Scoring Position: Dallas Longhorns, #6

By Tara Wyatt

Hannah Miller only wants one thing this summer: to lose her virginity before she heads off to grad school. But without any prospects, she assumes her goal will go unfulfilled. But then she goes to stay with her brother Jordan, a first baseman for the Dallas Longhorns, only to find that his best friend Christian is staying with him. Christian, who is sexy and confident and who's been the subject of Hannah's fantasies for years. One look at Christian, and Hannah knows she wants him to be her first. To teach her how to be good in bed.  

 

Newly traded to the Longhorns after a scandal, Christian is looking to start fresh and keep a low profile. But when his best friend's little sister—shy, sweet, slightly nerdy Hannah—propositions him, he can't bring himself to say no. He knows he shouldn't sleep with her, but Hannah is a temptation he can't resist, especially given that he's in the worst slump of his career and could use a boost—what the guys in the clubhouse refer to as a slumpbuster.

 

What starts out as a temporary summer fling quickly morphs into something more, and before long, Christian doesn't just want to be Hannah's first—he wants to be her last. But when Jordan finds out about their secret hook-ups, all bets are off.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tara Wyatt
• Release date: Oct 26, 2021
• ISBN: 9781777745813

Tara Wyatt

Tara Wyatt is a contemporary romance and romantic suspense author. Known for her humor and steamy love scenes, Tara's writing has won several awards, including the Golden Quill Award and the Booksellers' Best Award. In addition, she was a 2018 RITA® Finalist for her novella, Until the Sun Sets. Tara has been writing since 2013, and her first book, Necessary Risk, was published in 2016. Since then, she's written three more books, three novellas, and has co-written three books, with many more projects in the works. When she's not hanging out with your next book boyfriend, she can be found reading, watching movies, and drinking wine. Tara lives in Hamilton, Ontario with the world's cutest dachshund, as well as her husband and daughter. Visit her online at www.tara-wyatt.com, or find her on Facebook at www.facebook.com/tarawyattauthor/

Book preview

ONE

"G ood afternoon and welcome back to this NBC Sports broadcast of your Dallas Longhorns against the visiting Boston Red Sox. I’m Wayne Hopkins, and with me, as always, is Ron Whittaker. We’re through to the top of the fifth, and it’s been a close one, with the Red Sox leading 4-3."

Not only has it been a close one, but it’s been a hot one, says Ron, wiping at his brow as he grins at the camera trained on them in the broadcasting booth. It’s over 100 degrees here today, and these soaring temperatures have got to be affecting the players.

Oh, without a doubt. It’s not easy to focus when you feel like you’re melting, I can tell you that much. As we head into the top of the fifth, let’s send it down to Jake Landon, our man on the ground. Jake?

"The big story this afternoon—besides the heat—is the arrival of third baseman Christian Hale, who was picked up from the Toronto Blue Jays a few days ago. The deal surprised a lot of people given that Hale was named the American League Rookie of the Year after last season and then was traded for nothing more than cash and draft picks. But, after what happened in Toronto, I’m sure he’s looking for a fresh start here in Dallas. However, things haven’t gone his way at the plate this season, and he’s currently in the worst slump of his young career. Today is only his second game in a Longhorns uniform, though, and we all know that this team has the league’s best hitting coach.

On a lighter note, Hale played college ball with Longhorns first baseman Jordan Miller at Stanford, and they’re still good friends. A few pictures flash up on the screen, showing Jordan and Christian together in their Stanford uniforms, celebrating wins and goofing around in the dugout. I’m sure fans are eager for him to bring some of that Rookie of the Year energy to the team. And now I’m going to get out of this heat and go check on my wife. Ron, Wayne, back to you. Jake grins at the camera, charming as always.

Ron and Wayne both chuckle. For anyone who doesn’t know, Jake Landon is married to Longhorns hitting coach Abby Gossman-Landon, and they’re currently expecting their first child later this summer. We’re very excited for them, and we’re sure the fans are too.

And speaking of the newest Longhorn, he’s headed to the plate to lead off this fifth inning, and I’m sure the Longhorns are looking for some offensive action so they can get the lead back.

Christian flexed his fingers around the bat, his hands sweating inside his batting gloves. The heat was relentless, merciless, the sun beating down on him from above and making all of Dell Park feel like a goddamn oven. He wasn’t used to this kind of oppressive heat. He’d grown up near San Francisco; he was used to gentle breezes and cool nights, not the swampy humidity and blazing sun he was dealing with now. As if he needed another problem on his plate. He was already dealing with the absolute worst slump of his career, his reputation was tarnished, and his future was in question. At twenty-six, only two seasons into his MLB career.

Fuck.

He flexed his fingers again and fell into his stance, his eyes on the pitcher’s mound sixty feet away. This was his third time at bat today. His third look at the Red Sox pitcher and what he had. That should be enough to let him get a read on what was coming his way.

Should be.

A curveball came flying at him and he swung, chasing it when he knew he should’ve let it go. It kissed the outside corner of the plate as he missed it by an inch, maybe more.

The umpire called the strike and Christian stepped back from the plate, tapping the bat against his shoes, trying to block everything out. The heat, the worry that he’d peaked during his first year in the big leagues, the residual embarrassment clinging to him after everything that had happened in Toronto. He blew out a breath and stepped back up to the plate, sweat streaming down his back. This time the pitch was a change-up that looked like it would be low and inside, and he scooted back from the plate, but the umpire called strike two.

