Sweet Spot: A Bad Boy Sports Romance (Bad Boys of Summer Book 2)
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Authors: Winters,KB
Tags: #Baseball romance, #Bad Boy Sports Romance
Sweet Spot
A Bad Boys Of Summer Sports Romance
By KB Winters
Copyright © 2016 BookBoyfriends Publishing LLC
Published By: BookBoyfriends Publishing LLC
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2016 BookBoyfriends Publishing LLC
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of the trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Contents
Trey
If the phone rang one more damn time, I was going to use it for batting practice and send it over the balcony. I’d been awake for less than an hour and the ringing, beeping, and alerts hadn’t stopped. The phone was built into my six-thousand square foot mansion. No matter which room I went in to, the alerts followed me. They called it a
feature
. I called it a pain in the ass. It was annoying as hell. I stumbled to the butler’s pantry right off the kitchen, where the command central was wired. Once I shut down the phone system, my attention went to the security system.
I scrubbed a hand over my unshaven jaw. “Shit.”
The security cameras were all over my house and property and camera B was displaying a sizable pack of reporters gathered across the street from my house. They were clustered around the security gate that stretched over my driveway and blocked off my lot.
“So much for a gated community,” I growled. Wasn’t that the reason I’d moved here in the first place? To get away from the paparazzi, sports reporters, and constant noise? My agent and realtor assured me no one would bother me out here.
Apparently, they were wrong.
With a wicked grin, I pressed a series of buttons to activate the intercom system. “Fuck. You. All. Get off my street!”
I laughed to myself as the reports standing nearest to the intercom all jumped at my booming declaration.
“Mr. Delgado, tell us—”
I shut it down before their questions could filter through. I wasn’t in the mood. I was
never
in the mood for that circus. Dealing with the media was the worst part about being a pro athlete. As the star hitter of the Orange County Coyotes, I’d dealt with it for years—but it never got easier. It seemed like the media had only become more ruthless and invasive.
And with everything going on in my life off the ball field, they were like sharks that just caught the scent of blood in the water.
I groaned and walked back into the kitchen. It was nearly nine o’clock in the morning. Part of me wanted to hightail it back up to my king sized bed and crash out for the next forty-eight hours. But I knew that wasn’t an option. Eventually, Mason, my agent, would give up on me answering the phone and would come hunt me down like one of those sharks. Unfortunately, he had a set of keys. He was halfway a friend—and halfway my agent. However, given the shit storm I was currently caught up in, he’d likely have some
un
friendly things to say.
I cracked open a beer to soothe the headache pounding between my brows, and then went about raiding the fridge. My assistant had it stocked to the brim, and within minutes, I’d piled a plate full of cold cuts and fancy cheese and tucked a loaf of bread under my arm. I took it all through the living room and out the back doors that led to the balcony that overlooked my private stretch of the beach below. The sun was high in the sky and I quickly ducked under the cover of the patio umbrella and settled into a seat at the table for eight.
With a hangover headache raging, the sun in my eyes was the last thing I needed. But the ocean air and calming sound of the waves would go a long way to getting me back on the right side.
I chugged the beer back and went back inside long enough to grab a second and snagged my tablet on the way back out the doors. I shoveled food into my face as I casually scrolled through my emails. I didn’t want to deal with any of it, but at least emails were quiet. Mason wasn’t going to give two shits if I had a hangover. When he finally got my attention, he was going to let me have it.
“Trey!”
Damn it.
The echo of Mason’s voice roared out through the open door to the balcony and I grimaced. He sounded like a pissed off grizzly bear. This wasn’t going to be fun…
He appeared in the doorway, already dressed in a three-piece suit, combed, and preened to perfection. Mason was from the East Coast and stuck out like a sore thumb in the casual, laid back atmosphere of southern California. Everyone was in board shorts, tee shirts, and flip flops, and he’d be sweating his ass off in a full suit. The only thing missing was his normally calm, cool, professional polish. That had been thrown aside and exchanged for the red face, narrowed eyes, and bunched fists. “What in the
hell
were you thinking?”
I pulled a long sip from my beer and looked at him while wracking my brain for a good response. A possible side step out of the pile of shit I was in.
“Are you drinking? It’s not even ten o’clock in the morning!” Mason threw his hands up and stormed across the balcony and grabbed the bottle from my hands. He clenched it and grit his teeth as he stared down at me. He wasn’t that much older than me, but our lifestyles couldn’t have been more different. Where I preferred parties, pussy, and playing around, Mason was straight laced, polite, and the kind of guy who would ask for permission before kissing a girl at the end of a date. But he was a damn good agent.
