The Game Changer: A San Francisco

Rockets Baseball Novel (Hot Streak

Series Book 1) Aurora Paige
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THE GAME CHANGER
HOT STREAK SERIES, BOOK 1
AURORA PAIGE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2023 by Aurora Paige

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.

Published by
Smitten Ink Books, LLC

www.aurorapaige.com

Editor: Morgana Stewart

Cover Designer: Sarah Kil Creative Studio
Model: Andrew Frojelin, Jr.
Photographer: Aurora Paige
Note: This book contains explicit sexual content, graphic language, and discussion about stalking.
To those who are struggling with anxiety, depression, and any form of mental illness. Don’t be
afraid to seek treatment. You’re not alone.
 CONTENTS

1. Celine
2. Alaric
3. Celine
4. Alaric
5. Celine
6. Alaric
7. Celine
8. Alaric
9. Celine
10. Alaric
11. Celine
12. Alaric
13. Celine
14. Alaric
15. Celine
16. Alaric
17. Celine
18. Alaric
19. Celine
20. Alaric

Also by Aurora Paige

About Aurora Paige
Acknowledgments
A Note From Aurora
THE GAME CHANGER
 HOT STREAK SERIES, BOOK 1

Blurb:

Celine

Being a sports psychologist for pro baseball is my dream. There’s nothing I love more than working
for the Chicago Angels helping players that need someone to get their mind in focus and back on
track.

The minute the Angels pick up playboy superstar Alaric King as their first baseman, I knew he’ll be
trouble: hot, charming, and irresistible. Getting involved with an athlete is already a bad idea, but
getting involved with a player that’s also your therapy patient? Absolutely forbidden.

I work hard to be where I am, and I’m not going to let my dream career shatter to be with a
heartbreaker—no matter how tempting he is. Am I strong enough to not let him into my heart?

Alaric

Ever since my rival purposely threw a baseball at my head, my game has been off and I end up being
traded to the Chicago Angels. My plan is to show my face at mandated therapy sessions so I can get
back on the plate. What I didn’t plan is to be blown away by Dr. Celine Pineda: intelligent,
 successful, and sexy as hell. She’s only here to help me fix my swing, but what I didn’t intend is for
her to fix my heart.

I knew that we couldn’t be together. Being with her could cost both our careers, but I didn’t care. I am
going to risk it all, but would she?
1
 CELINE

“S ee you next week, Doc,” my patient, Brent Davis, said before walking out of my office.
“Bye Brent.” I waved from behind my desk, then finished writing my final notes of my
session with the all-star pitcher.
Living in Chicago was not my first choice since San Francisco was my home since birth. I went to
college in the Bay Area and did my doctorate and internship with Doctor Ryder Carmichael, who was
my professor as well as the sports psychologist for the San Francisco Storm hockey organization. My
older brother, Tyler, was able to stay local being the pitcher for the San Francisco Rockets baseball
team after being traded from the New York Titans.
I picked up the file of my newest client, Alaric King, and find it is littered with notes by prior
sports psychologist, Doctor Bill Winston. I initially read the patient notes last week, but needed to
refresh my memory before Alaric came for his first session with me:
Patient is reluctant to share when asked questions. He keeps to himself. Very guarded. He
keeps saying he is fine. Body language is tense. Tough guy act. Challenging session and isn’t
interested in opening up. He said he’s there because “it’s mandatory.” —Dr. Winston
Alaric didn’t do the homework I assigned him last week. This is our fourth session, and he still
hasn’t opened up about his trauma on the plate. He’s very guarded and crossing his arms. Patient
is annoyed and being short with his answers. I recommend more than five sessions with him if he’ll
be open to it. —Dr. Winston
The notes were very similar every session. Great, I’m looking forward to working with this
difficult man—Not! Alaric was traded to the Chicago Angels baseball organization last week, and
now it was my turn to take a crack at him. I’ve worked with Alaric’s type before and knew what to
expect.
Last week, I watched him practice. His body language at the plate was tense and he slightly
backed up when the ball came toward him. He swung and struck out. He became frustrated and even
more stressed out. I also pulled up the clips that changed everything for Alaric—the moment he was
hit with the ball and knocked him out. He hadn’t been the same since.
I had a few minutes before Alaric’s appointment with me, so I contacted Doctor Winston hoping
for more insight.
“Good afternoon, Doctor Winston, this is Celine Pineda, the sports psychologist with the Chicago
Angels. Do you have a minute to chat?” I asked.
“Hello, Doctor Pineda. Sure, I have a moment. What can I help you with?” His voice was gruff,
like he was a smoker.
 “I’m calling in regard to Alaric King, who was under your care before he was traded to the
Angels.”
“Oh, yes, Alaric. How could I forget him? He was one of the most challenging clients I’ve had in
a long time,” he noted.
“I read your notes and was wondering if you had anything else to add about Alaric.”
“I have nothing you haven’t already read in my notes.” Doctor Winston chuckled darkly under his
breath. “The only thing I’d like to say is good luck with him,”
I was going to prove everyone wrong— challenge accepted.

A RAP ON THE DOOR STARTLED ME AS I READ DOCTOR WINSTON ’ S NOTES ONCE MORE THEN I QUICKLY
closed Alaric’s file.
“Come in,” I called out.
My assistant, Bethany Blanchard, entered my office with coffee in hand for me.
“I got you your usual.” She smiled, handing me the iced coffee drink. “I thought you could use a
pick me up.”
“Thanks, Beth. How’d you know I needed this?” I chuckled then took a sip of the iced coffee.
“You looked stressed when I brought Brent into the office earlier. And I know that Alaric King is
your next appointment.”
“It’s my first meeting with him and I just wanted to make sure I was prepared for his session
today.” Not only did I research and observe his professional career, but I also did some digging on
him. He was quite the playboy baseball celebrity— being seen with different women, going out to
clubs and VIP events to party often, and looking like an arrogant man who only cared about his looks
and social status. I usually didn’t research personal information from the internet with the possibility
of false information, but I felt it was relevant since Doctor Winston’s notes indicated that Alaric was
a difficult patient.
“Alaric’s so hot.” Beth fanned herself with her hands. “And drool worthy.” I could see the heart
shaped eyes on her face like an emoji as she gushed over him, her cheeks blushing.
“Remember, we have a code to follow. We need to always be professional and never cross that
line with a patient,” I said, pursing my lips.
Beth gazed at me in awe. “I don’t know how you do it, Celine.”
“Do what?” I asked, knitting my brows.
“Your self-control since many of these ball players are so hot…and rich…I would be all over
them in a heartbeat.” Beth confessed.
“I have to remind myself that I’m in the business to help people, not find a husband.” I took a deep
breath in and sighed.
I glanced at the clock and saw that it was getting close to Alaric’s appointment time. “Alaric’s
going to be here soon. I suggest you get back to your desk to check him in…not check him out.” I
chuckled and lifted my coffee cup. “Thanks again for the coffee, Beth. It was very thoughtful.”
“Of course, Doctor Pineda. Anytime.” Beth stepped out of my office, closing the door behind her.
Soon after, Beth buzzed my line to let me know that Alaric had checked in and she was going to
bring him to my office. I was ready to help him, but the real question was if he was ready for me.
2
 ALARIC

I t had been a week since I moved to Chicago. Just because my numbers at bat dipped, the owner of
the New York Titans decided to trade me to the Chicago Angels. Despite being great on the field
and never missing a catch, it didn’t matter. I was soon packing my bags and headed to the windy
city. My cousin, Camila Reyes, moved out from her apartment to live in San Francisco with her
boyfriend, Cole Richardson. He was one of the San Francisco Storm hockey players. I hoped this
time their relationship worked out.
The day after I arrived in Chicago, I started practicing with the Angels right away.
“Alaric, don’t forget you have your appointment with Doctor Pineda tomorrow afternoon,” Micah
Nelson, the general manager of the Chicago Angels reminded me.
“Yes sir, I have it on my calendar,” I said through a grimace. I didn’t want to hear shit from him or
anyone else about being required to go to therapy. It was also part of my contract. I had hoped that by
being traded, I could have avoided having to participate in any more therapy.
I already did my five mandatory sessions with Doctor Winston. He was just a bunch of bullshit
anyway—explaining theories and research of old experiments that he felt may relate to my issue. I had
nothing to say to him. I wanted to forget what happened to me and move on; but no, he wouldn’t leave
it alone. I didn’t want to talk or plan to tell him how I was feeling. Fuck that! I was going to my
appointments so he can mark off that I was there, whether I participated or not.
I knew what was wrong with me. I didn’t need a sports shrink to tell me that. I was nursing a
grudge over what happened four months ago. I was certain that the pitcher for the Las Vegas Flames
hit me on purpose even though he swore it was an accident. I was convinced that this was over some
chick. The pitcher came over and made it seem like he was concerned about my injury, but I heard
him say “this will teach you to keep it in your pants.” To this day, I still wasn’t sure who he was angry
over. Whoever that woman was, she wasn’t memorable enough and just a hook-up.
Stepping onto the plate during practice, I warmed up my arms with the bat in my hands as I got
into my stance. Brent threw the ball and my body tensed, heart rate speeding up. I stepped back from
the plate, gritting my teeth. Damnit Alaric! Get it fucking together!
I locked my teeth together, my breathing ragged.
I needed to get over this issue if I wanted to stay with my new team and not get benched. I took a
deep breath in, getting into my stance and ready to knock one out of the park. Then Brent threw
another pitch, a fast ball flying toward me.
It was the playoffs between the New York Titans and Las Vegas Flames, and the bottom of the
fifth. The bases were loaded and no strike outs. I walked up to the plate, slightly moving my arms
to prepare. I positioned myself at the plate and glared at the pitcher, ready for the ball. The
pitcher, Wade McIntyre, threw the ball and I swung, hitting it to the foul line. Stepping away from
the plate, I inhaled deeply then let it out slowly, composing myself. I went back into position,
staring at the pitcher. He glared at me then threw a fast ball, hitting my face and knocking me to
the ground.
I covered my face as the head coach and medical team came on the field. Wade ran over,
peering down on me.
“Is he going to be okay?” Wade asked.
“We’re going to take him to the locker room to have the team’s doctor examine him,” one of the
medical staff noted.
Holding half of my face, I tilted my head up to look at the offender and Wade had a smug look
on his face.
“That’s what you get for messing with my woman. This will teach you to keep it in your pants,”
he said in a low voice, but enough for me to hear him clearly.
Apparently, my team members heard it too. Both teams ran on the field and started fighting as I
was taken back to the locker room. The doctor looked at my swollen and bruised half of my face.
My eye was swollen shut. The doctor suspected that there may be a fracture but wouldn’t know
until they took an x-ray.
I saw Brent’s fastball pass by my face and felt the breeze as it flew by me. My body stiffened. I
couldn’t shake the feeling that I was going to get hit by the ball again. It took two months for the
fracture in my cheekbone to heal. Physically, I was lucky that was the only thing that came from the
hit; but the trauma being on the plate had consumed me mentally. I couldn’t focus on my swing.
I cursed under my breath. I clenched my jaw and threw the bat.
“I’m leaving. See you tomorrow,” I told the coach as I headed to the locker room. Maybe a good
night’s sleep would help me clear my head so I could focus better during practice tomorrow.
3
 CELINE

