The Dugout: A Sweet Grumpy Sunshine Sports Romance (The Vegas Kings Book 3)

THE DUGOUT EMILY CHILDS For Andrew and that one time you said you think differently…different is beautiful, sweet boy. Contents Author Note 1. Ryder 2. Ryder 3. Ava 4. Ava 5. Ryder 6. Ryder 7. Ava 8. Ryder 9. Ryder 10. Ryder 11. Ava 12. Ryder 13. Ava 14. Ava 15. Ryder 16. Ava 17. Ryder 18. Ava 19. Ryder 20. Ava 21. Ryder 22. Ryder 23. Ava 24. Ava 25. Ava 26. Ava 27. Ryder 28. Ryder 29. Ava 30. Ryder 31. Ava 32. Ryder 33. Ava 34. Ava 35. Ryder 36. Ava Epilogue Acknowledgments Author Note This book will address sensitive issues that may be triggering for some readers such as: bullying of individuals with autism, pregnancy loss, and fertility struggles will be discussed throughout. Ryder There is silver glitter in my car. More than the glitter, the seats smell like strawberries and too much cologne. The smell wouldn’t be much to complain about, but the glitter is another thing. I have a thing about order. Glitter is the definition of chaos, the epitome of disorganization, a bane of society. If ever I needed to be tortured it would be me locked in a room with glitter bombs, then only being released when every shimmering piece was picked up. It would be a life sentence, and everyone knows it. My car is officially bedazzled. “Mason!” The kid is lucky I love him or he’d be dead. Dropped in the desert, vulture food, dead. When Mason steps out of the weird canvas canopy set up on the edge of Burton Field, hair on end like he’s been sleeping all day, and a forkful of baked potato in his mouth, I jab a finger at my open backseat. “Who was in my car?” “Sorry, Hunt,” Mason says with a shrug, calling me a shortened version of my name. With his stammer, my name can, at times, be a nightmare for the kid. But I doubt he’s all that sorry. “Gertie had g-glitter in her purse from her daycare job. Some of it spilled.” I deepen my frown but take a breath to cool the blood boiling in my skull. I’d like to be, but I can’t be too frustrated he was in my car since I was the one who offered my Range Rover for his use. We showed up to the field, Mason was pouting that the brakes squeaked in his ’99 Toyota, and had the whole moody teenager thing going as he lamented over picking up his off-and-on again high school girlfriend for the small banquet under the weird canvas canopy. I caved, offered before I could foreshadow the consequences, and now it looks like I have a prom night horror movie on my black seats. I’m ready to leave, there’s been enough socializing for one night. Alice, the team marketing director and the owner’s niece, insisted we send the season out with a final dinner. It’s informal, and I think it’s more to set up her uncle with the caterer. Pretty sure her mission to hook up Dallas Anderson is a flop, but even I can admit it was good to sit with the team once more before we head into the off-season. I give Mason a final glare. He holds up his hands. “I’ll c-clean it out, man. I p-p-promise.” Now the guilt hits a deeper nerve. I hate when I grumble enough that the kid’s stammer worsens. Griffin Marks, our catcher, likes to tell me I have a glare that could stop a war. Doubtless, this is one of those moments Griffin says leaves people thinking I’m going to explode. I nudge Mason’s arm and try to lighten my tone. “It’s all good.” “It’s going to stick to me,” Lacy whines. I don’t know my date well. Not to sound like even more of a dirtbag, but I don’t really care to. Alice insisted I bring a plus one. Lacy is a granddaughter of a Burton Field investor, or something, I don’t really know. She fits the bill of what I need as a plus one. A woman more interested in posting selfies with the MLB than getting to know me. A woman who enjoys a nice dinner, but one who will never ask for pieces of the heart. “It’ll be fine,” I grumble. “Ryder,” she says through her nose. “I’m wearing a black skirt.” Lacy looks like she’s ready to stomp her foot. She’s already complained about eating on the grass since her sneakers are vibrant white and she didn’t want to get grass stains. I ignore her, slide behind the wheel, then look at Mason. “I’ll make you pick up the pieces one by one later. Have Parker let Skye know I’ve got the thing covered tonight.” “Ryder,” Lacy says. “Seriously, what am I supposed to do with silver glitter on black?” I grit my teeth, irritated, and reach into my back seat where I have a stack of neatly folded Kings towels. I drape one over the passenger seat. “Best I can do.” My voice is hardened steel, but I guess in the world of Lacy it’s a cue for flirting. She runs her finger over the divots of my bicep. The touch is horribly light and it’s like she’s dragging a lit match over my skin. It gets worse when she pecks my cheek. Now, all I can focus on is the wet tingle in the center of my face. “So sweet,” she says. “You’re saving imported satin.” I don’t care. All I’m worried about is getting the irritating kiss spot off my cheek. I shrug my shoulder and wipe my face on my T-shirt. Lacy snickers. Why? I didn’t mean for it to be funny, but she takes everything I do wrong. I guess since I wiped away her unwanted kiss, to her, it means lean over and blow a breath into my ear. I shudder, not in a good way, and lean away. “Stop,” I say, voice low and