Extra Innings

By Michelle Lynn

I’m the crazy fun one.
Pedal to the floor, balls to the wall, party all weekend guy.
The guy everybody calls for laughs and a good time.
And I always deliver.

So, when Ainsley Winslow and I made a pact for a summer fling, I was all in.
What hot-blooded college male doesn’t jump at the chance for a no strings attached relationship? Not this one.

Then summer drew to a close, and I found myself wanting time to move slower. Ainsley Winslow is a girl of her word. When fall inevitably came, she vanished.

She no longer answered my calls, my texts or my knocks on her door. After the silence continued, I questioned what I was doing and who had I become. I am Braxton Brentwood…this isn’t me. Time to move on and get the party started again. And I did.

Until our paths crossed again, and I remembered what we had. She wasn’t getting away a second time because our game just went into Extra Innings.   

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bryant Street Publishing
• Release date: Jul 12, 2022
• ISBN: 9781094443102

Book preview

Prologue

Brax

God, she is gorgeous . That’s the first thought that crosses my mind when she walks toward me that night at The Hideaway .

I can’t pinpoint what is different about her from the other college girls in Ridgemont, but she piques an interest none have ever before.

My friend, Derek, is rambling on about a girl he hooked up with the night before while eyeing another girl at the bar, but from what I can tell, she’s more interested in Pete, the bartender.

We came here for the baseball draft, and the last thing I am looking for is a hook-up. Our baseball schedule is grueling, and I need sleep. I know some of the players, including our own third baseman, Mike Ripley, who might just get drafted tonight.

My eyes lock with hers as her long black hair sways from side to side along with her hips. At least I think she sees me—until she is about to walk by me without any acknowledgment.

So, I pull the junior high dickhead move and shoot my arm out to block her way. Usually, I don’t have to resort to this type of immature tactic. Usually, the girl slows her steps, twirls her hair around her finger, and comes to a stop. Usually, her voice rises with a flirtatious, Hi. Not this girl though. That means, she clearly doesn’t go to Ridgemont University.

She piques my interest and my dick’s when I am able to look her up and down.

A short skirt barely covers her ass above her long olive-skin-tone legs, and her T-shirt is so tight that I’d bet my newest Rawlings bat that her nipples are nice and erect under her padded bra.

Do I know you? I ask.

No. She shakes her head as her gray eyes focus on my arm that’s still blocking her way.

I swear, I do. Turn around. I patiently wait for her to do so. Usually, girls don’t mind.

Yeah, that’s not going to happen. She pushes my arm down and walks past.

I guess I don’t because I’m positive I’d know that ass! I yell out.

But she never turns around.

That’s when there is no more assuming she’s different from other girls. She definitely is.

I have two choices. I can follow her to the restroom and back her up into a stall or I can wait outside the door for her, but something tells me that my normal go-to’s won’t work on her. I also know, if I stay seated on this side of The Hideaway, she’ll dodge me.

I’ll be back, I say to my buddies.

Grabbing my beer, I venture to the other side of the bar to join some guys from my Econ class. They are frat guys, and, I normally don’t hang out with them, but desperate measures are needed right now.

A scent of flowers floats by me first. I don’t turn around because she thinks she has successfully escaped me. Her slender legs almost distract me enough so that I don’t make my move, but at the last minute, I grab her hand and yank her back.

She fumbles for a second until her ass lands on my thigh. A sigh escapes her lips before she figures out where she is. That’s when I know my attempts aren’t going to fail.

She stands up and pulls my arm away from her stomach, but I only tighten my muscles.

Who do you think you are? She narrows her eyes at me.

I can’t fight my smile.

I laugh, and she glances to the other guys at the table, ones I don’t know.

I’m Braxton, but you can call me whatever you want. God is the usual.

She clenches her mouth shut, and I’m positive she’s running through insults in that pretty head of hers.

I think I’ll settle on jackass, she says, pulling my arm away from her.

You’ve done your research. I like a challenge.

She walks away but glances over her shoulder. I wink with a promise that I’ll chase her until her back is pressed against the bathroom stall door.

Again, she felt compelled to leave me, but this time, I can watch her through the window opening across the bar. She concentrates at the filled shot glass in front of her for a second and then twirls it around with her fingers. I watch in awe. She seems almost like she’s being pressured to drink. I am half-tempted to stop her. Her eyes flick to the television, and she rolls her eyes, downing the shot.

When I see Pete pouring her another one, my chair skids across the floor.

What the fuck? a guy says.

I mumble an apology.

My feet round the side of the bar until I sidle up on the barstool right next to her. I slide the shot glass away from her.

Her eyes move to mine. Excuse me, she says, her voice laced with disdain instead of bubbly excitement.

That’s a lot of alcohol for a little body. I play off my concern like a joke.

Her friend swivels on her barstool and eyes me like I am a piece of bread after weeks of starving on detox shakes. Braxton Brentwood, she singsongs my name.

Now, there’s the greeting I’m used to.

Most people I don’t know, know me. Comes with being the captain of the baseball team among other things. My entire life, people have known who I am. Well, except when I first moved to Beltline in the fourth grade. That’s why Crosby and Noah will always be my truest friends.

