Page 18 of Off Limits: The Firsts

“That’s the hope,” he muses as he raises his eyebrows, “just a different kind of head.”

Over my dead body.

My own thought knocks me back a step. Forces me to suck down my free beer and reconsider Blondie’s unspoken, no-strings-attached offer, but now I can’t. Not when Scout is in my head, and my dick’s reacting to the thought of her more than the thought of the woman down the bar.

“For some reason I don’t think Scout’s into screwing the starting line-up,” I say with an arch of my brow. “So hands to yourself, you grabby fucker.” I hope my thinly veiled threat is heard, and at the same time not heard. Them knowing I have the hots for Scout will only make life in the clubhouse worse for her.

“I agree. If she was into that, she’d be out in the locker room flirting with everyone. Sucks for you, though.” J.P. taps his beer against mine.

“Depends who’s doing the sucking,” I say, getting a laugh for the distraction.

“Well, rumor is you’re her ticket to getting the Aces’ contract,” Drew says.

“Really?” He has my attention now.

“I heard that Doc’s worked in every clubhouse in the majors except for ours. Supposedly by fulfilling this contract and getting you back on the field, he’s angling for the club to sign him to run the team’s PT program. Word is, he’s never had a long-term contract with a club, but after a lifetime on the road, travelling from team to team to rehab their stars . . . a la you,” he says with a nod, “he wants to end his career this way. Getting to stay in one place for a while.”

“The perfect game to close out a pennant-winning career,” I muse. Makes sense.

“Exactly.”

“And how does his daughter play into all of this?”

“Not sure.” Drew shrugs. “But if she’s half as good as he is, it’d be more than good enough. Plus, dude, are you going to complain that you get that hot little body pressing up against you every day?”

My smile is automatic. “Not at all.” I laugh.

“That’s what I thought,” he says as he motions to our waitress for another round. “Lucky for you, our lovely GM has given Sumo Sam his written notice. He’s got ninety days and his contract is void.”

“Thank Christ,” I murmur, recalling the last time I let the team’s lead physical therapist, Sam, touch my shoulder. At about three months post-op, my shoulder was nowhere close to where it should have been. Frustrated and feeling like I was spinning my wheels, I demanded to know why we were doing the same shit every day rather than try the new methodologies other clubhouses were using and having success with. I think back to how pissed he was that I questioned him. How he told me I wasn’t healing because I wasn’t putting in the time when in fact I was putting in so much time I was overdoing it. Such fucking bullshit.

“Sam doesn’t know an elbow from an asshole,” J.P. says.

“You’re telling me.”

“Yeah, Miller told me he overheard Cory tell Sam that the Aces are a forward-thinking organization and that from here on out he expects every member to subscribe to the idea or some bullshit like that. And how since Sam refused to educate himself on the newest trends—your shoulder rehab—then he was in breach of the fine print of his contract and would no longer have a position with the Aces.”

“Asshole,” I mutter.

“Which one? Sam or Cory?” Tino asks.

“Take your pick.” I roll my eyes. “Look, I get bringing a new GM in to restructure the Aces’ organization. It’s always good to switch things up and trim costs after having the same people running the club for so many years. What I don’t get is Cory. There’s something about him I can’t quite put my finger on.”

“He’s a bean counter.” Drew shrugs. “He’s a live by the contract, die by the contract, even when the words in the contract don’t make any fucking sense, kind of guy. I get his job is all about dollars and cents, but this is baseball we’re talking about here.” He takes a long swig of his beer. “Then again I’m buzzed so what the fuck do I know?”

“A lot.”

“I’m with you, East,” Tino says. “The jury is still out on Cory. I mean . . . take Doc Dalton. The man has a legendary record of success. How fucked up is it that Cory is making him vet himself for the new long-term contract by getting an ugly fucker like Easton here back on the field?”

“Vet himself? Doc Dalton?” J.P. laughs in disbelief. “That’s kind of funny.”

“The man with the golden hands,” I murmur, thinking of all the times I’d be on the road with my dad and watched Doc work his magic on opposing players.

“No doubt his daughter’s hands . . . and thighs, are just as magical.”

I hear the comment but my thoughts are on what Drew just said. On the fact that the club’s new general manager is thinking of bringing Doc’s team on board to run the club’s physical therapy regimen. It’s fucking great news, since I’ll need the continued rehab.

But it’s also daunting to have the final piece to this man’s renowned career rely on whether I return to the roster within the mandated timeframe.