Jock Blocked Read online

  Jock Blocked

  Copper Valley Fireballs #1

  Pippa Grant

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2020

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Editing by Jessica Snyder.

  Cover design by Lori Jackson Designs.

  Cover art copyright © Wander Aguiar.

  Contents

  Introduction

  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

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Epilogue

  Bonus Epilogue

  Sneak Peek at Fireballs #2!

  Sneak Peek at Master Baker!

  Pippa Grant Book List

  About the Author

  Introduction

  JOCK BLOCKED

  A Virgin Hero / Sports / Enemies to Lovers Romantic Comedy

  She can’t let him score…

  Call it superstition, but when a guy bats as hot as Brooks Elliott, you don’t mess with what’s working. And what’s working is him keeping his pants zipped and doing all of his scoring on the field.

  So when I hear he’s planning to ditch his V-card now that he’s been traded to baseball’s lovable losers—aka my home team and my reason for living every March through October—I do what any rational, dedicated, obsessed fan would do.

  I make a plan to stop him.

  But the thing about stopping him is that it requires spending time with him.

  Lots. And lots. And lots of time.

  And the more time I spend with him, the more I like him. Not as the guy who’s going to help save my favorite team and finally bring home a championship ring, but as the guy who’s helping me in my quest to bring back the team’s old mascot. Who also loves making pancake and bacon sandwiches. And who would do almost anything for his love of the game.

  But after all this time of jock-blocking him…do I even have a chance?

  And if I do, are we both destined to a life of celibacy in the name of winning?

  Jock Blocked is a feel-good home run of a romantic comedy featuring the world’s most superstitious sports fan, baseball’s oldest virgin hero, a rogue meatball, an adorable puppy with a cussing problem, and the best lovable losers. It stands alone and comes with a happily ever after more satisfying than a game-winning grand slam.

  Keep in touch with Pippa Grant!

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  Other books by Pippa Grant:

  The Bro Code Series

  Flirting with the Frenemy

  America’s Geekheart

  Liar, Liar, Hearts on Fire

  The Girl Band Series

  Mister McHottie

  Stud in the Stacks

  Rockaway Bride

  The Hero and the Hacktivist

  Standalones

  Master Baker (Bro Code Spin-Off)

  And more! Visit Pippa’s website at www.pippagrant.com for the most up-to-date book list, suggested series reading order, and more.

  1

  Mackenzie Montana, aka a woman on a mission

  I never meant to become a criminal. But in the grand scheme of life, I don’t think I’m technically engaging in criminal behavior.

  At least, if it is, you could call it a crime of passion.

  And I am very passionate in my belief that while the Fireballs need to make changes to halt their record-breaking streak of being the worst losing team ever to play professional baseball, they don’t need to do it with a new mascot. Which is why I decided to take two weeks off work and fly to Florida for spring training, where I’m not saying that I’ve snuck into my home team’s ballpark after hours to steal the worst proposed mascot costume, but I’m not saying I haven’t either.

  Meatballs?

  They actually let a meatball make the final cut.

  I needed at least another full season to get over the fact that the new Fireballs ownership killed the last mascot, and here they are, letting fans vote on replacing Fiery the Dragon with flaming meatballs.

  I snort to myself while I creep through the darkened concrete hallways with a flaming meatball swallowing half of my body.

  If you’re going to steal a giant meatball costume, it’s best to act like you know what you’re doing. And striding out of here with zero shame means two things—one, no one’s going to stop me, and two, even if they do, I’m incognito.

  It’s the perfect crime to counter the crime of killing Fiery.

  I’m one turn away from the door that I left propped open for myself after hiding out in the family bathroom after today’s game when voices drift toward me.

  One male.

  One female.

  Neither is familiar, but as I get closer to my final turn, I realize the voices are between me and my exit.

  No biggie.

  I got this.

  I can stroll on by, flash a thumbs-up, pretend like I’m heading out to prank the Fireballs at the team compound they’re all staying at, or to make a fast-food run for publicity.

  Acting like I know what I’m doing inside this mascot costume is as easy as breathing. When you’ve seen thousands of baseball games in your lifetime, it’s not hard.

  So I turn the corner.

  And then I suck in a surprised breath, because that’s Brooks Elliott.