M y office door swung open with Beth smiling from ear-to-ear as she held onto the doorknob,
and Alaric entered through the doorway. I gasped. He was handsome in photos I’d seen on the
internet by the paparazzi, but in person, he was swoon worthy. His presence can change any
dynamic in any room. Celine, stop staring and pick your jaw up from off the floor. He’s a client.
He was a more than a foot taller than me, even with my high heels on. His dark brown eyes
matched the color of his hair that was cut short on the sides and styled messy on top. He wore a t-shirt
that clung onto the bulge of his biceps and chest muscles. His fitted jeans highlighted the athletic
frame of his body.
Beth threw me a wink before shutting the door. I stand up, walking around my desk to meet him.
Alaric glances around my office, then his brown eyes land on me. I take a shaky breath.
“Mr. King, I’m Doctor Celine Pineda.” I extended my hand out.
“Hi,” he said, gruff, and took my hand for a firm handshake.
The touch of his skin sent an electric current through my nerves, awakening my senses. Heat went
straight to my core and down to my sex, getting me wet.
I pulled my hand away and stepped back.
“So, am I supposed to lay on the couch or something?” he asked; sardonically.
I studied him and his body language. He hid his unease behind his bravado. I could applaud the
poker face he had on, but then he rubbed his hands on his pants. The mask he had on slipped. I’m
certain he was nervous.
“You can sit wherever you feel comfortable,” I suggested, gesturing to the chairs and couches
around the room.
“I’ll feel more comfortable outside of the office,” he muttered.
His gaze held mine from the moment we made eye contact. There was a crackle in the air between
us.
“We can go for a walk instead of staying in here if that would help you feel comfortable.”
“Sure.” He nodded, putting his hands in his pocket.
“I’ll need to record our walk with my phone since I won’t be able to take notes. Would you be
okay with that?” I asked.
“Yeah, sure.” His answers were clipped.
This was going to be a fun session indeed. I internally rolled my eyes.
“The recording starts now.” I grabbed my phone and pressed the red button, then we headed out.
The Chicago Angels Baseball Organization building was mostly deserted this time of day in the late
afternoon. There was a concrete path in the courtyard and around the multiple buildings of this
campus.
“So, you’re unconventional, but still play by the rules,” he said. “For a minute, I hoped you’d be a
rule breaker. Then we might actually get along.” Alaric twisted his head, looking in my direction.
I glanced at him only to find him wearing a sly grin across his face.
“Mr. King, I think I can follow the rules and we’ll still find some common ground.” My lips
curled to a small smile, then I turned my head to face the front. From the way he looked at me, I felt a
magnetic pull to get closer to him. I knew that was a bad idea, but I couldn’t help it. I kept close to
him while we walked the grounds of the building. I could smell the spicy scent of his cologne and it
was intoxicating. I could get drunk off of it.
“Is this where we talk about our childhoods?” he said; mockingly. His voice was deep and raspy.
“Only if you want,” I said. I didn’t want to pressure him to talk. I’ll go at his pace and hopefully
he’d open up to me sooner or later—I was really hoping sooner.
“I want to find the common ground,” he noted.
“Alright, we’ll try to find the common ground. Have you always played baseball?” I asked.
“Yeah, since I was in pre-school playing tee ball. Baseball’s a sport that I enjoyed both watching
and playing. It’s a sport I’m good at,” he said, proudly.
“Are you parents supportive with your choice in career?” I twisted my head to glance at him.
“They’re great and have been supportive since day one. I don’t get to see them often since they
live in San Diego. I talk to them every week and will visit if we have an away game in the area.” His
tone softened as he spoke about his parents. “I think it’s my turn to ask you questions.”
“You’re my patient. I’m supposed to be assisting you and find out more about you.”
“Well, I told you that I wanted to find the common ground, so asking questions about you could
help me become comfortable with my therapist and sessions.”
My phone buzzed, interrupting our conversation. It was my brother. I ignored the call since I was
in a session with my patient. My phone rang again soon after I ignored the call the first time. I huffed
out a breath, annoyed.
“Do you need to take that?” Alaric asked, a tinge of annoyance in his tone.
“Sorry. Just give me a minute please.” I eyed Alaric and he gestured his hand toward me, giving
me permission to take the call.
We stopped in the middle of the courtyard and I picked up the call after the third time Kuya Tyler
tried to get through to me.
“Hello?” I answered.
“Celine,” Kuya Tyler said with a stern tone to his voice.
“Kuya Tyler, can we talk later? I’m in a session with a patient.” I stressed the urgency that I
needed to get off the phone to tend to my patient.
“No,” he said.
My eyebrows knitted to the center. Seriously?
“It’ll be quick.”
I sighed, frowning. At the corner of my eye, I saw Alaric watching me.
“Alright, what is it?” I asked.
“Auntie Lucy is bugging me about Mom and Dad’s five-year death anniversary. She keeps asking
when and where we’re going to get the family together to celebrate Mom and Dad’s lives. I can’t deal
with her anymore. Help me,” he pleaded, whining.
“You made me interrupt a session with my patient for this?” I huffed. “I’ll call Auntie Lucy later
and deal with her. The event won’t be for another few months. Just ignore her for now, okay Kuya?” I
rolled my eyes.
“Thanks sis. I knew I can count on you,” he mocked. “Talk to you soon.”
I hung up the call and turned to Alaric.
“My apologies. Where were we?” I asked, giving the best apologetic smile I could muster as I
tried to hide my irritation at my brother.
“Are you okay?” he asked, tilting his head to the side.
“Yes. Let’s get back to our session.”
We continued to walk down the path between the tall buildings of the Angels organization.
“You’re not a good liar. The tone in your voice and the tension in your body tell me otherwise.”
My cheeks warmed up, blushing, as his eyes raked up and down my body slowly. It seemed he
wanted me to catch him checking me out.
“It’s just my brother Tyler, interrupting me at work for something that could have waited until
later,” I confessed.
“Your brother’s Tyler Pineda?” His brow cocked.
“Yes, is that a bad thing? You have a grudge with him or something?” I chuckled.
Alaric laughed. “No, he’s my buddy from college. Small world.”
“The world’s a very small place.” I gave a small smile.
“So, have you always wanted to be a sports psychologist?” He asked.
“I wanted to be a psychologist when I started college, but when Kuya Tyler was drafted into the
majors, I thought it would be cool to be a sports psychologist and help sports players.” I gazed at him.
“Are your parents supportive with the choice in career for both you and Tyler?” He asked.
I paused, thinking about the last time I saw my parents.
“They were supportive, but wasn’t able to get a chance to watch me graduate college or Tyler get
drafted. They both died about five years ago in a car accident.” My voice cracked, speaking softly.
Alaric was quiet. The sexual tension between us fizzled out. The mood changed, becoming
somber.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.” He apologized, frowning.
“Thank you. I didn’t expect you to know about it.” I turned my head, looking at him.
His gaze softened, lips pressed together and lifted into a small smile. His smile wasn’t forced, it
was more comforting than anything.
“Were you and Tyler close to your parents?” he asked, sincerely.
“Yes, we were. They were our number one cheerleader.” My lips curled to a small smile.
“Actually, that’s what the phone call was about. My parents’ death anniversary,” I said softly.
"Well, if you ever need to talk about whatever’s bothering you, you can call me. I’m a great
listener,” he grinned.
I giggled.
Alaric’s face fell, cocking a brow.
“I didn’t mean to laugh, but that’s my line. I’m your therapist and have to support you, remember?”
I stared into his beautiful dark brown eyes.
“I know. I’m just putting it out there.” Alaric smirked. “May I call you Celine?” he asked. The
way my name rolled off his tongue sent a shiver down my spine.
“I normally wouldn’t allow it as it’s a professional courtesy. I’ll consider it though. Will that
make you more comfortable during our therapy sessions if you referred me by my first name?” I tilted
my head, waiting for him to answer.
 “Yes, it would, and I would like you to refer to me as Alaric. No more ‘Mr. King,’ alright?”
“If this is common ground, then I’ll make an exception.” I grinned.
Checking the time on my phone, I noticed our session was almost done. We continued our stroll
around the building, making our way back to my office. That wasn’t too bad. Hopefully he’d return
next week to give therapy a try.
4
 ALARIC

W e’ve been wandering around for nearly fifty minutes. I scanned around and realized that
Celine had managed to steer us back to her office. She opened the door, and I paused outside
her office. I gazed at her from behind, remembering what we discussed on our walk outside.
She was smart and gorgeous—and those curves and dimples on her cheeks already drove me
wild. Celine was on the thicker side, but it didn’t matter to me. For the brief moment I got a glimpse
in her personal life, she had a beautiful soul and actually cared what I had to say. She made today feel
like it wasn’t a therapy session.
Celine spun around to face me.
“You’re beautiful and crafty. That’s a dangerous combination.” My lips formed a sly grin.
Her brows knitted together.
“Crafty?” she asked. “How so?”
“We’re back at your office, right on time. And I didn’t even notice how you managed to make it
happen. That’s not normal for me.” I have always been observant and keen with my surroundings.
This time I wasn’t paying attention to what was going on around me.
“Why is that?” she asked.
“I’m used to people having ulterior motives,” I confessed.
I studied her body language and reaction. She tilted her head, studying me in return. What did she
think of me?
“Why don’t you go see my receptionist to make your next appointment with me. Beth can assist
you with it.” Celine gestured toward the front desk and waiting room area.
I shook my head. “I only want to talk to you.”
“I’m sorry, Alaric, I have another appointment, who’s waiting for me. I’ll see you next week.” She
flashed her bright white smile.
“See you next week, Celine.”
I headed to the receptionist area and booked my appointment for next week. For once, I think that I
might actually enjoy therapy. I didn’t know if it would help, but I enjoyed being around Celine. She
felt familiar—warm and inviting like family, but sexy as hell like a goddess.

