Hometown Boy: The All American Boy Series Read online

  HOMETOWN BOY

  * * *

  AN ALL AMERICAN BOY SERIES

  NICOLE RICHARD

  Copyright

  HOMETOWN BOY

  Copyright ©2021 by Nicole Richard

  All Rights Reserved

  ISBN: 9798592827792

  Editing: Ashley Williams, AW Editing

  Proofreading: Julie Deaton, Deaton Author Services

  Formatting: Stacy Blake, Champagne Book Design

  Cover: Jo-Anna Walker, Just Write.Creations

  No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations in a book review. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters places and incidents are product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons living or dead, is coincidental.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT

  ALL AMERICAN BOY

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ALL AMERICAN BOY SERIES

  HOMETOWN BOY PLAYLIST

  ALSO BY NICOLE RICHARD

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  SNEAK PEEK OF TOP NOTCH

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  ALL AMERICAN BOY

  Welcome to Merlot, CA, an idyllic all-American town in wine country where love is in the air, the boys are grown as fine as the wine and the town is a breeding ground for second-chances, weddings, and brand-new beginnings.

  The All-American Boy Series gives you a taste of 15 of your favorite bestselling authors’ brand-new stories in this shared world experience. All books are standalone but may include cross-over in characters or scenes.

  Grab a glass of wine, put your feet up and let us whisk you away to wine country.

  The series includes the following books:

  Sierra Hill The Boy Next Door

  Poppy Parkes Boy Toy

  Evan Grace The Boy Scout

  Emily Robertson The Boyfriend Hoax

  Kaylee Ryan and Lacey Black Boy Trouble

  Kimberly Readnour Celebrity Playboy

  Marika Ray Backroom Boy

  Leslie McAdam Boy on a Train

  KL Humphreys Bad Boy

  Remy Blake That Boy

  Stephanie Browning The Boy She Left Behind

  Stephanie Kay About a Boy

  Renee Harless Lover Boy

  SL Sterling Saviour Boy

  CHAPTER ONE

  * * *

  CHAUNCY

  “You’ve been traded.”

  “What?” A bark of laughter slipped. This had to be some kind of sick joke. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “I never joke about one of my guys being traded, especially one of my better players,” Greg the GM said, attempting to soften the blow.

  This made no sense. If I were one of the Bucks’ better players, why would they do this? Why get rid of me and hand me off to the competition?

  I sat there stewing but then it came to me. With a slow turn of my neck and a cunning smile, I looked over my shoulder and waited for Ashton Kutcher and his camera crew to come jogging in, my teammates on their heels, laughing as they told me I had been Punk’d.

  Classic Covack and Alvarez tomfoolery. Payback for last season when a couple of us infested Covack’s hotel room with rubber roaches. He came running out so fast we thought a fire had lit under his ass. The best part was that the entire ordeal was caught on camera and uploaded to his Instagram. Priceless.

  Then there was the playoff game when I’d changed Alvarez’s walk-up song to “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.” Boy, was he pissed.

  Only, after a minute, my smile dropped. Coach was serious. He wasn’t playing along with some fucked-up antic the guys had constructed. I really had been traded. Fuck!

  I looked at the door one more time, willing the guys to pop out of nowhere. I’d take being Punk’d over this any day. And once the initial shock wore off, I argued, “But I just pitched the game of the season. Seven innings. A no-hitter!” I lost my stride in the eighth inning, but that wasn’t the point. “Why would they trade me?”

  With both hands, I gripped the bill of my Bucks’ cap, subjectively recapping the best game of my career to date. How I had a chance to show what I was worth, that I had earned and deserved my spot. Seven innings and not one goddamn hit. Seven!

  Not that it would change anything. What was done was done.

  “Where am I headed?”

  Coach let out a resounding sigh. “Look . . .” The Bucks’ second-in-command looked me straight in the eyes and offered a silent apology. “Colorado.”

  My jaw dropped. “The fuck!”

  Of the twenty-nine teams, it had to be the White Caps? The team that was rumored to have played dirty more than a time or two. Would I be spared from the hatred and fly under the wings of the small handful of players that were exempt from the feud?

  “I know this is not ideal, but it’s business. Bosch is, well—” He sighed again. “This might give you a chance to move up in the rotation.”

  I cocked a brow. If this was what it took to get more playing time, I didn’t want it. I was positive there were worse teams that could use a better pitcher.

  “I tried to—”

  I cut him off with a wave of my hand. “I get it.” Not that I liked it. I hated it, actually, but there was no point in dragging this out. The owner made his decision. At this point, there wasn’t a thing Greg or anyone could do.

  The look on his face said he was relieved.

  Greg Ferguson, the general manager for the Atlanta Bucks, was a good man, a fair man who hated this part of his job. “I was able to get you a few extra days off. Spend some time with your family. Enjoy your grandparents’ anniversary party. You report to Denver on Wednesday.”

  Four days.

