The Strike Out Read online

  “I can,” Holt says. “But I can’t make any guarantees for your bestie. She seems to be trying to entice me with her hard nipples. Frankly, it’s uncalled for.”

  Jesus.

  Christ.

  This guy. Where did he come from and why did he choose to encroach on my day off?

  And why do I like it?

  “My nipples will be fine. Tell Miranda I said hi.”

  Priya takes off, cup in hand, and bounces to the music as she makes her way across the beach. The crowd has grown as time has passed, and I’m thankful we got here early so we could claim this spot. While the sky was clear earlier, clouds have begun to gather in front of the sun, so it’s not as hot as it was before, hence the hard nipples. I’m starting to feel a chill from the wind coming off the water.

  I go through my backpack and find my see-through coverall, which won’t do much to keep me warm. What was I thinking?

  “Cold?” Holt asks.

  “Just a little,” I admit.

  “I brought an extra shirt. Want to borrow it?”

  I consider saying no, but who am I kidding? I’m chilly, and I want to know what his laundry smells like. There’s nothing better than smelling a guy’s shirt and having that scent stay on you for the rest of the day. Not that I want Holt’s scent imprinting on me, but I’m curious.

  “Sure,” I say, trying not to look too eager.

  He pulls out a black T-shirt, which will be far too big for me, but when I take it in my hands, I’m mesmerized with how soft it is. Does he use fabric softener? That’s a luxury I can’t afford.

  I quickly put the shirt on, and I’m swaddled in a fresh mountain scent that has me feeling woozy and turned on simultaneously.

  God, this smells good.

  One sniff and I can feel myself doing some really inappropriate things, such as giving in to his charm and comments about getting between my legs.

  “Thank you.” I straighten the shirt out. “Are you sure you’re not going to need it?”

  He shakes his head. “And even if I did, there’s no way I’d ask for it now.”

  “Why? Afraid of my cooties?”

  “Nope, you look too damn good in it. I couldn’t take it back even if I wanted to.”

  “It’s just a black—” I glance down at the Brentwood Baseball logo and inwardly swear. “Oh, you’re loving this, aren’t you? Me wearing a Brentwood shirt.”

  “Kind of am.” He leans back, his abs rippling with every move. “But you do look good in it.”

  “Your flattery is working.”

  “Yeah?” he asks, his brows shooting up in surprise. “I thought you were getting sick of the blatant flirting and innuendos.”

  “That was more of a sincere compliment, so I’ll accept that one.”

  “Fair enough.” He nods at me. “Where are you from, Harmony?”

  “Nebraska, in the middle of the corn. Really small town no one even knows exists until they pass through it in a blink of an eye.”

  “I like small towns. Often wish I grew up in one. New York City felt too clogged after a while. And life moved fast there. I felt like I never got the chance to actually sit and enjoy a light breeze, unless I was standing in the outfield waiting for the pitcher to pitch.”

  “But there’s so much you could do in the city. The fun we had in Gunderson, Nebraska, was counting how many cars passed by but never stopped.”

  “Sounds enchanting.”

  “It wasn’t. But my parents had solid jobs that paid the bills, and they were too afraid to move outside their comfort zones, so that’s where we stayed. My graduating class was fifty-two kids, and we knew everything about each other. Dating was impossible, given the small amount of people to actually date, and then everyone being in your business.”

  “Are you telling me you haven’t dated much?”

  “Not really.” I twist the hem of the shirt on my finger. “I mean, I’ve had two boyfriends. One in high school. One my freshman year in college, but he didn’t understand my work ethic and dumped me after we had sex.”

  “Wow, classy.” Holt frowns. “Guys like that really give us a bad name. Wait . . . was he a baseball player?”

  “Football.”

  “Ah,” he says in understanding, slowly nodding. “So, let me guess. You’ve lumped us all together as giant assholes.”

  “Pretty much,” I answer with zero shame. “You date one, you date them all. And I’m not the first girl who’s suffered the pump-and-dump from an athlete on campus. Seems to be a regular thing around here.”

