standing ball field. My place is almost in sightline of the stadium. After walking a block, the brick sides of Wrigley come into view. It’s a baseball institution and I love being its neighbor since it was a big part of my childhood.

My father left my mother when I was small, but her brother filled in the gap as my dad. I still send him Father’s Day cards. He would bring me to Wrigley as often as he could on his tradesmen’s salary. He hasn’t married and likely never will. I think his high school sweetheart broke his heart when she ran off with his best friend. Some heartaches just don’t heal.

I rub over my chest, knowing mine has some ways to go too. I don’t know why Mitchell Davis did such a number on me. I guess I made the mistake of giving him every piece of my heart and suppose it takes time to have them all return to the same place.

“So, what do you think is up with Lucky?” Taylor asks me as we join the mass of humanity walking on the cobble-stoned sidewalk toward the stadium’s entrance.

“I don’t know, but I feel like this entire city is on edge waiting for Brady to come out of his slump. That’s all it is.” I bite my lip hard, a habit that rears its head when I’m either worried sick about something or in the ecstatic throws of passion. Mitchel used to make fun of my silly habit. Which reminds me…

“The jerk has been texting me since he landed here.” I don’t need to give the details. There’s only been one jerk in my life—or guy, for that matter.

“I really despise him,” Taylor spouts, disgust clear in her voice.

Taylor’s bossy and opinionated, but also the most loyal friend I’ve ever had. She’d walk on glass for me if it would make me happy or gain a boyfriend. Everyone needs a Taylor in their life, and I am one lucky gal to be her best friend.

“I know you’re wondering. I didn’t text him back. I blocked his number instead.” I add a skip to my step at the mention of blocking his ass.

“Oh my God,” Taylor says, yanking my arm and pulling me to a stop. “You did?” She beams, and I nod back at her.

“It was easy.” Well…after I sat and stared at the block option for a few minutes—or was it an hour?

“This is major. I’m so damn proud of you. I think it’s the beginning of you really getting over him.

“I hope so. I really, really do. It just seems like he haunts my heart.”

“You need a stellar orgasm from a man’s tongue. Trust me.” I look around to see if anyone heard her say that, but everyone is too busy hustling by us to pay any attention.

“Maybe you’re right.”

“No maybes about it.”

Taylor and I enter the stadium and make our way to the awesome seats her father’s company bought for her. They’re right by third base and I can’t wait to see Brady warming up. It’s my favorite part of the game.

I watch him bend over to pick up the ball, throw back his arm, then send it sailing to first. He repeats this motion over and over again, putting me in a fan girl trance. Occasionally, he’ll step away from third base and chat it up with a teammate. I love to watch him toss back his head when he laughs, but he’s not laughing today. I frown, biting my lip.

The Yankees start walking onto the field and my heart drops into my lap when I see Mitchell taking a few throws. His golden hair catches the light of the sun and my breath hitches. Damn him and his glorious hotness.

“Stop it,” Taylor admonishes. “Keep your eyes on third base. He’s the one worth staring at, not that piece of shit.”

“Thanks. I needed that reminder. Do you ever think seeing him will get easier?”

“Yes, I do. He did a number on you and it just takes time. Falling in love with someone else will be the ultimate remedy, and it
will
happen. I promise.”

“Thanks.” I lean into her side and she brings her head to mine.

We sit back up in our stadium seats and watch the men get ready to start the game. The umpires call for the start and the first pitch is thrown. The player hits it right to Brady and he stumbles toward the line drive. I hold my breath as he regains his footing and sends the ball to first base.

The ball arrives just in time for the out and I swear the entire stadium lets out a big sigh as the umpire makes the call. Something is definitely not right with Brady. His game is off and I fear my lip will have permanent teeth marks by the last pitch.

After a few innings, Mitchell is forgotten, for the most part, my attention staying on Brady. He paces around third base as an unmistakable frustration pours off him. A few of the players have ended up on third base and I believe they’re taunting him, rubbing in that his game is falling apart.

When Mitchell hits a triple and lands on third, I can’t tear my eyes off either of them. Mostly because I know Mitchell and his love for hitting his opponents where it hurts the most.

Mitchell turns to Brady and says something, his usual cocky grin in place. Brady stops and faces Mitchell, turning away from me so I can only see him from the side. Stepping closer and bending at his waist, Brady raises a finger to his face and I’m pretty sure Brady’s answer to Mitchell contains curse words that are likely well deserved. The heated interaction between the two catches the eye of the third base ump.

Walking over to the base, he moves between Brady and Mitchell and says a few words while looking between them. Brady steps away and Mitchell wears that cocky smile on his face I remember so well, thinking he won the exchange because he got under Brady’s skin.

“Mitchell’s a douchebag,” Taylor says through gritted teeth.

