Front Range Field is a beautiful baseball stadium built with spectacular views of the Rocky Mountains from the seats along the third base line, and I’ll admit I’ve been captivated by the view whenever I’ve been in the stands. Built in 2010, it can hold up to forty-five thousand fans, but I’ve yet to see that happen. Suffice it to say, but the Raptors suck. We’re basically the laughing stock of Colorado. We’ve got the Denver Wolves hockey team and the Colorado Coyotes NFL team both taking home championships over the past few years, and our basketball team is almost always in theplayoffs. Hell, there are even some really good college hockey teams here. But the Raptors? Nothing to write home about. Last year, we had the third-most losses of any team in the modern era, with a record of 43 to 119. We lost twice as many home games as we won. Absolutely appalling.
Why did I get traded here? I’m unsure if my agent was being honest when he told me that Bridge Point had to make some cuts due to financial constraints. It just seemed odd. Way out of left field — pun intended. Ironic, considering I play right field.
But here I am. Stuck in Colorado, on a team that doesn’t seem to have any willpower to succeed, and I’m wondering when I should hang up my cleats. Where will I go? Back to where I grew up near San Diego? To Bridge Point, where I still have a house? I’m only renting an apartment in downtown Denver. I’ve barely furnished it, because no one comes over anyway. Who do I need to impress?
After the most ridiculous media training, where the social media manager had me practice how to look into the camera and smile, I quickly change out of my practice uniform in the locker room. Grabbing my bag, I stride out of the locker room and immediately run full-force into someone who smells like sweet fruits and sunrises.
God dammit.
“Oof,”I grunt, slamming my head against a brick wall. Well, not a brick wall. But he might as well be one. Seriously, why is it always Max Callahan that I run into? Couldn’t it be someone else? There are more than twenty guys on this team. Countless others employed by the Raptors organization. Yet I only seem to run into Mr. Grumpypants.
I have zero issues working with anyone on the team … except for Max. His assholiness brings out my sass, and it becomes a perfect storm of attitude. So, of course, I gave him the perfect nickname. “Oh. Hello, Sunshine.”
“You need to stop calling me that,” he growls. Good lord. I hate his voice. It’s deep and raspy and makes me wonder how it would feel to have him talking me through an orgasm while his face is between my thighs. Definitely inappropriate to think that about a colleague.
“Why?” I say lightly, picking at nonexistent specks on my shirt. “It fits.”
“I’m the opposite of sunshine, Layla.”
“So, you’re saying I should call you Nighttime? Moonlight?” I gasp. “Oh! I can callyou Midnight Shadow!”
“Don’t you even think about it,” he says, pointing a finger at me. A perfectly manicured finger. Rounded nail, trimmed cuticles … what the hell is up with this guy?
“Old bear? Curmudgeon? Sourpuss?”
“Why can’t you just call me Max?” he asks, exasperated, as he throws his hands in the air. “I haven’t heard you call one other guy a nickname. Why me?”
I shrug. “Because it irritates you, I guess.”
“Lovely,” he mutters, stepping around me. “Guess I’ll need to come up with a nickname for you then.”
“Good luck!” I call out as he stalks down the corridor. When he doesn’t reply, I continue on my way.
Why did I start calling Max “Sunshine”? Because he glared at me as soon as he met me, and that pissed me off. My mom used to always tell me, “You get more flies with honey than you do with vinegar, my sweet Layla-girl. But sometimes, it’s more fun to give an asshole too much sugar.”
It is indeed fun.
But also really frustrating, because I’ve never been this despised by someone for no apparent reason. I’m a friendly woman. I’m nice to everyone. I was raised in South Carolina, where southern manners are a very important part of every girl’s education. I can hold a conversation with a wood door if needed, honestly. If I’m forced into a chat with someone who claims to be the most introverted person in the world, I’ll have them smiling by the time I’m done with them. But not Max Callahan.
He does the grumpy bit extremely well. He’s got that whole tall, dark, and handsome vibe going on, with eyes so dark they’re almost black. His skin is perfectly bronzed, but the worst part is the damn curls on his head. Perfect curls that I desperately want to feel and twirl around my fingers. I’m not too proud to admit I’ve had dreams about his hair, where I’ve been jarred awake right as I was about to get my hands into it.
We’re quite the dichotomy. He looks like the poster child for a bad decision that would feel oh, so good, whereas I’m the perfectblonde woman who knows how to appease everyone. I’ve definitely been taught never to raise my voice … but that’s a southern staple I really struggle with. I know how to wine and dine, ways to redirect someone without an argument, and when I need to keep my mouth shut. Momma raised me to be respectful, but also to know my place in society.
Speaking of, when my phone blastsRedneck Womanby Gretchen Wilson, I giggle to myself. My mother’s smiling face stares back at me from the screen as I put it to my ear. “Hi, Mom.”
“How’s my favorite daughter doing today?” she asks in her singsong voice.
“I’m your only daughter.”
“Doesn’t make it any less true, my little Peach Pie.”
I groan. “You know I hate that nickname.”
“Why? It’s always suited you.”
“No,” I sigh. “It hasn’t. I don’t even like peaches. I don’t like peach-flavored anything for that matter. You could just use my name, or call me something normal.”
She scoffs. “Normal? Child, have you known me to do things in a normal manner?”
