by Regina Kyle
“I took my shirt off.” Her voice was a husky whisper. “I’m...touching myself through my bra.”
“Lace?” He released his dick only so he could get his pants off entirely. While he was at it, he shucked off his shirt for good measure.
“Satin,” she breathed.
“Are your nipples hard?”
“Yes.”
“Lower,” he growled, gripping his cock again. His thumb found the slit and smeared pre-come down the shaft. “I want to hear you come.”
“What about you?” she asked.
“Don’t worry, Duchess. I’ll be right there with you.”
The only sounds for the next few minutes were their mutual grunts, groans and occasional exclamations of “yes,” “oh, baby” and “so close” as they worked themselves higher and higher. Jace could tell from Noelle’s short, erratic breaths, culminating in a long, high-pitched cry, that she was the first to reach the elusive peak and tumble over. He followed almost immediately after, spraying his chest and abs with his release.
“Was that as good for you as it was for me?” he asked after taking a minute to recover.
“I’m pretty sure.” She ended on a contented sigh.
“Maybe sometime soon we can work it out so we’re in the same room.”
“Or at least the same time zone,” she joked.
His phone beeped to let him know he had another call coming in. He pulled it away from his ear to check the screen. “Shit. It’s my dad. I hate to sort-of-screw and run, but...”
“No worries. Call me later if you get a chance so we can talk instead of...you know.”
“Sure thing.” He chuckled as he ended the call and dialed his father.
If he had it his way, they’d you know again later, too.
* * *
JACE WHISTLED AS he walked down the long corridor that led to the clubhouse under Southern Pacific stadium, home of the Storm.
His home away from home.
At the end of the hall, he swung open the clubhouse door and stepped inside. The familiar heat and humidity from the combined effect of the steam room, showers and sweat greeted him. A couple of his teammates lounged on overstuffed couches, watching the flat screen TVs suspended from the ceiling. Another sat on a folding chair in front of his locker, swearing softly at a handheld video game. When they heard Jace enter, they shouted out their greetings.
“Hey, man.” Reid added his welcome as he came around the corner from the direction of the weight room, his dark hair plastered to his head and a towel draped around his neck. “Good to have you back.”
“Good to be back, even if it’s only to meet with Bucky and the team doc.” Jace looked around the well-appointed clubhouse. It was good to be the king, and players in the majors were treated like a cross between royalty and rock stars, as evidenced by the Storm’s swanky digs. “Where’s your sidekick?”
“You know Coop. He doesn’t show up before noon unless it’s absolutely necessary.” Reid dabbed at his face with the towel. “Any word on when you’ll be able to start working out with the team?”
“I’m hoping that’s what today’s all about.”
“Good luck.” Reid clapped him on the back and headed off for the showers.
Jace took a deep breath and pointed his feet in the other direction, toward the manager’s office. With each step, his heart beat faster and a bead of sweat trickled down his brow, one that had nothing to do with the heat and humidity in the clubhouse and everything to do with the churning emotions he was doing his best to hide. He wiped it away with the back of his hand, only to have another take its place.
He might have put on a brave face for his buddy, but the truth was he was scared shitless. This wasn’t his first time at the UCL rodeo. He wasn’t an expert, but he knew enough to know that his arm wasn’t healing like it should be. Six weeks at Spaulding, almost a month at the outpatient place the team had hooked him up with in Sacramento and his elbow was still way too stiff. Even a casual game of catch—which, yeah, he knew he wasn’t supposed to be doing yet—hurt like hell. God only knew what Sara and his new therapist had written in their reports.
He squared his shoulders and knocked on his manager’s door.
“Come in,” Bucky’s voice called from the other side.
The second Jace opened the door his stomach dropped to his feet. This was trouble. Big trouble. Why else would his agent be there?
“Bucky. Doc. Drew.” Jace nodded to each man in turn.
“Come in,” Bucky repeated, gesturing to the one remaining empty chair in front of his desk. “Have a seat.”
