Jock Blocked – Copper Valley Fireballs Read online Pippa Grant

Categories Genre: Romance, Sports Tags Authors:

Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 90130 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 451(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)

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Jock Blocked - Copper Valley Fireballs

Author/Writer of Book/Novel:

Pippa Grant

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She can't let him score…
Call it superstition, but when a guy bats as hot as Brooks Elliott, you don't mess with what's working. And what's working is him keeping his pants zipped and doing all of his scoring on the field.
So when I hear he's planning to ditch his V-card now that he's been traded to baseball's lovable losers—aka my home team and my reason for living every March through October—I do what any rational, dedicated, obsessed fan would do.
I make a plan to stop him. But the thing about stopping him is that it requires spending time with him.
Lots. And lots. And lots of time. And the more time I spend with him, the more I like him. Not as the guy who's going to help save my favorite team and finally bring home a championship ring, but as the guy who's helping me in my quest to bring back the team's old mascot. Who also loves making pancake and bacon sandwiches. And who would do almost anything for his love of the game.
But after all this time of jock-blocking him…do I even have a chance? And if I do, are we both destined to a life of celibacy in the name of winning?
Jock Blocked is a home run of a romantic comedy featuring the world's most superstitious sports fan, baseball's oldest virgin hero, a rogue meatball, an adorable puppy with a cussing problem, and the best lovable losers. It stands alone and comes with a happily ever after more satisfying than a game-winning grand slam.
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Pippa Grant


Mackenzie Montana, aka a woman on a mission

I never meant to become a criminal. But in the grand scheme of life, I don’t think I’m technically engaging in criminal behavior.

At least, if it is, you could call it a crime of passion.

And I am very passionate in my belief that while the Fireballs need to make changes to halt their record-breaking streak of being the worst losing team ever to play professional baseball, they don’t need to do it with a new mascot. Which is why I decided to take two weeks off work and fly to Florida for spring training, where I’m not saying that I’ve snuck into my home team’s ballpark after hours to steal the worst proposed mascot costume, but I’m not saying I haven’t either.


They actually let a meatball make the final cut.

I needed at least another full season to get over the fact that the new Fireballs ownership killed the last mascot, and here they are, letting fans vote on replacing Fiery the Dragon with flaming meatballs.

I snort to myself while I creep through the darkened concrete hallways with a flaming meatball swallowing half of my body.

If you’re going to steal a giant meatball costume, it’s best to act like you know what you’re doing. And striding out of here with zero shame means two things—one, no one’s going to stop me, and two, even if they do, I’m incognito.

It’s the perfect crime to counter the crime of killing Fiery.

I’m one turn away from the door that I left propped open for myself after hiding out in the family bathroom after today’s game when voices drift toward me.

One male.

One female.

Neither is familiar, but as I get closer to my final turn, I realize the voices are between me and my exit.

No biggie.

I got this.

I can stroll on by, flash a thumbs-up, pretend like I’m heading out to prank the Fireballs at the team compound they’re all staying at, or to make a fast-food run for publicity.

Acting like I know what I’m doing inside this mascot costume is as easy as breathing. When you’ve seen thousands of baseball games in your lifetime, it’s not hard.

So I turn the corner.

And then I suck in a surprised breath, because that’s Brooks Elliott.

Oh. My. God.

Brooks Elliott.

The Fireballs’ newest acquisition. Like, so new he arrived yesterday. A mid-spring training acquisition, which is practically unheard of.

He plays third base, and he hits the ball like it’s evil incarnate and he’s an avenging angel and it’s his job to send that evil into another dimension.

He could be the reason we legitimately have a shot at making it to the post-season.

And I am not going to hyperventilate like I did the last time I was face-to-face with a baseball player.

Pretending to be a mascot?

I got this.

Talking to the players?

It’s like talking to the gods.

Tall, muscled, chiseled gods who put on a show for me every day from spring to fall with their acrobatics on the field and their powerful swings at home plate.

I’ve had the chance to be in the same room with several of the players in the past two years, and every time, I do the same thing.

I turn mute and make an utter fool of myself, because I cannot talk to gods.

My breath is coming short and choppy, so I give myself a little pep talk. You don’t have to talk, Mackenzie. Just walk. Walk and do a few hand signals that they won’t understand, and he’ll never know it’s you.

Brooks is in jeans that fit his muscular thighs like a second skin, with his arms bulging under a tight black T-shirt featuring a bull in a leather jacket smoking a cigarette on a motorcycle. And his forearms.

Oh, god, baseball forearms.

They’re lethal to women’s panties everywhere, because baseball forearms.

He’s leaning a shoulder against the cinderblock wall, aiming smoky hazel eyes and an orgasm-inducing smile at one of the janitor ladies in a blue smock, who’s giggling, because of course she is.

That smile is so potent, I can feel it through this costume. I want to be that smock just to be closer to the smolder.

Alas, even if my tongue worked when I’m around baseball players, Brooks Elliott is off-limits.

He’s a virgin.


According to my very reliable sources, when he tries to score with the ladies, he doesn’t score on the field. And I very much need him to score on the field for my team this year.

Work, I silently order my legs, and look at that.

They’re moving. With a bounce, even, because that’s how a meatball mascot in a Fireballs jersey would move.

Huh. If my nine-to-five trash engineer job thing ever fails, maybe I can get a job as a baseball mascot.

But not the meatball mascot.

If I had to pick a new mascot—which I’m not, because I’m running the Bring Back Fiery campaign—I’d angle for the firefly, because at least it has fire in it naturally. I get why the duck is in the running after that thing with the ducks at Duggan Field—the Fireballs’ regular season stadium back in my home city of Copper Valley, Virginia—but the echidna is strange and not at all related to baseball, or fire, and even if his spiky hands are sort of threatening and cool, no one even knows what an echidna is.