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  Locker Room

  Bad Boys Of Summer Book Three

  KB Winters

  Copyright © 2021 by KB Winters and Bookboyfriends Publishing Inc

  All rights reserved.

  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 written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  1. Grace

  2. Justin

  3. Grace

  4. Grace

  5. Justin

  6. Grace

  7. Grace

  8. Grace

  9. Justin

  10. Grace

  11. Justin

  12. Grace

  Epilogue

  Extra Epilogue

  Thank You So Much!

  About the Author

  About Locker Room

  I’m the hottest pitcher in the MLB and just got traded to the OKC Warriors.

  They pay me bookoo bucks to take the team to the championships.

  It's Spring, I'm training and I've got my eye on the ball.

  And the team's statistician, Grace Mansfield.

  She's hot, smart and totally off limits.

  She also a college girl who thinks I'm a jerk.

  I should walk away. But I can't.

  I'll risk my reputation and my career to make her mine.

  * * *

  Love dirty talking athletes who can melt your panties in thirty seconds or less! You got it!

  Locker Room is a novella-length bad boy romance with a little bit of baseball and a whole lot of HEAT! No cliffhanger and a very happy ending.

  * * *

  ★Previously published as Spring Training.★

  1

  Grace

  “Coming up after the break, we’re taking it to our resident hottie-inspector Grace Mansfield as she scopes out all the talent on the opening day of Vero Beach’s Spring Training!”

  “Pretty sure my ID badge doesn’t say anything about inspecting hotties, Farrah.” I held it up to my phone’s screen so she could see for herself.

  She waved a hand. “Technicality.”

  I laughed quietly and glanced around to make sure no one was listening to our FaceTime conversation. The hallway I’d staked out remained empty. Twenty feet away, pairs of heels clicked and joined the sound of cleats and sneakers as people came and went. Opening day of spring training was always packed with media and a massive who’s-who of the biggest players in the MLB world—top trainers, coaches, players, and of course a representative from every media organization that even remotely covered sports.

  Personally, I figured most people volunteered to cover the first week to land themselves a company-paid trip to Florida when most other places in the country were gradually easing into spring and still chilly.

  “Come on, tell me who you’ve seen. Anyone I’d recognize?”

  “It’s just the pitchers this week. They usually start these things off.”

  Farrah’s eyes gleamed. “So…like…Justin Calloway and Cody Wright are there?”

  “I’m sure they are,” I replied before taking another bite of the PB&J sandwich I’d made the night before. Six weeks of stadium food would probably eat a hole through my stomach. “Calloway isn’t on my roster for today though, so I haven’t exactly been on the lookout.”

  Farrah rolled her eyes. “Honestly, Grace, I don’t know how you can keep your nose buried in some stupid stats book when there are primo man-butts walking by every second. I’d end up turning in a blank report at the end of the day.”

  I took another bite of my sandwich and shrugged. “It’s my job, Farrah. I don’t get paid to gawk.”

  She sighed wistfully. “I wish I was there. I could tell you what you’re missing out on.”

  “I’m sure…” Likely in explicit detail. Farrah and I were roomies our first two years at college. I knew way more about her sex life than I ever needed—or wanted—to. We no longer lived together but I still got an earful every few weeks when she found some new play toy.

  Farrah flashed a devious grin and tossed her long, blonde hair over her shoulders. “As it is, I’m stuck here.” She cast a glance around her room. “Thousands of miles from the sunshine and the hot ass baseball players.”

  “You’ll be back in Florida in a few weeks, Farrah. Cheer up.”

  She pouted. “Yeah, just in time for spring training to be over. I’m missing all the fun.”

  I shook my head. There was no reasoning with her. I popped the last bite of sandwich in my mouth and brushed my hands together to shake off the crumbs. “Listen,” I started, around the massive bite. “I gotta get back to work. I’ll text you later. Okay?”

  She nodded and then found her smile again. “Go eye-fuck the hell out of Justin Calloway. Or, better yet, let him really fuck the hell out of you.”

  I groaned and pushed up from the floor. “I’ll pass. If I had a list, I assure you that Calloway’d be the last one on it.”

  “Come on! Someone’s gotta pop that cherry!”

  I cringed and shot another look down the empty hallway, suddenly wishing I’d thought to put my earbuds in before answering the call. “Shh!”

  Farrah just giggled. “You’re no fun, Gracie. But I love ya anyway.”

  She waved and then the camera cut away. I found myself staring at the picture that featured as the wallpaper of my phone—my dad, brother and me at last year’s playoff game up in Oklahoma City. We’d sat in the luxury box and watched our beloved Warriors slide into victory. It was the best game of my life and the picture of the three of us, snapped seconds after the breathtaking finale, always made me smile.

  With a click, the background faded to black and I shoved the phone into the back pocket of my cut-off jeans. I glanced back where I’d been sitting on the floor, making sure I had everything, and then hurried to get back to work. Farrah—and my other girlfriends—might not understand what exactly I did, but my job was vital to the Warriors and I took the responsibility seriously. As a statistician major, I gathered data and crunched numbers in order for the coaches and trainers to adjust their program. I would also provide data and scores for the upcoming games.

