The Player

CHAPTER 1

JIMMY

HAWKS’ ACE JIMMY HALL PARTIES IN VEGAS. LINK IN BIO FOR FULL STORY.

Unbelievable. Don’t these assholes have anything better to do? I asked no one right before I silenced my phone and ignored the notifications that were no doubt going to hit a million by the end of the day. I honestly didn’t give a shit what anyone thought of me. So I went out and had some fun with a couple of gorgeous women. Since when had that been a crime?

What I did in my spare time didn’t affect my pitching or time at the plate, so fuck them. I was still the leader in strikeouts, pitched a no-hitter two weeks ago, and led the pitchers in the league in RBIs. Sue me if I wanted to enjoy myself. It hadn’t been the first time I’d ended up as clickbait for social media, and according to the club’s executives, it didn’t look good. To whom, I had no idea. Glancing at the picture, I thought it looked damn fine, but hey, that was just my opinion.

Another opinion that would vary from my own would be that of my father, Cash Jameson. You’d think as a former pro baseball player, he’d get it. But either he was a saint, or he didn’t want to rock the boat with my mother by bringing out skeletons. Not only was he my dad, but he went from the big leagues to being a scout to being my agent/manager.

When he scouted me ten years ago, I was only fourteen. I hadn’t known he was my father—he was just a hero of mine. And he didn’t know I was his son. Long story short, thanks to a lot of bullshit, we were kept apart. Then, he and my mom got back together. He helped me get signed to the Hawks after I graduated from college, and then I hit the pros running—no minor leagues, straight to the pros. I was third in the rotation until last season, when I moved up to first.

I’m that good.

Exhausted from taking the red-eye flight home, I slouched on the couch in my living room, irritation boiling within me as I stared at the glaring headlines on my phone. My pulse resided in my ears thanks to the buzz of gossip and sensationalism, each word stabbing at my privacy like an uninvited invasion.

Shockingly, I didn’t crack my phone in my tense grip as I scrolled through what felt like endless streams of pictures and articles dissecting my social life. I’d suddenly become a character in a bad movie I never auditioned for. All I wanted was to play baseball and have a little fun.

ANOTHER EXAMPLE OF BRAWN OVER BRAIN. #dumbjock #shouldhavestudiedmore #manwhore

Fuck that reporter for not knowing what the hell she was talking about. In college, my focus was on grades and sports. I had a degree in architecture and graduated magna cum laude, a tenth of a point shy of summa cum laude. No one who knew me could claim I was a dumb jock—not then and not now. I enjoyed having fun, I didn’t break the law, I didn’t do drugs, I didn’t trash hotel rooms . . . I just entertained in them. How the hell could I know that someone had taken pictures? The image of me lifting a beer in the air with a scantily clad blonde hanging off my other arm had me shaking my head.

Just as I contemplated throwing my phone across the room, the familiar ringtone announced an incoming call. Glancing at the screen, I saw Dad in bold letters. With a resigned sigh, I answered, bracing myself for the upcoming lecture.

Hey, Dad, I muttered, my annoyance at the entire situation still lingering. Playing it cool, I added, What’s up?

Maybe you should tell me. I’m sure you’ve seen the latest posts. I know I have, and so has your mother. Seems as though you had a fun weekend in Vegas, he said, his annoyance-laced concern snapping through the phone.

It’s just the media blowing things out of proportion, as usual. You know how they are. What no one seems to remember is that it’s the midseason break. We don’t have games, and practices don’t start until next week. I can talk to Mom.

Your mother is fine. My father’s tone softened, but I knew he wasn’t pleased. He also knew that I was one of the youngest starting pitchers in the league. And the youngest to hold a record. I talked her down, but I’m sure she’d appreciate a call from her son. And if she wants to scold you, take it like a man and don’t give her grief. She’s still getting used to you being across the country.

I’d never give my mom grief. She happened to be the most important person in my life. I’d even say that she was my best friend . . . my first friend. I nodded, even though he couldn’t see it. Deep down, I appreciated his support, but the constant invasion of my private life still grated on my nerves.