“He’s also a pro at honing in on people’s weaknesses and kicking them when they’re down.”

“Another reason why I always hated him.”

“From the start?” I ask.

“The first time my eyes landed on him. He’s always rubbed me the wrong way. When he broke your heart, my worst suspicions came true.”

Taylor never liked Mitchell, but this is the first time she’s confessed to having hated him from day one.

“It’s not like you to hold back something like this.” Taylor is a good judge of character and intuitive. I could’ve used her insight with Mitchell. My heart might not be so scarred and battle weary.

“I hoped I was wrong for your sake.”

“I wished you’d been wrong, too,” I sigh, “but I’m totally over his sorry ass now.”

Mitchell scores on a single hit from the next batter up, giving the Yankees a five-point lead. This game looks over until the last inning when Chicago starts making a comeback.

Two Chicago players take a base on single hits to right field, and a third walks to first after getting hit by a pitch. The tension is high after the pitcher’s aggressive throw made contact with the batter’s thigh.

“Ouch.” I flinch, moving my hand to my thigh. “That had to hurt like hell. Some of those fastballs are over ninety miles an hour.”

Brady swings his bat in the warm-up area and I fixate on him—or, more like, certain parts of him. I watch the pumping and flexing of his muscled arms. The ones that picked me up off the floor like I weighed nothing.

When he twists at the waist during a practice swing, I imagine the lean muscles of his abs rippling with the movement. The thought of my own fingers actually touching those hard ridges brings back that same dizzy-swoony feeling from last weekend. At least I’m not puddled on the concrete beneath my feet this time.

I fan myself with the game program in hopes of cooling off. It’s likely no use, though. It’s my body’s reaction to the serious attraction I have for Brady. There’s just something about men in baseball uniforms—they make me heat up…everywhere.

Brady starts his walk to the plate by taking slow steps. His long, powerful legs mesmerize me. When his athletic thighs stretch the fabric of his uniform pants, the blue stripes become wavy and I’m even dizzier than before. I really need to get a grip, but I can’t turn my eyes away.

As I keep staring at home plate, I notice Brady’s shoulders are lower than normal and his head is down. He’s missing the usual confidence he wears like a second skin.

He takes a couple practice swings before planting his feet in the batter’s box. I grab Taylor’s hand and we hold on to each other as the pitcher does his windup.

“You know what they call four strikeouts in a game, right?” Taylor says in a hushed tone.

“Would this be his fourth strike out?” I think back through this game. He’s been up to bat three other times and each time he left the plate on a missed swing. I’ve never seen him play like this in even a small way.

A drop of sweat trails down my back and the greasy hotdog I consumed makes my stomach do flip-flops. I scan the loaded bases and say a little prayer. This season, Brady’s been Chicago’s go-to guy and has earned the title “grand slam man.” That is, until this past week. His bat has gone cold.

“They call it a golden sombrero.” Taylor gives my hand a little squeeze and I hold on tighter. “I can’t imagine him doing it again, though. He’s just having a dry spell. All the greats have them. He just needs one good hit.”

“I can’t look,” I whisper, closing my eyes. The sound of a bat hitting a ball rings out and I peek through my lashes.

Brady isn’t moving to take first. Instead, he stands at home plate watching the ball fly left of the foul line. Once it hits the stands, greedy fans scramble to retrieve the ball.

“Dammit,” Taylor curses, along with most of the people around us. Chicago needs to score. But even more, Brady needs a home run to end the shitastic week he’s had at the plate.

“Lucky! Lucky! Lucky!” people start chanting. In a few seconds, everyone in the stadium stands up and joins them, including Taylor and me.

“Please, no golden sombrero,” I mutter to myself, and the ballpark angels, hoping he sends the next pitch sailing over the back center wall of Wrigley.

The pitcher sends one over the plate and the umpire calls it a strike. Walking a few steps from the base, Brady hits the ground with his bat, frustration rolling off him as he walks back to the batter’s box.

The umpire leans toward Brady and holds up his hand, most likely giving him a warning for his behavior. Tensions are high and so are the stakes, but the umps are paid to keep the game under control.

Brady nods back to the umpire and takes the batter’s stance—bat up over the shoulder and butt out. Since he’s a right-handed hitter and our seats are close to third base, I have a delicious view of his tight ass. I bite my lip, knowing I shouldn’t be thinking about his lovely assets when he needs me cheering for him, but I just want to squeeze his buns and see if they’re as firm as they look.

During my hormonal daze, another ball sails over the plate and Brady swings. This time, there isn’t a crack of the bat or cheers. Instead, there’s an eerie silence, like the air was sucked right out of the stadium.

“Out!” the ump gives his audible, breaking the quiet surrounding us. Everyone sighs and slumps back into their seats.