Free Playing Catch: A Baseball Romance by Rachelle Ayala

hug. “See you in the bullpen.”
    The two hotshot pitchers swaggered off together—young and strong, believing they’d throw hundred-mile-per-hour fastballs for the rest of their lives.
    They’d need him, a veteran catcher, to show them the head games that would keep them around like that wily old fox, Ryan Hudson, the guy who might throw only a single pitch in a clutch situation and make that crucial save.
    Kirk looked up to see Ryan staring at him, hunched over and lacing up his cleats.
    Hadn’t he been rumored to have been something to Jeanine? Like more than a friend?

Chapter Nine
    “ I sn’t it wonderful that we love each other?” His smooth voice hovered over my splayed out body as I lay motionless, frozen solid.
    I’d learned long ago not to fear. Whores had no fear, and ever since I could remember, I was a whore. It was the reason my mother left me when I was two months old.
    I never knew who took care of me. Other little whores had grandmothers. I had a man who pulled my panties down. That was my first memory.
    “You wet yourself. You naughty little whore.” He was mean and big and he hit my butt until I couldn’t walk.
    Later there were sirens and a nice lady who let me play with her shiny badge. She said I was a good little girl, a pretty little girl, and she would save me from the meanie who made me wet my pants.
    But I never saw her again. I still had her badge, or maybe it wasn’t real—a toy badge that said Sheriff on it.
    “Do you love me?” His rough fingers caressed me in places that didn’t belong to me, around my budding breasts, between my legs, always examining me to make sure I hadn’t wet my bed.
    He promised me a princess bed. But I said “no.” I was no princess. I was a whore, and I wanted a witch’s bed.
    His grasp tightened around my waist and his breath steamed over my face. He smelled horrible, like stale breath mints and cigarette smoke. I prepared myself for the kiss and it crushed onto me, against my teeth.
    He didn’t like my mouth closed. He said if we loved each other, I would welcome him in—everywhere he wanted to be.
    He also said he’d buy me black leather boots, the expensive kind, if I said I loved him.
    “All I want to do is make you feel good.” He pinched my nipples. That felt strange. I didn’t know if it was good or not—at least it didn’t hurt. “Do you want to feel good?”
    Yes, of course, but I couldn’t speak. Maybe because I wasn’t sure if I was there inside that body lying on the bed. Yes. Feeling good was like licking an ice cream cone, or flying down a roller coaster track. Better than being hurt.
    Then I died. Crushed under his horrid body and burning, burning like I was being ripped apart. Torn and sliced and thrown to claws, fangs, and wild beasts. I wondered if in a past life I’d been eaten by a tiger or jumped by wolves. They said a soul would never forget a violent death.
    But I lived, and he said, “It will be better. I promise you. It’s better if you love me.”
    “I love you,” I said, thinking about my new boots.

    “ I hate you .” Jeanine cried out and kicked, flinging her blanket off the bed. She sat up, her heart pounding and fists clenched. Sweat dampened her skin. A chilly draft sliced through her and she shuddered, on full alert.
    The room was darkly familiar. No witch’s bed. No black boots. Sleek and clean, wood and brass. Restoration Hardware modern. Clinical, with simple contemporary lines.
    She was in her room. Her grownup room in her own apartment. Except he was out there somewhere. Or was he already inside? Lurking on the other side of her bedroom door. No. It was nerves. Pure nerves.
    She glanced at her alarm clock. Three fucking thirty in the morning. The clouds of her dream were starting to clear, thankfully. It was only her overactive imagination.
    Footsteps stopped outside her bedroom door. Jeanine’s heart pulsated, and she drew her blankets up to her chin. She held herself still like prey did