“Thanks, but I’d rather stand.” Jace shoved his hands in his pockets. “I have a feeling this isn’t going to take long.”
Bucky leaned forward, putting his elbows on the desktop. “There’s no easy way to say this.”
“I’m a big boy. I can take it.”
The team doctor, who all the guys called Dr. Doom, tapped a thick folder in his lap. “Unfortunately, your arm’s not where it should be at this point in your rehabilitation.”
“I’ll work harder,” Jace insisted. “Make up lost ground.”
Dr. Doom shook his head. “According to your therapist at Spaulding, you’ve been working plenty hard. That’s not the problem. The problem is this is the second time you’ve injured that ligament. It’s just too damaged. The chances of you making a full recovery are slim.”
“So what are you trying to tell me?” Jace glanced at his agent, who’d been strangely quiet throughout the whole conversation. Drew avoided his gaze and fiddled with his expensive watch. “That I’m done here?”
“I’m sorry, son.” Bucky’s warm, brown eyes said compassion and regret but his firm jaw said the decision had been made and that was that. “The Storm won’t be renewing your contract next year.”
Jace wanted to scream. Instead he balled his hands into fists in his pockets and looked to Drew again. “What about the free agent market?”
His agent crossed an ankle over one knee. “That’s one route we could take. I’ll put out some feelers.”
“Fine.” Jace turned and started for the door. He had to get the hell out of there before he punched something or someone.
“But Jace.” Drew caught up to him, interrupting his flight, and lowered his voice so they others couldn’t hear. “I wouldn’t get your hopes up. I don’t know too many teams willing to take a chance on a high-priced shortstop over the age of thirty with an iffy UCL.”
Jace didn’t bother to respond. What was he supposed to say to that? Deep down, he’d known the score. But hearing it from his agent’s lips was like the final nail in the coffin of his career in Major League Baseball.
His facial expression and body language must have reflected his piss-poor mood, because no one made an attempt to stop him as he stormed through the clubhouse, Drew’s “I’ll call you later” echoing in his ears. Once in his car, he slammed the steering wheel, setting off his horn and making him cringe.
Finished. Washed up at thirty. What was he supposed to do now? All he knew was the game. He hadn’t gone to college like Reid, didn’t have a career as a rocket scientist to fall back on.
His identity, his whole life was wrapped up in baseball. Had been as long as he could remember. Baseball had kept him and his dad from drowning in depression when his mom left. Had been the glue that bonded them in the years since. And had gotten Jace more booze and babes than he wanted to admit.
He could always coach in the minors. Or move into broadcasting. Worked well for guys like Joe Girardi and Bob Uecker. Problem was neither of those options really appealed to him. Been there, done that as far as the minors were concerned. He didn’t need the stress of dealing with overanxious players on the way up—or the way down. And he’d never felt completely comfortable behind a microphone, even in interviews.
So where did that leave him? Sitting on his ass drinking beer and watching the Home Shopping Network? Life as one of the idle rich? Who was he if he wasn’t
playing ball?
Jace gave the steering wheel another smack. There were too many questions, too much to process right now. Not when he had to pick up his old man from another Gamblers Anonymous meeting. He was attending two a week now, and volunteering at a local food pantry as part of his plea bargain. Pretty soon, he wouldn’t need Jace breathing down his neck twenty-four seven.
Then Jace would really have nothing to do.
With a groan, he started the car, welcoming the burst of reconstituted air that greeted him when the engine engaged and the much-needed air conditioning kicked on. He was about to throw the gear shift into Reverse when his cell rang. He pulled it out of his pocket and glanced at the name on the screen.
Noelle.
He started to slide his finger across the screen to answer, then hesitated.
What was he going to tell her? Hey, babe, glad your career’s going so well but mine’s in the crapper. Hope you don’t mind being hooked up with a has-been.
His heart told him she’d stand behind him, that she wasn’t the cut-and-run type like his mom. But his head was singing a different tune. She was used to hobnobbing with high rollers, men at the top of their professions. She didn’t have room in her life for a used up, jobless loser.
