Hitting It_Locker Room Diaries

by Kathy Lyons

  How could a man be that pretty? Seriously. Those blue eyes, that chiseled jaw… Had he been this rugged three years ago? Or had a little more maturity given him manlier distinction softened by the boyish charm of his freckles? I didn’t have to think hard about the answer. In my mind’s eye, it was all him. But the answer was yes, he had more maturity now, but I still saw the boy who’d made me think of rings, kids, and a house in the suburbs. Looking back, it seemed ridiculous, but right now I felt it again. Like being with him was perfect, and all he’d done was ask about me.

  “Heidi?”

  I jolted, quickly scrambling back in the conversation. “The Indianapolis Sun needed an intern coordinator. I applied and got the job.” No, no. Don’t start talking about myself. This had to be about him. “Did you ever figure out what it is that makes you a great player?” I focused on his eyes and tried not to melt into the blue.

  He hesitated a moment, then shrugged. “My normal answer is the brain game. I excel at the mental stuff. But it didn’t happen today. I kept thinking about you.”

  Talk about a gut punch. Simple words but they stole my breath. Had he really been thinking about me? Like I had been standing at the back of the Press Box and remembering every second of our night together?

  Pull it together!

  “Mental toughness, huh? What exactly does that mean?”

  “What does it mean when you manage interns? Do they give you shit?”

  “All the time,” I groused.

  He chuckled. “Come on. Give me a little more. I’ve been waiting three years to hear this.”

  If he was so interested, he should have called. But I put away that mental grumble and tried to get on a more casual footing with him. “Well, I had to get obsessively organized. And then I had to be a Nazi about assignments. Kids are used to talking their way around teachers, but a newspaper can’t survive that way. One screwup and they were out.”

  He touched my back with one hand while pushing open a heavy door with the other. Really gallant. I remembered the same gesture from three years ago, and my skin had tingled then, just like it was now. And as I stepped through the door, I lost myself in my favorite what-if fantasy. What if he’d stayed that night? What if I’d been with him all through his minor league career and had celebrated with him when he came to Indianapolis? Would I be struggling to pay my rent right now? Would I have fought so hard to work at the paper? Or would I have lost myself among all those baseball groupies and become just another hanger-on? Would he have tired of me then and dumped me years ago?

  Meanwhile, he was chuckling. That low, sweet vibration I felt all the way to my toes. “And here I thought pro sports were competitive. Thankfully I don’t get fired after one error. So, what’s a firing offense in journalism?”

  He was being charming, and I tried not to fall into it. The echoes of three years ago kept haunting me. Not just our sex fest, but how easily we’d talked about everything.

  “The usual,” I answered. “Bad facts. Skating the edge of true. You can’t completely eliminate bias, but journalists are supposed to report, not opine.”

  He looked down at me, his blue eyes warming. “I forgot how smart you are.”

  Lust, pure and core deep, surged through my blood. Was I really that simple? That a single compliment turned me into goo? But hell, he said it like he meant it. And he looked at me like he really saw me. No one else did. Not even my parents.

  Flustered, I looked away, my voice coming out raw from the emotions clanging inside me.

  “I’m not smart.” A smart woman would have a career by now, like he did.

  “Sure you are. ‘Opine.’ Who uses that word?”

  I looked back at him. “Oh. Um. It means to give an opinion. At length—”

  “I know what it means.” I swear his eyes twinkled. “I just love the way you talk.”

  I loved the way he looked at me. The corner of his eyes crinkled, and every part of his face seemed honest. I loved how open he was. His laughter, his thoughts, everything right there on his face or in his body. Right now he held another door open for me, and as I passed through, our faces seemed to hover inches apart. He watched me with an intensity that couldn’t be faked. And I felt the heat of his whole body. He was so large that even at a casual distance, I still felt surrounded by him.

