Free Fastball (Wilde Players Dirty Romance) by A.M. Hargrove, Terri E. Laine Page A

swing and ends up with a double. The tough thing is, it happens again, and this time they score with a slide into home plate on an error in the outfield. Fuck. He strikes the next batter out, and they head to the dugout.
    “What the hell was that?” our pitching coach asks him when they get in the dugout.
    “Ball got loose.”
    “Twice? In a row?”
    Our manager gives Coach a scathing look. Coach just shakes his head, and he catches my eye. I know he wishes my arm were rested. And so do I. I’d love nothing more than to get in the game. But now my hand stings, so I shake it out.
    “What’s going on there?” he asks, grabbing my hand. “What happened?”
    “Burnt it on some coffee, is all.”
    “Jesus Christ, Wilde, why the hell didn’t you say something earlier?”
    “It really doesn’t hurt. I’m fine.”
    “Like hell. We can’t afford you having any injuries.”
    He calls for one of the trainers. They examine it and recommend a wrap.
    “How the hell can I pitch with it wrapped? I won’t be able to feel my grip on the ball.”
    Coach gives me one of his are you shitting me looks. “You’re on rest days now anyway, so what difference does it make?”
    When he puts it like that, he leaves without an argument.
    “Keep it wrapped,” he tells the trainer. “And put something in there to make sure it heals fast.”
    The trainer walks me over to the bench and puts some kind of goop on my hand. The problem is, it’s located between my thumb and index finger, making it difficult to open and close my hand. I should’ve taken better care of it after it happened and not let myself get so distracted by buying shit for Gina. The spa thing and then I went to that Lelo website and bought some couple’s vibrator I thought might send her a message.
    “How’s that? I tried to keep it so your thumb and fingers are free, leaving you your dexterity.”
    I flex my fingers and hand, and it doesn’t feel bad. “Hey, Coach, toss me a ball,” I yell. One comes flying and the trainer has to duck.
    “Asshole,” he says.
    “Yeah, he can’t throw worth a shit,” I say. I grab the ball, toss it in the air a bit, and add, “I think this might be okay.”
    The coach says, “You have a couple of days off to rest that arm and hand.”
    “But I wanna get in the pen and test drive this thing.” I hold up my hand and wiggle it around, knowing it will set him off. I love yanking his chain. His face gets as red as a tomato.
    “Sit your ass back down. You’re out for the next five days. Maybe more if necessary.”
    “Maybe I should just take an island vacation somewhere. You know, go and drink some fruity umbrella drinks and hang out on the beach.”
    “I’ll give you fruity umbrella drinks. Right up your ass. Listen up, Wilde. I’d rather have you playing the rest of the month than for you to tear that hand up or your arm. So off your feet and on your ass. Now.”
    In a characteristic coach’s move imitating him, I take my hat off and throw it on the dugout floor. He finally figures out that I’ve been playing him.
    “You’re an asshole, Wilde.”
    Unfortunately, we end up losing the game, which is no fault of mine, so the next two are crucial. When I get home, Riley is all about my hand.
    “It’s that fucking coffee burn. I’m off for five days. I should be fine.”
    “Shit, Ryder. I didn’t think it was a big deal.”
    “Apparently, it is. Look, I’m beat. We have a double-header tomorrow, so I need to crash. Even though I’ll be benching it, it’ll be a long day.”
    “Not even one beer?”
    “Okay. One.”
    We shoot the breeze, and I hit the sack after our beer. In the morning, I’m afraid to look at my hand. The trainer wrapped it again after I showered and said to leave it until the morning. Now’s the big reveal. I take off the bandage, and it does look a lot better. It hurts a lot less, too.
    After my shower, I head to the kitchen for a huge breakfast. I need all the calories I can get. Six