Time. That was what he needed. Time to get his fucked up life in order. He had to decide what direction he was headed in before he could figure out where they were going.
Mind made up, he hit Ignore and tossed the phone onto the passenger seat.
17
NOELLE CLAIMED HER favorite corner table at her favorite upper west side coffee shop. Not that she was drinking coffee. Horrible, nasty stuff that dried out your skin and ate away at your stomach lining. She sipped green tea with lemon and just a hint of honey and pulled her cell phone out of her bag to check the time. Or at least that was what she told herself she was doing. Making sure Holly wasn’t late, not looking for the umpteen-millionth time to see if she’d missed a call or text from Jace.
She hadn’t.
He’d been strangely quiet the past few days. Oh, they’d talked, but only a couple of times, and their conversations had been short and stilted. No laughter, no lighthearted banter, and certainly no more steamy phone sex sessions. His texts had been just as infrequent and brief. The longest came up to a whopping four words: Gotta go. Talk later.
Noelle had made a thousand mental excuses for him. After all, he had a lot going on, what with his dad’s legal problems and his physical therapy. Things would return to normal between them when he got his affairs in order. Wouldn’t they?
But after almost a week of the almost silent treatment, she couldn’t deny it any longer.
Something was rotten in Sacramento.
Noelle dropped her phone back into the abyss of her vermillion Birkin bag and sighed loud enough that the pair of perfectly manicured, chemically preserved society matrons at the next table rolled their eyes at her. Why had she ever agreed to a long-distance relationship? Two busy people, trying to resuscitate their careers and keep the romantic fires burning across ten states. It was doomed to fail before it even started. Which she would have recognized if she hadn’t been so blinded by memories of Jace’s magic fingers. And tongue. And...other parts of his anatomy.
Noelle shook her head like it was an Etch A Sketch and a good jolt would wipe her mind clean of depressing thoughts. Stop, it, girl. You’re overreacting. You don’t even know for sure that it’s over. Hell, you don’t even know why he’s shutting you out.
And that was part of the problem.
Jace was doing it again, holding back instead of coming right out and telling her what was bothering him. Not letting her help, if she could, or just lend a sympathetic ear if she couldn’t.
She’d meant what she said their last morning at Spaulding, when he was giving her that vague “family business” bullshit. Life wasn’t all sunshine and roses. He was going to have to trust her with his ugly if this thing between them had any hope of surviving.
“Hey there, sourpuss.” Holly plopped into the seat opposite, looking every inch the trendy upper west side mom in her floral print maxi dress, faded denim jacket and Toms. She maneuvered Joy’s stroller closer to her so she could hand the toddler a sippy cup, which the little girl immediately threw to the floor. Without batting an eye, Holly picked it up, cleaned off the spout with a baby wipe and handed it back.
“Who’s a sourpuss?” Noelle made a silly face at her niece, who giggled and stuck out her tongue before drinking from the sippy cup. “Not me.”
“Yes, you.” Holly mimicked her daughter, sticking her tongue out at Noelle. “You look like you’re mad at the world. What gives? Can’t be my fault, since I managed to get here a full five minutes early, even with the princess and all her gear.”
“Nice to see you, too,” Noelle quipped.
“I didn’t say it wasn’t nice to see you.” Holly pulled a diaper bag from underneath the stroller, extricated a baggie of Cheerios and spread some out over the snack tray in front of her daughter. “But something’s clearly bothering you. Rehearsal not going well?”
“Rehearsal’s fine. Slow going, but fine.” Some days it seemed like Noelle took one step forward and two steps back, but on the whole she was making progress. Yesterday she’d even done some work in the center of the room, away from the barre. Nothing fancy, just some simple plies, a few tendus, maybe a relevé or two on the rare occasion when Yannick wasn’t looking. But it was more dancing than she’d done in months, and it felt freaking fantastic.