  His jaw grows tight as he works it slowly back and forth. “Yeah, I know what you’re talking about. Some of the guys on my team do that. They use their status on campus to get a girl, get what they want, and then leave her in the dust. It’s disgusting, and honestly, I don’t associate with any of them. Women aren’t to be used. They’re to be cherished.”

  I’ve known this guy for less than twenty-four hours, but I know, deep in my bones, what he just said came straight from the heart. There was no winning smile at the end of his speech, no flirtatious wink, and no lewd ogle of my body. He was serious, his tone of voice not even close to joking, which tells me one thing: he’s genuine. And I think that’s more dangerous than anything.

  His strong will reminds me of my dad, oddly enough. I’ll never settle with any guy who doesn’t look at me with the same love, adoration, and respect that my dad does my mom. Why should I?

  “So you’ve never used your status on campus to get a girl into your bed?”

  “Never.” He answers with such intensity that I’m speechless, caught off guard. “I know what you must think of me, Harmony. Rich boy from New York City, has everything he ever wanted, has never been told no, thrives off his popularity. Well, that couldn’t be further from the truth. I might have grown up with money, but we were raised to be humble, giving, and gracious. I don’t flaunt it—”

  “You drive a BMW around campus.”

  “So does half the campus. It’s a rich school, so you’re going to see BMWs. And guess what? My uncle owns a dealership and gave me the discount of a lifetime. It was cheaper than any regular car. You see what you want to see on the outside, but you won’t know the truth until you actually dig deeper. Don’t judge me, Harmony, and actually try to get to know me.”

  His words strike hard, because I’ve said that to many people before, asked them to get to know me rather than judge me for my past-season’s clothes or my rinky-dink car that needs help being pushed up hills. Attending a rich college surrounded by a posh town hasn’t been easy, but I came to Brentwood to earn one of the best degrees in the country and then to move on to my next chapter in life—writing.

  “Okay,” I say, shifting on my towel so I catch a brief whiff of his shirt. So good. It makes me want to weep. “You want me to get to know you?”

  “Yeah. Test me.”

  “Fine.” I point to a little sliver of ink I keep seeing past his waistband. “You say you’re clean-cut, but I don’t believe you. Is that a tattoo?”

  He smiles broadly. “Staring at my crotch?”

  This man is impossible. One serious moment and then we’re back to his teasing. I’ll tell you this—having a conversation with Holt is like dodging landmines of jokes and seeking out the true meaning of what he’s trying to say.

  “Yup, that’s me, constantly staring at other humans’ privates. Can’t get enough of those dongs and tacos.”

  His head tilts back as he roars with laughter, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down, his stomach contracting. It’s one of the most erotic things I’ve ever seen—the way his body flexes and relaxes, the shake of his shoulders, the sultry sound of his laughter flowing past his lips. The combination has me yearning to reach out and touch him, run my fingers down his washboard abs, and explore what’s below his waistline.

  “Dongs and tacos.” He chuckles. “Yeah, me either.”

  “What are you hiding? Is it a birthmark?”

  He shakes his head a
nd slowly lowers his waistline just enough that I can tell he manscapes. And, I wonder, just how far down does he manscape?

  His voice pulls me from my thoughts, and my eyes focus on the small baseball stitching covering up a scar. It starts at his hipbone and seems to wrap around his hip. “I was mugged in high school after practice one day on the way to the subway. Had the shit beaten out of me, and when I fought back, they grabbed a knife, got me good in the hip, took all my shit, and then fled. One of my teammates found me and called 911. Lost a lot of blood and had to have a transfusion. After I graduated, I wanted to turn the scar into something positive, rather than a reminder of that day, so I got the baseball stitching added.”

  Holy.

  Shit.

  “You were mugged?” I asked, bewildered.

  “Yeah, New York City really isn’t all it’s cracked up to be sometimes.”

  Unable to stop myself, I lean forward and run my finger over the nasty scar, taking in the bumps and ripples of the raised skin. How scary. I can’t imagine what it would be like to be mugged, or even in a fight, for that matter. Taking a punch to the face? No, thank you. Although, there aren’t many people who would say “yes, please” either. But to have that attitude at eighteen . . . to use something horrible and put a positive spin on it . . .