  “Thanks.”

  He stuck his hand out, and I looked at it for a split second before clasping and shaking it. Then he pulled me in for a hug and clapped my back a couple of times. “Take care of yourself, kid.”

  “I will,” I choked out.

  “And tell your parents I said hello.”

  “Sure thing.” I swallowed the ball of emotion.

  “And . . .” He stalled, finally clearing his throat. “Well, you better hit the road if you’re going to make your flight.”

  I nodded once. “Yeah, I should.” My flight wasn’t until the morning, but it was an early one. Regardless, it was his way of ending an awkward conversation. And I still needed to pack. “Hey, Greg, a favor?”

  “Sure,” he replied without any hesitation.

  “Can we keep this out of the news until I get there? I’d like this weekend to be about my grandparents.”

  He nodded in understanding. “You bet.”

  “Thanks.”

  “All right. I’ll see you on the field,” was the last thing he said before turning the corner and walking off.

  I should’ve done the same, just in the other direction, but my feet wouldn’t
move. The shock was starting to wear off, and I was beginning to understand that I’d never set foot in this clubhouse again. Not as an Atlanta Buck. The place I had called home for the last three years wasn’t mine anymore.

  As much as I hated to admit it, it hurt. I bled navy and maroon. I was an Atlanta Buck from day one, working my way through their farm system. How could anyone expect me to throw on another team’s jersey and pledge my allegiance?

  It didn’t matter. What was done was done.

  Hometown Merlot, here I come.

  The coast was beautiful this time of year with its crystal-blue waters, cool salt breeze, and sunshine, so I took my time driving from the airport to my parents’ house.

  Twenty minutes into the drive, my phone rang. After glancing at the screen on the dash, I laughed, shaking my head.

  “Sup,” I answered without taking my eyes off the road.

  “What the fuck, asshole! You get traded and just skip town. What a douche.” He chuckled, but his disappointment was loud and clear.

  “Yeah,” I sighed. “It wasn’t as if I had a choice, but I was headed out of town anyway for my grandparents’ anniversary party.”

  “That’s right. Sorry, dude.” There was a weird pause. “So, Colorado? Of all the fucking places . . . Covack’s gonna shit a brick.”

  “It is what it is. Not much I can do about it.” There wasn’t.

  “That’s bullshit, and you know it. I can’t believe Bosch would let a trade go through on the last day of spring training. Not his style. I wonder what else he’s got up his sleeve.”

  “Not sure, man, but I wouldn’t worry about it. They’d never let you go.”

  “Nope. And I’ve got an ironclad contract to prove it.”

  “I hear you.” Not knowing what else to say, I drove.

  “Well, I gotta get my tired ass into the cages. Keep in touch. And next time we whoop your—” Hatch started laughing. “Let’s just say you’re going to buy me a beer.”

  “Yeah, whatever.” I chuckled. “Hey, thanks for the call.”

  “You bet,” he said before disconnecting.

  An hour later, I pulled into the driveway of my childhood house and sat there, staring at the Craftsman Ranch home tucked into the charming wine country town in Northern California. A hamlet of vineyards, trendy shops, eateries, and a few hotels or quaint inns that were minutes away from the coast. Merlot had everything a person needed within arm’s reach and was a place where the locals knew your name but had the decency to respect their neighbors.

  I got out of my rental and grabbed my bags from the trunk. Mr. Nadir was outside watering his plants, watching me without trying to make it obvious that he was watching me. My brother, Aaron, and I always joked that he was the neighborhood watchdog. Mr. Nadir may have been well over seventy, but at one time, he had been a badass Marine.

  I lifted my hand in greeting. “Hi there, Mr. Nadir.”

  “Chauncy?” He paused, squinted, and then pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Good to see you, son. One heck of a game you pitched last night.”

  “Thank you, sir.” I smiled, appreciating the bittersweet comment. It was one of the best games of my career to date.

  “Nice seeing you.” I waved again, and he nodded, dragging his water hose with him. I adjusted the strap of my duffel bag across my chest and made my way up the steps and inside.

  “Hey, I’m home,” I called to what looked like an empty house even though the sound of appliances running in the kitchen told me there was someone home.

  “Chauncy, honey, is that you?” my mother called, the smile clear in her voice.

  “Yeah, Mom, it’s me.” I dropped my duffel and backpack just inside the front door and took a quick look around. Everything was the same, right down to the prom photo of us my mother refused to take down.

  I wondered if she would notice if I switched it out for something else when she wasn’t looking.

  My favorite smell of home—cinnamon and sugar—pulled me deeper into the galley style kitchen, and after one look at me, Mom squealed, “Chauncy!”

  Mom’s long brown hair was pulled back into the usual braid, and her blue eyes were bright with happiness. At fifty, she tried her best to take care of herself but always blamed those “stubborn ten pounds” around her middle on having kids, and it never going away. We all knew it was because she had the worst sweet tooth in town.