F OR THE PAST WEEK, I COULDN ’ T STOP THINKING ABOUT CELINE— THE WAY HER CLOTHES ACCENTUATED
the curves of her voluptuous body, the way she swayed her hips when she walked, the dimples that
appeared when she smiled, the way her long, inky black hair cascaded down her shoulders and back,
layers that framed her face. I wanted to learn more about her.
My appointment day finally arrived, and I was looking forward to seeing her again. Her assistant
escorted me to Celine’s office, and immediately closed the door after I entered.
Celine was standing, smiling. “Mr. King— “
“Alaric. Remember, call me Alaric,” I interrupted.
“My apologies. Alaric, go ahead and sit down where you feel comfortable.” She gestured to the
couches and chairs around the room.
“Where are you going to sit, Celine?” I asked, gazing at her.
Her brows furrowed. “Why does it matter? Will it help you feel more comfortable?”
“It would make it more comfortable for me. Wherever you choose to sit, I’ll choose to sit right by
you.” My lips tugged at the corners; a small smile formed.
“Okay, I’ll sit over here.” Celine sat in her office chair, positioning it next to her desk. She
crossed her leg over the other and placed her notebook on top of her lap.
She was wearing a navy-blue silk blouse and a black skirt that ended right above her knees. Her
skirt hugged her waist, hips, and down her legs. She looked so damn good. I chose to sit on the couch
right across from her. My eyes lowered to her bare legs. I just wanted to run my hand up between her
smooth legs. She cleared her throat, startling me. Our eyes met.
“Are you ready to begin?” She asked, tilting her head to the side.
“Yeah, ready.” I nodded.
“Alaric, I’ve been watching videos of you at bat after your accident with the ball,” she began, her
tone was very professional. “I want to talk about what happened on the day when the ball hit you.”
My body stiffened, thinking about the ball smacking me in the face and the look of the picture
afterwards. Blood rushed to my head and my hands curled into fists.
Celine carefully studied me, expressionless, then scribbled on her notepad.
“From the way your body’s reacting to my mentioning of that day, I could see it’s bothering you.
Let’s talk about it,” she suggested.
I gave a small nod for her to continue.
“Alaric, please tell me what happened at the time of the incident.”
I took a deep breath in, holding it a bit longer than I normally did, and exhaled slowly. “Well, I
was at plate. I struck out twice. The team was counting on me to knock one out of the ballpark. In the
last pitch, I noticed the pitcher had a glint in his eye. He threw the ball and it directly hit me right
here.” I pointed to my cheekbone and under my eye. “It hit me so hard that it knocked me on my ass
and fractured my cheek.”
Celine scribbled on her notepad again.
“The pitcher came up to me and watched me cringe in excruciating pain with a smug look on his
face. He commented that I deserved that hit and it would teach me a lesson for messing with his
woman. I have no idea who his woman was.”
Our eyes locked, a sizzle in the air between us. Then she broke our gaze. She looked down at her
notepad, avoiding eye contact. She shifted in her seat and switched legs to cross.
“So, now, when you’re at bat, how do you feel?” She asked, tilting her head to the side.
“Well, now I feel anxious that the ball’s aimed for my head like I’m target practice for the pitcher.
I can’t focus when I’m at bat. My body freezes and I can’t move.” I ran my hands through my hair.
Celine was the first person I’ve talked about my experience with and how it affected the way I
played.
 “Thank you, Alaric, for opening up. I’m sure that was difficult for you. Let’s work on techniques
to help you focus and relax when you’re at bat,” Celine offered.
“For you, I’ll try everything,” I said.
Her cheeks turned dark pink, blushing. She cleared her throat then began teaching me ways to help
me when I was up at bat.
Focus only on the action of swinging and hitting the ball— nothing else matters at that very
moment when the pitcher throws the ball. Just focus on finding that perfect pitch and hitting the
ball. Focus on your breathing, and pretend that you’re at practice.
The therapy session seemed to go by so quick. It was already the end of my session, and I booked
my next appointment.
On the way out of the building, I ran into Coach Slade Rhodes.
“Hey King, how’s it going? How was your session with Doctor Pineda?” the husky man with gray
hair asked.
“Hey Coach. Everything’s good. The session went well.” I reassured him as I thought about how
Celine stared at me with her big chocolate brown eyes and blushed so easily when she was nervous.
“Good. That’s what I want to hear. It’s important for you to work through your block when at bat.
So tomorrow, I want you to come for batting practice.” He gave a tight-lipped grin.
My blood ran cold but I forced myself to smile. “Sure Coach. I’ll see you tomorrow at practice.”
5
 CELINE

T he second therapy session that I had with Alaric a few days ago seemed to go well. He was
receptive to the techniques I taught him that session, and I hoped that he had been using it during
batting practice this week. Today was his first game since that session. I normally didn’t attend
the games, but this time, I had to see Alaric in action. I hoped there would be some sign I was getting
through to him. The proof would be in the numbers. The proof would be the way Alaric reacted at the
plate.
I rarely ever asked for tickets to games, but this was a special case, and the general manager
happily provided me two passes. There were a few perks to this job. I took Beth with me so she
could take notes for me. I dressed in tight jeans, a Chicago Angels t-shirt, and baseball hat. After all, I
was just a fan watching my team play. We arrived at Retro Communications Ballpark, where today,
the Chicago Angels were playing against Alaric’s former team, the New York Titans. We sat in the
stands, sitting in the first row along the baseline, which gave me the perfect view of the players at bat.
Alaric came up to bat and I watched him carefully. His body tensed up. I leaned forward and
whispered under my breath. “Remember what we talked about. Deep breaths. Focus on the ball. It’s
just you and the pitcher at practice. Don’t think about anything else. You can do this.” My heart rate
was speeding up, anticipating his response to the pitch.
Alaric remained stiff and tense. The pitcher threw his first pitch, and Alaric jumped back from the
ball.
I groaned.
Then the next pitch was a strike. I huffed out a heavy breath.
Fans were chanting and yelling out their frustrations of the game. I couldn’t help myself. I called
out to Alaric.
“Come on, Alaric. You can do this! Focus!” I yelled. Beth turned her head toward me, chuckling. I
shrugged. It wasn’t like he could hear me any way.
But even as I thought that, Alaric seemed to turn toward my voice. At the completely wrong time.
Slam.
He was hit in the head…again. I gasped, getting to my feet before I could process the action. This
time it was my fault. I sprinted down to the field, showing my badge to the staff to allow me access to
the team. I reached Alaric, who was covering the side of his face. His lips were pressed to a thin line
as he winced. He removed his helmet and chucked it behind the umpire.
“Alaric, are you okay?” I asked, trying to look him directly in the eyes, but he avoided any eye
contact.
 He mumbled curses under his breath and shook his head. I imagined that it was because he was
disappointed in himself.
“Alaric?” I said; softly.
“I’m okay,” he grunted.
He was fine. Mostly. And mad. Alaric followed the medical staff to the locker room, and I
followed behind. My eyes raked down his body. His baseball uniform clung to the ripped muscles of
his back and arms, and his ass looked fucking delectable in his baseball pants. I bet his body was
chiseled and looked like a Greek god. His dark brown hair was messy from his baseball helmet, like
he just got fucked and rolled out of bed. The sound of the locker door opening pulled me out of my
inappropriate thoughts.
I wanted a chance to talk to him to find out where his head’s at and to also apologize. I needed to
make sure he was okay both physically and mentally as his therapist.
Alaric sat on the bench in the locker room while the doctor examined him. He checked if Alaric
had a concussion and any injuries to his face as well as reflexes.
“It doesn’t look like anything’s broken. You’ll have one hell of a bruise, but you’re good to go
back and play,” the team doctor said, then left the room.
Alaric and I were alone in the locker room. There was a musky scent, a combination of sweat,
deodorant, dirt, and soap that had my tummy twisted. I usually don’t follow patients to the locker
room, but for Alaric, I felt inclined to check on him since I was the one who distracted him.
“I’m so sorry, Alaric.” Our eyes locked.
He stood up and closed the distance between us. My stomach fluttered and my heartbeat sped up.
His eyes weren’t filled with anger anymore. He looked disappointed as he sighed a heavy breath.
The side of his face was a dark pink, but it didn’t look too bad. He just stared at me, silent.
“I shouldn’t have yelled out to you. I’m so sorry. I didn’t think you could hear me.” My voice
faltered, guilt swallowing me up.
He placed his hands on my upper arms. “It’s you, Celine. How could I not? I could pick you out of
any crowd. Always.” Alaric’s gaze softened; a small smile formed on his lips.
My body froze and eyes widened. I wasn’t sure what to say. I knew this could go so badly if I
acted on it in any way. If I wasn’t his psychologist, then things may be different.
Alaric quickly dropped his hands to his side and stepped back. His brows furrowed and a
lopsided grin appeared across his face.
The team’s trainer pushed the locker door open, and both Alaric and I jumped and stepped even
further away from each other.
“Hey Alaric. I spoke with Doc, and he said you’re good to go back—” The muscular man, who
reminded me of someone who competed in Mister Olympia competitions, stopped and stared. He
frowned. “I’m sorry if I’m interrupting something.”
“No, you’re not.” I was quick to answer.
“Alaric, I came to check on you and get you back in the dugout with the team,” the trainer said.
Alaric twisted his head toward me. I glanced at him, then swiftly left the locker room and
stadium. I couldn’t stay to watch the rest of the game. As much as I wished something could happen
between Alaric and I, I knew it couldn’t.
6
 ALARIC

