Southpaw

Southpaw AN ENEMIES-TO-LOVERS SPORTS ROMANCE GINGER SCOTT Copyright 2023 Ginger Scott, Little Miss Write, LLC No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events is entirely coincidental. Cover Design by Ginger Scott, Little Miss Write LLC Contents Thank you. 1. Sutter Mason 2. Jensen Hawke 3. Sutter 4. Jensen 5. Sutter 6. Jensen 7. Sutter 8. Jensen 9. Sutter 10. Jensen 11. Sutter 12. Jensen 13. Sutter 14. Jensen 15. Sutter 16. Jensen 17. Sutter 18. Jensen 19. Sutter 20. Jensen 21. Sutter 22. Jensen Epilogue If you enjoyed this series, you might also like: Acknowledgments About the Author Also By Ginger Scott Thank you. I usually save this for the acknowledgements but what can I say, there is something about baseball that gets me all sentimental. So dear reader, thank you for spending your time on my words and this little story of my heart. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did. XO Ginger This one . . . I wrote this baby for me. ♡ “Love is the most important thing in the world, but baseball is pretty good, too.” ~ Yogi Berra CHAPTER 1 Sutter Mason I should say no to the shot of tequila Kiki is swaying in front of me in her open palm. Is she swaying it? Or do I think it’s swaying? See. I should say no. “I’m beyond buzzed, Keeks. I should go home and sleep off this entire asshole of a day.” I take the shot from her hand as I say these words; the liquid already down my throat. I’ve blown past buzzed. Hello, bathroom floor when I get home. “When men we waste our time on propose to other women with the same damn ring they gave us, we’re allowed to get shitfaced.” She’s right. I’ve earned a night out. And I earned that drink. And the four that came before it. Before I have a chance to slip back into my self-pity party, I plop the shot glass on the tabletop and take my best friend’s hand, leading her out to the dance floor that has distracted me quite nicely for most of the night. McGill’s is a college pub with everything. Dance music, check. Frat boys who like to dance, check. Big screens on every wall with various games on constant stream, triple check. It’s where I took my first legal drink, and it’s where my friends and I solve all our problems. Unfortunately, it’s also the official bar for the Arizona Monsoon triple-A baseball team. And that fucker my friend mentioned before—the one who wasted my time and proposed to another girl with the ring he gave to me less than a year ago—yeah, his shit is all over this bar. Corbin Forsythe is a goddamned Monsoon legend. And he’ll be pro-ball royalty one day. Only, someone else will be his queen. I know my best friend is trying to push me to the other side of moved on by dragging me out tonight, and the last few times we’ve been here, I haven’t felt the pangs of heartbreak from seeing his signed jersey and the wall dedicated to his various newspaper and magazine clippings. I ripped the photo of him and me celebrating the day he got called up from the wall two months ago, so I don’t have to stare at that anymore. But those TVs on the wall are incessant tonight, and apparently Corbin Forsythe proposing to Meghan-nobody after his start for Texas last night is still big news. Probably because he did it seconds after the Gatorade was dumped on his head. While he was still on the field and talking to the post-game reporter about throwing a complete game shutout. On national TV. “I hope that ring turns her finger green,” Kiki shouts in my ear. The music is thumping in here, yet somehow I can still hear the proposal news blaring from the TV across the bar. I twist my lips into a soured pucker. “It’s a really nice ring. Remember? I’ve seen it,” I say, squeezing my left hand into a ball at my hip, still feeling the burn of where it wrapped around my finger for an entire month. “What an asshole. Who asks for their proposal ring back?” my friend says, waving away the story showing on repeat on the TV before blowing at the loose hairs sticking to her glistening forehead. A few people dancing near us glance my way, and whether it’s real or imagined, the sense that they’re staring at me with pity for being the jilted ex instantly chips away at the thin emotional armor I’ve worked really hard to construct. “Hey, you know what? I should go. That last shot is hitting me hard.” That’s not a lie. My feet feel like bricks and my arms are tingling. I begin shuffling my way backward to the bar when Kiki reaches forward and grabs the strap of my small crossbody purse. “Keeks, I’m tired. I really want to go home.” “Liar,” she says through pursed lips. Her hands have moved to my small bag and she’s unzipping it as she stares me down. I drop my gaze to her grip and force a yawn. “Seriously, I am truly tired.” I’m also a lot of other things—emotional, embarrassed, angry, jealous—but tired definitely factors in. My spine straightens when Kiki tugs on my bag again, and my eyes snap to hers. “Sutter, I know you. You aren’t going home from here. Admit it.” Kiki’s hard, knowing glare breaks through even the foggiest