“Mase, listen, it’s not as bad as you think,” I started, leaning back in my chair.
He rolled his eyes and slammed the beer bottle on the table. The sound of the bottle on the glass table top sent shock waves up my spine and a slamming pulse of pain through my brain. “You have no idea what you’ve done. Here—” He spun on the heel of his polished loafers, and high-tailed it into the house. He returned a minute later, leather briefcase in tow, and propped it on the table. He unlocked it and snapped the lid back. Seconds later he threw a handful of glossy gossip magazines in my lap. “There—a refresher for your alcohol riddled mind!”
“Shit…”
Mason glared at me as I flipped through the stack of magazines. “Yeah.
Shit
.”
There were five in total. Celebrity gossip magazines. The kind that clog up the line at the grocery store. Instead of A-listers and “Who Wore It Better” splashed across the front. It was my ugly mug. Being hauled out of Luxe, a hot club in LA. I looked drunk off my ass—which, to be fair, I was—and the headlines all featured my name.
Coyote’s Wild Night Out
I tore my eyes off the magazines and forced myself to look back up at Mason. I wasn’t a pussy. I wasn’t going to hide or sulk.
“Well?” he said, glaring down his sharp nose at me. “What do you have to say for yourself?”
I pushed the magazines away and reached over to snatch the beer bottle from where he’d slammed it. “I don’t have anything to say, Mase. It is what it is.”
His mouth dropped open. “Do you even know what you’ve done?”
“Not really. Did I punch a photographer? Get busted with a waitress in the bathroom?”
Mason threw himself into the chair beside mine like he didn’t know what else to do with himself. “Trey, I’ve been trying to keep my composure with you over the last few months. I know that this whole thing with Kimberly—”
“
Don’t
say her name,” I snapped, glaring at him.
He sighed. “I know you’ve got a lot on your mind right now. But you have to get your shit together. You’re losing endorsement deals so fast I can hardly keep up with all the calls. Just this morning, I had a call from a legal team, apparently Express White Toothpaste wants to file a suit.”
I balked. “What?”
“Yeah, they’re claiming you violated some morality clause.”
“For
toothpaste
? What? It’s not like I took pictures of some chick sucking it off my cock!”
Mason pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head slowly. “Trey…”
“Just sayin’…”
His icy blue eyes popped open wide and bore down on me. “We have a week until the trade deadline. If someone had asked me yesterday what I thought your chances were of staying here with the Coyotes, I would’ve said they were fifty-fifty. Now…after this…”
“You’re saying that I’m getting traded?” That thought sobered me right up.
I’d been with the Orange County Coyotes since the beginning of my career. As a rookie, I rocketed to fast fame, winning five straight all-star grand slam championships, garnering fans, and living the all-star life— quite happily I might add—for eight years in sunny California. I had a beach front mansion, more cars, bikes, and boats than I could keep track of, and enough endorsement deals that even if my career ended tomorrow, I’d live the rest of my life as an obscenely wealthy man.
Yeah, my team expressed their frustrations over my personal life, but it was my life—
my personal life
. Didn’t the word
personal
mean anything?
Apparently not, because the idea that they’d trade my ass for a few oversights in my
personal
behavior seemed far-fetched.
The look on Mason’s face had me wondering if I was overestimating their position on my future with the team. “Trey, it’s not looking good. The front office is starting to close ranks.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that they’re not taking my calls, not answering my emails, and generally not telling me what’s going on. It’s not a good sign.”
“You’re serious?”
“Dead serious.”
“Fuck.” I curled my hands together and then slammed them against my muscular quads.
“I’ve been trying to call—”
“I know!” I jumped up from my seat and paced the deck. When I reached the other end, I stopped and braced my hands on the railing. Something caught my eye from the grass lining the hillside slope to the sand. I narrowed my eyes. “Are you fucking serious?”
“I just said I was,” Mason replied, his tone prickly.
“No, not that. Paparazzi. Over there in the bushes.”
Mason joined me at the edge, and I pointed out the long range lenses sticking through the blades of tall grass and other foliage. “Great,” he hissed. “Just what we need.”
I flipped them the bird.
Mason shot me a death glare.
I chuckled and then stalked back into the house. Mason followed me into the kitchen. “What are my options?”