I knew I had crossed the line the minute Celine’s face fell. She’d stood there shocked and
speechless. I would do anything to erase the fear in her eyes. What I told her came out of my
mouth so naturally because it was true. I could spot Celine and hear her in any crowd—she was
all I cared about and everything around her became unimportant to me.
The trainer interrupted Celine and I when he came into the locker room to check on me and urge
me back to the dugout. I wanted to stop her from leaving, but I didn’t. It wasn’t the time or place for
me to tell Celine how I felt about her. I didn’t know her that well—hell, I didn’t know her at all. But
she knew more about me from the last two sessions than I ever let another therapist or woman learn
about. Other than a career in the major league, there was little I ever wanted in life. Now, I found
something else I had to have. Her.
I returned back to the game against the Titans, but I couldn’t focus. All I thought about was how
Celine reacted and left so quickly. She wanted to run away from me. I tried so hard to get my shit
together and use the techniques I learned from therapy but struck out. I didn’t want to get benched or
have the Angels trade me again. I’d lose a chance at Celine and my career altogether.
Time dragged as we played inning after inning. It was the bottom of the ninth inning, one man on
base, two outs, and we were tied. I was next at the bat and stepped up at the plate. Talk about being
under pressure. I took a deep breath and got into position. My eyes narrowed in at the pitcher, waiting
for him to throw the ball. My heart rate was speeding up. Focus Alaric. I tried to remember what
Celine had taught me but her walking away was too prominent in my mind. He threw the ball, and I
stepped back, flinching. I cursed under my breath. Damnit.
“Strike!” the gruff voice of the umpire yelled out.
Back at the plate, I got into my stance. The pitcher threw the ball and I swung.
“Strike!” The umpire called out.
I let out a heavy breath. Argh! One more pitch. I needed to get a hit. Just me and the pitcher. No
one else but me and the pitcher…and the ball.
Getting into position, I waited for a second, then the pitcher threw the ball. My eyes intensely
watched the fast ball coming in my direction, timing my swing. I gripped the bat tightly and swung.
“You’re out!” the husky man screamed out from behind.
“Fuck!” I grunted and threw my bat.
We went into the tenth inning and scored two runs, winning the game. The Angels would’ve won
even if I wasn’t playing. I was useless to the team until I could get over my fucking issues. The team
headed back to the locker room after the game to clean up and go home.
 “Hey Alaric,” the Angels’ outfielder, Jake Delaney, said, grabbing my attention.
I looked up at him as I tied my shoe.
“Some of us are going to Zion Bar and Lounge after. Hang out with us. It’s just the single guys
tonight.” He chuckled.
“Yeah, sure,” I said huskily and nodded.
“Alright.” Jake grinned.
We all finished getting ready and headed to Zion. It was a busy Friday night but a few of the guys
and I found seats at the bar. People recognized us as soon as we walked into the modern and swanky
lounge. Beautiful women swarmed around us, flirting and trying to hang out with the players. I just
wanted to drink some beers and go home. I wasn’t paying any attention to any woman here—all I
thought of was Celine and how much I wanted her.
“Dude, Alaric. You need to relax. The women here want you,” one of my teammates said.
“I think Alaric has a thing for the therapist. I don’t blame him—Celine’s hot. I bet she hypnotized
him during therapy,” another teammate jibed in.
I rolled my eyes and chuckled. The guys knew that Celine was the team’s therapist, and they all
wanted to reconsider how they viewed mental health.
I drank a huge gulp of the cold blonde ale, listening to the guys talk about baseball, the latest
sports news, and about Celine.
“I’m feeling a little mentally exhausted. Maybe I should make an appointment,” Jake mentioned.
I nodded, understanding him. “I think everyone should get the help they need for peak
performance.” I tried to give my best sales line to get the guys to see mental health differently.
Because of Celine, I was finally giving therapy a chance to be a better person and baseball player.
“I think staring at her for an hour would make me feel a lot better. And I’d definitely want to
perform, if you know what I mean.” Jake plastered a sly smirk that I wanted to knock off his face and
while wiggling his eyebrows up and down a couple times.
I glared at him, my veins pulsating hard like it was going to beat out of my neck. My blood boiled
inside me. One of my hands curled into a fist. I observed the other guys at the table, and one of them
recognized what was going on—Tucker.
He looked at me, cocking a brow. “You know that you can’t do anything with her, right? You’ll
both lose your jobs.” he said. “And I don’t know anyone worth that.”
I nodded in agreement, then took a gulp of my beer. I was already doubting whether or not I felt
that way. Sometimes feeling comfortable behind the plate seemed impossible. Being with Celine…
that was something I could absolutely see happening.
7
 CELINE

“A laric’s here for his appointment, Doctor Pineda,” Beth announced over the phone.
“Send him in,” I said flatly.
My palms were getting damp as I anxiously waited for Alaric to walk through my door. I hadn’t
seen him since the game this past weekend. After he mentioned how he could hear and see me in any
crowd. I wiped my palms on my black skirt, preparing myself.
There was a knock on the door and then Alaric strolled through the doorway. I sat behind my
desk, needing some barrier between Alaric and me. He was like a magnet, and I gravitated to him—
which was dangerous.
Alaric’s gaze met mine, then he paused for a moment. He shook his head and flashed his perfect,
white smile.
“Now who’s hiding?” he said; teasingly.
“I don’t know what you mean,” I huffed out.
“Celine, you can lie to yourself, but don’t lie to me. Your fear is as transparent as the blouse you
were wearing the first time we met.” His gaze never left mine.
I pretended not to feel my cheeks burning. “Look, people think I’m a goody two-shoes, and they’re
right. I never broke the rules—” I tried explaining to him.
“Well, I’m something of a bad boy and I could definitely teach you about breaking the rules.” He
winked and a mischievous grin curved on his face. “Come to the dark side, Celine.”
“I can’t.” I needed to stand my ground. It was difficult though when he was only a couple feet
away from me. He looked sexy as fuck, even when wearing the most casual of clothing. His voice
sounded sensual, and his eyes captured me.
“You can. All it takes is one kiss,” Alaric said confidently. “I know that you want to kiss me as
much as I want to kiss you. You can’t deny the connection we have—I’m positive you felt it to the
moment we met.”
His chocolate brown eyes were filled with desire as they pierced into mine. A crackle in the air
sparked between us. My body temperature was rising, and his intense gaze got my sex wet. It was
difficult being around this gorgeous man without feeling hot and bothered. I looked away and
swallowed the lump in my throat. If I continued to make eye contact with him, I’d probably give in to
him.
For someone who didn’t know me, he was aware and most certain that I had a thing for him—
which I did, but that was beside the point. I needed to divert this conversation away from talking
about me and get back to helping him get better. I already had something else in mind for today’s
session that would keep us focused on Alaric.
“For today’s session, we’re going out on the practice field. I arranged for the pitcher to meet us
there and we’re going to work on some new techniques to help you at bat,” I said, getting up from my
chair, smoothing out my skirt, then headed to the door. “Come on, let’s go.”
Alaric’s face fell and his shoulders sagged, but he stood up and walked through the doorway. At
least he was willing to participate. The last thing I wanted was for us to be in my office alone. I no
longer trusted either of us to make good choices.
A few minutes later, we were walking on the field. Brent was on the pitching mound warming up.
I was going to have Alaric work on some behavioral modification training. Alaric changes into his
practice gear, puts his helmet on, and grabs a bat. His body was already tense and stiff.
“Alaric, I need you to take a few deep breaths.” I encouraged him.
He followed directions and seemed more relaxed.
“I want you to envision your bat connecting with the ball, breathing in calm, exhaling fear. Tell me
what you’re going to do when you see that ball coming toward you.” I looked him square in the eyes,
waiting for his response. Loosen the grip on your bat. You’re holding it too tight.
“Envision my bat connecting with the ball as I breathe in the calm and exhale the fear. Loosen my
grip on the bat,” he said low and raspy, watching Brent on the pitcher’s mound.
I stepped back away from him so I wouldn’t get hit by the ball or bat. Watching Alaric’s body
language, I could see him taking calm even breaths as he focused on Brent and waited for the ball.
Brent threw the first pitch and Alaric tensed up and stepped back.
Oof.
Alaric got back in position and tried again. Brent threw the ball and this time, Alaric swung, but
missed.
That’s some progress—baby steps.
Throughout our behavior modification training session, Alaric gained a bit of confidence with
every pitch. He had his moments where he stepped back, but he got back up and tried again. I was
proud of him. He was trying and I appreciated his efforts.
I raised my hand to Brent.
“Give me a minute, Brent,” I called out.
I approached Alaric and handed him a bottle of water.
“You’re doing great, Alaric.” I smiled as he took a long gulp of water.
“Thanks, but I know I’m not doing that great. I’m not hitting anything.” He pressed his lips and let
out a heavy breath through his nose. He looked away and to the ground.
“I get it. It feels like you’re not making any progress because you’re not hitting the ball, but you
are making progress. You’re not jumping away and flinching when the ball is pitched. That’s a huge
step. I’m proud of you.”
Alaric gazed at me; his lips tugged up to a small grin. “I guess you’re right.”
“Our session’s almost over—”
“I want one more try,” he insisted.
“Go for it. Hit a home run.” A wide grin spread across my face, praying he’d hit at least one ball
today.
I stepped back and nodded to Brent to proceed.
Alaric got into his batting stance, and Brent pitched the ball.
The loud cracking sound from the bat colliding with the leather ball resonated in the quiet practice
field. He hit the ball so hard, it really would’ve been a home run. My eyes widened and my mouth fell
open. I ran up to Alaric squealing, jumping, and clapping my hands. Success. I was so proud of him.
The corners of Alaric’s mouth lifted from ear to ear. He was glowing with pride. Then he picked
me up and twirled me around. My expression dropped. Alaric quickly stopped, lowered me to the
ground, and we stepped apart from one another. I looked around, hoping Brent didn’t notice. I wasn’t
sure if he did as he was on his way to the locker room. My face flushed, a warmth spreading across
my cheeks.
“Uhh…I need to go.” I turned on my heel and rushed back to my office. Our actions came so
naturally. This was going to be a problem.
8
 ALARIC

