Stealing Home Read online

  Stealing Home (A Baseball Romance series)

  By

  Vera Roberts

  For BESM.

  © 2017-19 Vera Roberts, All Rights Reserved

  Smashwords edition

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Other Titles by Vera Roberts

  The Breakaway Series:

  Breakaway

  Game Misconduct

  Face-Off

  Power Play

  Scoring Chance

  Love So Brand New

  The D’Amato Brothers Series:

  The Nanny

  To Love and Obey (BDSM)

  Where I Wanna Be

  All I’ve Ever Wanted

  Love

  Nothing Even Matters

  One More chance

  War

  D’Amato

  Stay With Me

  The Ellison Brothers Series:

  Her Savior

  Simply Complicated

  Her Ocean

  Watercolors

  Her Soul

  Sweet Nectar

  The Feeling Some Type of Way Series:

  Feeling Some Type of Way

  Bad and Bougie

  Not about That Life

  The D’Amato Brothers/S&M Crossover (BDSM):

  Anticipation

  Yes, Master

  I Need You

  The Jackson and Liane Series:

  Daddy’s Angel

  Fire We Make

  When Love Calls

  The Scott & Mariana Serial (BDSM):

  S&M

  S&M II

  Discipline

  S&M III, Vol. I

  S&M III, Vol. II

  S&M IV, Part 1

  The Ex-Factor

  Stronger Than Pride

  Unravel Me

  The State of Affairs Series:

  State of affairs

  Superpower

  Standalone Novels:

  I Knew You Were Trouble

  Wait for Love

  Soul Infinity Crew (under Maya Brooklyn)

  Short stories:

  Blow by Blow: Diary of a Call Girl #1

  Blow by Blow: Diary of a Call Girl #2

  Boo’d Up

  Dear Diary

  Gettin' It

  H.E.R.

  Hot Like Fire (Sweet and Clean Romance)

  Quench My Desire

  The Train Ride (Free on Smashwords.com)

  The Erotic Intoxication, Vol. I: Bad Girls

  The Painter

  Til Tomorrow

  What About Us?

  Table of Contents

  Other Titles

  Blurb

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Blurb

  The first rule of being a sports physical therapist: Do not sleep with an athlete.

  The second rule of being a sports physical therapist: Do not fall in love with an athlete.

  The third rule of being a sports physical therapist: Ignore Rules #1 and #2.

  Bobbi Gibson has enough on her plate with her new position of being a physical therapist to the Los Angeles Dodgers. Dealing with egos and injuries, and sometimes not sure which is the bigger headache, the last thing she needs is a distraction from the rising pitcher who simply goes by The Answer. Yet, he’s the only sane human in her crazy world.

  Quinn “The Answer” Riordan knows he’s not like most pitchers. After all, most pitchers don’t know every Backstreet Boys song by heart nor do they sleep with a stuffed giraffe at night.

  He also knows most pitchers can’t easily throw a record-breaking and break-neck speed pitch of 100 mph on a regular basis. But what Quinn does know is he’s head over heels in love with the new physical therapist. Now just he has to convince her she feels the same.

  Stealing Home is a baseball romance short series. It features an *NSYNC v. Backstreet Boys battle, late-night drive-thru runs, more giraffes than Geoffrey at Toys R Us, and how Legos are the best invention ever.

  Prologue

  George Parsons patted his sweaty baldhead as he traversed in thick, biting grass. He intentionally dressed in light colors – khaki pants and a matching dress shirt – but it didn’t matter. The butt crack known as Fontana had sun that beat down on him like it was God and he was a sinner in church.

  Still, George had traveled a long distance from his comfortable in every weather Florida home. He was on a mission. He heard about this kid who could throw 90 miles per hour and he had to check it out. It could be true or it could be the biggest piece of human horseshit he’d ever seen. He never knew until he saw the potential player in action.

  “I thought you said California was nothing but palm trees and bitches,” George’s thick southern accent spat.

  Two men along George laughed. “I’m sure my word were palm trees and beautiful ladies,” Joshua Peck answered. He was a tall man with brown hair that had the right amount of bed head and blindly white teeth that suggested he would’ve been the perfect weatherman on local news.

  “Ladies, bitches, they’re all the same.” George huffed as he stopped and took a swig of water from his bottle. He normally preferred to travel with a flask full of the best Jim Beam, but time was of the essence. He needed to be focused.

  “Ah, we’re almost there, George.” The other man, Arthur Rowland, wiped his brow. He was of average build, average height, and well, average just about everything else. He did have a weird affinity for 90’s grunge, which made him relatable to younger people.

  “Almost there?” George began walking again and softly cursed when he noticed his Louis Vuitton loafers were getting all sorts of cow shit, dog shit, and whatever kind of shit on them. He hoped this kid was worth all of the shit he had put up with. “Where in the hell does this kid live?”

  “We’re here,” Arthur replied and took a deep breath. “He’s in there.”

  George patted his forehead and drank some more water. In front of him was a big barn with stacks of hay everywhere. Horses, chickens, and a few ducks roamed freely. In the middle of it was the most outstanding sight.