Then, the bomb dropped.

There’s one more thing, son.

And what’s that? I dared to ask.

I just spoke to Mason Anderson.

Fantastic. Nothing good would follow that statement. Talking to the GM of the Hawks after the media used me as clickbait couldn’t be good.

Don’t worry, you’re not suspended, traded, or being reprimanded by the team.

I would think not.

But they’re expecting you tomorrow morning at nine a.m.

Just then, I received an email from Gregory, Mr. Anderson’s assistant, telling me the same thing. Fine.

Jimmy, I’m not sure what the meeting will entail, but whatever it is, keep a cool head. Remember, just because you have a contract doesn’t mean you’ll start or, for that matter, stay in the bigs. You could be benched, sent to the minors, or they could revisit your contract. Remember, no one is irreplaceable.

Great, I thought I wasn’t being reprimanded, I mumbled as I stood to grab a bottle of water out of the fridge. Got it. I’ll keep it in check. Hey, I’m going to get a workout in. Tell Mom I love her.

I get this is frustrating. You’re the youngest on the team, and all eyes are on you. I will tell your mother. Let me know what happens tomorrow.

Sure thing. Although I know they’ll tell you what happened anyway.

Probably, but I’d rather hear it from you.

All right.

Love you, son.

Love you too, Dad.

Once the call ended, I cracked open my water and took a long sip before heading downstairs to my gym to burn off some frustrations. Usually, working out cleared my head, but I wasn’t sure it would today. I couldn’t get the idea of being sent down or benched out of my thoughts. And for what? Because I went out and had fun? I was a baseball player, not a priest. Nothing I had done tarnished the Hawks . . . not directly anyway.

I headed downstairs, clicked on the speaker, and selected my favorite playlist before grabbing dumbbells off the rack. Seether, one of my favorite bands, blared through the speakers as I lowered myself to the bench to start my workout.

The absence of distractions should have allowed me to focus on my reps, but that hadn’t been the case. Despite that, I’d been determined not to let myself get too worried about tomorrow or the headlines. Like anything else, someone more famous or important than me would do something that could take over my current social media popularity.

By the time I reached the final stage of my workout, my tank top had gone from light gray to charcoal—and become a second skin to my sweaty body. I grabbed a towel and wiped myself off before cleaning my equipment. Taking a look at my reflection on the mirrored wall, I let out a long huff and shook my head.

Something told me tomorrow would suck.

I wasn’t wrong. Walking into the building, I couldn’t help but remember when I first stepped through the double doors. Banners, cabinets of trophies, and pictures of the Hawks’ past accomplishments adorned the hallways. Jeff, the security guard, gave me a nod as I made my way to the sixth floor, where the executives’ offices were.

It felt as though the slow elevator was about to deliver me to a firing squad. With a resounding ding, the doors slid open, and I suddenly wished I’d opted to wear something other than a pair of dark denim jeans and an untucked button-down gray shirt. But it was too late for that. With all the confidence I could muster, I walked down the corridor, passing glass-walled offices and open workspaces. The scent of coffee wafted from the break room, making me wish I liked the stuff. I’d never been a fan of nor needed the caffeinated beverage.

Hushed whispers echoed around me. I couldn’t help but wonder if they all knew something I didn’t. Or maybe it was that they’d seen the latest pictures of me. That would most likely be the reason. Since I couldn’t change the past or what was about to happen, I simply nodded at a few familiar faces as I made my way toward the conference room.

Gregory, who was probably around my age, approached me with a tablet in his hand. Good morning, Jimmy.

Morning. Why bother with an adjective when I had a feeling it was going to be anything but good? Is Mr. Anderson in the conference room? I couldn’t help but ask as we walked toward what felt like the principal’s office.

Yes. Don’t worry, you aren’t late. He had a meeting before yours.

