Sweet Spot: A Bad Boy Sports Romance (Bad Boys of Summer Book 2) (2 page)

“What do you mean?”

I spun around from my place at the coffee machine. “My options. Can I get a meeting with management and talk to them? You know, I’ll throw around some bullshit apologies, kiss some ass, whatever.”

Mason raked a hand through his gel soaked hair. “I think it’s past that point, Trey.”

I scoffed. “There’s no way. I’m too valuable to the team. They’ve always looked the other way when it comes to me. Why would this time be any different?”

“You’re losing sponsorship deals damn near every day, getting tangled up in lawsuits, not to mention…” he faded off, having already been warned not to mention the she-devil’s name.

I grit my teeth and smacked my palms on the marble counter. “She doesn’t have a case,” I growled, not bothering to look back over my shoulder.

“She might not, but she’s selling her sob story all over the tabloids, celeb websites, and entertainment shows. It doesn’t make you look good. And that, combined with the rest of the bad press would be more than enough for most teams to start looking into other options. Then there are your stats…”

“I get it, Mase. Damn.”

My stats were down. There was no way around it. With all the shit going on in my personal life—it was hard to stay on top of my game. I played the ignorant card with Mason—but I knew it didn’t look good. Between my sliding performance, bar fights, lawsuits, and an ex one-night stand from hell—most teams would be looking for the eject button.

On top of that, I wasn’t getting any younger.

Sure, I wasn’t
old
but a team like the Coyotes would probably be willing to trade me mid-contract to bring in some fresh new talent.

I pushed my hair back, realizing how much it had grown out over the past couple of months. “What are my options?”

Mason leveled me with a firm stare. “We wait. That’s all we can do. You need to keep a low profile and ride this shit out. No more bars, no more girls, no more fucking around. You get your ass to practice every day, scheduled or not, and work your ass off. Show everyone you’re working hard on a resurgence.”

My muscles went tense. I hated everything about Mason’s plan, but I couldn’t argue with him. I knew he was right. I had to keep my shit together for one whole week until the trade deadline had passed.

How hard could that be?

“And Kimberly?” I asked, the sound of her name like nails raking down a chalkboard.

“That’s for the lawyers to figure out. I know they want a paternity test. These things take time.”

I scrubbed my hands down my face. “Who the hell has time for this shit? Tell ‘em to do it!”

Damn! How had this become my life?

Josie

“Why do I think I’m qualified for this promotion?”

I sighed and glanced at myself in the rearview mirror of my SUV that cost more than I made last year. I bought it after graduating top of my class with my journalism degree clenched between my fingers and a head full of the trail-blazing career I’d thought lay before my feet like some kind of yellow brick road.

Hah! The last two years had taken that delusional version of Josie Crawford, bitch slapped her, and told her to get her ass down to Starbucks for the morning coffee run.

I drew in a breath and returned my eyes to the road ahead of me. “Well, Mr. Jones, the journalism degree hanging above my desk—you know, that flimsy, plywood piece of trash you shoved into the corner and declared my workspace—that piece of paper shows that I know what I’m doing. The honor cords hanging beside it show that I’m damn good at it. And besides that, if I get sent out to fetch lattes and scones one more damn time, I’m going to tell you to take this job and shove it up your fat ass!”

I frowned. “Okay, scratch that last part,” I muttered to myself.

That was going to be the challenge. Keeping my fireball side from blowing up in Marty Jones’ smug face. He was one of the good ole’ boys. The kind that thinks a person’s opinion only matters if they have a dick hanging between their legs.

Which—as it were—I did not.

I sighed and pulled onto Hall Blvd. My hands started shaking when the sign for Oklahoma City News Channel 6 came into sight. All of my resolve shivered and threatened to blow away but I gripped the steering wheel harder. “You might not have a dick, Jo, but that doesn’t mean you can’t grow a set of balls.”

I whipped into the lot, parked, and stalked all the way to Mr. Jones’ office on the third floor. He wasn’t expecting me, but as I got closer—I saw he was alone. It was now or never.

I sucked in a deep breath and rapped my knuckles against the glass door. “Mr. Jones?” He arched a thick brow over his black framed glasses but after a beat, he waved me in.

