The Trade

by Meghan Quinn

Genres: Sports; Sports Romance; Romance

Synopsis

I got the dreaded phone call, the one every baseball player hopes and prays never comes. I was traded—yeah, that phone call—traded from my long-time team of over ten years to not just any team...to my childhood rivals, the Chicago Rebels. I was completely and utterly screwed, right? Wrong. The trade was the least of my concerns. I met a girl, Natalie. She was perfect, but I swore I would never get involved with anyone during the season. It was too complicated. But can you believe I had zero restraint when it came to this girl? I couldn't get her out of my head and the more I talked to her the more I realized I needed her in my life. So what's the problem? Why am I screwed? Because, Natalie, the girl I can't stop crushing on, yeah...she's married... At least, that's what I was told...

Release date: March 12, 2020

Publisher: Hot-Lanta Publishing, LLC

Print pages: 402

Sample

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.

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 turf 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.”

“You’re one guy, even you can’t make or break the team. That’s why it’s called a team.” Milly rolls her eyes and I can tell she’s getting upset.

“And the guys? Are they at least cool?” Carson asks, changing the focus of our conversation.

“Assholes,” I mutter, keeping my voice down since some of them are in attendance. The nice ones. “Maddox Paige being one of the biggest assholes out of all of them.”

Carson agrees with a curt nod. “I could see that. He has a hell of an arm on the field and is a massive dick in the interviews.”

Carson looks over his shoulder and says, “Next year, Jason’s going to have one hell of a time catching him.”

“Jason’s going to be eaten alive by the fans.” I finish off my drink and hand it to a waiter that passes by with a tray. “He’s too nice. That’s why Rebels fans love Maddox so much, because he’s an ass and they thrive off the dickhead on the field.”

“It’s true. Don’t the fans have a tally of how many bench-clearing fights the team gets into every year?”

“Yup.” I stuff my hands in my pockets. “One of the first things they said to me when I stepped into the locker room was that I better be able to throw down.” I shake my head. “That’s not the kind of player I am. Never will be.”

Milly steps in and says, “Even though you’re in your thirties, Mom and Dad would still kill you if you ever got into a fight on the field.”

I chuckle softly. “Yeah, Dad would be at my car in the players’ parking lot, arms crossed over his chest, waiting to rip me a new one.” I drag my hand down my face. “I don’t know. I’m hoping next year will be better. I dropped in on the team out of nowhere. At least next season we’ll spend some time together during spring training. I’m hoping we’ll be able to bond during that time.”

“At least you have Jason who was just traded as well,” Carson says. “You’ll be able to rely on him, since he’s pretty much infatuated with you.”

I see him off to the side, chatting with Knox Gentry and Knox’s girlfriend. I don’t know much about Jason Orson, but what I do know, I like. He’s the reason we’re at this event right now, a fundraiser for his foundation, The Lineup, which raises money to support kids with disabilities to participate in baseball. His brother, Joseph, has cerebral palsy and has been a part of Jason’s career from the very beginning. Before the fundraiser baseball game, they showed a video of Jason and Joseph together. In high school, Joseph filled in as a pinch runner, out on the field with his walker. Jason would hit him in, giving Joseph that chance to cross home plate.

The whole montage brought a tear to my eye and the mission of Jason’s foundation rang true to my heart. That’s what the sport should be about. Giving back. I slipped him a personal check after the game, because I couldn’t think of a better way to spend my money than put more smiles on the faces of kids just like his brother.

“Yeah, there’s that at least,” I say, feeling like all the life has just been sucked out of me. I hate talking about my fucking team, more than anything.

Sensing my irritation, Milly says, “You know, Emory’s friend Lindsay is single . . .”

“Jesus Christ, Milly.” I roll my eyes.

“What?” She chuckles. “She is and she’s really nice. She has a little boy who’s incredibly sweet. Loves baseball.”

“I’m sure they’re great people, but you know I’m not ready to be a father figure with my schedule. And I also don’t—”

A bout of laughter echoes through the event space, drawing our attention. I turn to see where’s it’s coming from. I look past shuffling waiters, a few Bobbies and Rebels with their accompanying guests, and spot a girl with shoulder-length, caramel-colored hair standing next to Joseph, hand in his, and a beautiful smile gracing her face.