I wanted to try to get some information out of him, like if he could give me a hint regarding what I might be walking into—but I knew he wouldn’t. The guy was as unforthcoming as they came. Thoughts of what my dad said about being benched, or worse, traded, rattled around in my head.

Still, I couldn’t imagine the team doing that. Despite only being a little past midseason, we were busting our asses to make the playoffs. Our team was good. Yes, I was one of the youngest guys, but our team felt more like a family. The thought of letting them down sat like a pool of acid in my stomach.

It pissed me off that I was even in this position. All because people loved clicks and subscribers. If it weren’t for social media or the smarmy tabloids, I wouldn’t be in this situation. Yes, I take responsibility for having fun, but that shouldn’t screw with my job. I could understand if I came in hungover and couldn’t play or if I’d been decked out in Hawks gear in the photos, but that never happened, and it wouldn’t.

Still, there I was. And when Gregory opened the door, my pulse, which I thought had reached maximum speed, accelerated. Not only was our GM in the room—so was the owner, Mr. Earl Bennett. I glanced at Gregory and gave him a silent, thanks-for-the-heads-up look, but he’d been smart enough to not glance my way.

Fuck. I was screwed. Channeling some of the confidence I normally carried, I smiled. Good morning, Mr. Bennett. It’s good to see you. He stood, and I gladly shook his hand in a firm grip before doing the same with Mr. Anderson.

Mr. Bennett motioned toward the seat on the side of the table that faced the door. Please take a seat, Jimmy.

I did and was suddenly very aware of my hands. Should I rest them on the table? Keep them on my lap? God, I was losing it already and the meeting hadn’t even started. To be safe, I left them on the arms of the chair.

Before I knew it, I cleared my throat. Sir, if I may, I’d like to apologize for the pictures that surfaced from my vacation. Yes, I added vacation because it hadn’t taken place on a team trip for an away game. I didn’t know why I apologized. In my head, I hadn’t done anything wrong. Still, I took the high road.

While we appreciate that, Mr. Anderson, who was a bit more intimidating than Mr. Bennett, chimed in, we don’t subscribe to the theory that even bad publicity is good publicity. And yes, we know you were on vacation, but you’re still a Hawk. As long as you’re on the team, you represent us.

As long as I’m on the team? Was that a threat or an inkling of what was to come? Shit. Yes, sir, I understand.

Son. Mr. Bennett, who was older than my mom’s father, looked me square in the eye. If it were anyone else or if he used that nickname to sound condescending, I’d be annoyed, but instead, I sat there tight-lipped. You’re one of the best pitchers and batters in the league, and we’re proud to have you on our team. Before I could thank him, he continued: I don’t care if you’re the second coming of Christ. This team is my baby, my family’s legacy, and I won’t have it tarnished by a young hotshot. I respect your father, and I see a lot of him in you. That being said, you’re your own man who makes his own decisions . . . some not so good. Which is why you’re being assigned a branding expert.

I’m sorry, a what?

He glanced at Gregory, who went on to explain, A branding expert is someone who will help navigate your social media content and, well, make sure that you don’t do anything to hurt the brand—both yours and the team’s. Think of it as your personal PR representative. She’ll also make sure that you don’t do anything to tarnish the Hawks’ reputation.

Before I could say anything to thwart their idea—because the last thing I needed was a babysitter—the door opened, and she walked in, sucking all the air out of the room and my lungs. In what universe did it make sense to hire a branding expert who looked hotter than any woman in my latest dreams? Gorgeous didn’t even cut it. I couldn’t stop my eyes from roaming her body, from her glossy brown hair—pulled back and exposing her slender neck—to her silky blue blouse that revealed just the right amount of cleavage to the skirt that hugged her perfect curves. And when she pursed her lips, I felt like a teenager in school, suddenly wishing my hands were covering my junk.

Fuck, she was hot. And like air rushing out after a pin punctures a balloon, my body deflated when Mr. Bennett said, Jimmy, I’d like you to meet your branding expert and my granddaughter, Sommer Bennett.

