Dirty Steal, page 1
part #1 of Dirty Players Series
Dirty Steal
A Dirty Players Novella
Dirty Players
Lauren Blakely
KD Casey
Nothing to Lose Productions
Copyright © 2022 by Lauren Blakely and KD Casey
Cover Design by KP Simmon
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. This contemporary romance is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. This book is licensed for your personal use only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with, especially if you enjoy sexy romance novels with alpha males. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.
Contents
Also By
About
Dirty Steal
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Epilogue
Also By
Contact
Also By
Also by KD Casey
* * *
Unwritten Rules Series
Unwritten Rules
Fire Season
Diamond Ring
* * *
Standalone
One True Outcome
* * *
Also by Lauren Blakely
Big Rock Series
Big Rock
Mister O
Well Hung
Full Package
Joy Ride
Hard Wood
* * *
Happy Endings Series
Come Again
Shut Up and Kiss Me
Kismet
My Single-Versary
* * *
Ballers And Babes
Most Valuable Playboy
Most Likely to Score
A Wild Card Kiss
Two A Day
Plays Well With Others
* * *
Rules of Love Series
The Virgin Rule Book
The Virgin Game Plan
The Virgin Replay
The Virgin Scorecard
* * *
Hopelessly Bromantic Duet (MM)
Hopelessly Bromantic
Here Comes My Man
* * *
Men of Summer Series (MM)
Scoring With Him
Winning With Him
All In With Him
* * *
The Guys Who Got Away Series
Dear Sexy Ex-Boyfriend
The What If Guy
Thanks for Last Night
The Dream Guy Next Door
* * *
The Gift Series
The Engagement Gift
The Virgin Gift
The Decadent Gift
* * *
The Extravagant Series
One Night Only
One Exquisite Touch
My One-Week Husband
* * *
MM Standalone Novels
A Guy Walks Into My Bar
One Time Only
The Bromance Zone
The Best Men (Co-written with Sarina Bowen)
* * *
The Heartbreakers Series
Once Upon a Real Good Time
Once Upon a Sure Thing
Once Upon a Wild Fling
* * *
Boyfriend Material
Asking For a Friend
Sex and Other Shiny Objects
One Night Stand-In
* * *
Lucky In Love Series
Best Laid Plans
The Feel Good Factor
Nobody Does It Better
Unzipped
* * *
Always Satisfied Series
Satisfaction Guaranteed
Instant Gratification
Overnight Service
Never Have I Ever
PS It’s Always Been You
Special Delivery
* * *
The Sexy Suit Series
Lucky Suit
Birthday Suit
* * *
From Paris With Love
Wanderlust
Part-Time Lover
* * *
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The Sexy One
The Only One
The Hot One
The Knocked Up Plan
Come As You Are
* * *
Standalones
Stud Finder
The V Card
The Real Deal
Unbreak My Heart
The Break-Up Album
* * *
The Caught Up in Love Series
The Pretending Plot
The Dating Proposal
The Second Chance Plan
The Private Rehearsal
* * *
Seductive Nights Series
Night After Night
After This Night
One More Night
A Wildly Seductive Night
About
One bed, two players, and another chance in this steamy standalone sports romance…
* * *
After how this season has gone so far — don’t ask — the last thing I need is a distraction.
Like, say, my spring training one-night stand showing up in my dugout. If it’s not annoying enough that the hot new shortstop with the heart-stopping smile has been traded to my team, the golden guy now needs a place to stay.
* * *
When one of my big-mouthed teammates suggests the new star player shack up in my spare room, I’ve got myself a helluva problem — and it’s getting bigger with my eager, interested, and too-sexy teammate sharing my kitchen, my shower…and then, late one night, my bed.
But before I know it, all these late nights together are making me want things I just can’t have with my teammate.
And if I’m not careful, he’ll be stealing my heart too…
A scorching hot, only-one-bed-in-the-room/teammates-to-lovers, second chance standalone romance…
Dirty Steal
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1
Derek Miller
* * *
Here’s the thing about fundraisers: After the first flute of champagne, the first circuit of the room, they’re kinda uneventful. Worse, you’re stuck in your finest suit, in Arizona, in a bar filled with all the guys you saw a few hours ago at the ballpark, who are equally uncomfortable in their suits.
Sure, this is for a good cause. I mean, who doesn’t love rescue dogs? The Little Friends charity asked me for a testimonial beforehand to use for its marketing. Major leaguers and our beloved animals. I told them about Ultimate, our dog growing up. She was the ultimate mutt, and I used to hide under the covers with her if there was a big storm. Well, I didn’t share the second part. Doesn’t match the big league image.
An hour in, the fundraiser isn’t so bad. It’s spring training, so at least I get to admire-slash-casually ogle my teammates and rivals all stuffed into suits that probably fit their leaned-down October bodies better. Definitely worse ways to pass the time than semi-covert visual appreciation of other players while sipping mid-priced champagne. Eventually, though, that turns a little dull.
For whatever reason—maybe to get us in suits, maybe because baseball players without a structured activity tend to get into trouble—this is a casino-themed fundraiser. A bunch of my teammates from the Seattle Pilots cluster around the simulated craps table while the slightly flustered dealer tries to explain to us that no, we can’t really bet, and yes, we need to use the fake cash “Bark Bucks” that the charity provided instead.
Predictably, guys are being slightly drunken jerks. The dealer—who has thin dyed-red hair and thinning patience—tries to separate the real money from the fake, while the tip jar next to her goes conspicuously empty.
I muscle my way past a couple of my teammates—Travis, our first baseman, and Bautista, our third basemen. “Cut it out, assholes.” Because as our shortstop, I’m the captain of the infield and they should—probably—listen to me. Also? Just fucking tip.
