The Player (The Player Duet Book 1) by K. Bromberg

The Player (The Player Duet Book 1) by K. Bromberg

Author:K. Bromberg [Bromberg, K.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Book One
Publisher: JKB Publishing, LLC
Published: 2017-04-15T07:00:00+00:00


Nerves rattle around within me when they shouldn’t.

“This is . . . unbelievable.” I look around the facility. There’s a state of the art batting cage with a multi-pitch batting machine set up on one end, and a sloped floor to collect the balls and refeed the machine. The turf beyond houses a complete infield. The walls are littered with sports memorabilia from some of the greats—signed jerseys, bats, and balls from Mickey Mantle, Babe Ruth, Jackie Robinson, Hank Aaron, Ted Williams . . . and a few from Cal Wylder.

I walk along the walls, stare at the living history lining them, and am in awe of the mini-museum of men I grew up hearing my father talk about.

“It’s my wall,” he muses quietly, allowing me to take it all in as I turn from the legends beside me to face one that I feel has equal potential.

“It’s a good wall,” I muse, heading over to the rack of bats all sized and weighted to match his preferences. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Yeah, well . . .” He shrugs and blushes and it’s rather adorable. “The machine is having issues, or else I’d tell you to hit a few.”

“I haven’t touched a bat in what feels like years.” I run my fingers over the butts of them and then continue to explore the space. We both fall silent, but I know he’s watching me, and I’m not quite sure what to do about it.

I asked to see the field because it was safer than going into his condo where I will be reminded of the other night when I need to still process the events of the day and how I feel about them. How I let him wear me down, kiss me senseless twice, and then manage to get me to admit that maybe I want to see where all of this leads us because me agreeing to come here means it is, in fact, going somewhere.

And that scares the hell out of me.

There’s a wall to the left of a bathroom. It’s lined with framed jerseys in different colors and sizes, and it takes me a minute to figure out what they are. “These are all of your Little League jerseys, aren’t they?”

I stare at the simple idea and can’t believe how touched I am by the sight of them. The history he has with each one. The memories from then that made the man he is now.

“Yes. My parents kept them all.” He says nothing more, and the silence prompts me to wonder more about him, his family, but I have a feeling it’s an off-limits topic.

“Have you always wanted to play baseball?” It’s a simple question, one I expected him to answer immediately, and his pause piques my curiosity.

I turn to look at him while he’s looking at his history on the wall. I take in his profile—the bill of the baseball hat shadowing his face, his thick lashes, straight nose, and full lips. His scruff is longer today than normal, and there’s something about it that’s incredibly sexy.



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