Hey. I nod politely for the sake of the girl I don’t know.

Can I have the drink back?

Now, she could have said, Give me my drink back. She could have tried to pry it out my hands, but she used the word can. Next, please will come out of those perfectly pink lips that would look so fucking good around my cock.

In about fifteen minutes, I say, setting the glass to the side.

I’ll take it, her friend interrupts.

She purposely pushes her tits out, like I haven’t noticed them. Hell, no one in this bar can miss them.

What’s your name? I eye her, eager to put a name with a face.

Ariana, her friend says, holding her hand out and she might as well do a backbend with how arched her torso is. I get the point, you want me to notice your tits.

Pleasure. I half-smile. I look directly at the girl I asked. I meant, you.

Ainsley. My dark-haired beauty’s voice is low and shallow.

I hate the friend.

From what I’ve noticed about best friends, there’s a loud one and a quiet one. Sometimes, the loud one takes advantage of the quiet one, and although I have no basis for this assumption, I’m positive Ariana is no good for Ainsley.

Will you join me over there? I ask, like the gentleman I usually never am. I glance to an empty booth.

A deep sigh emerges from Ariana’s lips, and Ainsley’s eyes shoot to her.

Yep, I need a wingman.

I glance to Ollie and Derek. Both of them are staring at the draft, drinking their beers. Neither one of them is doing much, but we are all exhausted after just finishing our season yesterday. A five-day tournament, and I’d be lying if I said my thighs weren’t still on fire.

I can introduce you to my friends, I suggest, signaling to their table.

Ariana glances to where I’m pointing, whereas Ainsley’s eyes are focused on the television.

Jackpot! She’s into baseball. I knew there was something about her I liked more than her ass.

Are you talking about Ollie Kane? Had him.

Of course she has. I have a feeling I’d be hard-pressed to find a guy she hadn’t had in the whole strip of bars off Main Street.

Well, Derek was complimenting you when you walked in.

It’s not a complete lie, only a fabrication of sorts. It’s an unwritten rule that you never take another player’s girl. Most likely, you won’t find a teammate sleeping with another player’s conquest. That’s not to say it doesn’t happen on occasion, but I’d never do it. Go to practice and see the dick that fucked your chick? Hell no. I like my friends to be jealous of what I have, to imagine what it would be like to have my girl and know they’ll never get her. They should never know if her pussy is shaved or not.

Ariana jumps off the stool. Okay. Her face lights up.

I wonder how she can be good friends with Ainsley.

What about the bartender? Ainsley reminds her.

Ariana pauses briefly.

He’s not Derek King. She sashays away before I even introduce her.

Ainsley watches her sit down at the table, and Derek sits up straighter while Ollie shifts his eyes from her to the television, clearly not interested.

Then again, he hasn’t been interested in anyone lately.

So? I ask.

Her eyes move to me, the shot glass, the television, the shot glass, and back to me.

Okay, but I’m not sleeping with you tonight, she says, hopping down from her stool and walking toward the empty booth.

Hey, Pete, I call out, raising two fingers in the air and pointing to the table. Grabbing my beer and her shot, I follow.

He nods, and I feel bad when he checks out where Ariana is currently sitting. She’s practically on Derek’s lap.

I slide into the booth and put her shot glass in front of her. She picks it up and downs it. That small body has to be feeling something.

You feeling okay? I ask.

She bundles her long midnight-black hair and swings it over one shoulder, giving me a glimpse of the curve of her neck. I shift in my seat.

Perfect, she says.

I catch her fingers touching her lips. Lips numb? I ask, chuckling.

A little. She leans forward. I don’t drink a lot.

Really? I ask. I thought you were a lush.

She laughs, her head falling to the side, and her eyes peer over to me, like I’m the comedian of the hour. I rub my chest from the purring sensation.

I’m a homebody. The only reason I’m out is because of Ariana. Her eyes shoot over to the table. She rolls her eyes and focuses back to me. She likes guys.

I’ll have to thank her, I say, glancing to Pete and wondering what the holdup is.

You’re a sweet-talker, she says. She glances to the television but refocuses on me almost immediately. All of you baseball players, just trying to get in my pants.

Technically, up your skirt.

She points her finger at me, laughing. See?

If you think that’s sweet, then I can be much sweeter. I grin.

She shakes her head, but the smile plastered on her face says those two shots just hit her bloodstream. I bet you can. I have a feeling about you, Braxton Brentwood.

Call me Brax, I say. If you’re my friend, I’m Brax. If you don’t know me, I’m Braxton Brentwood.

‘Call me Brax,’ she mimics me in a deep voice. Call me Ains, she says.

I think I’ll call you beautiful, I remark, waiting to see what she’ll say now.

She stops and stares at me for a moment, the smile slipping from her lips. I hit a nerve or a wound from the past, I suspect.

She grabs my beer and downs the rest of the drink in two gulps. The mug drops to the table, tips to the side, and leaves a little puddle of golden liquid. I pick up the mug and set it straight.

Beth, the waitress, comes over and places a water and a beer on the table.

Thanks. I hand her the mug and shot glass.

