Page 3 of Bad Run

“Alright. But you better not ditch out. It’s going to be an amazing night.”

“We’ll be there,” I promise.

“Better not be lying.” He raises a thick eyebrow at me. He’s right to question me. Lately, I’ve been avoiding events my father attends.

“You can bet your sweet, biteable ass we will be there,” Jenna interjects, making Tristan chuckle.

“Good. I’ll see you two troublemakers later.” Tristan leaves us to continue watching the celebrations and follows the rest of the staff out of the luxury box suite.

Jenna and I stay until the end to watch Cam named MVP and the commissioner hand over the trophy to my father.

Dad makes a speech thanking the entire Evaders’ organization, the players, my brothers, and of course my grandfather.

I barely listen. My eyes have only one mission. I watch the one man I shouldn’t as he stands on the stage celebrating with his team. His megawatt smile lights up his entire face and makes my heart flutter.

As directed, the cab pulls up a good five hundred feet from the front of the club and the sea of flashing lights and screaming fans. My anxiety jumps, and my palms sweat at the spectacle before me.

Shoving my nerves aside, I pay the cab driver and push open the cab door. I slide out of the cab with my legs crossed and place them on the asphalt, standing tall. Shoulders back, I adjust my skirt and ready myself to enter the party.

It’s November in New York, so that means it’s cold but not freezing.

I’m wearing a black leather miniskirt with sheer, shiny black tights underneath, knee-high black leather boots, and a gorgeous blush-pink cashmere cropped sweater that buttons down my front and hangs off my shoulder.

Sensible and sexy.

Jenna steps beside me on the sidewalk, fluffing her wavy brunette hair. She looks hot tonight in a black and white color-block dress that accentuates her hourglass figure, and a pair of four-inch heels. Like me, she opted for a smoky eye, but instead of pink-stained lips, she went with red.

The crowd erupts, grabbing our attention.

Jenna and I watch as a limo pulls up, and the rear passenger door flies open to a roar of cheers and flashes.

“Hot damn. Those men are gorgeous,” Jenna mumbles.

Reed McKay and Blake Jensen step out of the limo in perfectly tailored suits, looking hot as hell. They are flanked by their teammates, Heath Erikson and Nico Romero—both of whom have two of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen on their arms—followed by Cameron Miller and Lance Taylor.

My heart somersaults in my chest, like it does every time I see him. He’s wearing dark slacks, a gray button-up with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, and a matching charcoal jacket draped over the crease of his arm.

Damn, he looks fine.

I don’t know which is hotter: Lance in a suit or Lance in his baseball uniform.

Both.

“Whoa, people are crazy,” Jenna hisses as a group of women rush the red ropes and reach out to touch Lance’s arm as he passes. I don’t blame them; Lance is gorgeous. He’s a superhero come to life, but hotter, with his roguish good looks—tall, broad body, dark-blond hair, sharp jawline, and piercing cornflower-blue eyes.

“A little too crazy,” I grumble. I watch as a woman hands him a marker and sticks her watermelon-sized boobs out for him to sign her chest. Dammit, why must all the women who throw themselves at him be so sexy?

Something that feels an awful lot like jealousy swirls through me. It would be so much easier if Lance weren’t so hot and I didn’t have a giant teenage crush on him.

“True, but the guys did just win the World Series for the first time in decades,” Jenna muses.

“I know.” I still don’t like it.

I can’t help scrunching my nose at the way the woman’s boobs jiggle as Lance signs his name and winks.

Ugh.

Maybe the gossip magazines are right and Lance is one of the LA Evader bad boys who sleep around town, leaving a trail of broken hearts behind them.