O h shit. With all the excitement of hitting the ball this late afternoon, I shared how I felt with
Celine. I wrapped my arms around her waist, lifted her up, and spun around, laughing and
smiling wide—until I snapped back from the moment and realized what I’d done. Her pained
expression showed how uncomfortable she was with the situation, then she ran off. I shut my eyes
tightly and shook my head. Fuck. I needed to fix this.
I walked back to her office as quickly as I could. I wanted to catch her before she left and headed
home for the day. As I entered her office waiting area, her assistant’s desk was empty, and it looked
like she was out for the rest of the day. Knocking on Celine’s door, I turned the knob and slowly
opened it.
“Celine?” I said, peeking inside her office.
She had her elbows propped on her desk and face buried in her hands. Her long waves of black
hair fell around her hands. She startled when I shut the door behind me, tilting her head up and staring
at me. She didn’t look like she was crying, but a look of disappointment definitely appeared on her
face. She frowned; her dark eyes losing their brilliance.
“I’m so sorry, Celine. I got carried away out there. I shouldn’t have lifted you up, but I was so
excited,” I said, watching her get up from her chair and stroll slowly around her desk.
She stood in front of me, angling her head up. She was tiny, even with her heels on. Our eyes
locked and our gazes held.
“I’m sorry too,” Celine said softly. “We got caught up in the exciting moment and it was
unprofessional on my part for getting close and allowing it to happen.”
“It shouldn’t have happened.” My voice was raspy and deep.
There was a crackle in the air as we both closed the distance between us. The aroma of her sweet
and floral perfume wafted in my nostrils. It was intoxicating. I would prefer to get drunk off her scent
instead of alcohol any day.
“No, it shouldn’t have,” she whispered. She stopped moving toward me until our bodies were
almost touching. “But I liked it…and you.”
I wound my arms around her waist and pulled her close. Her body pressed against mine. It’s now
or never. I cupped the side of her face; my thumb brushing the smooth skin of her cheek. Now. I leaned
down, my lips crushed on hers in a firm kiss.
Her hands draped around my neck, pulling me down and kissing me back. I nipped her bottom lip.
She yelped, parting her lips. My tongue slipped into her mouth and twirled around her warm tongue.
She moaned into the kiss. Her sensual sounds got me aroused and a hard-on quickly grew in the front
of my pants, my bulge pressing against her lower belly.
Her hands ran up the back of my head and through my hair. She tugged on strands, a low rumble
resonated in my chest. My arms tightened around her waist, then my hands slid down her curvaceous
ass, cupping her and squeezing. Her moans vibrated against my lips. I pulled away, breaking the kiss.
We both panted soft breaths, then Celine walked away.
“Celine? Where are you going?” I asked, panic growing as I watched her. Had I taken it too far?
She went out to her waiting area and locked the door, then returned to her office and locked the
door behind her. She felt the same way about me that I felt about her. She was a little bad girl herself,
and that turned me on.
I watched Celine come back toward me with greedy eyes. I hooked my arm around her and swiftly
pulled her against my chest.
“I guess I’m joining you in the dark side.” She smirked.
“It seems that way, but I’m not complaining.”
Our lips crashed once again in a passionate, tongue-tangling kiss. Our hands grazed all over each
other’s clothed bodies. She gripped the hem of my shirt and pulled it over my head. Her eyes raked up
and down my chest as she bit her bottom lip. That was fucking hot.
My fingers fumbled with the buttons of her navy-blue dress shirt. Celine grinned at me, taking
over and unbuttoning her blouse. She shrugged it off her arms and I murmured my approval. She was
wearing a black lace bra, her light brown nipples peeking through the lace. Her perfect-sized breasts
spilled out a bit from the top of her bra.
Her fingers traced my tattoo starting on my shoulder to my arm, then she grazed my pecs, grooves
of my muscles, and abs, sending a shivers down my back. She grasped my bulge and squeezed; a hiss
escaped from my lips. Her touch was different from any woman I’d ever been with. An electric
current ran through my nerves, opening up my senses. I was aware of where her hands roamed around
my body and how her skin felt against mine.
My fingers brushed down her back, stopping at her bra strap. I unhooked it with ease and watched
the black lacy material fall from her shoulders and arms, exposing her breasts. My gaze locked on her
perfect tits, then I licked my lips. They looked delectable and I couldn’t wait to indulge. I grasped her
pillowy mounds, squeezing and massaging them.
As Celine’s hands worked to undo my jean zipper, I lifted her skirt to find her wearing a matching
lace thong. We frantically ripped each other’s clothes off, until we were naked in front of each other. I
was breathless as I stared at the beauty in front of me. My eyes slowly scanned up and down her body
with my mouth agape.
“You’re so fucking gorgeous, Celine.”
Her cheeks turned a shade of pink. Then her gaze traveled down my body, pausing at my erection
before her eyes settled on my face. She bit her bottom lip, her eyes hazed with lust.
“And you’re so sexy,” she said in a raspy voice.
I stepped forward, took her in my arms, and pressed my lips firmly on hers. Breaking our heated
kiss, I placed a trail of kisses down the crook of her neck and sucked her skin by her collar bone. I
was marking her as mine. I wanted everyone know who she belonged to, and who she was meant to
be with. I was hers from the moment I saw her, and she needed to know that. She had more power on
me than she knew. As I stroked her back, she shivered. Her skin was so soft and pebbled under my
touch. Breathy moans escaped her lips.
My hands traveled to her breasts, massaging and rolling her nipples between my thumb and
forefinger until the sensitive buds formed sharp peaks. I took one of her breasts into my mouth,
circling her nipple with my tongue, then I sucked her tits, taking my time with each one. Her moans
made my cock twitch.
I ached to be inside her. Wrapping my arms around her, I lifted her up. She draped her arms
around my neck and wound her legs around my waist. I took a few steps to her desk and sat her down
on the dark mahogany.
I kneeled down in front of her, pushing her thighs apart, spreading her wide. My eyes focused on
her luscious pussy.
“Mmm, you are so wet baby girl,” I said, licking my lips. The scent of her arousal had my cock
throbbing.
I leaned forward and took my first lick of her slicked sex. Fuck. She tasted amazing. She moaned
loudly, echoing in the room. With broad strokes, I licked up and down her pussy, lapping up her
juices. My tongue then weaved through her folds before pulling them apart and exposing her sensitive
nub. I flicked and sucked her clit, and by the loud sounds she made, I knew she was close.
Celine squirmed and writhed against my tongue. I hooked my arms under her knees and held her
still while I continued to lick, suck, and flick. Her swollen bud twitched as my tongue brushed over it.
I groaned into her pussy as I worked my mouth and tongue on her clit faster, and my cock throbbed in
response.
“Fuck, I’m going to come,” she whimpered.
I slid my finger in her pussy, and her breath hitched. Pumping my finger in and out was effortless
as Celine was so wet. I added a second finger, trying to stretch her out before I buried my cock inside
her.
I moved my fingers faster, her pussy pulsating around my digits. Her walls were tightening. I
continued to assault her clit with my tongue as I finger fucked her.
“Ahhh,” she cried out.
Her walls clamped down and she threw her head back. Warm fluid dripped down my fingers as I
continued to pump them so she could ride out her orgasm. When she came down her high, I pulled out
and stood up. She clutched my wrist and brought my cum-soaked fingers to her mouth, then licked it
off clean. I groaned. That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.
Celine hopped off her desk and pushed me up against it. She kneeled down in front of me, her
hands grasped onto my length, stroking it. I groaned. Celine looked up through hooded lids and
winked. Being on the dark side had its perks.
Pre-cum leaked from my tip and Celine leaned forward licking it off. Her tongue lapped around
the bulb before she licked up and down my length. A shiver went down my spine. Her mouth opened
when she reached the tip and took my cock inside. Blood rushed to my length, throbbing in her mouth
as she bobbed her head.
“Fuck,” I growled.
This felt so damn good. I’ve gotten blow jobs from other women, but the way Celine gave it was
incredible. My body reacted differently; she made my senses come alive from a deep sleep. She held
my thighs to keep herself balanced. I stroked her hair as I watched my saliva-coated dick disappear in
her mouth as she went down. She picked up speed. One of her hands traveled away from my thigh,
cupping and massaging my balls. I groaned as pleasure grew inside my core.
“I’m coming,” I grunted.
Holding Celine’s head still with my hands on either side of her head, I thrusted hard. My balls
tightened and I shot my seed in the back of her throat. My body shuddered with my release as I
emptied out in her mouth.
 I slowly pulled out. Celine gazed at me with mischief in her eyes. She opened her mouth. She
swallowed every last drop. She’s a little minx.
I grasped at her wrist, helping her up so she was sitting back on her desk. I reached down for my
pants to grab a condom.
“I’m on the pill and clean,” she noted.
“I’m clean too,” I told her.
“Would you mind going bare?” She asked.
“I prefer it.” I dropped my jeans and closed the distance between us, then crushed my lips on hers.
My cock was getting hard again. Being with Celine was like Viagra. She was my drug that could
keep me hard all day and all night long. I settled between her legs, my knees parting her inner thighs
and spreading her wide.
I pulled her to the edge of her desk and teased her entrance with the tip of my dick. She was wet,
and seemed to be as amorous as I was. I inched my cock inside slowly until I couldn’t move any
further. Our breaths hitched simultaneously. I stayed still for a moment so she could adjust to my cock.
“You’re so tight, baby girl,” I said breathily.
I slowly retreated and slid back in. I thrusted in a steady rhythm. She leaned back, propping
herself up with her elbows. I sped up, pounding her harder and deeper. Her breasts bounced with
every thrust. The sounds of our moans and our skin slapping together as well as the thick smell of sex
filled the air. Our bodies glistened from the sheen of sweat on our bodies.
Celine’s cheeks were flushed and the lust in her eyes was something I needed to see again. I
wanted to be the only one, to ever give her pleasure. My cock pulsated against her throbbing walls.
We were perfectly attuned with each other’s bodies.
“Harder,” she whimpered. “Go deeper baby.”
The desk creaked as I slammed into her balls deep. She cried out and I growled.
“Fuck,” I grunted.
I could tell that Celine was going to reach her climax soon. Her walls were beginning to tighten
around my length. I thrusted harder and deeper, bottoming out. Heat spread through my body and an
electric current rushed through my nerves. I was ready to explode.
“I’m coming,” Celine moaned.
“Come hard all over my cock, baby,” I said deeply and breathily.
Her thighs and legs stiffened, and her pussy tightened around my cock. She cried out with her
release as she coated my dick with her warm, milky fluid. I continued to thrust and she moaned out my
name.
I bucked faster, my heart rate and breathing increased. I gripped her waist, holding her steady as I
fucked her relentlessly. My balls tightened and I gave one final thrust, my body quivered with my
release. Our juices mixed together and oozed out of her opening as I pulled out from her.
We were both panting soft breaths as I took Celine in my arms and held her close. She felt
amazing and I didn’t want this to end.
I remembered why I came into her office. I was apologizing for lifting and spinning her around on
the field. I hoped we would fuck in her office one day, but that fantasy came much sooner than later. I
wasn’t sorry that this happened, but I was concerned if Celine felt differently, like this was a huge
mistake.
I released my embrace and gazed into her eyes, searching for her reaction. Her eyes were filled
with concern and worry.
“This can never happen again,” she said, quietly.
“I almost believe you,” I said.
9
 CELINE

