Page 81 of The Sweet Spot

“It's the smell of a man who's about to be late to his own game. Go.”

He pushes up off the bed, still grinning, and pads toward the bathroom—

and stops.

He looks down at his right hand. Turns it over and studies it, his little ass clenching as he does.

“What's wrong?” I ask.

He drops the hand, then turns back to me with a sheepish, almost guilty smile.

“I, uh.” He clears his throat. “I didn't really want to shower.”

“You need one.”

“I know, but....” He raises his hand and wiggles his fingers in my direction. “That means I have to wash you off.”

“Oh my goodness.”

Grabbing the pillow next to me, I throw it at his head. When it hits him square in the face, he doesn’t even flinch.

“You can’t play a professional baseball game smelling of our juices.”

“Juices.” He cocks a brow. “I like the way that sounds.”

“Stop it. You’re being ridiculous. You have to shower eventually.”

“Yeah, but...” He rubs the back of his neck, and the grin slips. “I've been having such a hard time at the plate, Whit. Nothing's working, and the last time I had trouble bringing my A game... Well—” He stops himself.

My thighs clench at the memory. My core tingles as though I haven’t just spent the last twelve hours with him worshipping every part of my body.

I point at the bathroom. “Shower. Now.”

He drops his head, deflated, and trudges to the bathroom.

The second I hear the water start. I lie back against the pillows and stretch my arms over my head, the deep ache in my core still there.

Bringing my arms down, I roll onto my side and see JB’s equipment bag slumped against the wall by the door. It’s half-unzipped with his bats sticking out, and his batting gloves poking out of the pocket in front.

What if I—

No.

I close my eyes.

No. Absolutely not. I am a rational adult. I do not believe that a man's batting average has anything to do with whether he's recently been in proximity to my—

I can’t do that.

His batting is not dependent on me. He’ll get a hot streak going soon, and he won’t need me.

But if I did that...would it give him his confidence back? He's been drowning out there for the better part of six weeks, getting under every pitch, tapping his hat for a luck that won't come. It's not his hands. It's his head.

I open my eyes again and look at the bag.

Maybe I could just—

The water shuts off.