  My steps slowed and our gazes held. Suddenly I had a very real-sense memory of being naked in his arms. As if he were right then stroking me to orgasm. As if he were inside me, filling me like no other man had since. Every part of me went wet and hungry. If I closed my eyes, I swear just the memory of him thrusting inside would make me come. And I might have done just that. The desire was so strong, but he broke the moment.

  He stepped back, color staining his cheeks. Mine heated as well, as I realized what I’d been thinking. Suddenly, I had two goals for the next hour. One: get material for an article. Two: don’t sleep with the man. Because the only thing I wanted more than another night with him was a career as a journalist. And good reporters didn’t sleep with their sources. And then he touched me again, and I was hard put not to forget everything in favor of him. “This way,” he said, pressing his palm more firmly against my lower back. It was like aiming a hair dryer right at the base of my spine. I started heating in expanding waves. My nipples tightened and my mind went straight back to three years ago.

  Focus!

  I pulled my attention back from my body. It was incredibly hard and for a bit, all I managed was to walk where he directed, through a door to the outside. Past benches and…oh! Wake up and smell the dugout! I was in the surprisingly large area where the players hung out while waiting for their turn at bat. And yeah, it had the distinctive odor of tobacco and sweaty men. Then, a few steps up the stairs, we walked out onto the Bobcats baseball field and looked up at nearly fifty thousand seats.

  “Wow. That’s big,” I said as I slowly turned around.

  “Yeah. I think that every time I step out here.”

  I glanced back to him. The sun was hanging low in the sky, but it had enough juice to paint his blond hair with red and orange. His blue eyes were crystal clear as they looked at me, and for a fanciful moment, I saw him as a mythical creature. Puck, a goblin of mischief. Loki also filtered through my thoughts as did Coyote. But it didn’t matter which name I picked, they were all him. Mischievous, tempting, and sexy as hell. I wanted to jump into whatever rabbit hole he offered, just because he was smiling at me.

  “This isn’t a good idea,” I said. Then flushed when I realized I’d spoken aloud.

  “I’ve never stopped thinking about that night,” he said. “Our night.”

  Neither had I, but I wasn’t about to wander down that path. In fact, it was time I gave us both a verbal cold shower. “I’m here to get an interview, Rob. I need it to pay my rent.”

  He blinked, then frowned. “What?”

  I huffed out a breath, all the while wondering exactly what had possessed me to open that can of worms. “I got laid off from the paying job. Now my only hope is as a stringer. And the only story they want is yours.”

  He shook his head. “I can’t, Heidi. I’d get fired. No joke, they’re really serious about that.”

  I nodded. I knew it was true. In fact, everyone had said exactly that, but apparently I figured I could find a work-around. Instead, I sighed. “Tell me what it’s like playing here. Are you terrified?” I looked around at the acres of seats. “I would be.”

  He hesitated to answer, and I held up my hand.

  “This is just for me. I swear. No article.” I gave him a half-hearted shrug. “I’ve always wanted to work in the fast-food industry anyway.”

  “No, you wanted to be a journalist, but your parents wanted you in law.”

  I laughed. Trust him to remember all the details. “They may be right. Lawyers aren’t getting laid off.”

  So we started to talk like we had years ago. Mostly he pushed me to share what I’d been doing for the last three years. I already knew what he�
��d been doing, and he didn’t elaborate, except to say he absolutely loved baseball despite the pressures of being the boy wonder. I listened and nodded, except I could see that he was lying. There was a tight cast to his shoulders as he spoke and a note of tension in his voice. It could have been because he was treading close to giving me something for an article, but I didn’t think so. The pressure was getting to him, and I hated to see the stress in his face and body.

  We walked all around the park, just talking. I tingled at every casual touch, damning myself for reverting to that naive girl I’d been on spring break. I was a mature woman now with real bills. And I couldn’t afford to go through months of heartbreak again from a one-night stand with a hot Nebraska boy. Even if he did make my toes curl with every smile.