  A strapping young man who looked like he could’ve been Chris Evans’s doppelganger was dressed in just jeans and Timberlands, and wore a bandana backwards, with the front ends tied and loose, while rapping to…what was that? Tupac?

  He casually lifted the huge stacks of hay from one end of the barn to the other as “If My Homies Call” blasted from overhead speakers. The young man knew every word verbatim.

  The song switched to the Go-Go’s “All Lips Are Sealed” and the man danced around the barn, swinging around a pole before he began to shovel manure. He even played the air guitar.

  When the song switched to EU’s “Doing Da Butt”, the man started to shake his butt and added some twerking moves. Again, he knew every lyric as if he wrote the song himself.

  He turned around and spotted his coaches. “Hey Art and Josh!” He waved as he kept twerking. “Come on! Let’s dance, fellas!”

  “You’re shitting me,” George
deadpanned.

  “George Parsons,” Joshua began, “let’s introduce you to Quinn Riordan.”

  ~~~~~

  He was weird. Definitely, weird. There was no way around that word.

  As George was led through a tour of Quinn’s family home, he listened as Quinn showed them around. He looked like Malibu Ken and talked like a guy who was from the deep hood and urban areas. He used words like bae, lit, and most def.

  The estate was situated in a hidden nook in the back of Fontana; a place labeled as “Fontucky” by outside residents who couldn’t understand the downhome, backyard Confederate flag-waving community located miles away from diverse Los Angeles.

  Quinn and his family, however, were quite progressive. Quinn’s taste in music – he recited lyrics to a Keith Urban song – made George strain his neck in vain trying to figure out who that kid was.

  “And this,” Quinn opened the door to his upstairs bedroom, “this is where the magic happens.”

  George stepped inside Quinn’s room before he quickly stepped back and held the doorway. Before him was the biggest damn stuffed giraffe he’d ever seen. “What in the good Lord name is that?”

  “That’s Jeffrey!” Quinn swung his arm around the giant giraffe. “Isn’t he awesome?”

  George looked around Quinn’s bedroom. He saw nothing but more giraffes and more. He was used to seeing naked women – both on paper and in person – in players’ bedrooms. He was used to see some illegal drugs – mostly prescription and performance-boosting – being stashed away.

  This kid had a damn Toys R Us in his bedroom. “Good golly, Miss Molly.”

  “Are you ready?” Quinn asked.

  George was scared to ask what exactly. “For?”

  “To watch me?” Quinn smiled. “You’re here to watch me pitch, right?”

  George desperately wanted that flask of Jim Beam as he gulped a swig of water. “Let’s go, kiddo.”

  ~~~~~

  “What the hell?”

  George stared at the numbers before him at the speed gun. It was impossible. It is ridiculous. If he hadn’t seen it for his own eyes, he wouldn’t have believed it otherwise.

  That weird kid with the fascination of stuffed giraffes and quoting Taylor Swift just threw a fastball clocking at 95 mph.

  “Hitters can’t figure him out,” Joshua stood next to George. “They keep thinking he’s going to pitch one way and he goes something completely different.”

  George’s eyes widened when Quinn’s curveball clocked in at 89 mph. “Jesus! How does he do it? What’s he on?”

  “Clean. He eats very healthy with the occasional cheeseburger. He lives clean, doesn’t drink, doesn’t smoke. He just keeps himself in very good shape.” Joshua added as he watched Quinn throw another pitch. “His mother said he was trying to swing a bat before he could walk. He was a beast in Little League, and in high school, all sorts of teams from the League came out to see him. He opted to go to Cal State Fullerton instead. Now every year, we get someone stalking him, asking him to slow down and not ruin his arm. He hasn’t received an offer he wants to entertain yet.”

  George nodded. “Where does he want to go?”

  “Parents moved here from Kentucky so either Dodgers or Angels.” Joshua shrugged. “What do you think?”

  “I think I need to contact the owner of the Dodgers as soon as I leave. He’s going to be Dodger before he graduates.” George put down the gun. “I saw everything I needed to see today.”

  Joshua pursed his lips before he spoke. “Um, there’s one more thing you should be aware of before you talk to the Dodgers?”