Wow.

Stunning.

Her smile doesn’t just stretch across her face, but curves up to her eyes, lighting them up so beautifully that it’s impossible to look away. And her infectious laugh, sweet but not fake, the perfect tone and length.

Just from her smile and the sound of her laugh, my body reacts to her. Pulse speeding up, a thrill of excitement shoots down my spine, and in that moment, I realize I want to know who this girl is.

“I’m going to grab another drink,” Carson says, pulling me back to the conversation with him and Milly. “Do you want anything?”

I shake my head and try to be coy. “No, I think I’m going to mingle.”

“Okay.” Carson takes Milly’s hand in his. “Come on, wife, I want to get you liquored up so you’re loose with your panties tonight.”

“Dude,” I mutter, backing away quickly before things get out of control.

I hear him laugh as my mortified sister follows closely behind. I love Carson like one of my brothers, and even though he says massively inappropriate things about my sister to me on the regular, it still makes me happy. I know he’s comfortable around me. Carson hasn’t had the best family life, so knowing we can be there for him, be the family he needs, it means a lot to us.

Turning toward the group of people congregated around Joseph, I take a deep breath and start heading in their direction, practicing in my head what I should say, trying not to sound awkward and intruding.

I’m a few feet away when Jason comes up to my side and grips my shoulder.

“Cory Fucking Potter, I have a boner right now just thinking about how you’re here.”

Jason is . . . an interesting guy. A total talent on the field, but an odd guy in real life. A mother hen, obnoxious, and loves gaining a reaction from people. I’ve spent a few hours with him, and I already know he’s different from anyone I know.

“If you’re asking me to take care of that boner for you, I’m afraid that goes past my realm of friendship. Maybe Knox is interested.”

Jason laughs and the sound feels familiar, as if I just heard it.

“Knox wants nothing to do with my boner. Already asked.”

“Jason,” a feminine voice chastises. I turn just in time to see the girl with the smile walk up to us. “Can you please not talk about boners at the event?”

He shrugs and says, “I blame the booze.”

Now that I look closely, Jason’s eyes are slightly glazed over and he has a small sway to his body. Drunk is right.

Sighing, the girl steps up and says, “Is this because of Dottie?”

“Pishhhhh.” Jason waves his hand in front of his face. “No.”

Not sure who Dottie is, but I’m going to guess Jason’s current state of intoxication is maybe due to Dottie and a lack of her presence.

Concerned, the girl reaches up and brushes Jason’s hair off his forehead. “I think you should go home.”

He shakes his head. “No. I just need some water.” He turns to me and his face falls. “Shit, I’m being so rude.” Gesturing to me, he says, “Nat, this is Cory Fucking Potter. Cory, this is my sister, Natalie.”

His sister?

Holy shit.

Jason’s sister is fine as fuck.

Now that I look at the both of them, I see the resemblance in their eyes and the same faint dimples that indent their cheeks.

Natalie holds out her hand and says, “Do you go by Cory Fucking Potter, or can I just call you Cory?”

A sense of humor. Shit, she might very well be perfect.

“Cory Fucking Potter to strangers, just Cory to friends.”

“Where do I stand when it comes to being  considered a friend?” she asks, releasing my hand and blinking up at me, eyes bright and exuding a happiness I haven’t seen in another human being in a long time. Well, apart from Milly earlier. No doubt she’ll be smiling for days.

“Friend,” I say, on an exhaled breath. “Any family member of Jason’s is a friend.”

“Does that mean you’re choosing to be friends with this guy?” Natalie asks, thumbing toward her brother.

“Unfortunately, Carson and Knox paid me to take care of him. The Rebels are tough, and they’re afraid he’s going to crack under pressure.”

“They’re worried about me?” Jason asks, hands to his heart. “That’s so fucking sweet. I thought they couldn’t stand me.”

Natalie nudges her brother toward the bar. “Water, now, before you embarrass yourself and start crying under a table.” Natalie raises a brow in my direction. “It’s happened before.”

“At a charity event for rescue animals,” Jason defends. “You’re a monster for not getting emotional over those rescue stories. Those dogs never felt grass under their paws before, Nat. Grass.”