  Oh. My. God.

  Brooks Elliott.

  The Fireballs’ newest acquisition. Like, so new he arrived yesterday. A mid-spring training acquisition, which is practically unheard of.

  He plays third base, and he hits the ball like it’s evil incarnate and he’s an avenging angel and it’s his job to send that evil into another dimension.

  He could be the reason we legitimately have a shot at making it to the post-season.

  And I am not going to hyperventilate like I did the last time I was face-to-face with a baseball player.

  Pretending to be a mascot?

  I got this.

  Talking to the players?

  It’s like talking to the gods.

  Tall, muscled, chiseled gods who put on a show for me every day from spring to fall with their acrobatics on the field and their powerful swings at home plate.

  I
’ve had the chance to be in the same room with several of the players in the past two years, and every time, I do the same thing.

  I turn mute and make an utter fool of myself, because I cannot talk to gods.

  My breath is coming short and choppy, so I give myself a little pep talk. You don’t have to talk, Mackenzie. Just walk. Walk and do a few hand signals that they won’t understand, and he’ll never know it’s you.

  Brooks is in jeans that fit his muscular thighs like a second skin, with his arms bulging under a tight black T-shirt featuring a bull in a leather jacket smoking a cigarette on a motorcycle. And his forearms.

  Oh, god, baseball forearms.

  They’re lethal to women’s panties everywhere, because baseball forearms.

  He’s leaning a shoulder against the cinderblock wall, aiming smoky hazel eyes and an orgasm-inducing smile at one of the janitor ladies in a blue smock, who’s giggling, because of course she is.

  That smile is so potent, I can feel it through this costume. I want to be that smock just to be closer to the smolder.

  Alas, even if my tongue worked when I’m around baseball players, Brooks Elliott is off-limits.

  He’s a virgin.

  Intentionally.

  According to my very reliable sources, when he tries to score with the ladies, he doesn’t score on the field. And I very much need him to score on the field for my team this year.

  Work, I silently order my legs, and look at that.

  They’re moving. With a bounce, even, because that’s how a meatball mascot in a Fireballs jersey would move.

  Huh. If my nine-to-five trash engineer job thing ever fails, maybe I can get a job as a baseball mascot.

  But not the meatball mascot.

  If I had to pick a new mascot—which I’m not, because I’m running the Bring Back Fiery campaign—I’d angle for the firefly, because at least it has fire in it naturally. I get why the duck is in the running after that thing with the ducks at Duggan Field—the Fireballs’ regular season stadium back in my home city of Copper Valley, Virginia—but the echidna is strange and not at all related to baseball, or fire, and even if his spiky hands are sort of threatening and cool, no one even knows what an echidna is.

  Not in this hemisphere, anyway.

  Plus you don’t want to know what the internet is saying about echidna penis. You really don’t.

  In short, the Fireballs need to bring back Fiery the Dragon, which is my number one mission this year.

  “So, you wanna go get a room?” Brooks says to his companion. His eyes dart to me, then back to the janitor lady.

  She reaches out and strokes his chest. “Oh, yes.”

  Wait.

  What’s this?

  And I’m not talking about the fact that she’s twice his age, which I didn’t notice until I was nearly right on top of them.

  I’m talking about how she’s angling in like she’s going to kiss him, murmuring things in Spanish that I can’t understand because I’m only fluent in English, baseball, and drag queen, and how he’s tucking his arm around her waist like he’s going to press her against him.

  Did I say bringing back Fiery was my number one mission?

  Not anymore.

  “Oh my god, stop!” I shriek.

  They both jump.

  Naturally, because a talking meatball isn’t normal. First rule of being a mascot is that you stay silent.

  “Uh, are you okay?” Brooks’s hazel eyes scan me—or rather, the meatball—and even though my vision is a little dark from peering through the costume, I’m still getting a hot flash from him looking at me.

  Which isn’t relevant, because he just invited this woman old enough to be his mother to GO GET A ROOM.

  “No!” I shriek. “You’re hitting on her!”

  His face goes adorably pink. His thick brown hair’s standing up like he ran his fingers through it after a shower, and gah, it is so working for me.

