Immoral by Nicole Dykes
“We’re goingto do this, boys. It’s happening.” Bennett wraps his arm around my shoulder as he delivers the pep talk to our team. We’re in the locker room, dressed in uniform and about to walk out to our fate.
Bennett is our star pitcher. The pitcher to my catcher on the field only. He’s the closest thing I have to a best friend these days and 100 percent straight. Never once has there been a flicker of attraction there, and I’m fucking grateful.
My heart learned long ago not to go down that road.
Still . . . no one—not even Bennett—knows which team I play for off the baseball field.
“Hell yeah, it is!” Kris Mastro, our team’s third baseman pumps his fist, already claiming victory. But I’m not so sure.
My stomach is twisted in knots. With Bennett pitching tonight, the odds are in our favor. But anything can happen, and I won’t call it a win until it’s over.
Bennett’s face is overtaken by a massive smile as he points at Mastro. “Hell, yeah! That’s the spirit.” He drops his arm and pats my ass, shoving me forward. “Where the hell is your head at?”
“It’s on the fucking game.”
He chuckles, and Mastro nudges my shoulder, aiming a cocky look over at Bennett. “He’s probably thinking about all the pussy we’re going to get after we win this shit.” Couldn’t be further from the truth. But of course, I don’t say anything. How they haven’t figured me out yet, I have no idea. I guess I’m a better actor than I thought when I go out with the guys. But even if I dance and flirt with the women on the dance floor, I’ve never once left with one. He nudges Bennett. “Unlike you.”
Here we go. Bennett, who’s happily married and expecting his first kid just grins. “Don’t you all ever get tired of the partying bullshit?”
Mastro looks at him as if he’s insane and then tucks a beefy arm around my shoulder, tugging me close to him in a frat-bro-style hug, “Hell, no.” He turns his head to look at me. “What about you, Bailey?”
“Hell, no. You know me. I’m always up for a party.”
I hear the sarcasm in my voice, but I don’t think anyone else does. The truth is, I’d much rather go home than to a club these days. I’m tired of the act. Of going to the crowded clubs and watching my teammates search the crowd for the easiest prey while acting like I’m there for the same thing. When really, it’s the shy barista at my local coffee shop with green eyes and an ever-present five o’clock shadow or the male sports reporter on the six o’clock news that have captured my attention.
Bennett eyes me a little too long, and I think he might sense my hesitance but doesn’t call me on it. “Whatever, losers. While you all are out trolling for pussy, I’ll be home with my perfect, gorgeous wife.”
“Your wife is hot.” Mastro grins, waggling his eyebrows. “Hopefully, she’ll soon grow tired of your ass and come to me.”
“You’re going to get punched before the game. Your agent is going to be pissed if you have to explain that shit,” I say with a smirk, and Mastro flips me off before heeding my warning and walking out with the rest of the team.
Bennett is at my side as we trail behind. “We’re going to win.”
“Let’s go warm up.” I can’t shake my nerves. This is everything I’ve always wanted. My dad is watching. This is his dream.
I can’t blow it.
After warmups, we line up on the field as the crowd goes absolutely insane. Then a man walks out to the middle of the field, waving with an overwhelming, larger-than-life presence.
One he’s always had.
Grady fucking Bell.
He’s dressed in black ripped jeans with a white tank top showing off his lithe, toned body that’s beautifully decorated with swirled ink covering his entire left arm and most of the right. His dark hair is styled in a just-fucked way and his plump lips are made for sin and visible even from the sidelines as he approaches the mic set up on the field only for him.
He owns the crowd, everyone standing and shutting up as he demands attention.
Immoral is a rock band with him as a headliner. They’re the real deal. Think the White Stripes, The Killers, and Queen all rolled into one. Grady has no problem singing the national anthem in a way that is 100 percent his own.
The goosebumps that form on my flesh aren’t surprising.
That’s always happened to me anytime he’s opened his mouth to sing any note. When he’s done, the crowd goes wild, and we head out for the game of our lives.
But my mind . . .
Yeah . . . it’s on the man who’s always owned me.