She shoves Jason. “Water . . . now.”

“Fine.” He points at me. “Cory Fucking Potter. Love you, man. Love you hard.”

With that, he takes off and leaves me alone with his sister, who’s currently staring at me with that beautiful smile of hers shining bright.

“Jason told me about your donation. That was very kind of you.”

I shrug, hating when people thank me for things. I don’t do it for the recognition, but because I want to. “I really like his foundation and the idea of including everyone into the sport we love.”

“I remember the first time I saw Joseph out on the field.” She crosses her arms over her chest. The classic polo she’s wearing with the foundation’s logo embroidered on the side, does nothing for her frame, but everything to make the blue in her irises pop. “I’ve never seen that type of joy on another human’s face before. He was so excited, he was hopping up and down at third base. And then when Jason hit him home and Joseph crossed home plate”—she shakes her head remembering—“I cried for the rest of the inning. It’s why when Jason told me he wanted to start The Lineup, I begged him to hire me.”

Surprised, I say, “You head up the foundation?”

She nods. “Yes, and I couldn’t think of a better job. It’s taken up a lot of my time, especially getting everything started, but it’s been worth it.”

“Did you put this event together?” I ask, glancing around the ballroom space, impressed with how the space is laid out, offering enough room to mingle and talk, but with relevance to the event everywhere you look, so as an attendee, you don’t forget why you’re here.

“Yup. Thankfully Jason gave me all the power when it came to the fundraiser setup, he just had a hand in the game. If it were up to Jason, I’m sure it would have been way more fancy than this, which would have sucked money away from our goal.”

“Jason, fancy?” I ask.

Natalie rolls her eyes. “When it comes to food, he’s very particular. I’m pretty sure when he retires from baseball, he’ll go back to college to earn a degree in culinary arts.” She glances around me, I guess feeling safe about her distance from him and says, “Ever hear him boast about his potato salad?”

“Not directly from him, but I did see him post about it on Instagram.”

Natalie dramatically rolls her eyes, and it’s fucking cute. She leans in and levels with me. “You did not hear this from me, do you understand?”

Loving the fact that this girl, who’s captured my attention, is already trusting me to hold a secret, I emphatically say, “Of course.”

Coming a little closer, offering me the sweet scent of her perfume, she says, “We had a secret vote a few months back, and between our family, including grandparents, we all voted, and my version of the best potato salad ever was the winner.”

“Oh shit,” I say, chuckling. “He doesn’t know?”

She straightens and shakes his head. “We agreed it would physically break him, especially since he’s already in a delicate state right now.”

I scratch the side of my jaw and look back at Jason, who’s chugging a glass of water with Knox. “Does his delicate state have to do with this Dottie girl?”

She nods. “Unfortunately. He fell in love, she hurt him, he’s not speaking to her even though she’s trying to apologize—basic relationship stuff. I’m sure they’ll work it out once he figures out he can’t live like this anymore, without her.”

I glance at Jason again, feeling sorry for the guy. Never having experienced heartbreak before, I can’t relate, but I have seen friends go through it, especially Milly with Carson. I felt her pain when they split up, I fucking lived her pain, so I can understand why Jason looks lost right now, as if he can’t quite find his home.

“I hope they work it out.”

“Me too.” Natalie sighs and says, “I should go make the rounds. Thank some more people. It was lovely meeting you, Cory Fucking Potter.”

“You too.” I smile despite the disappointment of her departure. I want to find out more about her life, not simply talk about the one thing we have in common: Jason. I want to know what else makes her cry tears of joy, what makes her throw her head back and laugh, and how I can bring that smile to her face. Unsure what comes over me, I say, “If you get bored of saying thank you, I’ll be over at that table, drowning myself in baseball cupcakes.”

Once again, the corners of her mouth tilt up and she says, “It’s the strawberry jam in the middle that has you addicted, isn’t it?” I’m thinking right about now that it’s the way her dimples make an appearance on her smooth cheeks that has me growing addicted to something else.

“Yeah, the fruit compote with the chocolate is killer.”

She points to herself. “All me.” With a friendly pat to my shoulder she says, “Catch you around, Potter.”

And then she takes off, leaving me wanting way more than cupcakes.