Dirty Steal (Dirty Players #2) Read Online Lauren Blakely

Categories Genre: Contemporary, M-M Romance, Sports Tags Authors: Series: Dirty Players Series by Lauren Blakely
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Total pages in book: 32
Estimated words: 30889 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 154(@200wpm)___ 124(@250wpm)___ 103(@300wpm)
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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…

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************

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 the difference between a clubhouse leader and a babysitter? I reach for the bill, trying to marshal it into the jar, when the fucker actually taps my hand. And look, I might have a reputation for having a quick temper on the field, but that’s on the field. I’m not going to get into it with a teammate at a casino-themed dog fundraiser.

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.


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