  I might be swimming in testosterone, but I was sure as hell not gonna drown.

  Hours later, I wished I’d never answered Farrah’s FaceTime call. It was her fault I couldn’t stop staring at the way Justin Calloway’s white baseball pants molded to his perfect ass. That was what I told myself as my eyes kept drifting from my stats to where the Warriors’ recently traded all-star pitcher was practicing.

  The real problem was that I was fairly convinced he’d spotted me too. After a few pitches, he’d met with a guy I assumed was his personal trainer and swapped positions, leaving him with a straight line of sight to the table where I was sitting, fingers poised over my laptop.

  At first, I’d told myself he’d asked to switch places to get out from under the sun’s glare. But my theory fizzled the moment he caught me staring at him and flashed a wide smile before raking his sun-streaked tawny locks behind his ear. The smile, made all the more stunning thanks to the way his eyes sparkled with mischief, was enough to render me frozen in place.

  Damn it, Grace. He’s nothing special. One of dozens.

  Justin’s trainer called for his attention and he dragged his eyes from me. I buried myself back in my note taking, ignoring the thundering pace of my heart. In a few hours I’d be back home, in my little off-campus apartment, up to my ears in books and note cards in preparation for the massive philosophy exam I had at the end of the week. I didn’t have time to be dreamy-eyed over some guy. Especially not some pitcher that was only going to be in town for a few weeks.
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  It wasn’t that he was a bad guy. The league was filled to bursting with trouble-makers, party boys, and infamous manwhores. As far as I knew, Justin Calloway was none of those things.

  And that was the problem.

  He was a mystery to me. I dragged my teeth over my lower lip, thinking of the ESPN magazine spread he’d been featured in.

  I grew up in the Major League Baseball world and knew all the players, could rattle off the most obscure facts and stats, and for the most part, that was where it ended. I was especially familiar with Mr. Calloway since my dad played an integral part in getting him traded to the Warriors. It was a landslide management victory that had the whole industry buzzing.

  Sure, there was the occasional heartthrob who caught the attention of the media and I smiled and nodded when my friends giggled and asked whether or not so-and-so was as good-looking in person as they were in the magazines. The answer was usually yes. With Justin, it was a big, fat hell yes.

  I was practically spellbound, watching him go through his windup and pitch over and over again. My mind dragged me back to the way he’d looked in that magazine spread, bared down to a pair of compression pants that showed off every inch of his muscled legs and his huge bulge. Thinking back to the images splashed over the glossy pages and relating it to the fluid way he moved on the field was enough to make me feel like I was watching an erotic movie. And yes, I blushed.

  I rolled my eyes at myself and forced my attention to the field. Most of the girls at school would have sold their souls—or at least their favorite Coach bag—for the opportunity to hook up with one of the major league players. Spring training was almost like a holiday to them. I knew half a dozen girls who were planning a pilgrimage to the stadium to wait outside and see if they could catch the eye of one of the players on their way out. They were insanely jealous that I had front row seats for six weeks. I played it off so they didn’t think I was too weird, but in truth, it was just a job to me.

  I didn’t want anything to do with any of the players. Most of them used their fame and wealth to live it up. Parties, women, extravagant vacations. At best, they were self-absorbed and egotistical. At worse, they got dragged into the dark side of the sports world, playing with more than fast cars and women’s hearts in the form of illicit performance-enhancing drugs, drunken binges, and physical fights. Either way, not an arena I wanted to have anything to do with. I was a straight and narrow path kind of girl and in my twenty-one years had never been interested in the high paid stars and dark horses of the sports world.

  Farrah, my high school best friend, told me I was a virginal prude. Maybe she was right. I didn’t know anyone else my age that was still holding onto their v-card. It wasn’t an intentional choice. At least, not entirely. I’d had a handful of boyfriends over the years, none of them serious, but all of them had been more than willing to take things to the next level. I just didn’t let them. Now I was old enough to see that hooking up to say I’d given it up wasn’t good enough. I’d crossed over to wanting my first time to be with the right guy.

  And Justin Calloway or any of the other baseball stars that would be on parade during the next few weeks weren’t anywhere close to embodying the traits I wanted for a relationship. I wanted someone who’d be a good husband and father. Not a playboy who didn’t know how to keep it in his pants. And the good ones on the field? They were already taken by skinny bitches who had so much Botox in their face, their mouths barely moved when they spoke. But, hey, who was I to judge? I had thighs like my mama and hadn’t had a thigh gap since I was in diapers.

  Most of the boys on the field started to wind down. So, I decided to use the break for a much-needed bathroom break. I nudged the guy beside me and let him know I was ducking out. I’d been working the stats booth for the last two seasons and knew the ebbs and flows of the action. I could take five minutes and not miss too much.

  As I stood from the bench, Justin glanced up from an in-depth conversation with his trainer just as I had my arms stretched up over my head, exposing a sliver of my stomach as my tank top rode up. A detail he noticed and acknowledged with another smile that sent shivers down my spine.

