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Greer straightens her back and calls out to the room. “I’m done here. Thanks for the interviews and congratulations on your win. I’ll see y’all tomorrow.”
“You should stay for beers and beignets. It’s tradition.” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them, but I can also hear the cutting edge, almost daring her to join us. I can’t help the way this woman gets under my skin. My reaction to her feels instinctual, like how I know where a ball is going to land in my glove. I don’t overthink, I just react.
She pauses, tossing that gorgeous hair over her shoulder. For a second, when our eyes meet, her armor slips and I watch as her eyes soften and her shoulders relax. For a moment, I think she’s going to take me up on the offer, but then some other douchebag motherfucker lets out a hoot and holler and the walls are immediately back up.
Her green eyes turn cool and she quirks an eyebrow. “Maybe another time.”
It’s effortless, the way she packs a punch with just one look. And when she turns to walk out the door, her ass swaying in that skirt—it’s like an award-winning motion picture crammed into three seconds.
The woman knows how to make an exit.
CHAPTER THREE
GREER
One of themany great things about living in New Orleans…no one bats an eye if they see you talking to yourself. There are all sorts of people filling these streets—performers, eccentrics, drunks. You name it, we’ve got it. Being a melting pot of people is what makes New Orleans what it is.
So, all the muttering I’ve done to myself from the field to my apartment has gone unnoticed.
Irritation is still boiling through me after a quick trip to the press booth to file my story on the game, I barely remember calling an Uber. Thankfully, my driver didn’t try to engage me in a conversation, allowing my rage to boil and fester as I cursed Mack Granger the entire drive home.
I’m still fuming and mumbling under my breath when I open the front door to the condo I share with my friend, Whitney. If she’s here, she’s not making herself known, so I stomp to my bedroom and slam the door.
Beignets and beers, indeed!
Who does that guy think he is?
“Brickwall. Ugh!” I spit out, removing my clothes and throwing them on top of my dry-cleaning pile. What does that nickname mean anyway? I’m sure it’s sports related but I can’t help wondering if there’s more to it… like maybe referencing the way he’s built like a brick wall… or perhaps all the women he’s taken up against a brick wall.
For fuck’s sake, Greer, why is that where your mind goes?
Because as infuriating as Mack Granger’s behavior is, I can’t deny the man is hot as fuck.
Thick shoulders and thighs.
Dark hair.
Dark eyes.
And a jaw that could cut glass.
He’s not as tall as some of the other players, like Ross Davies and Owen Thatcher, but he carries himself like he owns the goddamn room. He demands attention.
When he’s behind the mound, he’s nothing but power and grit. There’s a reason his teammates and opponents refer to him as Brick orBrickwall, and that’s because nothing gets through him. And on the off chance it does, he’s the first one to want to kick his own ass.
Mack Granger takes the game of baseball seriously, but he’s also a fun-loving guy. He keeps the team's morale up and facilitates a lot of comradery between the players. So, despite what I walked into with him talking shit about some girl to Jason Freeman, I know he’s not alwaysthatguy.
However, as attracted to Mack as I am, and have been since we first met last year, I’ve done my best to avoid him at all costs. It wasn’t hard for a while because I was still dating Miles the narcissist off and on. And ever since I blocked him, I’ve been busy with work and haven’t made it to many get-togethers where I’d see Mack. But now that my job is forcing me to interact with him, I don’t know how much longer I can continue to avoid him or the way he makes my body tingle by just looking at me.
When I step out of the shower, my cell phone rings so I quickly wrap a towel around my body and run to grab it off my nightstand.
“Hey, bitch, hey! Congrats on your first Reveler’s segment!” Sophie’s enthusiastic voice rings out when I put the call on speaker phone.
Laughing, I reply, “Thanks. I didn’t think you’d make it home in time to watch it.”
“Of course, I did! Watched it and recorded it for posterity’s sake. You rocked it and you looked amazing, too. Owen said you made a great first impression with the team.”
That last comment leaves me feeling both surprised and relieved. Being that he’s one of the pitchers for the Revelers, his opinion is important to me. Even though this wasn’t an assignment I was gunning for, I still want to do a good job in hopes it leads to something more—something I’m passionate about, like stories that change people’s lives.
