Read Knox (Sexy Bastard #3) for Free Online Page B

been using in New York, adding a few modifications here and there. The workout changes and evolves depending on the day of the week and the needs of the player. Today it’s a mix of weightlifting, pilates, and plyometrics—an explosive jumping series designed to teach your muscles to work quickly at their highest intensity and to bring back up whatever solid breakfast you were stupid enough to consume. I learned that lesson early on and now take my workouts on a near empty stomach.
    I’m close to finishing up when Mitch Everson, the team’s head pitching trainer, walks in. He watches without comment for a while and then introduces himself and asks if I’d like to do some practicing. We do a few warm-up catches in outfield, then head to the bullpen for a targeted review session.
    I’m definitely not on my game, but I try to shake it off. New team, unfamiliar facilities, new staff . . . and a missing good-luck hat.
    “How are you feeling, Knox?”
    “Stiff, but starting to warm up.”
    “We’ll get you there, buddy.”
    I whiff the next few pitches and Mitch pulls out his iPad to review the playback in slow-mo. “You’re leaning a bit right during your wind-up. Let’s see if we can course correct.”
    I tweak my stance and that seems to solve the problem. Mitch’s reputation is well-deserved.
    “Let’s try five more like that just to make sure it gels.”
    “Sounds good, Coach.”
    But on the next pitch I feel a twinge in my pitching shoulder. Maybe my lean was a form of compensation? A few rotations and neck rolls seem to set me straight, and I decide not to worry about it. Positive thinking is a time-tested form of injury prevention.
    “You all right, Knox?”
    “Yeah, Coach, I’m good. Nothing some time in the whirlpool won’t fix.”
    Back at the gym I sign up for a session with one of the sports therapists. A couple of hours of deep-tissue work should get me back on track.

    “ N obody told me about the shareholders’ meeting,” I call out as I walk through the door of the Library in the late afternoon lull. Jackson, Ryder, and Cash are huddled together at the end of the bar with a stack of paperwork in front of them.
    “I’ll help myself, thanks,” I say as I grab the open bottle of Patron on the bar.
    “Hey man, you want take on some administrative duties, you say the word,” Ryder says.
    “Nah, I’m good with an open-bar policy and a piece of the action.”
    “Speaking of action,” Cash says, pulling out his phone. “Looks like you’re going to have a hard time getting any in this town.”
    I groan. “I hate to admit it, but those sons of bitches got me good.”
    “You’re a meme. Looks like your hat’s made it all the way across the county line.”
    “Quite the welcome committee,” Jackson says, clapping me on the back. “Speaking of which, we’ve got a housewarming present for you.”
    Jackson crouches down behind the bar and brings out a flat package wrapped in brown paper.
    “For your new place, hope you like it.”
    “Holy shit,” I say as I tear off the paper. The guys went all out with this. It’s an autographed photo of the Atlanta Braves, 1966. That’s a historic year for the Braves—the year they moved from Milwaukee to Atlanta, and after shaking off a few years of bad luck, went on to win the Western League division playoffs.
    “How did you even find this?” I ask as I ogle it.
    Among other players, that year the team got Joe Torre, who needs no introduction, Hank Aaron, one of the greatest hitters in the history of the game, and Phil Niekro, a pitcher with a knuckleball that was downright unhittable.
    Some goddamned legends on that roster.
    “All Jackson’s idea,” Cash says with a laugh.
    “The team made a lucky move that year by coming to this city,” Jackson says, “And this year they’ve made a lucky trade.”
    “To new beginnings,” Ryder toasts, and I raise my shot glass to these friends who feel more like family.
    But as I slug back my tequila