I have one simple rule: don't date professional baseball players. There are no exceptions, no workarounds.
"What if-"
No.
"Could he-"
Nuh-uh.
With a brother in the league, I've seen the good, the bad, and the downright horrifying. Those guys might seem tantalizing when they're in uniform down on the field, hitting grand slams in front of a crowd of adoring fans, but I know better. The huge egos? The insane travel schedules? The veritable buffet of female companions? No ma'am. Professional athletes are best handled at a distance, preferably far enough away that their chiseled jawlines blur into oblivion.
Enter Grant Navarro.
He's the baseball player to end all baseball players. The one I should have marked with a big red X the first moment I laid eyes on him. Only the night we met (and kissed-oops), I didn't know he was my brother's newest teammate. Imagine my shock when I realized the sexiest man in Manhattan was officially off limits. Just my luck!
Let the record show that I had every intention of following my rule and staying away from Grant. When he smiled that irresistible smile and those dimples popped, I stood my ground. When he made it very clear he'd love to pick up where we left off the night we met, I said, Hold it right there, partner. When he messaged me all sorts of naughty things on Instagram, I logged out of that app so fast I dented my iPhone screen.
Baseball players are bad, bad, bad.
So tell me why giving in to Grant just for a night, getting one taste of what could be starts to seem not just tempting, but downright mandatory.
Yeah, about that one simple rule...haven't you heard?