I’d heard about his granddaughter but had yet to meet her. From what I knew, she’d graduated top of her class, had an MBA in business, was the only grandchild, and, as rumor had it, aspired to one day own the team. Before I joined the Hawks, my father had given me the rundown of the personnel that I hadn’t met. He’d mentioned Sommer Bennett, but at the time, she’d worked with the farm team in Tulsa. I was sure being assigned to me rather than the corner office irked the hell out of her.

I went to stand but thought better of it, so I just made it halfway before sitting down again. Hello, Sommer. It’s a pleasure to meet you.

It’s Miss Bennett, and I wish I could say the same.

Someone was a little pissed off at the assignment she’d been given. I don’t know why, but a smile spread across my face, earning me a glare.

Welcome to the big leagues, Miss Bennett.

CHAPTER 2

SOMMER

The moment I walked into the conference room, I forced my eyes not to roll at the sight of him. I was supposed to be climbing the executive ladder, making strategic decisions, and preparing to one day take over the team when my grandfather retired. Instead, I had to be a glorified babysitter for Jimmy Hall. Fine, according to Granddad, it wasn’t exactly babysitting, but bad enough that I had to spin his antics into something positive.

Was I good at PR? No, I was great at it. But what did that matter? It still landed me in a position that I hadn’t wanted to be in. I thrived in the business world, and I loved every aspect of it. That was why I took the public relations job in Tulsa and brought the necessary attention to our farm team. Did I want to remain in PR? No, not really. It was a résumé builder. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so good at it. That thought had plagued me ever since I’d been given this assignment.

As I approached the table, Jimmy flashed that disarmingly charming smile that graced the covers of countless magazines and the latest exotic dancer’s social media post.

Hey there, partner, he greeted, casually leaning back in his chair.

God, why me?

We’ll leave you two to discuss things, Granddad said, thumping his knuckles on the table before standing.

Mason followed his lead and stood as well. You’d think the GM of the team would have something else to add, but he just nodded, gave me a smile, and followed my grandfather out, leaving me alone with Mr. Arrogant. He looked at me with those piercing blue eyes, and it would be easy to forget my annoyance, but I quickly snapped back to reality.

Regrouping, I pulled out a chair and took a seat across from Jimmy. I linked my fingers together and placed them on the top of the table. Filled with adrenaline, my knee frantically bounced, forcing me to take a cleansing yet subtle breath.

You seem nervous. His nonchalance had been unwarranted. If anything, he should be nervous.

No, just wondering what public relations miracles I’m going to need to pull off, thanks to you.

Jimmy chuckled. I’m surprised someone like you doesn’t have a plan.

I raised a brow. Someone like me? I’m not sure what you think you know about me, but trust me, you know nothing. And I do have a plan.

But you know me, right?

Yes. This is what I see . . . and for the record, it is what most people see. Let me start with what you want to hear. You’re a great player and an asset to the Hawks’ organization. Predictably, his lips curled up in one corner. I know all about your no-hitter, your 1.1 ERA, and your .280 batting average.

That’s when I bat lefty. It’s .370 when I bat right-handed.

Congratulations, I deadpanned. Look, Mr. Hall, your ball playing isn’t the issue here. Having pictures of you drinking and having half-naked women hanging all over you plastered all over social media isn’t a good look for our organization. Our fans and supporters expect more, and quite frankly, they deserve it. I paused before saying, Let me ask you a question.

His eyes darkened as his gaze bore into mine. It reminded me of when I used to play the staring game with my childhood friend. Except Jimmy didn’t blink at all—not even a little twitch, I attributed it to the focus he needed while playing. I’d been around the game before and had studied the mannerisms of athletes. They had an unparalleled focus. The man across from me put others to shame.

When he’d first come to the team, I’d happened to be in town and had attended practices. I’d wanted to know more about this young protégé. I’d sat behind the backstop to watch him pitch. Even at his age, he could intimidate the most seasoned batter. He had a confidence, an air about him,