“You going on a coffee run?” he asked, dropping his attention back to the newspaper in his hands.

I fisted my hands and forced them behind my back before he could see. “No, Mr. Jones. I’m not. I came here to see if I could have a few minutes of your time.”

He looked back up. “Okay…take a seat.”

I lowered into one of the two chairs across from him and drew in a shaky breath.

He set the pages in his hand on the top of his desk and leveled me with a blank stare. “What’s on your mind, Josie?”

“Mr. Jones, as you know, I’ve been here for two years now. Actually, yesterday was my two-year anniversary since my internship ended and my official employment started…”
Not that anyone noticed.
I squared my shoulders. “When I did my internship, I didn’t complain when my daily tasks revolved around coffee runs, messaging proofs all over the office, and making sure guests got a tour and knew where the bathrooms are located. But now…two years later…I’m not happy with those limited duties. I’m qualified to do more, and I would like to do that here, with Oklahoma City’s Channel Six, but if that can’t happen, I’ll be looking elsewhere.”

Good job Josie.
Mr. Jones didn’t move. He blinked a few times.

“Sir?”

“Are you finished?” he asked, spreading his palms on the top of his desk.

“Yes…”

Just kill me…

“All right. Well, then let me start by telling you that I do appreciate your direct approach.”

Granted it was two years delayed.

He continued, “So, I’ll be direct with you in return. The station is not in a position to be doling out promotions to you—or anyone else for that matter. I understand, and hell, I admire your drive, but right now, it’s bad timing.”

I nodded, the ball of fear in my chest unraveled, and all that was left was an empty, gutted feeling as my dream gave its final death throws. All I’d ever wanted was to be an on-air journalist. The woman charging into the conflict, reporting hard hitting news from the sidelines of the action—a face people could trust when the chips were down.

Mr. Jones picked up his paper and started reading again.

What the hell? Was that it? Hours of practicing, reciting, and pep-talking myself into growing a pair, and that was all he had to say? There wasn’t room in the damn budget?

I was furious! But before I could unleash it on the stodgy old man in front of me, he spoke. “Have you seen this? The Warriors just scooped up Trey Delgado. Damn…crazy day.”

My mouth dropped open. “I—I’m sorry…what?”

Mr. Jones looked up at me and then turned the page back to reveal the black and white picture on the sports section. “Trey Delgado. The star hitter from the Orange County Coyotes. The Warriors just snagged him right at the trade deadline. Hell of a steal!”

The man in the picture looked familiar and it took me a moment to wade through the shock of the abrupt topic change—and the evaporation of my promotion talk—to realize he was the bad boy baseball player on the cover of half a dozen tabloid magazines. He was just some prick who couldn’t keep it in his pants and liked to pick fights with loudmouths in bars.

Quite the charmer.

“Mr. Jones, about my promotion…”

He set the newspaper down and folded his hands. “Tell you what, Josie, I like your spirit, so I’m going to create an opportunity for you to get some on-air time.”

My hope grew inside me and it was all I could do to keep from bouncing in my seat. Now we were getting somewhere!

“Christy is going on maternity leave in a few weeks. I’ll have you shadow her and the weather crew for the next week or two, and that way, you can step in for her while she’s gone. That’ll get you twelve weeks of on-camera time. I’ll call Bart and let him know to expect you.”

“What? No, no, no…Mr. Jones, with all due respect, I do
not
want to be a weather girl.”

I tried to keep the bitch out of my voice, but there was no way in hell I’d stand in front of a green screen, wearing evening wear and enough hair spray to choke a donkey, to gesture and point like a rookie Vanna White.

Mr. Jones straightened and flashed me a dark look. “Why not? You want air time. That’s what I’m offering you. I don’t see the problem here.”

I sighed. “Please, Mr. Jones. There has to be something else.
Anything
else.”

Great, now I was groveling. Perfect.

He pointed a thick finger at the newspaper pages spread over his desk. “How about this? There’s a story here. You think you can dig it up?”

I leaned over the picture of Trey Delgado. “What’s the story? Princess baseball player comes to corrupt the rest of our fledgling baseball team?”