  We started talking like we had three years ago. I told him about how nervous I’d been applying for the internship. He talked about rolling his ankle in his first game for the Bobcats. Good medicine and rest had helped him recover fast, but it was a constant worry. I talked about my boss, Hank, and he spoke about spending time with the daughter of the team’s owner. Her name was Brittany and she was known to enjoy the attention of all the new Bobcats recruits. He asked about Sam, and I told him my best friend and I still talked often. He said he missed Nebraska. Or more specifically, he missed his former best friend who had apparently turned on him the minute Rob had gone pro. Jealously was the most obvious culprit, but Rob seemed to think there was more to it than that. And that Tommy might have a reason to hate him.

  I hated that the journalist in me scented a juicy story there—one that I could exploit without needing to interview Rob directly. Unless, of course, everything he said was off the record—as I’d promised—in which case I had nothing for my article but my ethics.

  “God, I’ve missed you.”

  His words jolted me out of my thoughts and straight back into lust. He missed me, and the ache of that thought had me imagining what we could have been to each other for the last three years. My only defense against the surge of longing was to go on the offense. So I squared my shoulders and faced him with the hardest expression I could muster.

  “That can’t be true.”

  He jerked to a stop, his eyes wide with surprise. “What?”

  “Quit the bullshit, Rob. You could have contacted me anytime in the last three years.”

  “I didn’t have your phone number.”

  I arched a brow. In this digital age, there were a hundred different ways to contact me. If he’d wanted to, he could have found me. And the flush on his cheeks told me he knew it was true.

  “Exactly,” I said, though inside, my gut knotted into a fist. He’d just confirmed that he hadn’t given me a second thought, whereas I’d been stalking him—

  “Soon after spring break, I got in trouble,” he said, his voice low.

  I jerked my head up. I hadn’t heard of any trouble, and I’d been watching him. But the way he said the words made my heart break without even knowing why.

  “Remember your question to me?” he continued. “Why was I so good? It really threw me.”

  I shook my head. “You went straight to the Indigos without any problem.”

  “I went, but I had problems. I lost my mojo. Sure, I did okay, but nothing like before. I kept thinking that godlike hand-eye coordination wasn’t enough. I had to be more, but I didn’t know what that was.”

  I remembered his quip so long ago, but I also recalled that he’d seemed troubled, even as he’d made the joke.

  “But you played fine.” Sure they hadn’t made the playoffs, but that was because their pitcher had given up six runs.

  He huffed out a breath. “I wasn’t fine. I was losing my focus, confused about who I was, and thinking nonstop about you.” Then before I could argue, he held up a hand. “Until my coach told me to choose. The girl or the career.”

  “You choose the career.” Obviously.

  He nodded. “But that still didn’t finish it. You’d started me thinking and I couldn’t stop. Not until I figured it out.”

  I straightened. “Well? What’s the answer?”

  His expression shifted. Like the sun coming out, he went from confessional to brilliant with just a slow smile that pulled out that dimple. “Patience.”

  I was so enthralled with that dimple that I didn’t hear his answer at first. And then when I did, I had to replay it in my head. “What?”

  “Patience. Hitting homers isn’t just about focus and athleticism.”

  “There’s practice, dedication, raw swing speed—”

  “Yeah, yeah.” He waved those off with a flick of his fingers. “It’s about waiting for the right pitch and for the ball to get to the right place.” His smile widened. “Patience.”

  “And what if you don’t get the right pitch?”

  “But I always do. Eventually.”

  That didn’t make any sense. In fact, there were a whole slew of guys working really hard to make sure he didn’t get the right pitch ever.

  “That’s why I screwed up today,” he said. “Because I wasn’t being patient. I was too anxious to see you after the game.”

  I felt my body heat at that. I’d been crazy insane wondering if I’d get a chance to see him. How much worse would it have been for him to know we’d be able to talk to each other after all these years? Then my thoughts splintered as he reached out and stroked my cheek. A slow caress that made my breath catch and my core tighten with need.

