The Trade Read online

  Published by Hot-Lanta Publishing, LLC

  Copyright 2020

  Cover Design By: RBA Designs

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. To obtain permission to excerpt portions of the text, please contact the author at [email protected]

  All characters in this book are fiction and figments of the author’s imagination.

  www.authormeghanquinn.com

  Copyright © 2020 Meghan Quinn

  All rights reserved.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Epilogue

  Excerpt - The Lineup

  Prologue

  CORY

  I’m fucked.

  I’m sure you hear that all the time, so the term has lost its impact.

  I ran out of sugar for my cookie batter . . . I’m fucked.

  Forgot my phone in my car . . . I’m fucked.

  Saw my neighbor’s old-man balls . . . I’m fucked for life.

  I can guarantee you right now, this is nothing compared to old-man balls and cookies.

  This is way worse.

  This defines the term, I’m fucked.

  What is it you ask?

  It happened after one of the worst baseball seasons of my life. Traded halfway through the season to the team I’d hated my entire life, I was drowning in the constant media attention, persecuting me for the pass off for my multi-million-dollar contract.

  “We want to win,” the Rebels said. “We can do that with Cory Potter wearing black and red.” And just like that, the team I’ve been playing for my entire professional career up and traded me to unload my hefty salary to develop new up-and-comers from the farm system.

  The Rebels.

  I’m a fucking Chicago Rebel. Words I never thought I’d say, especially growing up as a Chicago Bobcats fan, the rival team to the Rebels. Not just rival, but enemies. The teams themselves don’t get along, the fans hate each other, and Chicago is divided for a good portion of the year when the stadium lights are on.

  But here I am, my name attached to the biggest trade in sports history.

  A ballsy move.

  An upset to Baltimore.

  A baseball anomaly: All-American turned Rebel.

  I’ve heard it all, I’ve seen it all, and no matter what’s splashed across the headlines, it doesn’t deviate from the fact that my long-time team decided to part ways with me midseason.

  Mid-fucking-season.

  After fourteen years, I packed up everything and moved back to Chicago.

  But even that’s not why I’m fucked; it’s just the start of it.

  The beginning of the end.

  Dramatic? Maybe.

  But if you were in my shoes, you’d be thinking the same thing.

  After not even coming close to getting into the playoffs, the season ended, I was booed off the field because that’s how Rebels fans are—you don’t perform, they hate you—and I sequestered myself to my practically empty and cold apartment.

  After a week of binge-eating deep-dish pizza and watching every prison documentary on Netflix, my sister finally dragged me out of my apartment, forcing me to attend a Bobbies playoff game with her so we could cheer on my brother-in-law. Her husband.

  Seeing a Rebels player cheering on a Bobbies player plastered all over the news went over just as well as a grandma telling her grandson her favorite pastime is cock-tickling.

  Not well.

  But still . . . not the reason I’m fucked.

  This is beyond worse than that.

  During that game, I got the talk. Not the birds and bees, but the talk from a concerned sister about my lack of social life.

  You really should get out more.

  I know some single moms who are really nice.

  Maybe a dating app might be fun. Girls would be ecstatic to match with the one and only Cory Potter.

  I don’t want you dying alone.

  That last one was a real kicker.

  Dying alone. I’m fucking thirty-five and she has me with one toe in my grave.

  The way I see it is, if you don’t meet your girl in college or high school, you’re sure as shit not going to meet her while playing professional baseball. Not when the schedule is obscenely busy and long, and not when you’re known for one thing in your city: making a shitload of money for playing a sport.

  It’s almost impossible to find genuine relationships when you have this level of fame.

  So I’ve resolved to waiting until after I retire to fall in love.

  That doesn’t mean I’ve been celibate, I’m a man after all—a man with a shitload of adrenaline pumping through him on a daily basis. I’ve had my fair share of one-night stands with women, and a few on a solid repeat with zero expectations. Every woman I’ve bedded I’ve treated with respect, and I’ve been honest with them, because if anything, I’m a genuinely nice guy who doesn’t ever want to make someone feel bad.

  Ask anyone who knows me, I’m the nice guy, the dependable guy, the leader with a heart.

  I don’t screw women over, ever.

  Are you thinking one of those one-night stands turned into an “accident”? Is that the reason I’m fucked? Got a girl I don’t know pregnant?

  Nope, not that either.

  But the conversation I had with Milly pushed me to a new way of thinking.

  I don’t want you dying alone.

  She made me fucking paranoid.

  Was I really going to die alone?