I couldn’t sleep last night. When I closed my eyes, I saw Alaric— with the chiseled body of a
Greek God, fire and hunger in his eyes. I replayed Alaric and I fucking in my office over and over
again. I knew that things shouldn’t have gone as far as they did. I knew it was wrong. But why did
it feel so right? I had never felt this way with any man before. Alaric had me craving more, but I
needed to keep things professional between us. Nothing else could happen.
I arrived at my office this morning, hoping that Bethany didn’t go inside my room. With the scent
of sex and sweat, and items out of place, I’d guess that Bethany would be suspicious about my
personal life.
“Good morning, Beth.” I greeted her, smiling wide.
“Morning, Celine.” She looked up from her computer screen and waved.
“Are there any cancellations today?” I asked.
“No, everyone confirmed their appointments for today. Oh!” Beth’s expression faltered, looking
worried. “Before I forget, Mr. Nelson and Coach Rhodes will be visiting you after lunch before your
one o’clock appointment.”
I gave a lop-sided smile. “I’m not too worried. They’re probably checking up on their players
who are also my clients. Thanks for your concern, though. I appreciate it.”
Beth nodded; the corners of her lips curved to a small smile. Then I went into my office to get
ready for my first session. I looked around the room, remembering what Alaric and I did here
yesterday. I smirked then shook my head as if that was going to knock my dirty thoughts out of my
mind. The sound of knocking on the door startled my thoughts and I was back to reality. My first
patient of the day arrived, and we got to work.
The morning went by pretty quickly. Soon after my lunch break, Mr. Nelson and Coach Rhodes
arrived at my office.
“Hello Mr. Nelson and Coach Rhodes, have a seat.” I gestured to the empty chairs front of my
desk.
They sat across from me, and I swallowed the lump that was stuck in my throat.
“What can I assist you with today?” I asked.
“I’ll get straight to the point. We need to know how Alaric’s doing. We’re worried about his
batting performance. We traded to get him on the Angels hoping he’d be a good fit here. If he can’t
perform to our organization’s standards, we have no choice but to trade him elsewhere.”
Looking at the worried expressions on both men, I knew that this was important to the team. “I
understand, sir. I’ll do everything I can to help him get past his blocks.”
 “We know you will. I think you should attend and watch Alaric. Maybe you’ll notice something,
and you can use it to help him improve,” Coach Rhodes suggested.
I nodded. “I’ll be there.”
“Great, I’ll make sure you get great seats down on the field,” Mr. Nelson grinned.
The main topic of conversation was about Alaric, but we discussed some of the other players that
I was treating as well.
“We’ll see you at the game tonight, Doctor Pineda.” Both men stood up, shook hands with me, and
left.
Bethany informed me that I didn’t have any appointments for the rest of the afternoon, so I
dismissed her for the rest of the day. Pretending I couldn’t sense my growing nerves, I went home to
get ready for this evening’s game.

I ARRIVED AT THE STADIUM AND GOT SEATED IN THE FIELD SECTION , CLOSE ENOUGH TO GET A GOOD
view of the baseball players. I watched every player take their turn at bat, waiting for Alaric. Like in
the movies, the bases were loaded and two outs. Guess who’s at bat: Alaric. This was either going to
be a nightmare or a miracle. Hopefully it was the latter.
I stared at his every move. He was close enough for me to see the intense expression on his face,
focused on the pitcher. I saw the muscle strands on his arms flex as he gripped the bat. My eyes raked
down the toned and sculpted body; that was bared for me not too long ago. He was so fucking sexy
with and without clothes. Thinking about what happened in my office with him had me feeling hot and
bothered. I wanted him, but I knew I couldn’t cross that line. Celine, focus!
The pitcher threw the first pitch, and I scrunched my face as soon as I saw Alaric tense and
freeze. Come on, Alaric. You can do it. The pitcher threw the next pitch and Alaric swung, hitting the
ball. The loud crack of the bat was heard over the crowd cheering and taunting him. My eyes widened
as they followed the ball to its destination. A smile slowly crept up on my face. HOME RUN!
He’d knocked the ball over the center field seats. I stood up, cheering at the top of my voice. I
was so proud of him. I received a text message:

MR. NELSON: Whatever you’re doing to help Alaric, keep it up!

CELINE: Will do. Thank you, sir.

As Alaric crossed the home plate, he fist bumped his teammates. He turned around facing in my
direction, and our eyes locked. I remembered when he said that he could spot me in a crowd. I
wondered when he’d learned that I was here. He winked at me and went to the dugout. My face
heated up, blushing. I hoped no one saw that it was directed to me.
I watched the entire game, focused on how Alaric played. It was like he was a totally different
person. He had confidence and was fearless. I was amazed at how much he changed in the shortest
amount of time.
As fans were leaving, I hung around for a bit. I had a pass to hang out with the team if I wanted to
see them. I wanted to congratulate Alaric on his game tonight, so I headed to the locker room area and
wait until he got out. As I walked through the hallway, someone gripped my arm and pulled me to the
side.
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and every time he gave a particularly fervent bite, the bell rang. I
hope it scared him as much as it did me, but if so, his hunger
triumphed over his fear, for he kept returning to the feast.
On another occasion I was out shooting in a desolate place in
Michigan. I was accompanied by my friend, A. K. Merritt, now
Registrar of Yale College, who will vouch for the truth of the story.
Dusk was falling; there was no wind. We had wandered into a scene
of stagnant desolation. Dead trees had fallen in rotten ruin across
the trail, and the swampy pools were covered with a green mantle of
decay. Merritt was walking in front and I close behind him. The gloom
and depression of the scene in the deepening dusk had affected our
spirits, so that we had not spoken for some time. Suddenly I thought
of the scenery of Browning’s poem, Childe Roland. The lines of that
masterpiece of horror would well describe this place, I thought; and I
began to repeat them in my mind without saying a word aloud. Then
methought there was only one thing needed to make the picture
complete. That was the horrible horse, which in the poem stood
alone and sinister in the gathering night. If that horse were here, I
said to myself, this would indeed be the veritable country of Childe
Roland. Something impelled me to look behind my back, and, to my
unutterable surprise and horror, I found myself looking directly into
the eyes of a forlorn old horse. I let out a yell of sheer uncontrollable
terror.
Merritt was as startled by the yell as I had been by its cause. I
asked him if the horse was really there. It was bad to have him there,
but worse if he were not. Merritt reassured me on that point.
I suppose the poor old horse had been pensioned off by some
farmer, and had silently followed us on the spongy ground, either
because he was lonesome or because he wanted salt. But he gave
me the shock of my life.
I have thought much about it since, and I am unable to
determine whether the appearance of the horse at the precise
moment when I was thinking of him was a coincidence—or was I all
the time subconsciously aware of his presence? That is to say, did
the nearness of the horse, even though I had no conscious
knowledge of it, suggest to my subconscious mind the lines from the
poem? I wish I knew.
 XLII
TRIAL BY JURY

When I was an undergraduate at Yale, we were fortunate in

having as one of our professors Edward John Phelps, who was
unexpectedly appointed minister to England by Grover Cleveland,
and who, after making a fine impression at the Court of St. James—
do you know why it is called that?—returned to his professorship. He
was fond of making general statements, not only concerned with his
specialty, the law, but on anything that rose to the surface of his
mind; so that to take his course was in itself a liberal education.
I well remember his beginning one lecture by saying
emphatically, “Trial by jury is a good thing which has outlived its
usefulness.”
I believe that when he made that statement, he spoke the truth.
If it was true then, it is certainly true now; nothing has happened
since to improve the situation, or to make jury trials fairer or less
expensive to the state. In America, we have two pieces of obsolete
machinery—the electoral college and trial by jury. When I began
university teaching, one of my freshman pupils made the only
interesting contribution to the workings of the electoral college that I
have ever seen. I gave out as a theme subject, “The Electoral
College,” and the first theme handed in opened with this sentence
—“I do not believe in the Electoral College.” Well, neither did I, so
thus far I agreed with my pupil; I read the next sentence to get his
reasons; it was the next sentence that contained the original
contribution to the subject, “The trouble is,” wrote the freshman, “that
in the Electoral College everybody chooses snap courses.”
 Now the original idea on which the scheme of trial by jury was
founded was as good as human ingenuity could devise. Any person
accused of anything involving legal punishment was to be tried by a
jury of his peers—twelve average, common-sensible, fair-minded
men, who, after hearing all the evidence and the pleas of the
lawyers, would bring in a verdict, which presumably would be in
accordance with the facts, and therefore just. But in the course of
time, although human nature has not changed, circumstances have,
and it is difficult to avoid today the conclusion that the chief
qualification for a member of a jury is that he should not be fit to
serve. Unfitness is the only fitness. Anyone who has an opinion is
barred; in order therefore for one to be eligible he must be one who
knows little of the world in which he lives and who is curiously
insensitive to what everybody is talking about. In a recent editorial in
the New Haven Journal-Courier, the point is well made.

An intelligent man even with prejudice would appear to be a

better person to entrust the decision of life or death with, after
the presentation of the evidence and the interpretation of it by
counsel and the judge’s charge, than an ignorant person who
knows too little of current life to form any opinions whatever
upon any subject.