  “I had to realize that patience was my secret weapon. And that what worked in baseball would work in real life.”

  “Patience?” I echoed, the word coming out more like a whisper than a question.

  “Yes. It wasn’t the right time for us back then. We were in different cities, different times in our lives. You were still in college and I was in the minors, trying to figure out how to live an adult life. It wasn’t going to work and we both knew it.”

  I didn’t want to admit it, but he was right. Back then, I’d been fine with a one-sided secret obsession. A real relationship would never have worked. Neither of us had the time or focus that a relationship required.

  “You still could have called,” I groused.

  “But I never would have stopped at a call. And it wasn’t time yet.”

  I grimaced, unwilling to agree even when part of me already had. “We could have set boundaries.”

  His lips curved, and this time the look was lascivious. “That never works with me.”

  Or with me.

  “And look,” he continued, as he stroked his thumb along my jaw. Every part of my body thrilled to that caress. Like he was dialing me up to 110 degrees. “I’m in Indianapolis, and you’re right here. It’s time, Heidi. And all I had to do was wait.”

  My entire psyche rebelled at that. Who waited passively for a relationship to come around? My Asian upbringing emphasized discipline and drive. But I knew that sometimes waiting was the hardest thing to do, and even harder was trusting what was meant to be would be. But God, I hated that idea. Almost as much as I thrilled to the idea that we were fated somehow. That the universe had somehow conspired to get us together when the time was right. As in right now.

  “I don’t know what to say,” I finally murmured. “I’d never expected a superathlete to be so fatalistic.”

  He snorted. “Superstar athletes are exactly the ones who know there are thousands of things we can’t control. We just have to prepare as best we can and not worry about the rest.”

  “Patience,” I said, finally getting what he was talking about.

  “Yeah,” he agreed. But the way he said it, with his gaze so intense on my face, made my breath catch. He was talking about me, about waiting for me. I didn’t know whether to be amazed or angry.

  And right in the middle of this very intense moment, my stomach chose to remind me that I hadn’t had anything but coffee that day. It growled, loud and long, effectively breaking the moment as I blushed an embarrassed bright red.

 
“Hungry?” he asked with a grin.

  “Um, yeah.”

  He bowed slightly and held out his hand like a superposh butler. “This way, madame.”

  I chuckled as we headed for the press box. And while I was still thrumming from the last conversation, he started a new one.

  “So did your parents fight you? When you told them you wanted to be a journalist?”

  Talk about a crash landing. Just when I started to enjoy the thrill of being with him again, he had to ask that.

  “Ouch,” he said as he looked at my face. “Was it really bad?”

  “Um…” I began.

  “You haven’t told them? They still think you’re going?”

  I stared at my feet rather than face him. Or my parents. “Journalism isn’t paying right now. If I can’t work at the paper, maybe I should let my parents pay for law school.”

  His eyebrows rose. “They’re willing to pay your tuition?”

  I nodded, feeling sick to my stomach. How fortunate was I to have parents who would foot the bill? But only if I did what they wanted. “They want me to go into corporate law. That’s the fastest way to big money, but it includes hundred-hour workweeks and the lingering guilt that I’m making rich, white guys richer by stomping on the poor.”

  “You were never afraid of hard work, so it must be the guilt.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “You can’t possibly know that.”

  “Three years ago, you called yourself a nerd. Hard work isn’t a problem for you.”

  Maybe he could know that.

  The smell of cheeseburgers hit my nostrils and my stomach growled again. We were in the press box, which had two long tables for reporters set up in tiers as they looked out over the baseball field. The view was excellent, even though the stadium lights were off. And though we had a full panoramic view, the setting sun made it feel intimate. Maybe even romantic.

  “Down here,” he said as he moved through the box to the table pressed right against the window. On it sat a covered tray. He lifted the top with a ta-da gesture, and I saw burgers, fries, one soda, and one water bottle. Perfect.