  Were my good years behind me and now I’m old meat on the market?

  Should I be trying to find love in the midst of the craziness of my life?

  Milly made me think, which then made me open up to the idea of finding someone, of looking at women differently, of allowing the relationship part of my brain to turn on.

  So instead of ignoring every woman that has relationship potential I’d possibly look for, I turned off my blinders and started looking for them.

  But I didn’t come close to meeting anyone that remotely fit the box of someone I’d consider going out on a date with. That was until I attended a certain charity event.

  I saw her from across the room. Her smile was what caught my eye, then it was the way she laughed and held on to her brother’s hand, her brother who had cerebral palsy.

  It was the way she’d lean into him, hold him, as if he was the most wonderful human she’d ever met.
<
br />   The fact that she was absolutely breathtaking with piercing blue eyes had nothing to do with it.

  It was her infectious laughter.

  Her kind heart.

  Her dedication to her family.

  In a matter of seconds, I wanted to know her, wanted to find out her name, wanted to be in her orbit. Wanted to be a recipient of her warmth and affection.

  I watched her from across the room, how she interacted with every person who came up to her, and when I was finally granted the opportunity to introduce myself, my breath caught in my throat when our hands connected. I felt my heart slam against the cage in my chest. And I knew, in that moment, with our hands mid shake, my life would never be the same.

  Her name is Natalie.

  Sister to my new teammate Jason Orson and his twin brother Joseph.

  Director of Jason’s foundation, The Lineup.

  And the reason why I’m utterly fucked.

  Because while I started to grow attached to this magnetic and beautiful woman, when I told my sister about her, she informed me there was a ring on Natalie’s finger.

  A ring that didn’t belong to me.

  Hope plummeted in the matter of seconds as I felt the color from my besotted face drain into a puddle of remorse.

  She was married.

  She is fucking married.

  See? Totally fucked.

  I’ve been crushing so hard, because even a month later, I still think about her. I can still hear her laugh, see her smile, feel her hand in mine.

  I want her.

  Fucking bad.

  They say time will heal all wounds, well for me, the more time passes, the more my wound is exposed and tormented.

  Cory Potter is crushing on a married woman . . .

  That is why I am completely and utterly . . . fucked.

  Chapter One

  CORY

  One Month Earlier

  “Are you okay?” I ask Milly, my sister, who’s shaking.

  She gives me a curt nod and takes a deep breath. “That was . . . amazing.” She looks up at me and sighs. “I never thought I’d have that kind of opportunity in my life.” She shyly smiles and says, “Dreams really do come true.”

  “Uh . . . they came true when you married me,” Carson, her husband, says, pulling her in close to his side to press a kiss to her temple.

  Despite it being a few years since they married, I’m still not quite used to seeing my baby sister with a guy, let alone the starting second baseman for the Chicago Bobcats.

  Flashing a cheeky grin at her husband, Milly playfully says, “Oh yeah, total dream come true.”

  Carson’s face falls and he says, “Why was that said in a sarcastic tone?”

  She grips her fists tightly and brings them to her chest. Dreamily, she glances at the ceiling of the event space and says, “Carson, I love you, but I just played baseball with some of the best names in the sport, and I rocked their worlds.”

  She really fucking did.

  My kid sister has been a baseball fanatic since the first time she saw me pick up a baseball bat. She’s learned every skill and piece of knowledge one could possess about the sport. She is vastly intelligent when it comes to the mechanics of a swing, so much so, that she’s a highly sought after coach in the state of Illinois. She’s always wanted to play with me, but never had the opportunity, because you guessed it . . . she’s a girl.

  Fucking ridiculous if you ask me. She’s a better hitter than half the pitchers on my team.

  So when Jason Orson, the soon-to-be starting catcher for the Chicago Rebels, and my current team, asked if I wanted to participate in the fundraiser game, I had to ask if Milly could join. But Carson beat me to it. And I’m okay with that, because it shows me he’s the right man for her. He knows her. Her wants. Her loves. And he makes sure he shows her that every way he can. As he fucking should. That’s how our dad has loved our mom, and that’s what Milly deserves. Every girl, really.

  “You were a total ringer,” Carson says. “And sexy as hell in those baseball pants.”

  “Can you not say that shit when I’m around?” I ask, feeling an annoying shiver run up my spine. “It’s bad enough I caught you two making out before the game.”

  Milly’s face turns bright red as Carson’s chest puffs in pride. “Can’t help it. I love this girl,” Carson says, just as a waiter passes with a tray of coconut shrimp. “Don’t mind if I do,” he says, grabbing one for everyone.