  He murmurs something to the janitor and turns to fully face me. “Who are you, and what are you doing?” he hisses.

  I point at him. At the growing bulge in his pants that has me getting warm, and not from being half-encased in a flaming meatball. “What am I doing? How about what are you doing? Because it looks like you’re going to try to have sex with her!”

  She stutters something and backs farther away from him.

  “That’s none of your damn business,” he growls.

  “But if you lose your virginity, you’ll never be able to hit a ball again.”

  The janitor lady gasps and crosses herself, then scurries down the hall.

  And Brooks goes from cute and pissed-off pink to redder than a flaming meatball in the cheeks. After a split second of freezing so hard I swear he creates his own gravitational pull, he looks back at the janitor, who’s slipping out my escape route, then turns to prowl toward me like a leopard barely containing its fury. “Who the hell are you?”

  “I’m Meaty the Meatball.”

  “Take your head off.”

  “No.”

  “Take. Your fucking. Head. Off.”

  This is where I should really run. Or call my best friend. Or the Fireballs’ owner, who happens to be a good friend of mine, and who didn’t listen to reason when I told him the meatball was a bad idea, which is why I have to do this even if it means I’ll lose a friend.

  But I’m talking to a baseball player.

  For the first time in my life, I’m talking to a baseball player without hyperventilating.

  I back down the hall. “You’re trying to sabotage the Fireballs.”

  “They’re the worst team in baseball. There’s nothing left to sabotage.”

  “Last year’s team was the worst team in baseball. Which is why you’re here now. To make them better. And you can’t do that if you have sex.”

  “Who told you that?”

  I try to clamp a hand over my mouth and end up knocking myself in the meatball instead. I can’t tell him where I heard about his virginity.

  That really wouldn’t be nice.

  “I have my sources.” I’m backpedaling hard now, but I don’t have eyes in the back of my head—even though the damn meatball does—and I stumble over a water fountain sticking out of the wall. “And aren’t you supposed to be at the compound with the rest of the team? Why aren’t you getting your rest? Don’t you have catching up to do with arriving so late? When’s the last time you ate?”

  It’s not often I need to shut up around a baseball player, but I really need to shut up now. And run. Not that I have any faith at all that I can outrun him, because hello, baseball gods can run fast, but I can make enough racket that possibly some security would hear me.

  “Who are you?” he repeats.

  “You’re not denying the virgin thing. Also, if you’re going to lose your virginity, please at least do it with someone you like, and not for the first woman willing to jump in the sack with you. Trust me. Your memories are better if you—wait. Never mind. Don’t sleep with anyone.”

  His jaw clenches. So do his fists.

  And this is it.

  He’s going to kill me. I’m going to die in a meatball costume, at the hands of the man who’s supposed to turn around my favorite baseball team and he’ll be in prison, and the Fireballs will never win a championship. Ever.

  “Don’t you want to win?” I say as he gets right up in my face. Or, rather, as close as he can get.

  This has to look weird from his perspective.

  “I’d like to fucking live,” he snarls.

  “You can’t do that from prison if you murder me.”

  He shoves back and thrusts his hands through his hair again, this time gripping those thick brown locks, and I assume that’s so he doesn’t have his hands free to strangle me. “I’m not going to murder you. I’m going to citizen’s arrest you, because I don’t know who you are, but I know for damn sure you’re not supposed to be in that meatball costume.”

  Oh, nuggets.

  No
w he’s reaching for his phone.

  He’s going to turn me in.

  Adrenaline surges in my veins, and before I can think better of it, I knock his phone away, kick it down the hall, shove him, and yell, “Fiery forever!”

  And then I take off at a dead run.

  2

  Brooks Elliott, aka a man who’s clearly down on his luck, in so many ways

  When I got up this morning, I didn’t expect I’d end the day getting cock-blocked by a flaming meatball.

  A meatball who knows my biggest secret.

  And a meatball who’s stupidly fast in that costume.

  After a split second of hesitation while I regain my balance, I leave my phone and dart after the damn mascot.

  I’m about to grab her when the door swings open and Cooper Rock steps in, then leaps out of the way of the running meatball, but unfortunately, right into my way.

  He jumps out of my way too, still staring at the mascot. “Whoa, Meaty, where’s the fire?”