She glances to Ainsley and then gives me a soft smile, as though wishing me luck with this drunk girl.

I don’t like beer. I’ll be right back. Ainsley slides out of the booth and knocks her fist on the bar.

Um, where did the quiet girl with shy eyes go?

Pete! she yells.

I follow, holding my hand up to Pete from behind her.

He comes over, not exactly thrilled with my kind tonight since Ariana’s putting her best effort into Derek now.

I need a shot, Ainsley tells him.

He focuses on me, and I shake my head.

Ainsley looks over her shoulder and then back to Pete. Give me a break. I’m not here with him. He doesn’t dictate what I drink.

Pete pulls a shot glass out and pours a shot of Fireball.

How is she even drinking that cinnamon shit?

She downs it, and her eyes move to the television.

Brax! Ollie yells across the bar.

I nod, a smile taking over my face, as our old teammate, Mike Ripley, hangs up his cell phone. Then, the announcer says he’s just been drafted to the Cardinals.

Way to go, I whisper, my eyes fixated on him hugging his family.

Ollie comes up to my side. Can you believe it? A Ridgemont guy going to the majors?

He clasps my shoulder, and I offer him a tight smile because I’m not sure there will be another one next year. The dilemma still looming in my head is if I want to disobey my parents and enter the draft my junior year of college.

Unbelievable, I say.

Fucking fantastic, Ainsley mumbles.

My eyes shoot to her, and I find the bottle of Fireball she must have grabbed from behind the bar tipped to her mouth, the liquid streaming down.

Shit! I take the bottle and move it away from her. You’re going to give yourself alcohol poisoning.

Don’t worry about me. She stands and wobbles right into Ollie’s chest.

His two hands land on her hips, and a ping of jealousy stabs me.

Whoa. He raises his eyebrows at me.

Her cheek lands on his chest, and she stares dreamily up at him. You’re really tall. Her shoulders fall. Like a big tree in the forest. I bet I can climb you.

Her legs start lifting, and I watch Ollie’s hands begin to go around her ass.

You can climb me. Ollie winks.

I grab her arm, pulling her toward me. Fuck you, I say to Ollie.

Ollie laughs.

Hey, she says, now in my arms. Her hand reaches up, and her fingers brush along my cheek. You’re like James Dean. A Rebel without—

That’s taking it too far, Ollie sneers.

I hold her small body to me. Tell Ariana that Ainsley needs to go home.

Who’s Ariana? Ollie asks, his eyes now on the television.

The cameras are off Mike Ripley, but Ollie grew up in the circuit of travel elite baseball, so he knows a lot of the players.

Ainsley’s body goes limp, and I lift her dead weight up into my arms. I walk by him and straight to Ariana, who has resorted to sitting in Derek’s lap—not that I think he’s complaining.

Hey, did you see— Derek asks.

Ariana turns around. What did you do to her? she asks, not getting up.

Yep, shitty friend.

She needs to go home. Now, I’ll drive her, but I don’t know where she lives. I don’t want her to freak out if she wakes up in my bed.

Fifteen Maple Avenue. Blue house, fifth on the right after Cambridge.

When she stands up, I think she’s going to come with me, which would be excellent because then I’d be off the hook from holding hair back all night.

Her hand sneaks down Ainsley’s tank top, and she retrieves a key. Here you go.

I ignore how warm the key feels in my palm as I close my fist and then stuff it into my pocket.

You aren’t coming? I ask her.

She flings her hair over her shoulder, eyeing Derek. Nah, I think you can handle her. She sits back down.

I stand there for a second, wondering what happened to the chicks-attached-at-the-hip thing. I mean, don’t girls protect one another?

When I notice that Ariana hasn’t glanced back once, I shake my head and leave.

The humid heat of summer leaves a drip of sweat down my back as I walk down the street to my truck.

My doors unlock after I press my key fob, and I lay her in the backseat. She moans something I can’t catch, and her head falls onto a dirty Ridgemont sweatshirt that I have worked out in for the last five days.

When did I become a fucking babysitter? I mumble, climbing into the driver’s seat and starting my truck.

I turn down Main Street, passing the bars that are usually packed and littered with people during the year. Summer in Ridgemont is nice but quiet. After the baseball season is over, I need a summer to recoup, a summer to figure out what the hell I’m going to do next year.

The drive to Ainsley’s house is uneventful, and her light breathing behind me tells me she’s sleeping off the alcohol. This just confirms that chicks are crazy. One minute, the girl isn’t really drinking at all, and the next, she’s pouring the damn bottle down her throat.

Finding the fifth house, I’m thankful that Ariana is good for one thing—giving clear directions. I pull into the driveway until I’m parked in front of the one-car detached garage.

The house is like most college housing. It’s been kind of kept up but needs a little more tender care. I don’t blame the owners who rent to students. From parties to the students just not caring about property, the houses get banged up.

After turning the engine off, I get out and open up my back door. There she lies with a drip of saliva dangling from her mouth. Thank God she’s a small one, less pressure on my back.

I pull her up from under her arms and hold her bride-style in my arms. Her head hangs over my forearm and her legs over my other