  Who is this man?

  Someone so totally different than what you thought, Styles.

  His body twitches under my touch and when I look up at him, his eyes are narrowed, his breathing heavier. “Keep touching me there and you might get yourself in trouble.”

  “Oh.” I extract my fingers. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry. If you want to keep touching, go ahead, but I suggest moving to the right and down a bit.”

  My lips thin. “You mean so I’m touching your penis?”

  “I mean, if you’re already down there . . .”

  I roll my eyes. “Seriously, can you think of anything besides sex?”

  “Totally. Just don’t want to.”

  I study him as he pulls his waistband up again and casually leans back, the sun reflecting off his Ray-Bans. “Do you know what I’m wondering?”

  “How long? Ten inches, babe.”

  “Seriously?”

  He casually shrugs. “It’s inherent. Can’t stop it.”

  “Obviously.” I bring my knees up to my chest and wrap my arms around the tops of my shins. “I was wondering why I haven’t gotten up and left. Why have I stayed here this entire time, enduring your torture? Clearly, I’m not a huge fan of athletes or cocky guys, and yet, here I am, still talking to you.”

  “Because despite wanting to ignore me and push me away, you’re intrigued.”

  “Ehh . . .” I wave my hand.

  “Okay, it’s the view. Can’t get enough of these nipples.” He motions to said nipples with two fingers while whistling.

  Speaking in a monotone voice, I say, “Yup, you caught me. I’m hell-bent on soaking up your nipples as much as possible. God, if only I could suck on them. It’s what I’ve been thinking about ever since you sat down.”

  He adjusts his glasses and looks out toward the water. “I know, sweet cheeks. It’s written all over your face.” He faces me and dips his sunglasses so I spot his hazel eyes. “Want to go to my car where you can suckle on them all you want in private?” Yes, I do, but I won’t tell Mr. Humble Hottie I thought that.

  “I’d rather stick my head in the porta-potty hole.”

  Chapter Eight

  HOLT

  “How was Miranda?” Harmony asks when Priya sits back down and starts putting on a long-sleeved shirt.

  “She’s good—” A small smile graces Priya’s lips as her eyes zero in on the shirt Harmony is wearing. “My, oh, my, what are you wearing?”

  “It was cold, and I didn’t have anything.”

  “Uh-huh.” Priya leans past Harmony to speak to me. “This is where it starts, you know? A borrow of your T-shirt and next it’s going to be a private walk along the wharf wall.”

  That’s not a bad idea actually.

  Because I’m a little chilly myself, I slip on my other T-shirt, my plain one that doesn’t blatantly label me as a Brentwood baseball player. “Stretching out my legs sounds like a good idea.” I stand and hold out my hand to Harmony. “Care to join me for a walk?”

  With one tip of her head, she looks at my hand and says, “I’m good, thanks.”

  “No, you’re not.” Priya pushes Harmony with her foot, nudging her off her towel. “Go on a walk with the man. The least you can do is keep him company when he’s keeping you warm with his shirt.”

  Did I say I like Priya? Because I like her a lot.

  “She has a point. If you don’t go on the walk, then I might have to start charging you for every second you’re wearing my shirt, and I don’t run cheap.”

  “Blackmail? And here I thought so much more highly of you.”

  “I’m not opposed to doing pretty much anything so I can spend more time with you.” Am I being truthful? Yep. But do I offer Harmony a small smirk to hide that from her? Also, yep. The girl is skittish and very strong-willed, but I now see that her anger toward me—toward the baseball team—isn’t based on naïve stereotyping. She’s been hurt, made to feel as less, possibly because of her upbringing, especially at an elite school like Brentwood. She’s smart enough to be here, so that tells me something, too. I’m beginning to think that underneath that cool façade, there’s a girl worth getting to know. I reach out my hand again. “What do you say?”

  With a resounding sigh, she takes my hand in hers, hops up from her towel, and slips her sandals on.

