Page 1 of 60 - Extra Innings
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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.

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