There was something completely liberating about starting from scratch, like when she was five and her mother had walked her in to her first ballet class. It had been love at first pirouette, a love that had somehow gotten a little lost in all the pressures and demands of a professional career. Maybe injuring her knee was a blessing in disguise. Maybe it was just what she needed to rediscover her passion for dance and come back stronger—and better—than ever.
“Man trouble?” Holly persisted, dumping what must have been four packets of artificial sweetener into her coffee while simultaneously retrieving Joy’s sippy cup again. She had the whole mother multi-tasking thing down, that was for sure. “Is it that prick Yannick? He’s not threatening to have you thrown out of the company again, is he? I could have one of the stagehands at the theater come around and scare him a bit. They love me. I still bake them brownies every once in a while. And some of those guys are ginormous. One moonlights as a bouncer at a biker bar in the meatpacking district. Or maybe Gabe could send him a cease-and-desist letter.”
“It’s not Yannick.” He’d been hovering over her like a vulture, waiting for her to falter so he could swoop in and pick her apart with his snarky, sometimes sexually suggestive comments about her weight (okay, so she’d put on a few pounds in rehab) or her technique (of course she was rusty, she hadn’t danced in ages). But so far Noelle had managed to ignore him, for the most part.
“Jace, then?” Joy let out a wail that Holly suppressed by scattering more Cheerios on the stroller’s snack tray, which the toddler began unartfully shoving into her mouth. “I imagine he’s pretty down in the dumps now that the Storm released him.”
“We haven’t really talked much...” It took a second for the enormity of her sister’s words to penetrate Noelle’s brain. Jace had been cut from the team? “Wait, what?”
“You didn’t know?” Holly’s face blanched and her eyes grew wide. “Ohmigod, I’m so sorry. I assumed he told you.”
Noelle disguised a disgusted snort as a cough. “Like I said, we haven’t talked much in the past few days.”
And now she knew why.
“It was on SportsCenter this morning.” Holly sipped her coffee and unwrapped a Danish. “I guess his elbow’s not healing so well. They opted not to renew his contract at the end of the season.”
Holly sank her teeth into the pastry, and Noelle’s stomach grumbled. She satisfied herself with green tea. “That explains it.”
“Explains what?�
��
“The sudden silence.” Noelle emptied her cup and crushed it in her hand, sympathy for Jace’s job situation warring with frustration over his non-communication.
“You should call him,” Holly suggested. A smiling Joy babbled her apparent agreement.
“Oh, I’m going to call him, all right. And this time he’s going to stay on the line long enough to listen to what I have to say.” Noelle stood, grabbing her bag from under the table as she did. “But it’ll have to wait until after rehearsal. I’m due at the studio in twenty minutes.”
“Don’t be too hard on him,” Holly scolded. “Remember, he’s a guy. They’re notoriously bad at sharing their emotions. Even after three years of marriage, I still have to coax Nick out of his shell every once in a while. I find a little soft lighting and mood music works wonders.”
“TMI, big sis. TMI.” Noelle lobbed her mangled cup into a nearby trash bin. “But I’ll take it under consideration.”
She bid a quick goodbye to her sister and niece, just made the downtown one train, and strolled into Lincoln Center’s David Koch Theater with five minutes to spare.
“You’re late.” Yannick stood in the aisle, hands on his hips. Figured he’d be the first person she ran into. Good. She was itching for a fight. If it couldn’t be with Jace, Yannick would do. For now.
“I’m ten minutes early,” she countered.
“You know what they say.” He crossed his corded arms over his chest. Yannick might be wirier than Jace, but there was no doubting his strength. Not surprising since he lifted and tossed ballerinas around for a living, even if most of them weighed less than a hundred pounds. “Early is on time, on time is late and late is unacceptable.”
“I don’t think that means what you think it means.” She tried to move past him, but he blocked her path. “If you don’t let me get on stage, I really will be late.”
“Have it your way.”
Still, the self-righteous scumbag didn’t budge. Noelle barely resisted the urge to knee him in the balls. With her good knee, of course. “You’re going to have to move. Last time I checked, I wasn’t able to walk through solid objects.”