The Man For Me

by Gemma Bruce

  On the opposite side of the road was an identical neighborhood called The Pines.

  Green plastic men lined the street warning motorists to Use Caution. Children at Play. She didn’t see any children, just big houses, three-car garages, two-story atriums with huge chandeliers. And tiny, little striplings to replace the mature trees someone had bulldozed away.

  Point four miles later, a wooden sign welcomed her to Gilbeytown Home of the Beavers. Rotary Club, American Legion, Vietnam Veterans, and a bunch of other names she didn’t have time to read.

  She slowed to the twenty-five-mile speed limit. One lone truck rattled past her, going in the opposite direction. It was too late to sit in on the Beavers afternoon practice, so she turned left onto Main Street—an optimistic name if ever there was one—and headed for the motel where the team had booked her a room.

  She crossed two sets of railroad tracks and entered downtown. Several cars were parked in front of a storefront whose chipped letters seemed to spell out LUNCHEONETTE. There was a 7-Eleven with an empty parking lot.

  On the second block, a florist shop, a check-cashing depot, a tired-looking grocery store, and a plumbing and heating store were open for business. There was a gas station selling a brand she’d never heard of. And next to it a state liquor store the size of a bread box. J.T. shuddered to think what brands they might sell. Most of the other stores were boarded over.

  Like many old towns, the town center had moved out to the mall.

  She proceeded point seven miles and arrived at her destination.

  Not a Marriott, not a Sheraton, not even an Econo Lodge, but the Night n Day Motel. A horseshoe of concrete block rooms, painted green, with doors opening onto a graveled parking area.

  No room service, she bet. And she could forget about a whirlpool and sauna.

  If there had been any doubt in J.T.’s mind why it was called the Night n Day, it was put to rest when a balding man in a brown suit emerged from one of the front rooms, followed by a woman in a short white skirt. He got into a blue Ford Fairlane; she walked past the Ford to a black Honda hatchback. They drove off in opposite directions.

  With a choice expletive, which cast aspersions on several of Skinny’s body parts, J.T. stopped the Mustang in front of a separate square building and went into the office to register.

  Surprise, surprise. The office was something right out of the Bates Motel. There was an old television with rabbit ears sitting on the counter. Guess she wouldn’t be getting ESPN. Behind the desk, the dark-paneled wall was covered with cheap framed photos. Half were autographed pictures of ballplayers. The other half were old movie stars. A lot of them were autographed, too.

  J.T. could understand the baseball ones. The Night n Day seemed to be the choice of America’s bush league. They must have sent away for the movie stars.

  A wizened man with a peanut-shaped head sat behind the desk. He was wearing a flannel shirt even though it was May.

  He looked up from the word search he was working and frowned at her, scratched his cheek just below his left eye, looked past her shoulder, and sniffed. “Twenty-five dollars an hour.”

  “What?” J.T.’s cheeks flamed. He thought she was a hooker. “I have a reservation.”

  He looked at her as if he were waiting for her to come up with the correct answer.

  “A reservation?” J.T. prompted. “Bernie Karpinsky of the Beavers called. I’m J.T. Green. With Sports Today?”

  He closed his word search book, stood up, and calling, “Harriett, get out here,” he disappeared through a door at the back of the room.

  J.T. tapped her foot. The Holiday Inn Express on the highway was looking pretty tempting. But she couldn’t get the up-close-and-personal angle she wanted unless she embedded herself with the team. And the players who weren’t staying with local families stayed at the Night n Day.

  There was a bell on the desk. She rang it.

  “Hold your horses,” said a voice from the doorway where the man had disappeared. J.T. looked up to see a woman hobbling toward her, wiping her hands on a dingy dish towel.

  Her hair, a cross between gray and platinum blond, was piled haphazardly on her head in a style several decades out of date. She was wearing a lot of makeup, a pink flowered house coat, and bedroom slippers.

  She stopped on the other side of the registration desk and frowned at J.T. “Honey, you don’t want to do what you’re about to do. You go on home now and be a good girl.”

  “I am—I mean—I’m here to work. I mean.” Jeez. This didn’t sound like a hard-nosed reporter. J.T. pulled herself up to her full five feet four and a half inches. “I’m J.T. Green. I’m a reporter with Sports Today covering the Beavers.” She had to take a steadying breath to keep from laughing. She sounded more like a feature editor for National Geographic—or a porn magazine. “I have a reservation.”

  The woman looked like she had some reservations, too. “A reporter, huh. You’re telling me Bernie Karpinsky got you a room here? Honey, it’s clean and it’s fine for the boys. But we don’t have the kind of amenities you’re likely to get at one of the bigger establishments out on the highway.”

  “I’m sure it will be fine. Now, if I could check in.” J.T. smiled, polite but determined, until the woman pulled out a registration card and slid it across the desk.

  “I won’t turn down the business, get little enough of it as it is. But don’t blame me if it isn’t up to your standards. And don’t come running if the boys get a little rowdy. You break anything, you pay for it.”

  Harriett pulled a key off one of the hooks that ran along a bank of mail cubbies. It was an honest-to-god key on a ring attached to an oblong rubber disk. She handed it to J.T. “Number twelve. It’s on the left near the back. Between the players and the, um, other guests.”

  J.T. took the key.

  “There’s cable in the rooms. You got Internet hookup. Did it special for the boys. And if any of them forget their manners, you tell them Harriett’s watching them. And Hank’ll come kick their butts.”

  “Thanks, Harriett. Is there someplace around here where I can get dinner?”

