Sidelined: A Wilde Players Dirty Romance by A.M. Hargrove, Terri E. Laine Page B

the gravel crunching as a car pulls up and the dogs start barking. Who the hell is that?
    The door swings open, and a vision of loveliness rushes in.
    “Are you okay? I tried calling, but it kept going to your voicemail,” she says.
    Shit. My phone. It’s on the floor somewhere.
    “Yeah, I’m fine.”
    “You don’t look fine. What happened?” She crouches next to the recliner I’m sitting in.
    My palm rubs over my hair, and I blink, trying to pull up the right words to tell her.
    “You’re scaring me, Fletcher.”
    I point to the counter. “There. In the kitchen. A letter. Just read the damn thing.”
    She walks over, and I hear paper tearing. After a couple of minutes, she asks, “Can they do this?”
    “Oh yeah. They can pretty much do whatever the fuck they want. My agent called, so I don’t have until July after all. Apparently, I pissed them off when I stayed. Fuck them.” The whiskey was making me slur my words, and my thick tongue was getting the better of me.
    “You don’t mean that. But I’m worried if you try to throw too soon, you’ll injure yourself. Can I write you a note?”
    “A note to lose my contract, and then get let go from the team, you mean?”
    “Okay, let’s think about this. We have almost another four weeks. Your mobility is much better since we began. Your knee is still troublesome, but you’ll have to keep wearing the brace, and all they want to see is your throw, right?”
    My good shoulder lifts up. “You know what, I don’t know what the hell they want. I think they want the team doctor to examine me while I’m there.”
    “Can I go?” she asks.
    “You’d do that?”
    “Well, yeah.”
    She stands there in her work clothes, looking as beautiful as ever, so I rise to my feet and wind my arms around her. “Have I told you how much I appreciate what you’re doing for me and what you’ve done? I don’t … I can’t even begin to thank you. I would’ve been a miserable battered piece of shit if it hadn’t been for you. God, you smell good—just like vanilla cupcakes. You wouldn’t happen to have one in your pocket, would you?”
    “How much of that stuff did you drink before I got here?”
    “I dunno. A few glasses, I suppose.”
    Her body shakes as she says, “That’s what I thought. Have you eaten this afternoon?”
    “I can’t remember.”
    “Come on.” She tugs me into the kitchen and whips up some kind of tasty omelet. She serves it with toast and potatoes.
    “Oh, God, this is the best food I’ve ever had. You should consider becoming a chef.”
    She laughs. “Is that a fact?”
    I point my fork at her. “It is. You could open up a breakfast place and serve these omelets and that vanilla cupcake you’re hiding from me. Where is that thing anyway? I want my dessert.”
    “Fletch, I don’t have any cupcakes. It’s my shampoo you smell.”
    “What? No cupcakes. I’m crushed. I was all set on having a cupcake. Hey, do you think we can bake some? Are they hard to make? I’ve never made cupcakes before.”
    She rummages through the freezer and comes up with a container of ice cream. “How about this instead?”
    “Okaaaaay. I guess it’ll have to do. But will you make me cupcakes tomorrow?”
    She shakes her head. “You and your cupcakes.”
    After dishing out a big bowl of ice cream, she sets it down in front of me. “What, no chocolate syrup?”
    Her eyes move toward the ceiling, so I look up there to see what she’s looking at. “What’s up there? A bug?”
    “No, Fletch. Forget it. Here’s your chocolate,” she says, pulling it out from thin air.
    “Awesome. Wanna bite?” I hold up the spoon loaded with some of the cold creamy stuff. She opens her mouth, and I decide to be funny and play airplane. I swoop the spoon around, and somehow it misses and lands on her shirt, right over her boob. “Oops.”
    “You did not just play airplane and drop that on me.”
    “I thought that’s what I did.” I wear a sheepish look, or at