Read Online Books/Novels:
The Player (The Player #1)
Author/Writer of Book/Novel:
1942832044 (ISBN13: 9781942832041)
Baseball has never been sexier in an all-new novel by New York Times Bestselling Author, K. Bromberg.
Easton Wylder is baseball royalty. The game is his life. His passion. His everything.
So, when an injury threatens to end Easton’s season early, the team calls in the renowned physical therapist, Doc Dalton, to oversee his recovery. Except it’s not Doc who greets Easton for his first session, but rather his daughter, Scout. She may be feisty, athletic, defiant, and gorgeous, but Easton is left questioning whether she has what it takes to help him.
Scout Dalton’s out to prove a female can handle the pressure of running the physical therapy regimen of an MLB club. And that proof comes in the form of getting phenom Easton Wylder back on the field. But getting him healthy means being hands-on.
And with a man as irresistible as Easton, being hands-on can only lead to one thing, trouble. Because the more she touches him, the more she wants him, and she can’t want him. Not when it’s her job to side in the club’s best interest if he’s ready to play.
But when sparks fly and fine lines are crossed, can they withstand the heat or is one of them bound to get burned?
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The rush hits me.
The adrenaline through my body.
The roar of the crowd in my ears.
The mixture of scents—dirt, popcorn, leather, pine-tar—in my nose.
They’re my lifeline.
The only religion I was ever taught to believe in.
The only thing I was ever allowed to be.
For those few moments before the pain hits—the blinding, excruciating, unending pain—when the dust is dancing around me and I can feel its grit sliding beneath my body, I remember why I love the game.
Everything about it.
And then I look up.
Our eyes meet. It’s a split-second connection. But I’m reminded of something. Of someone.
And then it’s gone.
Because now there’s only pain.
It takes over.
Steals my breath.
Kills my streak.
And hopefully doesn’t ruin my future.
Four months later
“How do you want me?”
An arrogant smirk.
Those are the first two things about Easton Wylder that grab my attention when he peeks his head around the training room door.
I open my mouth to speak but fall silent when he walks over the threshold and comes into full view. And it’s not just because he’s shirtless—that’s par for the course in my job—but rather it’s everything about him that knocks the words from my lips. The bare, tanned, and very toned chest. The low-slung gym shorts showcasing a perfect V of muscles. The happy trail ever so slightly visible, which draws my eyes to where I shouldn’t be looking.
But I do look.
And that’s a problem. Because even if it’s only for a moment, it’s still long enough for him to notice. I snap my eyes back up and over his dark scruff to once again be greeted with that cocksure smirk that I swear taunts me and asks if I like what I see.
Another day. Another client. Another player.
I shouldn’t have expected any less.
He’s hot. I’ll give him that. Like the mouthwatering, stop-traffic, draw-all-eyes-when-he-walks-into-a-room type of hot. And not only that, but he’s a freaking god on the field. One of the best catchers I’ve ever seen. Batting average, on-base percentage, caught-stealing percentage, pick-offs, pass balls—all his stats say if he stays on this track, he’ll be one of the greats someday.
The total package.
But if first impressions are any indication—the arrogant lift of his eyebrows and cocky set of his shoulders—I already know he’s going to be like every other total package I’ve worked with before. Great to look at but a bore to work with. Conceited and one-dimensional. If it’s not about him, he doesn’t want to talk about it.
I hope I’m wrong, or else this is going to be a long three months. Not only that, but I’ve admired his career over the last few years and would prefer to keep admiring the man I perceived him to be, too.
“On my back?” he rephrases his question before I can recover from my thoughts, and takes a step closer. “On my stomach?” He stops and scrubs a towel over his face so that his dark brown hair sticks up every which way, yet somehow it only adds to his appeal.
Give him a chance, Scout. He’s baseball royalty. Besides, he might not be that bad. Does it really matter if he’s a conceited jerk? There’s still a contract, a set timeframe, and he’s still your client. So, chop-chop. Get to it and do your job.
“Uh,” I say as I glance down again, trying not to let that body—the hard, damaged, perfection of it—scatter my thoughts and undermine my professionalism.
“Uh?” he repeats, as those multicolored eyes of his laugh at a joke only he seems to understand.
“Sorry, you distracted me.” Once the words are out I realize how they sound, giving the implication that his body is the culprit.
“Distracted?” A lift of his brows. A ghost of a smile.
I start over. “I’m the new PT the club contracted to help get you back on the field.”
“The club hired you? I thought they were hiring Doc . . . and you’re definitely not Doc.”
“Doc’s the one who assigned me to your case.” My tone is defensive, my soul sagging under the weight of why I’m here and he’s not.
“Doc Dalton, Doc?” Disbelief tinges his tone.
“Yeah, Doc Dalton, Doc. I’m his partner.”
“Partner? Doc’s notorious for working solo.” He narrows his eyes and studies me unabashedly for a moment. The silent scrutiny has me shifting on my feet, and just as I’m about to speak, he chuckles under his breath at something I’m obviously not privy to. “Which one of the guys hired you?”
“Your general manager. Cory Tillman.”
“Yes. Cory.” Why is this so hard for him to understand?
“And she even has the name right,” he mutters, more to himself than to me, only furthering my confusion. “Nice try, though. My bet’s on Drew or Tino. They covered all of their bases with you, didn’t they?”
What in the hell is he talking about?
“Not that you care, but I don’t need my bases covered. I’d really like to get started.”