Cleat Catcher (The Cleat Chaser Duet Book 2) (27 page)

Portuguese

36.
Vai te fuder

Means: Go fuck yourself

Spanish

37.
Mierda

Means: Shit

38.
Pendejo

Means: Pubic hair

Used as: Fuck/shit

39.
Puta

Means: Whore

Yiddish

40.
Putz

Means: The opposite of mensch? Yiddish is a pretty peaceful language

Used as: Dickhead

These are Words we Use to Describe you:

1 Vagina
2 Vagine
3 Lady Bits
4 Pussy
5 Poon
6 Poon-Tang
7 Punani
8 Vajayjay
9 Cooter
10 Cho-Cha
11 Cooch
12 Muff
14 Sugar Notch
15 Yahoo
16 Hoo-Haw
17 Honey Pot
18 Beaver
19 Thatched Cottage
20 Pink Panther
21 Snatch
22 Cherry
23 Cunt
24 Hot Pocket
25 Vertical Smile
26 Pink Taco
27 Petticoat lane
28 Wizard Sleeve
29 Cupcake
30 Cookie
31 Woo-Woo
32 Lady’s Low Toupee
33 Love Tunnel
34 Sin Flower
35 Peach
36 Bear Trap
37 Minge
38 Foof
39 The Sarlacc Pit
40 Hairy Potter
41 Hairy Manilow
42 Pink Portal
43 Mount Majesty
44 Coochie Pop
45 Eve’s Tunnel
46 Harpy Nest
47 Lady Jane
48 Flap Dragon
49 Butter Boat
50 Flaming Lips
51 Puff Pillow
52 Egg Crate
53 Pecan Pattie
54 Frothy Creek
55 Velvet Glove
56 Silk Igloo
57 Sticky Bun
58 Pearl Hotel
59 Magic Crepe
60 Mother Of All Souls
61 Velvet Goldmine
62 The Batcave
63 Pink Mink
64 Lawrence of A Labia
65 The Promised Land
66 The Notorious V.A.G.
67 Field of Dreams
68 Pink Truffle
69 Furburger
70 Ariel’s Underwater Treasure Grotto

71 Her Vadgesty (Thanks Popkitttayyyy)

Celia Aaron

Sloane Howell

Celia Aaron & Sloane Howell

Copyright © 2015 Celia Aaron & Sloane Howell

All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the original purchaser of this e-book only. No part of this e-book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from Celia Aaron. Please do not participate in piracy of books or other creative works.

This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

WARNING: This e-book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language and may be considered offensive to some readers. Please store your files wisely, away from under-aged readers.

“How can you not be romantic about baseball?”
-Billy Beane

K
YRIE

T
HE CRACK OF
the bat echoed around the half-full stadium. Nikki hissed. I looked up from my Kindle and caught a glimpse of the runner speeding toward first base as every head on the field craned up to watch the ball’s flight. It soared into the stands beyond the left field wall, and the runner slowed his pace, taking each base with unabashed swagger. I returned to my book.

“That guy has been talking shit about the Ravens for the entire off season and now he gets a homerun?” Nikki took an angry bite of her hotdog, getting mustard and ketchup in her blonde locks. This was on top of the beer she’d already spilled on my jeans. The scent of fresh dirt, green grass, and popcorn mixed with the hops to create a smell that could be bottled and sold under the label “eau de ballpark.”

“Nik.” I shook my head and clicked my e-reader off. “Here.” I grabbed a napkin and wiped the condiments from her hair. “You eat a hotdog like a third-grader.”

“That’s not what Braden said last night.”

I stared at her. “You just turned a grade school insult dirty.”

She grinned and wrinkled her nose at me. “You loved it.”

I returned her grin. “I did.”

“That’s why we’re besties.” She turned back to the field.

I followed her stare as the runner rounded second base. He slowed even more as the spectators quieted. Easing down the white chalk line in the dirt, he rounded third base wide, his feet skirting the flawless emerald grass. He raised his arms in the air, egging on the crowd as he showboated his way around the field. Boos erupted from the stands.

Braden, the catcher, tossed his helmet and stepped forward, blocking home plate. The runner finally sped his pace, dashing toward the catcher.

“Oh shit, Braden’s about to get in trouble.” Nikki squealed with excitement.

My eyes widened as the runner charged right into her boyfriend, who turned at the last second and threw a shoulder into the runner’s chest. Both men tumbled to the ground.

“Get him, baby!” Nikki dragged me to my feet.

They fell into a tangle, kicking legs and swinging arms as the crowd roared. The pitcher sprinted from the mound and grabbed Braden, pulling him up and away from the angry runner. Braden was still swinging and cursing as the larger man wrapped his arm around his chest and wrenched him backward. The runner got to his feet and saw an opening. Shoving the shouting umpire aside, he swung at Braden, connecting with the side of his head.

Nikki screamed and I leaned forward, lacing my fingers through the net behind home plate. The pitcher—tall, broad, and extremely pissed off—shoved Braden aside and landed a haymaker on the runner’s jaw that sent him flying back into the dirt. His arms were still straight out when he fell. He was out cold. The crowd cheered and Nikki grabbed my arm, forcing me to jump up and down with her as she crowed.

“Way to go, Easton!” Nikki screamed.

The pitcher glanced up, took a look at Nikki, then moved his stare to me. My breath hitched. Even though he was too far away for me to see the color of his eyes or pinpoint the exact shade of his hair, I knew he was attractive. He didn’t look away, just kept his eyes on me, ignoring the yelling umpire and the bloodied Braden.

Surrounded by thousands and with Nikki screaming like a banshee at my side, it was only he and I for a brief, stolen moment. Goose bumps rose along my arms, and I dropped my eyes, breaking our connection.

The pitcher flexed his hand as the players cleared the benches. They streamed out onto the field in an angry river, spitting obscenities and sunflower seeds. Another small scuffle erupted as several players got into a shoving match. The umpires tried to break it up. The opposing coaches trotted out and argued with each other and the home plate umpire.

After several tense moments full of aggression on both sides, the umpires separated the teams. The runner was ejected from the game and it looked like Easton was about to get the boot, too. After some particularly heated words between both coaches and the home plate umpire, he was allowed to stay. The home crowd cheered as Braden and Easton bumped gloves.

Once the players and the coaches scattered, the crowd settled and the game began again. I tried to keep my eyes on my Kindle, even as the Ravens scored and the pitcher,
Easton,
gave up no more hits. But I kept making furtive glances to the pitcher’s mound and stared for a little too long at the enormous screen along the side of the stadium when it showed a close-up of him.

Even more handsome than I thought, he had deep blue eyes and light brown hair. He never smiled, just stalked from the dugout and did his job. The tension rose in the crowd every time he threw a pitch.

Throughout the top of the ninth, Nikki was digging her gel nails into my arm and shaking the hell out of me after the first two batters struck out. I gave up reading, especially since I’d been going over the same sentence since the bottom of the eighth. Easton drew my gaze, his form calm and collected as he nodded at Braden.