  “Oh?”

  ~~~~~~

  George blinked several times. He’d seen everything in professional sports. From players passing off a pregnant woman’s urine as their own for drug testing, to the “special ones” he liked to call them, who fancied women’s panties under their suits.

  Quinn was in an entirely different category. "Really?”

  George, Joshua, and Arthur watched from a distance as Quinn carefully stacked his Legos together. He was in the middle of building the Millennium Falcon and needed all of his attention.

  “He has to do this before every game or his game is absolute shit,” Arthur quietly spoke. “We tested that theory and he’s right. It’s like he reverts to a child who doesn’t know how to throw a ball.”

  “Is he retarded?” George asked and Joshua stared at him. “I’m sorry you damn Californians and your stupid political correctness bullshit. Is he special needs? There? Is that better?”

  “No, he’s normal. He just has his quirks.” Joshua admitted.

  “A lot of them,” Arthur added, “but he’s a good kid. Doesn’t get into any fights, no outside kids, no drama. Not racist, sexist, or any of that stuff. Doesn’t get political other than encouraging people to go vote.” He paused briefly. “And he likes anything NASA. Anything.”

  “So, all I’m going to have to deal with are Legos, giraffes, astronauts, and Taylor Swift?” George asked.

  “Yeah,” the men concurred.

  George really wished he had that flask. Now it was time to celebrate. Quinn was going to make him a very rich agent. “Fellas, Quinn is going to the Dodgers!”

  One

  San Francisco was a long way from L.A.

  Bobbi Gibson understood that. She calculated the distance as she made the treacherous drive from her native San Francisco. Treacherous was a stretch of a word. It was more like fucking bullshit to the highest order with a combination of OMG, will you fucking mooooooooooooooove? The light is greeeeeeeeeeeeeen.

  She was finally glad to be off the road.

  She ended up in Manhattan Beach, not too far from downtown Los Angeles. The neatly-paved street along with the tall palm trees were a breath of fresh air from the potholes from hell with every house looks like Danny Tanner designed it back in San Francisco.

  She normally wasn’t this much of a pessimist. If anything, Bobbi was rather ecstatic about her new position with the Dodgers, though her hometown team Giants sorely missed her already.

  But every major decision in her life meant a major change. If she wanted to fly, she needed to jump first. No one ever got anything done by taking the nice, safe routes.

  She’ll worry about her future later. She carefully parked her SUV right in front of the modest two-story home her sister and brother-in-law lived in. Despite their incredible wealth, they looked like they lived modestly.

  Looked, was the key word.

  Their home looked like every other Stepford Wife’s home on the outside, but the inside was when Sarah’s unilateral access to Jameson’s bank account came into play. They were rich and wanted everyone who stepped foot inside their home to know.

  “I was wondering what was taking your ass so long to get here,” Sarah De Luca glanced down at her Apple watch. Her husband purchased it for her the night before and she was still trying to figure out how to use it. At least it was shiny.

  “Traffic in San Francisco and traffic here…” Bobbi’s eyes widened. “…you didn’t warn me about the traffic here.”

  “I told you it sucked,” Sarah shrugged, “that’s all you needed to know, really.”

  “Thanks for that,” Bobbi rushed over and gave her older sister a hug. They were only two years apart, but were practically joined at the hip and looked like twins. While Sarah was voluptuous and brutally honest, Bobbi was slimmer and bit more reserved.

  Despite the differences, however, Bobbi always borrowed Sarah’s clothes. “Where’s the hub-hubs?”

  “Inside making us dinner,” Sarah helped bring in a couple of Bobbi’s suitcases, “he’s going to practice soon, so it’ll just be us for a bit.”

  “Cool.” Bobbi stepped inside Sarah’s Manhattan Beach mansion and was astounded by how it looked. It was a million-dollar home to begin with, but Sarah made sure it was worth just as much on the inside.

  Sarah took up a passion for interior decorating and an almost-unhealthy obsession w
ith wallpaper and Etsy. Bobbi couldn’t hate. Her sister’s home was straight out of Architectural Digest. Floor-to-ceiling windows, high ceilings, and just about everything imported.

  Every room had a different theme, and the living room screamed family and comfort.

  In Bobbi’s temporary guest room, the theme was clearly, ‘Don’t Get Too Comfortable.’ A TV, dresser with mirror, and closet were in the room. No theme. No pictures. Nothing too fancy. Sarah made it clear it was a guest room for that purpose. Stay temporarily and then take your ass home.

  Sarah sat down on the bed and watched her younger sister unpack her things. “So, what are your plans for tonight?” Sarah asked.

  “Well, I plan to get unsettled here and maybe catch something on Netflix.” Bobbi shrugged. “I really like Pose.”

  “Wow, already doing the old lady with the cats thing and you’re barely 24. Bless.” Sarah smiled.

  “Of course, you would rag on me and I just barely got here.” Bobbi smiled. Sarah always had a sarcastic sense of humor, despite how positive she was in her life. It was part of her charm – if she couldn’t laugh at the most mundane things, life wasn’t worth living.

  “I’m sure your queens and Mothers will wait for you as always,” Sarah grinned.

  “I just got in and I already have jet lag. I have to check in with the Dodgers promptly tomorrow morning for the first team meeting so I can meet the players.” Bobbi sat down on the queen-sized bed and checked her phone. She grimaced when she didn’t receive a text she’d been expecting since she got off the plane. She wanted to act like she didn’t care but really, she did. “And then from there, I get to relax for a week before I have to report for spring training in Arizona.”

  “Has your friend contacted you?” Sarah asked. “What’s his name? Boston? Ireland?”

  “Scotland,” Bobbi put her phone away and shook her head. “Not yet, but the time difference is big.”

  “Only eight hours and I’m sure he could’ve texted or called you the moment you landed since he cares so damn much.” Sarah deadpanned. She glanced down at her watch and saw it was only 5 P.M. “I’m sure he’s awake doing other bitches.”

  “And thank you for the vote of confidence.” Bobbi quipped. She never liked discussing her personal life with her sister for the fear of mocking and judgment. She could admit her tastes in men had varied mileage.