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Decision made, I head to the floor where the team is staying. It’s two floors up from the room I was on. Trying not to look creepy, I slowly walk down the hallway, discreetly tapping the card against all the doors on my right hand side. I get all the way to the end of the hall without it working to open any of them, but the first door on the other side lights up green.
Bingo.
I push the door open and slip inside feeling every inch the little burglar that I am. It’s cool and quiet, and it smells like Trick.
Not how he smelled tonight. No sweat, no dirt.
But the other Trick, the one who gets ready to head out to the ballpark. The scent that washed over me the first time he sat in on one of my days shadowing the stats team. His aftershave and his body wash.
I flick the lights on. The bed has been made, and his suitcase is neatly packed and set to the side. It’s nothing like the chaos downstairs.
I shrug my bag off and cross to the phone. Ignoring the tremor of nerves, I dial room service and order a pizza and a slice of cheesecake as confidently as I can manage.
Then I flop onto Trick’s bed and ignore how it smells like him, too. The third and most elusive version of the man I am desperately in love with, who I will never get to know. The naked version of Trick with warm, taut skin I want to kiss all over.
A very bad, very tempting idea forms in my mind, and I glance over at my bag. In it is his jersey, handed to me by the equipment manager on my way out of the stadium.
I’ll never know what it’s like to actually be naked, skin to skin, with Trick. But I can wrap myself in him just this once.
Nobody will ever know, I tell myself as I strip out of my clothes.
This is my little secret.
CHAPTER7
TRICK
I’m sticky as fuck and I reek of champagne.
Everyone is talking about where we’re going to celebrate, and all I want is my bed.
Ideally, I’d rather my own bed, a California king back home—I have matching ones at my estate in Florida and on my ranch in Wyoming—but the hotel standard king will do fine.
And some room service. A burger and an ice cream sundae. A beer. A cold shower that won’t stop me from wrapping my hand around my heavy, aching cock while I think about Sinclaire glaring up at me in the shadows.
“What’s the plan, big guy?” Jeff appears out of nowhere and crosses his arms next to me.
Stroking one out to the thought of fucking your daughter against a concrete wall.
“It’s bedtime for me,” I manage to choke out.
I need privacy with my cock and a fantasy of fucking Sin into the next century while she calls me Daddy. Maybe my hand squeezed around her throat, making her desperate to come before she passes out. Something truly twisted to make a clear distinction between real life and my secret desires.
“Yeah, me too.” He nods at the rest of the team. “That could have been us, once upon a time.”
Guilt pushes me to offer, “It could be us tonight.”
Even though I don’t want it to be, and I’m relieved when he shakes his head.
“Do you want to share a ride back to the hotel?” he asks. “They have cars waiting for us.”
I don’t want that, either. My skin crawls with a complicated heat whenever we talk. I’ve compartmentalized my desires and my professional obligations and my personal relationships up until tonight, but he’s not going to be coaching me anymore.
I’m done. I just haven’t told anyone yet.
That resolve—to be done with baseball, to retire and move on with my life—makes it harder to maintain the firewall around the filth my brain churns up than it has been every day before now, because I’m not keeping my need for Sinclaire locked down for the good of the next game.
I feel like a ticking time bomb, like any second he’s going to see right through me and realize I’m lusting after his daughter.