“How about we start with getting an interview? Trey Delgado hates reporters and never gives interviews. If we could get an exclusive with him, we’d have the eyes of the nation tuned in. That kind of exposure would lead to an influx of viewers and with that—advertising dollars would come right along with it.”

I saw where he was going. It wasn’t pretty, but it did make sense. “And if we had more advertising, the station could up the budget for other things…like a new field reporter?” I finished, glumly.

“Bingo!” Mr. Jones said, grinning as he lifted his finger to point at me.

I brushed a strand of my long, auburn hair behind my ear. “But he doesn’t give interviews. And even if he did, I’m far from a sports reporter. I wouldn’t even know what to ask. Why can’t Scotty or Dave get the scoop? The end result would be the same, wouldn’t it?”

Mr. Jones chuckled.

That couldn’t be a good sign…

“Josie, you want this, and I’m going to make you work for it. Think of it like a…a humanitarian piece if that helps get the job done. I don’t give two shits about his stats right now. What I want is an exclusive. Find out how he feels about the shocking trade, what he thinks about the Warriors and their chances now that he’s on board. And more importantly—his personal shit. Weave that all together and you got yourself a viral piece that will get you the attention you’re looking for. Think you can handle it?”

Damn it.

I’d set my own trap.

I stood and swept the newspaper off the desk in one fluid motion. I leaned over and grinned at Mr. Jones. “I’ll do it, and then you’re going to give me a real reporting job. Deal?”

He held up his hand for me to shake. “You got yourself a deal, Jo.”

I shook his hand and then strut out of his office, the newspaper tucked under my arm. As I stalked down the hall to my work station, I glared down at the newspaper in my hands, the page still folded back to showcase Trey Delgado with his dark eyes and half-cocked smile. “All right, asshole. I guess it looks like you’re my meal ticket.”

Charming an arrogant pro baseball player into one lousy interview couldn’t be that hard. Could it?

Trey

Bullshit turned out to be stacked higher than I could have possibly imagined, and by the end of trade week—I was cut loose from the Coyotes. I found my ass glued to the seat of a chartered jet to Oklahoma fucking City to join the piss-ant Warriors. Everything happened so fast—my head was still spinning as the pilot announced we were ready to take off.

Mason sat in the seat across from me, pouring over his laptop and jotting down notes on his tablet with a shiny metal stylus. He glanced up, peering at me over the edge of his reading glasses. “What do you want to do about the house? Want me to call Gina?”

I shook my head. “I’m keeping the house.”

Mason frowned. “Trey…”

“I’m keeping it, Mase.” I narrowed my eyes at him and he held up a hand.

He scratched something off his list and then reached into his briefcase, open on the seat beside him, and handed over a stack of papers that were held together with a black clip. “Here’s the list of rentals in Oklahoma City and surrounding areas. All of these will be available within the month.”

I took the pages, but set them down without looking through them and returned my eyes to the small window on my left.

“Trey, listen,” Mason paused to remove his glasses and drew in a deep sigh. “I know this is hard. I tried everything I knew to keep this from happening. But, I think you need to accept this change and make the most of it. You can’t spend the next three years sulking.”

Three years. In Oklahoma? Fuck that sounded like an eternity.

The Coyotes ended up
paying
the Warriors to take me off their hands. How insulting was that? Did Mason really think I’d smile, nod, and move along like it wasn’t a kick in the nuts?

I was a professional fucking home run all-star hitter. And they couldn’t handle me?

I’d finish up the terms of my contract playing for Oklahoma City, joining the ranks of a crap-ass team that was about as far away from the spotlight as it could get. At the beginning of the season, the Coyotes played against them. It was rookie pitcher, Cody Wright’s debut in the major leagues and I hit a grand slam out of the park that broke records and embarrassed the Warriors—especially Cody Wright. Now I was gonna play for the fuckers. Even though Wright had come around and was a kick ass pitcher—they were still a ways from making any kind of championship run. What was I supposed to be? The ringer? The team hero?

“This is a fucking nightmare,” I muttered, ignoring Mason’s advice.

He cleared his throat and went back to his work. The tapping at his keyboard was getting on my nerves.

“What about a car? You want me to arrange to have something dropped off at the hotel? Or do you want one of yours shipped over?”