  I take one from him and together, we all cheers the shrimp and then take a bite. “I haven’t been able to talk to you since the end of the season, so how has your time with the Rebels been?” Carson asks.

  I bite the side of my cheek and look away, trying to handle the raging emotions I’ve tried tamping down since I got the call from my agent that I was traded.

  Fucking traded from my long-standing team, the Baltimore Storm. I was drafted by them, put through their farm system, and then earned a starting position as their first baseman a few years later. From the age of twenty-one to thirty-five, I’ve been a Baltimore Storm . . . until the front office decided to unload my hefty contract onto another team midseason so they could build the team with cheaper players.

  It was a dick move, one I’ve seen many times in my years as a professional player, but I never thought it would actually happen to me. Not to toot my own horn, but I’ve held pretty much every batting record in Baltimore, I’m a crowd favorite, and I’ve done more work than any other player in the community. You think of Baltimore, you think of Cory Potter. I built a home there, I had friends there, I had a community. Hell, I had the best fanbase a man could ask for.

  But when you’re a good player on a struggling team, you’re not much help. More of a hindrance because your contract sucks up all the cash flow. Therefore, something had to go if they wanted to have a shot at a World Series in the coming years. So I was kicked to the curb.

  And the shitty thing about the entire trade was it happened right before the trade deadline during the season. Completely blindsided.

  Out of all teams to want me, it had to be the rival team I’d spent my entire life hating.

  Black and red, the devil’s team, the most hated team in baseball.

  They play dirty, they have unsportsmanlike attitudes, and they’re despised by every Bobbies fan, especially by Chicago, other than their fans who bleed black and red.

  Here in Chicago, the saying goes: you’re either a Bobbie for life or a Rebel at heart.

  Therefore, this past year, I’ve had to find room to be a Rebel at heart. It’s been challenging, to say the least.

  I had the worst second half of a season of my career. I’m not sure if it was from the shock of being traded, from not meshing with the guys on the team, or having to deal with the fans booing me every time I stepped up to plate—since they know where my heart has always favored—but I struggled, more than I care to admit.

  And telling Milly about the trade, hell, that was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. She doesn’t even look at the Rebels, refuses to acknowledge them as a major league team, so when I told her I was traded to them, she cried for a week.

  I didn’t bother getting my family Rebels jerseys, that’s how bad it is. I tried to see if there was any way to get out of my contract, given I don’t get along with the coaches or half the guys on my team, but my agent said there was nothing he could do. I was stuck being a Rebel for at least three more years. Utter. Fucking. Nightmare.

  I take a sip of my beer and say, “Could be better.”

  Carson winces. I’m sure he’s heard some of the shit I’ve gone through from Milly. “They really booed you every time you went up to bat?”

  I nod. “Yeah. It’s pleasant,” I say sarcastically. “I remember listening to Derek Jeter once say that whenever he stepped foot in Boston and they booed him, he thrived off the collective sound because it meant that he was doing his job as an opponent. I took on the same way of thinking. Getting booed on an opponent’s tur
f is a compliment. But I’ll tell you this, being booed in your own stadium, by the fans wearing the same name on their chest as you, it’s a fucking gut punch.”

  Milly gently presses her hand to my forearm. “They just know where you come from, where your allegiance is, having grown up in Chicago. They’re going to hold that against you for a while. Rebels fans are shitty like that.”

  I nod, knowing how right Milly is. “Even knowing that didn’t help.” I pull my hand out of my pocket to scratch my jaw, a nervous tick when a piece of paper falls from my pocket to the ground.

  Shit.

  Carson picks it up before I can. When he sees what it is, he says, “Dude, you don’t read this shit, do you?”

  Milly leans over to look at it and immediately frowns. “Cory, when have you ever looked at bad headlines?”

  “Ever since it was my own team writing them,” I answer.

  Carson steps closer and reads it out loud. “Rebels run for the pennant was a half-hearted try this year and there’s only one person to blame: Cory Potter. His high priced contract bruised and depleted all resources from the Rebels front office, leaving the fans wondering if they paid so much for the old man, why wasn’t he performing?” Carson stops there, crumples up the article, and says, “What a load of shit.”

  Concerned, Milly says, “You were not to blame. The pitching staff couldn’t hold up toward the end of the season. It’s hard to win games when you have to score at least ten runs to get the W every time.”

  “I agree, but they’re not going to blame the staff, especially with Maddox Paige at the helm. They’re going to blame me, the guy with the heavy contract who didn’t show up.”