Christian’s grip on the bat tightened, frustration rolling through him. Had to jump out of the way of that one, he muttered.

The umpire, a veteran named Bill North, chuckled. Caught the inside corner. Good pitch.

Christian didn’t say anything more, just shook his head and fell back into his stance, and this time he couldn’t seem to quiet his thoughts. They were too damn loud, the things he’d heard said about him and to him playing through his mind on a loop.

From Rookie of the Year to has been in the space of one season…

Can’t keep it in his pants, so embarrassing, so unprofessional…

Manwhore like him…

The next pitch was a fastball right down the middle and it sailed past him, socking into the catcher’s glove. Bill punched his fist into the air, signaling that Christian had struck out. Again. Shoulders heavy, he walked back to the dugout, trying not to show how frustrated he was as he moved. Aiming for a cool, easy confidence that usually came naturally to him, but that he’d been struggling to find lately.

Granted, it was hard to act cool when it was a hundred fucking degrees out.

He sank down onto the bench and slugged back some Gatorade, trying to stay hydrated in the crazy heat. Jordan came and sat down beside him, tossing a handful of sunflower seeds in his mouth.

You’ll get it back, he said simply, clapping him on the shoulder. The past few weeks have been chaotic. Once the dust settles, you’ll get out of your own head and you’ll get it back.

Christian nodded, shooting his friend a smile, not wanting to let on just how worried he was. Thanks, man. Just need to figure my shit out.

And you will. You’re in a slump now, but it won’t last forever. Never does. Jordan elbowed him, a teasing smile on his face. Maybe you just need to find a slumpbuster, he said, wiggling his eyebrows.

Christian shook his head. Sticking my dick where it doesn’t belong is what got me here in the first place.

Jordan frowned. It might’ve been the reason the Jays let you go, but it’s not why you’re struggling at the plate now. Pent up tension isn’t a good thing. Ever. I’m telling you, man. Slump. Buster. Sometimes the cause of your problems is also the solution.

Abby, the team’s hitting coach, came over, her pregnant belly straining against the buttons of her uniform. She locked her eyes on Christian. Monday morning, you and me. Eleven AM in the cages. I’ve got some ideas.

Christian nodded, trying not to get his back up. Abby was just doing her job, and she had a reputation for being a mechanics expert. The issue was, he didn’t think he had a mechanics problem. He had an "I can’t unfuck my head" problem, and he wasn’t sure Abby would be able to help with that.

But he was willing to try. Hell, he was willing to try just about anything at this point.

Anything.

Hannah Miller stepped out of the Uber and into the sweltering heat, her white sleeveless blouse clinging to her skin. Her denim shorts felt as though they were permanently melded to her butt, even though the driver had blasted the air conditioning the entire way from the airport. She hefted her large weekender-style bag over her shoulder as the driver hauled her two large suitcases out of the trunk, depositing them onto the sidewalk in front of Jordan’s house.

House. Ha. This was a building, and an expensive one, but to Hannah, it didn’t look much like a house. It was all geometric angles, stark white exterior with black details, no greenery to speak of, just a smooth concrete driveway lined with little shrubs. It was very masculine, she’d give him that. Very contemporary and modern. But not exactly homey.

She twisted her mouth to the side. It would be an experience living here for the next two months, that much was certain. And really, she was grateful that her brother had offered her a place to crash for the summer before she headed off to grad school at San Jose State in California at the end of August.

She thanked the driver and then started lugging her two suitcases up the driveway, the heat shimmering up from it radiating against her legs. She felt as though her sparse makeup was melting off her face, her messy bun sliding sideways. Her sunglasses slipped down her sweaty nose. Blowing a stray lock of hair out of her face, she hauled her bags up to the front door. There was no porch. That would’ve been too conventional and classic, most likely. Just an ornate front door with long, rectangular windows at ninety-degree angles to each other.

She adjusted her sunglasses and then wiped her sweaty palms on her shorts. She wasn’t sure if she should just go in, or knock, or if he’d seen her from one of the many windows. Jordan, in typical Jordan fashion, hadn’t given her the level of detail she wanted when she’d told him she was coming. She’d given him her flight information, the exact timing of when she’d be arriving and he’d responded with cool, see you soon!

She knocked, and then rang the doorbell for good measure. The big house was silent. Completely silent. The heat pressed down on her, making her feel like a wilting flower. Sweat trickled between her breasts. She could hear faint birdsong, the distant rush of traffic. But the house was soundless. She knocked and rang the doorbell again.

Jordan! she yelled, frustration and a desperation to get out of the heat pulsing through her. If you’re not home, so help me⁠—

The door swung inward, leaving her fist hanging mid-air. Her eyebrows rose and she slowly lowered her arm as she took in the sight before her. The guy who’d opened the door was not her brother. Not only was he not her brother, but he was wearing nothing but a pair of low-slung athletic shorts.

This was her brother’s best friend, Christian. The guy she’d crushed on from a distance for years. She tried and failed to unstick her tongue from the roof of her mouth as she stared. She knew she shouldn’t stare. It was rude. Awkward. Dorky. But she couldn’t seem to tear her eyes away from the sight in front of her. Christian’s short, light brown hair was mussed, as though he’d just woken up, and a layer of stubble coated his chiseled jaw. But it was what was beneath the perfection of his face—because it was perfect, with his perfect nose and perfect mouth and perfect teeth and perfect skin—that had her shifting her weight from foot