Furthermore, it frequently happens that after a trial lasting for

months the jury disagree, making another trial necessary, and
involving an enormous waste of public money. There ought to be
some better way of reaching a decision.
Then the very fact that the members of a jury are apt to be below
rather than above the average person in intelligence, makes them
particularly susceptible to emotional response when skilfully handled
by a clever criminal lawyer. Only a short time ago a jealous woman
deliberately murdered her husband and the woman she suspected,
although neither then nor at any time were they caught in a
compromising situation; at the trial the evidence certainly looked
black because it was all against the murderess. She was, however,
an attractive physical specimen. Her lawyer stood her up in front of
the jury, put his arm around her, and defiantly asked the jury if they
were going to put to death this beautiful woman whose only offence
was that she was a defender of the ideals of the home, American
ideals. Should she, who stood so nobly and resolutely for family
purity, be slaughtered? The jury acquitted her.
Furthermore, jury verdicts, instead of being in accordance with
the evidence and with the law, are often determined by local
sentiment. I remember two events in America at the same time, only
in widely separated parts of our country. In the first instance, a
husband who had for some time suspected his wife, happened to
stumble upon the unmistakable proof of guilt; in a transport of rage,
he killed his man. He was convicted of murder in the first degree, but
the death sentence was commuted to imprisonment for life. He is in
prison now. In the second instance, a husband hearing that his wife
had gone to a hotel with another man, deliberately armed himself,
went thither and killed both. The local jury instantly acquitted him,
and he was a popular hero.
I do not believe in capital punishment, and should like to see it
abolished. But its sole merit, acting as a deterrent to crime, can be
realised only in a country like England, where trials are conducted
with absolute formality, where a decision is speedily reached, and
where the verdict of guilty is speedily followed by execution. In the
United States the murderer is too often a romantic hero, and has a
long career as a great actor, whether or not he is convicted.
It seems to me that the best judges of any case are those who
by education and training are best qualified to judge. It is significant
that in Connecticut the prisoner may now choose to be tried by three
professional judges rather than by twelve incompetent men. In a
recent famous instance the prisoner did make that choice.
Too often a public trial by jury becomes a public scandal; of
greater harm to the community and to the state than the crime of
which the prisoner is accused.
Mark Twain said: “We have a criminal jury system which is
superior to any in the world; and its efficiency is only marred by the
difficulty of finding twelve men every day who don’t know anything
and can’t read.”
 XLIII
ATHLETICS

The whole world, with the exception of India, China, Siberia and
a few other countries, has gone wild over athletics. Although new
stadiums and amphitheatres are in process of construction
everywhere, it is impossible to accommodate the crowds. Millions of
people have apparently the money and the time to devote to these
spectacular contests, and many more millions “listen in” on the radio.
In England last June Wimbledon was not half large enough to hold
the frantic crowd that wished to see the tennis matches; the same is
true of France. At a recent wrestling contest in Austria, after all the
seats were taken, the gates were broken down by the mob of
spectators who wished to enter; about 150,000 people saw a prize
fight in Chicago and it is significant of the times that the only vacant
seats were the cheapest.
Every newspaper devotes an immense amount of space to
sporting news; and all the leading daily journals employ a highly paid
staff of experts on sports, who keep the public agog with excitement
before every contest and who endeavour to satisfy its curiosity after
the battle is over.
Now there are some pessimistic philosophers who look upon all
this athletic fever as a sign of degeneration, as evidence of the
coming eclipse of civilisation. They point out that during the decay of
the Roman Empire there was a universal excitement over sports,
and they draw the inference that European and American civilisation
is headed toward disaster.
No one can read the future, although innumerable fakers are
paid for doing so. But it is at least possible that the ever-growing
interest in athletics, instead of being a sign of degeneration, is in
reality one more proof of the gradual domination of the world by
Anglo-Saxon language, customs and ideas.
Extreme interest in athletics, though it cannot be defended on
strictly rational grounds, is not necessarily accompanied by a lack or
loss of interest in intellectual matters. If one had to name the place
and the time when civilisation reached its climax, one might well
name Athens in the fifth century before Christ. If one compares
Athenian public interest in the tragedies of Sophocles with New York
public interest in musical comedy, the contrast is not flattering to
American pride. Yet that intellectual fervour in Athens was
accompanied by a tremendous interest in track athletics. Every
Greek city was a separate state; their only bond of union was the
track meet held every four years and called the Olympic Games, to
which the flower of youth from every Greek town contributed; and the
winner of each event—a simon-pure amateur, receiving as prize only
a laurel wreath—was a hero for at least four years.
From the strictly rational point of view it is impossible to defend
or even to explain the universal ardour over athletics, but it is best to
regard it as a fact, and then see what its causes are.
The majority of Anglo-Saxons have always had sporting blood,
and the Latin races are now being infused with it. I well remember a
train journey near Chicago during the darkest days of the World War.
We were all awaiting the newspapers. Suddenly a newsboy entered
and we bought eagerly. The man sitting next to me was a clergyman
in Episcopal uniform. He looked not at the front part of the paper, but
turned feverishly to the sporting page, which he read carefully. When
I called on the Very Reverend Dean of Rochester Cathedral, in
England, Dean Hole, I was shown into a room containing several
thousand books. I glanced over these and all I saw dealt exclusively
with sport.
Many excellent men without sporting blood have protested
against the domination of athletics. The famous English novelist,
Wilkie Collins, published a novel, Man and Wife, which was a protest
against the British love of sports, in which both athletes and the
public were ridiculed. Why should thousands pay money to see two
men run a race? What difference did it make to civilisation which
man won?
Yet, although it is easy to overdo excitement about athletics, the
growing interest in sport which has been so characteristic of France,
Germany and Italy during the last ten years is a good thing for the
youth of these countries and for their national and international
temper.
Years ago, the space occupied in England and in America by
fields devoted to various outdoor sports was in Germany and France
used for public gardens, where people sat and drank liquor while
listening to a band or watching some vaudeville. When I first
travelled on the Continent, I found only one tennis court and that was
at Baden-Baden. Today one finds everywhere in France and
Germany tennis courts, golf links and football fields.
It is surely not a change for the worse that a German student
who used to test his physical endurance by the number of quarts of
beer he could drink at a sitting tests it today in tennis, rowing and
football, and that the French students with silky beards, who used to
strain their eyes looking at women, now, clean-shaven and alert, are
looking at the tennis ball.
It is, of course, irrational to take an eager interest in a prize fight,
but if you have sporting blood you cannot help it. My father was an
orthodox Baptist minister. As I had never heard him mention prize
fighting, I supposed he took no interest in it.
But the day after a famous battle, as I was reading aloud the
newspaper to him, I simply read the headline, “Corbett Defeats
Sullivan,” and was about to pass on to something important when my
father leaned forward and said earnestly, “Read it by rounds.”
 XLIV
A PRIVATE LIBRARY ALL YOUR OWN

A borrowed book is like a guest in the house; it must be treated

with punctiliousness, with a certain considerate formality. You must
see that it sustains no damage; it must not suffer while under your
roof. You cannot leave it carelessly, you cannot mark it, you cannot
turn down the pages, you cannot use it familiarly. And then, some
day, although this is seldom done, you really ought to return it.
But your own books belong to you; you treat them with that
affectionate intimacy that annihilates formality. Books are for use, not
for show; you should own no book that you are afraid to mark up, or
afraid to place on the table, wide open and face down. A good
reason for marking favourite passages in books is that this practice
enables you to remember more easily the significant sayings, to refer
to them quickly, and then in later years, it is like visiting a forest
where you once blazed a trail. You have the pleasure of going over
the old ground, and recalling both the intellectual scenery and your
own earlier self.
Everyone should begin collecting a private library in youth; the
instinct of private property, which is fundamental in human beings,
can here be cultivated with every advantage and no evils. One
should have one’s own bookshelves, which should not have doors,
glass windows, or keys; they should be free and accessible to the
hand as well as to the eye. The best of mural decorations is books;
they are more varied in colour and appearance than any wall-paper,
they are more attractive in design, and they have the prime
advantage of being separate personalities, so that if you sit alone in
the room in the firelight, you are surrounded with intimate friends.
The knowledge that they are there in plain view is both stimulating
and refreshing. You do not have to read them all. Most of my indoor
life is spent in a room containing six thousand books; and I have a
stock answer to the invariable question that comes from strangers.
“Have you read all of these books?” “Some of them twice.” This reply
is both true and unexpected.
There are of course no friends like living, breathing, corporeal
men and women; my devotion to reading has never made me a
recluse. How could it? Books are of the people, by the people, for
the people. Literature is the immortal part of history; it is the best and
most enduring part of personality. But book-friends have this
advantage over living friends; you can enjoy the most truly
aristocratic society in the world whenever you want it. The great
dead are beyond our physical reach, and the great living are usually
almost as inaccessible; as for our personal friends and
acquaintances, you cannot always see them. Perchance they are
asleep, or away on a journey. But in a private library, you can at any
moment converse with Socrates or Shakespeare or Carlyle or
Dumas or Dickens or Shaw or Barrie or Galsworthy. And there is no
doubt that in these books you see these men at their best. They
wrote for YOU. They “laid themselves out,” they did their ultimate
best to entertain you, to make a favourable impression. You are
necessary to them as an audience is to an actor; only instead of
seeing them masked, you look into their inmost heart of heart. The
“real Charles Dickens” is in his novels, not in his dressing-room.
Everyone should have a few reference books, carefully selected,
and within reach. I have a few that I can lay my hands on without
leaving my chair; this is not because I am lazy, but because I am
busy.
One should own an Authorised Version of the Bible in big type, a
good one-volume dictionary, the one-volume Index and Epitome to
the Dictionary of National Biography, a one-volume History of
England and another of the United States, Ryland’s Chronological
Outlines of English Literature, Whitcomb’s Chronological Outlines of
American Literature, and other works of reference according to one’s
special tastes and pursuits. These reference books should be, so far
as possible, up to date.
 The works of poets, dramatists, novelists, essayists, historians,
should be selected with care, and should grow in number in one’s
private library from the dawn of youth to the day of death.
First editions are an expensive luxury, but are more interesting to
the average mind than luxurious bindings. When you hold in your
hand a first edition of the seventeenth century, you are reading that
book in its proper time-setting; you are reading it as the author’s
contemporaries read it; maybe your copy was handled by the author
himself. Furthermore, unless you have paid too much for it, it is
usually a good investment; it increases in value more rapidly than
stocks and shares, and you have the advantage of using it. It is great
fun to search book-catalogues with an eye to bargains; it is exciting
to attend an auction sale.
But of course most of us must be content to buy standard
authors, living and dead, in modern editions. Three qualities are well
to bear in mind. In getting any book, get the complete edition of that
book; not a clipped, or condensed, or improved or paraphrased
version. Second, always get books in black, clear, readable type.
When you are young, you don’t mind; youth has the eyes of eagles.
But later, you refuse to submit to the effort—often amounting to pain
—involved in reading small type, and lines set too close together.
Third, get volumes that are light in weight. It is almost always
possible to secure this inestimable blessing in standard authors.
Some books are so heavy that to read them is primarily a gymnastic,
rather than mental exercise; and if you travel, and wish to carry them
in your bag or trunk, they are an intolerable burden. Refuse to submit
to this. There was a time when I could tell, merely by “hefting” it,
whether a book had been printed in England or in America; but
American publishers have grown in grace, and today many American
books are easy to hold.
Some books must be bought in double column; but avoid this
wherever possible, and buy such books only when economy makes
it necessary to have the complete works of the author in one volume.
A one-volume Shakespeare is almost a necessity; but it should be
used for reference, as we use a dictionary, never for reading. Get
Shakespeare in separate volumes, one play at a time. It is better to
have some of an author’s works in attractive form, than to have them
complete in a cumbrous or ugly shape.
Remember that for the price of one ticket to an ephemeral
entertainment, you can secure a book that will give strength and
pleasure to your mind all your life. Thus I close by saying two words
to boys and girls, men and women: BUY BOOKS.
 XLV
THE GREATEST COMMON DIVISOR

