Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 97875 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97875 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Sig loomed behind Chloe, fury causing him to vibrate. “Get any closer to her and I will use your kneecaps for batting practice.”
Some people had the ability to predict the weather by looking at the sky. Or determine the direction of the wind by holding up a blade of grass. Robbie Corrigan could smell a brawl coming a mile away—and the air was beginning to get ripe for flying fists.
Without any conscious thought, he found himself edging toward the brunette.
Because God help everyone if her beautiful face caught one of those fists. He’d even let her punch him in the junk if it meant she stayed out of the fray. It would hurt, but he’d recover. Eventually.
As slyly as possible, Robbie reached through an opening among the group of baseball players and nudged Brown Eyes. “Psst.” He jerked his chin in the opposite direction of the brewing altercation. “Come on. Let’s go.”
What? she mouthed, incredulous.
“Move. Before you get hurt,” he whispered.
“I’ll hurt you,” she whispered back, furiously.
From five yards away, she’d been interesting to look at. Obviously pretty.
Up close?
Her scowl made him wonder how much a bouquet of long stem roses cost.
“You wore Crocs to play baseball?” murmured the brunette while looking down at Robbie’s feet. “Are you serious?”
“When I want to play a real sport, sweetheart, I put on skates.”
“I could do a lot of interesting things with a blade right about now.”
“You’re kind of violent, aren’t you?”
She gave him another one of those evil smiles in response.
By insulting baseball, he’d probably just ruined his chances of taking this girl out, but he never backed down from a challenge. Hence this Saturday morning face-off that literally no one asked for.
“I wasn’t going to play,” Sig was saying in the middle of removing his jacket, which only meant one thing to Robbie. It was time to kick someone’s ass. “But the possibility of hitting you with a line drive between the eyes is too tempting.”
Elton scoffed. “My sister, Skylar, is pitching and she’s D1 all-American. You’re welcome to try.”
Sister.
Skylar.
She was the sister of Elton? The jackass Robbie had been feuding with?
They didn’t even appear to be related.
But clearly, they were, in some form or fashion.
Excellent.
His shot with Skylar was basically nonexistent now.
But as he watched the blush spread along her cheekbones, the way she ducked her head, as if shy about her brother’s open admiration, Robbie decided he was still going to try like hell. A Division 1 all-American pitcher who made fun of his shoes and implied she’d like to stab him with a hockey skate?
Hot. That was fucking hot.
Even hotter? When she stomped her way through the baseball players to reach her brother, slapping him in the chest with her glove. Hard. “Idiot. Can’t believe you pulled something like that,” she hissed, referring to the glaring reality that he’d brought Chloe to the field just to piss off the Bearcats.
Skylar hit Elton once more—Robbie almost swooned—before heading for the pitching mound and calling over her shoulder, “I’m telling Mom.”
Elton trailed after her. “You better not.”
Chapter Three
If only Redbeard would stop grinning at Skylar, she could enjoy pitching into the steady glove that belonged to Madden, the man of her dreams. Taking out the hockey player’s teeth with a line drive would be effective, too, but violence would probably only give the Bearcats what they wanted. Brawling was likely their comfort zone.
So, she’d pitch.
That’s what Skylar did. That’s where she found her answers, her solace. By mentally running through a list of strategies, based on an abundance of factors, mainly the hitter’s preferences and strengths. Had they swung at her last fastball? Were they desperate for a hit after striking out during their first three at bats? The mechanics of her windup were like a needle falling perfectly into the groove of a record; her pitch was the music. Her form never changed. She had it down to a science. There were no unknowns or last-second changes.
Sure, this morning, she was pitching a baseball, which meant a different windup, an overhand throw, but she knew baseball almost as well as she knew softball. After all, she’d grown up playing with the boys, and later, at age twelve, when her long-divorced mother had met her recently single soon-to-be stepfather at a youth baseball tournament, she’d learned to play ball with her new fourteen-year-old brother. And down the road, Madden.
Athletics were what had bonded her newly combined family. They never stopped moving, training, trying out for the best travel teams. Performing, competing, winning.
That’s what she did. That’s how she belonged.
Lean forward. A practiced intake of breath.
Straighten. Judge the distance, the position of the hitter.
Another breath.
A twist of her foot on the mound.
Knee up, arm back, ball into the strike zone.
Sound filtered in from both dugouts. Elton’s friends—at least, the ones who didn’t know her prior to this morning—were slack-jawed. The Bearcats punched one another in the shoulders, shouting variations of “oh shit.” Madden nodded at her in approval, stood, and threw back the practice pitch. Skylar tried not to be obvious about savoring the vibration down her arm, but it had been a while since she’d received a throw from Mad.