  “Have fun,” Priya says, waving her fingers in our direction.

  “Oh, we will.” I shoot her a thankful wink and then drape my arm over Harmony’s shoulder, guiding her toward the water and the stone wharf.

  “You don’t have to hold me, you know.”

  “Yeah, but I’m nervous you might trip and fall. My arm over your shoulder is for your own protection.”

  “Is that so?” Doubt is in her voice. “So, if I tripped and fell right now, how would you stop me from falling forward?”

  “Simple,” I say. “Grab you by your hair and yank you back up like a yo-yo.”

  She pauses, her right eyebrow nearly kissing her hairline. “You’d yank me up like a yo-yo?”

  “Yup.” I give her my best smile.

  “Wow, how . . . chivalrous.”

  I squeeze her shoulder. “They don’t make them like me anymore. One of a kind.”

  “Yeah, one of a kind, for sure,” she says sarcastically.

  Making our way through the crowd is proving to be tougher than expected, since the amount of people gathered around the stage has doubled and pushed people out toward the more open spaces. It’s fine by me, though, because it means I get to hold Harmony closer.

  “Holt, what’s up, man?” Pax, a running back on the football team, steps in front of me and holds out his hand. I reluctantly let go of Harmony and shake it.

  “Hey, Pax. Rare off day?”

  Pax glances at Harmony—recognition on his face—and I hope to Christ that Pax isn’t the douche that pumped and dumped Harmony. That would make things extremely awkward, because I’d have a really hard time not burying his face in the dirt. I get why any man would be attracted to Harmony. She’s stunning. But I stand by the words I said earlier. No woman should ever be disrespected. Thank fuck all the guys I’m friends with think the same. Guess that’s why we’re friends. But this guy . . .

  “Yeah, off day,” he says, studying Harmony. He tilts his head to the side and asks, “Do we know each other?”

  Fuck.

  Even worse. He fucked her and can’t even remember her. Now I’m going to have to stretch his scrotum over his head, something I didn’t prepare myself to do today. Although, is there ever really enough prepping one can do when forced to stretch out a scrotum?

  “Yeah, you do know me.”

  Jesus.

/>   I flex my fingers and loosen my shoulders. Here we go. A swift punch to the gut will buckle him over into the sand, bury his head, pull down his pants . . . and then stretch. I have it all planned out and ready to attack.

  “I thought so. Hermione, right?”

  “Harmony, you fucking asshat,” I say, grabbing him by the shoulder, arm cocked back. “And next time you go to fuck someone—”

  Harmony grabs hold of my arm and pulls me back. “Holt, stop. We’re just joking. Pax and I are friends.”

  “Yeah, dude. Shit.” Pax nervously laughs. “Jesus Christ, I thought you were about to decapitate me.”

  “What?” I ask, my adrenaline pumping, my breathing erratic. “You know each other?”

  “Yeah, I’m the idiot who introduced her to the guy we don’t talk about. But I’ve paid my penance in fro-yo over the years.”

  “But . . .” I look at Harmony. “You hate athletes.”

  She shrugs and fluffs her hair. “I tolerate Pax, but that’s because we suffered through a British lit class together first semester of our freshman year. The only reason I still talk to him is because I like frozen yogurt, and he buys it for me at least once a month, if not twice.”

  “It’s the price I pay for introducing her to a douche. But it was tough to get back into her good graces, so fair warning . . . don’t fuck with her. Just about broke my heart when she shut me out. Excellent at the cold shoulder, highly effective at throwing shade, and boss level at ignoring texts and phone calls.” Pax pats me on the shoulder. “Trust me, man. Be careful with this one.”

  Yikes. Noted.

  But because I like to act like a confident motherfucker, I say, “Ah, I think I have her wrapped around my finger. No worries here.”

  Harmony snorts next to me. “Okay. Keep telling yourself that, Green.”

  I smirk at Pax. “I’m not worried.”

  He assesses both of us, most likely putting his confidence in Harmony’s court. Then again, I have wheedled myself into her day, and she still has yet to truly ask me to leave . . . so look who’s already winning.