Some distinguished novelists are like lofty peaks. Few ascend

them and those who do breathe rarefied air. There are writers whose
fame is apparently secure who have never had many readers, and
there are writers who have an enormous public and no fame. George
Meredith and Henry James were men of genius, and there will
always be enough people of taste to save some of their books from
oblivion; but neither of these authors made much money. Both
Meredith and James would have liked to have a million readers;
perhaps it is to their credit that they made no compromises to
increase the sales of their works, perhaps they could not have
succeeded in such an undertaking had they tried.
While in the long run it is popularity that determines a writer’s
fame—not only Shakespeare, but every first rate English poet has
today many thousands of readers—there are also “trashy” books
which sell like gasolene, and there are trashy books which do not
sell at all. It is a comforting thought that the majority of trashy books
have a smaller sale than masterpieces, and that the best book ever
written has had, has, and will have the largest sale of all.
It won’t do to prefer posterity to popularity; posterity is more cruel
to the average writer than are his contemporaries. Shakespeare was
the most popular Elizabethan dramatist; Ben Jonson, the foremost
press agent of his time, said that his friend Shakespeare had
surpassed all the writers of Greece and Rome, which was exactly
what John Dryden, the foremost press agent of his time, said of his
contemporary, Milton. Gray’s Elegy, Byron’s Childe Harold,
Tennyson’s In Memoriam, Kipling’s Recessional, were popular two
weeks after their publication, and they are popular now. In the long
run the best books have the largest sales.
In every age, however, there are certain novelists of prodigious
vogue, whose works nevertheless are to readers of good taste
negligible. The common people read them gladly and the Scribes
and Pharisees regard them with scorn. When our high school
teachers and junior college professors wish to relieve their systems
of accumulated bile, they pour out before their sceptical pupils bitter
denunciations of Harold Bell Wright, the late Gene Stratton Porter
and Zane Grey. They try to persuade their flocks that the books by
these writers are not interesting; but the flocks know that they are,
and instead of despising these novelists, they lose confidence in
their instructors.
Far be it from me to pretend that Mr. Wright and Mr. Grey are
literary artists, or to enter the lists as a champion of their works.
What I have read of them has not left me with an insatiable appetite
for more. But here is a fact of interest to students of books and of
human nature—of the “works” of Porter and of Wright over nine
million copies have been sold, and as we rate five readers to every
copy, each of these two worthies has an audience of forty-five million
readers. What does this mean? Many will say it means that the
public loves trash. I don’t believe it; the majority of books are trash,
and the majority of books do not sell. Some critics and some
unsuccessful writers say that they could write just the same sort of
thing if they would stoop to it; I don’t believe it. The financial rewards
of popularity are so great that many writers would produce tales of
adventure if they were sure of a million readers.
It is possible that boys and girls read these books because of
their good qualities rather than because of their defects. Why is it
that these authors are Greatest Common Divisors? Why do they
make the largest appeal to the largest number of people?
Well, in the first place they are novelists, and the foremost of
recent novelists, Thomas Hardy, says that the novel should tell a
story. The average school-boy knows that a book by Wright, Porter
or Grey will have a good story. The majority of our novelists either
will not or can not tell a story. All they have is a time-plot, beginning
with the smells the baby had in his cradle, of no interest to any one
except the novelist, going on with his fights and loves at school, etc.,
etc. Most people are like the Sultan in the Arabian Nights, they love
a good story; Wright, Porter and Grey furnish it. The lives of most
boys and girls are not romantic or unusual; in the novel they get an
escape from life, a change of air, a vacation; and there is nothing
boys love more than a vacation. Again, however deficient in conduct
boys and girls may be, they instinctively love courage, honour, truth,
beauty, magnanimity; the novels of the Terrible Three all work for
righteousness. In the eternal conflict between good and evil, these
Greatest Common Divisors are on the right side; even if they do not
know much about style, or much about psychology, or much about
subtlety of motive, they do know the difference between right and
wrong, something that some much bepraised novelists seem to have
forgotten or to think unimportant.
I do not believe the majority of supercilious critics and other
cultivated mature readers began in early youth by reading great
books exclusively; I think they read Jack Harkaway, and Old Sleuth,
and the works of Oliver Optic and Horatio Alger. From these
enchanters they learned a thing of importance—the delight of
reading. Once having learned that having found that a book, easily
procurable, is the key to happy recreation, they obtained a never-
failing resource of happiness.
A similar thing is observable in poetry. If a boy learns to love
highly exciting narrative poetry, or pretty sentiments set to easy
tunes, it is more probable that he will later love great poetry than if
he never caught the lilt of words in youth.
Nothing that I have said is at variance with one of my oft-
expressed beliefs—those parents who are not only interested in the
welfare of their children, but are capable of setting them a good
example, do not need to use the Greatest Common Divisor so often.
They can by sympathetic intercourse with their children, and by
patience, bring them up from the start on the Bible, Shakespeare,
Bunyan, Swift, Defoe and other writers of genius; but a large number
of boys and girls come to our schools from uncultivated homes, and
from parents who are stupid, or selfish, or silly; these children must
learn the magic of books, and it is my belief that the makers of
exciting stories, with sentiment laid on thick, with heroes and
heroines who are brave, honourable and virtuous are performing a
public service.
 XLVI
THE GREAT AMERICAN GAME

Baseball is American in its origin, development and area. It is

also American in its dynamic qualities of speed and force, and in the
shortness of time required to play a full game and reach a decision.
Americans do not love serial games like cricket; in literature they are
better at writing short stories than at novels, and they enjoy games
where a verdict is soon reached.
Looking back over the history of this national pastime, I can
remember when the pitcher was allowed nine balls before losing his
man, and one year in the last century it took four strikes to retire the
batsman. I can also remember when a foul ball caught on the first
bound was “out,” when a foul tip—often successfully imitated by
clever catchers—was “out,” and I played the game many years
before an uncaught foul was a strike. In order to have a wider radius
for fouls, the catcher used to stand far back, moving up behind the
bat only after the second strike, or when bases had the tenancy of
opponents. Every advance in the rules has been in the direction of
speed; and at present the game seems unimprovable.
Nearly every game has some inherent defect; as putting is sixty-
five per cent of golf, so pitching is sixty-five per cent of baseball.
Moral: Be a good putter, and see that your nine has a good pitcher.
Pitching seems to be a greater physical and mental strain than in
the last century, although the box artist does not pitch so many balls
in the average game as he used to. In spite of that fact, Radbourne
of Providence, who was the greatest professional pitcher I ever saw,
won the national championship for his team in 1884 by pitching
every day for a long period. And his team-mate, the late John M.
Ward, who afterwards joined New York, told me that in 1879 he
pitched sixty-six consecutive games! The universal disease of
nerves, from which no twentieth century American is exempt, is
probably responsible for the more careful treatment of pitchers today.
On July 23, 1884, the Providence club, then in the National
league, was crippled for pitchers. Radbourne went into the box from
that date until September 26 when he had won the National league
pennant, daily, except August 2, 18, 20. He pitched thirty-six games
during that period, twenty-two on consecutive days, and winning
eighteen. Of the thirty-six, he won thirty-one, lost four, and tied one.
Tim Keefe in 1888 broke Radbourne’s record for straight games
won, by winning nineteen, and Marquard in 1912 equalled Keefe’s.
Next to Radbourne comes Joe Wood, with sixteen straight, won in
1912.
Radbourne’s total feat for the 1884 season of pitching seventy-
seven games (seventy-four National league championships and
three world series, winning three straight in the world series—no
other pitcher was used) is another record that stands.
The greatest baseball player of all time is Tyrus Raymond Cobb,
of Georgia. He not only holds an unexampled batting record, his
speed in the outfield was so great that he was moved from right to
centre, and in his base-running it is not much to say that he raised
the art to a higher plane. Ordinarily, the best of players was content
to steal second, but if Cobb saw that the ball was not going to beat
him to the second bag, he kept right on to third. The bewildered
second baseman, who naturally had a psychological caesura when
the attempted play failed, had to begin all over again in order to
catch his parting guest at third. And, flustered as he was by the
sheer audacity of the thing, he was apt to be wild. Cobb capitalised
his reputation; he knew the basemen were all “laying for him,” and
owing to that curse which has always afflicted humanity, which
makes it more difficult to do a thing in proportion to one’s desire to
do it, they found it more of a task to retire Cobb than to retire anyone
else. If they had not known it was Cobb, they could have got him. Mr.
Cobb told me once that it was largely a matter of mind reading; he
had to out-guess his opponents, he had to know what they were
going to do. Certainly his stealing of bases has been phenomenal;
he would steal first base if he could.
His ambitious, fiery, high-strung disposition, which is largely
responsible for his success, has also caused him to lose his temper
on the field. This is regrettable, and of course, must be punished.
And yet I have some sympathy for these lapses, and do not
condemn them unqualifiedly as some colder judges do. The anxiety
to win is what enrages a player when things go wrong, and I fully
understand it though I recognise its sinfulness. Although I myself
was very carefully brought up by a pious father and mother, and
although I had the unspeakable advantage of being a Yale graduate,
I once threw a bat at an umpire when he called me out on strikes. In
order to atone for this sin, I have often—like Doctor Johnson—stood
unprotected in the rain, when I had no umbrella.
The greatest baseball pitcher in Yale’s history was Amos Alonzo
Stagg, of the class of 1888. He won the championship over both
Harvard and Princeton five successive years, pitching in every
championship game. He headed the batting order, was a fine base-
runner, and in minor games, played behind the bat, on the bases and
in the outfield. He knew baseball thoroughly. He never had great
speed, or wide curves; but he had marvellous control and a memory
that was uncanny. If a batsman faced him once, Stagg never forgot
him, and thereafter never gave that batsman anything he wanted.
Carter, of the class of ’95, was a great pitcher and all-round ball
player, as different in other respects from Stagg as could well be
imagined. Stagg was very short; Carter was six foot four. Carter had
blinding speed with tremendous curves. But if you compare his
record of championships with that of his predecessor, you will see
why I rate him second to Stagg. These two men, are, I think, Yale’s
foremost box heroes.
Baseball is not so spectacular as football, but in one respect it
has a great advantage over its more lusty rival. Everyone sees what
happens in baseball; the spectator sees every play, and he knows
instantly the reason for every success and every failure. In football