  I snapped my arms back to my sides and bolted for the nearest exit before I did something supremely stupid—like smile back. Baseball players could be a little like stray cats—or better yet, dogs. Feed them once and they’d keep coming back. Most of them used spring training as their own personal man-slut buffet, working through as many—mostly college-aged—girls as they could before going back to their respective cities. It was their own personal spring break—on steroids. Sometimes literally.

  As I washed my hands, I looked in the mirror and frowned, wondering how long it would take for Justin to find someone to keep him entertained. I shook away the thought—and the inexplicable sadness that accompanied it—as I dried my hands under an air vent dryer. I gave up halfway through and wiped them dry on the back of my cutoff shorts.

  The hallways were busy as everyone took advantage of the break in the action. I rounded the corner and wove through the streams of people as I headed to the shiny vending machine at the end of the hall. I loaded up my first three quarters and then dug into my pocket for the last two. “Shit!” I scraped deeper but came up with nothing but lint and a gum wrapper. The quarters I’d taken from my wallet must have fallen out somewhere along the way.

  “Here—”

  I jumped at the voice and realized someone was standing right behind me, heat pouring from them. I spun on my flip-flop clad feet and took a sudden step backward, slamming my back into the vending machine as I met Justin Calloway’s dreamy eyes.

  He offered a crooked smile as he lifted his hand to show two shining quarters pressed together. “Let me get that for you.”

  He reached forward and I darted to the side. He kept his eyes on me as he slipped the coins into the machine and then smiled. “What’s your flavor?”

  Damn, his voice was even sexier than the rest of him. Velvet, deep and seductive. He towered over me, at least half a foot taller and twice as wide. He’d moved close to feed the machine the quarters and the scent of cedar and citrus mixed with sweat and fresh cut grass.

  “Um—just regular,” I stammered when the machine chirped.

  Justin pressed the button and the machine rattled to life, depositing a plastic Coke bottle in the entry. He leaned over, swiped the drink up, and offered it to me.

  “Thank you,” I said, taking it from him.

  “You’re welcome.” He rocked back on his heels and slid his large hands into his pockets. A grin tugged his lips back up. “I’ve seen you hard at work in the stats booth. Whaddaya say I take you out for a real drink?”

  The invitation sent my rocket crashing back to earth and I snapped up taller, thrusting my shoulders back and down. “No thank you. I’m good with this,” I choked out, holding up the bottle. “Thanks again. I’ll pay you back tomorrow.”

  Justin raised his eyebrows but only smiled wider. “Great. I’ll meet you right here, tomorrow at five.”

  With that, he sauntered off and my heart sank. What had I just gotten myself into?

  2

  Justin

  “Calloway, you gonna hit up the pussy parade?” Nate Bailey, a second-year pitcher, called across the locker room.

  Jarrod Erickson chimed in first. “Count me in! Fuck, I still jerk off to the video of the blonde I scored last year.”

  Bailey grinned at him. “She let you take video?”

  “Fuck yeah! These college girls are fuckin’ crazy.” Erickson glanced at me. “What about you, Calloway?”

  I shook my head and finished lacing up my sneakers. “Nah. Not my thing.”

  Both of them stared at me, slack-jawed. “Not your thing?” Bailey said. “What part of buck-naked, hot as fuck co-eds doesn’t appeal to you?”

  I straightened and leveled both of them with a hard stare. “I like women. Not frisky college girls trying to get in my pants. Besides, if you ask me, that whole p
ussy parade out there is playing with fire. Two words. Turkey. Baster.”

  Bailey and Erikson smirked. “Turkey baster babies are an urban legend, Calloway,” Bailey said.

  I shrugged. “All I’m sayin’, you better suit up and take the fucking evidence with you when you leave.” I slapped Bailey on the shoulder. “Enjoy, gents.”

  I felt their eyes on me as I sauntered from the locker room. Let them think I was crazy and outta my damn mind. I didn’t care. I hadn’t reached my lofty perch by giving a shit what other people thought of me. If I’d let opinions weigh on me, I’d be flipping burgers at some dive bar. No one thought I’d become anything special. God knows, I hadn’t been groomed for the life I found myself in.

  Besides, I didn’t need the long line of barely-legal girls lined up outside the stadium, desperate to score a night with a pro ball player.

  I already knew what I wanted.

  The brunette from the stats booth with the booty. Beautiful, full, tan legs and the cutoff shorts that had me watching her hard when she bent over to grab that Coke bottle. I had no idea who she was. Not even a first name. It didn’t really matter. I’d find out and then I’d make her mine for the night.

  Luckily, I didn’t have to wait long before my next encounter with the brunette. The following day at practice, she was sitting in the same place, when I took the field with my trainer. She’d pulled her shoulder-length hair back into a ponytail. My fingers flexed, knowing exactly what it would feel like to grab a hold and tug her head back and forth while she knelt before me, working my cock between those pretty little rosebud lips.