  She wiped her hands on a kitchen towel, pulled her apron over her head, and tossed it on the counter. “Look at you.” She pulled me in for a hug and growled in her mama bear tone, “I swear if you wait another seven years before stepping foot in this house again, I’m going to smack you silly.” She giggled, but it was only to cover the emotion she was trying to hide.

  I had avoided Merlot after my first season in the minors because I hadn’t known how to deal with what happened. It all worked out perfectly playing in winter leagues, all the traveling and partying. When the holidays rolled around, I paid for destination trips so I could still spend time with my family without having to come home.

  But this time was different.

  “Sorry about that,” I soothed. “I’ll do better.”

  “I know you will.”

  Once I moved to Denver, I wouldn’t have an excuse for not visiting more. I’d be too close to claim I didn’t have enough time off for travel.

  Mom laid a hand on my cheek and smiled, searching my face for something—what, I had no idea. “So, how was your flight? You must’ve gotten in pretty early. You know you could’ve called, and Dad and I would’ve come and picked you up. Are you hungry? Thirsty? You must be tired? Your room’s ready if you want to take a nap.”

  “I’m good, Mom. Breathe.” I chuckled. “The flight wasn’t too bad, and the drive was nice. I needed the quiet for a bit.”

  She eyed me skeptically, her lips twisting to the left as it always did when she knew I was holding something back. I looked everywhere but at the same blue eyes we shared.

  “Relax, having some time alone is good for the soul.” I’d better be careful before she saw right through me.

  She’s my mother. Of course, she can see right through me. What the heck do I think she’s doing right now?

  “Well, that is true. And we know you boys need a whole lot of soul-cleansing with that lifestyle you live.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yes, seriously!” she said with that don’t-sass-me look. “Don’t think I don’t know about all the partying and women and—”

  I kissed her cheek. “It’s great to be home. I think I’m going to take that nap.”

  I was halfway to the door when she asked, “Did you at least bring a suit?”

  “Why would I need a suit?” I rolled my eyes like I did when I was a kid.

  “Chauncy,” she scolded to my retreating back.

  I was a twenty-six-year-old professional baseball player who was required to own at least two suits. I loved her dearly, but sometimes, parents could be so annoying, no matter the age.

  As soon as I walked into The Merlot Room at Braun Ranch Vineyards, I smiled. The modern-rustic room was bathed in white candlelight that flickered in clear vases, giving the space an ethereal glow. White roses lined each table, bringing it all together. Usually, I wouldn’t take a second glance at how a venue was decorated, but this was for two people that meant the world to me, and I wanted to make sure they were getting the best.

  Before I reached the check-in table, my mother grabbed my arm and patted the top of my hand. “Oh, good, you’re here,” she rushed, keeping her frantic voice low. “Why don’t you go and help your brother get the projector set up? He’s been at it for thirty minutes and can’t figure it out.”

  “What happened to the event coordinator?”

  “She fell bringing that dang thing in. I think she might’ve broken her arm.”

  “How convenient,” I groaned.

  “Chauncy!” she gasped, sounding appalled. “Don’t be a jerk. Now go over there a
nd help him, please.” Then she gave me a shove in my brother’s direction before grabbing my elbow and yanking me to a stop again. “Wait! Your cousins are performing, have you given any more thought—”

  “We already discussed this.” I gave her the eye that said drop it. And I meant it. I would do just about anything for my family, just not what she was asking.

  “Fine. Fine,” she huffed. “I just hope you have your speech ready. You’re up first.”

  I tucked my hands into my pockets and strode casually over to where my brother knelt, one knee on the hardwood, his elbow digging into his thigh, deep in concentration. I held back my laughter because he was staring at a pile of wires, clearly not knowing what the heck he was doing.

  “Need some help, there, big brother?”

  Aaron’s head jerked back, and his brows pinched tight. “It’s about fucking time. Will you figure this thing out before I blow a fuse or burn the whole fucking place down?”

  Aaron stood and brushed the wrinkles from his slacks. It was uncanny to me how much we looked alike. Matching sandy-brown hair and crystal-blue eyes like our mother. We were both six-feet tall and in shape, but while my build came from all the training I did, his came from everyday hard work.

  “Move aside and let a real man work.” I rubbed my hands together and then nudged him in the side. The gesture pissed him off, which made it all the more worth it. After all, what were brothers for if not irritating one another?

  “Pfft. Whatever, fucker. Put your money where your mouth is.” He shook his head before dropping his mock outrage and pulling me in for a hug. “You want me to grab you a beer?”

  “That’d be great. Thanks.”

  Five minutes later, I had the projector set up.

  “Shit. I owe you one.” Aaron handed me a brown bottle, and we tapped necks. “Good to have you home, brother. How was your flight?”

  “Good to be home, and it was all right. Nothing like flying with the team, that’s for sure.” That was mostly the truth. Being home was great—being here on this ranch had me eyeing every corner of the room in case I needed to make a run for it.