Bautista snorts. “We’re just messing around.”
“Time and place,” I say.
Except Travis throws another twenty, clearly to be a jerk, because he’s both my best friend on the team and a jerk about half the time. What’s th
Settle down, Derek. It’s just Bark Bucks.
“Any other rules for us, Miller?” Travis bites out.
I guess we are making a little bit of a scene. Terrific. That’s what I need as a headline. Scuffle! At the Charity Event. Because the next thing I hear is a rumbly voice saying, “I got it.”
When I look over, Adam Chason has come around to my side of the table. Just when I thought the night couldn’t get worse, the shortstop for the St. Louis Arches—and his too-perfect smile—appears.
The thing about pro ball is that everyone knows everyone else’s business. A guy who’s all wholesome commercial smile like him? Yeah, we know what that guy gets up to when the cameras stop rolling.
All the trouble in the world.
Except Chason doesn’t. He’s the guy next door. The one who sweeps up the confetti after team celebrations so the clubhouse workers don’t have to. That’s not my type.
Then again, my type is mostly: hot, available, and down to bang.
You’d think being a major league player would mean being, well, a major league player, but all the clichés about the loneliness of the road turned out to be true. At least for me.
In person, Chason is all of the above, emphasis on hot. About my height—so six feet and not lying about it like half the players in the league—with dark brown hair, a scrape of artfully maintained stubble. Among spring training-thick ballplayers, he’s particularly lean. Strong. Flexible. A word I probably shouldn’t be thinking as emphatically as I am.
Too bad he’s not available. Or he probably isn’t, though his finger doesn’t have the glint of a ring. It doesn’t matter. Doubt he’s down to bang.
He’s apparently here to make everyone play nice, since he makes two neat piles—the fake and the real money—then leaves the latter on the table.
“Here you go.” He turns to Bautista and Travis. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
Bautista grumbles something that sounds a lot like hall monitor. Travis scoffs, then adds a one-dollar bill.
“Generous,” Chason deadpans. He pulls out his wallet, withdraws a fifty, then stuffs it in the jar. Then, he turns to me. Shrugs. Smiles. Travis and Bautista roll their eyes and leave.
“Sorry,” Chason says, once they’re gone. “Didn’t mean to step on your toes.”
“Better they’re pissed off at you than me.”
“True. Some guys forget they’re not in a clubhouse…” He trails off, shaking his head.
The pile of real money is still sitting on the table. I scoop it up and stuff it in the jar. “Thanks, man.”
A slight grin. A glimpse of even white teeth. Chason taps the pile of fake money with a knuckle. He’s quiet, like he’s working through something. Like why he came over here. Though his broadening smile might hint at his real reason.
I’m usually pretty good at reading people. I have to be to spot the tilt of a base runner’s shoulders before he takes off. To navigate all the personalities in a clubhouse. To sense an argument before it happens like an oncoming storm.
Or in this case, hearing an…undercurrent.
So I ask, “You want in?”
2
Adam Chason
* * *
Things I just learned about fundraisers: if you show up to one without your girlfriend, because she’s now your ex-girlfriend, people invariably ask where she is.
Even though it’s the first week of spring training. Even though she lives in Houston. But a year ago, she was here with me. At this event. So now, I’ve been fending off questions about Talia all night.
So fun.
What happened? A story in three parts: We were together. Then we weren’t. Then I had to leave for spring training. What did it? A great question. Not one I want to answer while surrounded by a bunch of ballplayers sweating in suits. So I’ve been shrugging it off.
As fundraisers go, this one is fine. I was hoping there’d be dogs here, because one of the best ways to conceal that I’m shy at parties is to find and pet the nearest dog. Dogs don’t want anything from you other than some attention; you can’t say the wrong thing to a dog as long as you’re scratching between its ears.
People, though—people are more complicated. Which is why I busied myself with a glass of champagne, a quick rotation, patting a few guys in greeting, returning to the same script most people use when reuniting at spring training. Wow, man, looking thick.
Now, here I am, about to put fake money down at craps, standing next to Derek. In my five years in the league, I’ve always thought he was good-looking, but, distantly, like a celebrity. Mostly, he is one—an almost-superstar on a team that’s defied everyone’s expectations.
It’s easy to forget about my relationship woes as Derek gives me a slow once-over that starts with my shoes and works its way upward. Which, damn. It’s been a while since anyone’s looked at me like that. (My recent relationship? Let’s not talk about that. This is a night for two D things: dogs and denial. If Derek keeps looking at me like that, maybe three D things.)
His hungry stare is about as subtle as a thunderstorm; it sends sparks down the back of my neck. It’s been a long time. Too long.
So I check him out right back.
It’s not exactly a hardship. The man looks…good. Really good. Perfectly messed up dirty blond hair, bright blue eyes, a suit that looks like he poured himself into it, rippling slightly in the shoulders. With that attitude, a slight aloof edge like he’s too cool to be having a conversation with me. Which he probably is.
Except, he just asked me a question.
One my brain stalled on, but now restarts. I repeat it: “Do I want in?”
A slight eye roll. “Yes, Chason”—he says my name the way most people do, like chasing, but dropping the g and not Haz-on with an H that starts in your throat—“you want in? It’s a game. You bet money.”
That snaps me out of my ogling, which might have gone on too long. I recover quickly. “You mean Bark Bucks?”
He holds up a wad of them. “Sounds like you’re just scared to lose.”
A challenge said teasingly. Though, players compete over everything—batting stats, bubble gum-blowing contests, apparently Bark Bucks. “Well, then I’ll have to get in.”
“Let’s do it,” he says with a glint in his eyes.
For the first time all night I’m okay without having a dog to talk to.