  “The Pine Tree Tavern across the street,” said Harriett. “It ain’t fancy but it won’t kill you. That’s where most of the boys hang out.”

  J.T. thanked her again and drove around to the left curve of the horseshoe. She parked between a truck with monster wheels and a new model Toyota Tundra—and sat looking at the door of number twelve, the picture window, and the plastic lining of the heavy drapes drawn across it.

  She’d come to this. She gritted her teeth and lugged her suitcases, laptop, and printer inside.

  Chapter 2

  J.T. didn’t unpack but went straight across the street to the Pine Tree Tavern. She hadn’t eaten since noon and the encounter with the Coach had left her stomach roiling. And besides, if the team hung out there she could get a jump on her story.

  If there was a story.

  The Pine Tree was another concrete building carved out of the surrounding trees and fronted by a parking lot strong on potholes. The inside was a typically dingy, poorly lit, stale beer–smelling bar.

  But hell, what was a little case of ptomaine in the scheme of cutting-edge journalism?

  Several guys were sitting at one of the tables and they were eating, so maybe she was safe. They all looked up when she came in.

  One of them whistled and made kissy noises. “Hey mama, you wanna see my big bat?”

  She’d found the Beavers.

  One of his companions said, “Put a sock in it, Ramirez.”

  Jaime Ramirez from the Dominican League. She’d done her homework, though she’d gotten little more than a roster of players and the stats of their last, losing season.

  J.T. sighed, picked a place at the bar where the light was bright enough to read a menu, and sat down.

  The bartender was big and had a shaved head. Or maybe he was just bald. It was hard to tell. He was standing in a shadow. “What can I get ya?”


  “I don’t guess I could get a glass of pinot grigio?”

  “No, but I got one of those blush wines for when you ladies come in.”

  “I’ll have a beer, imported—and a menu.”

  “Dos Equis okay?” He plunked a plastic menu down in front of her.

  “Sure.”

  She ordered a burger, ate it without being interrupted, and was considering going over to the table of men to introduce herself, when the door opened. The newcomer went straight to the table and leaned over it.

  What little light there was cast him into silhouette, but she could tell he was tall and lean. Dare she hope good looking and halfway intelligent?

  “Bernie asked me to come by and give you a heads up that there’s a reporter on his way from Sports Today.”

  “Cool.”

  “To do a story on the Beavers?”

  “Yeah. So be on your best behavior. Got it?”

  “Sure, Tommy. We’ll be dyn-o-mite.”

  “Maybe Boskey will hit a home run for him.”

  “Shut up, Kurtz. It isn’t funny.”

  The newcomer pushed away from the table. “Just try to act like a ball team. And pass it on to the other guys.”

  J.T. changed her mind about introducing herself. She wasn’t here to get homogenized accounts of how they had to “refocus” and “get their heads together” for their first game next week. She could write that spin without leaving the comfort of her town house.

  She wanted something different. Something that would get Skinny’s attention and redeem her reputation. Something real. She sighed. Something that would get her out of here and back to major league ball.

  “You mean don’t tell him about Boz’s slump?”

  “He means, dickhead, don’t tell him about the jinx.” J.T.’s ears pricked up. The bartender took her plate and asked if she wanted anything else. She waved him away.

  The team was jinxed? Not cutting-edge news, but interesting. She might be able to segue it into a story. Especially if she got the goods before they clammed up.

  She’d just wait until the management voice box left, then make her move.

  “Just be professional and no gossip.” Tommy turned to leave. His eyes snagged on a woman sitting at the bar. Alone.

  Not one of the regular girlfriends, nor one of the “Annies” who hung around to pick up a willing player. He was pretty sure he would have remembered that tight little butt. And if the front of her was anything like the back view, the boys would have been all over themselves to get to her.

  Maybe they’d tried and failed? She exuded class, even from the back.

  The bar light created a blaze around reddish brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. A narrow strap of a tiny T-shirt ran over seductive shoulders. Her waist was thin and a little strip of skin dipped into the jeans that molded perfectly to her butt, which in turn molded perfectly to the bar stool.

  Tommy stood there for a minute to admire the view. He wasn’t doing enough of that these days. He didn’t have the time. The interest. The urge. Besides even from this distance, he could tell she was too young for him. But there was nothing wrong with looking.

  He wouldn’t act on it. She had to belong to someone. Not Kurtz, Ramirez, Boskey, or Lewis. They were all sitting together. Sanchez was good looking but he had a family back in Santo Domingo and he was boarding with the Plaskis. And not Oblonsky. His wife was here with him. Pisano? Maybe.

  On second thought. Maybe he’d just have a quick beer before he headed home. A little diversion might do him good. He’d been under a lot of strain lately, and coming back to Gilbeytown hadn’t exactly helped.

  He deserved to flirt a little. He wouldn’t take it any further; he wasn’t ready for that. But it wouldn’t hurt to see if he still had what it took.

  He sighed, remembering a day when a younger Tommy fought with the guys to be the first to “christen” the parking lot. It seemed a lifetime ago. Or somebody’s else’s life.

  It had been six years since his divorce. But ever since Cheryl Lynn bedded him, wed him, and took him to the cleaners, he’d been more careful, more discreet.

  He never picked up Annies. He chose his relationships—not that he could call them relationships—with women who weren’t baseball fans. Who weren’t infatuated with baseball players. Who didn’t know an RBI from an IOU, much less share his passion for the game.

  Which is why he probably never got too involved.

  Well, he didn’t have to get involved, did he? He could just have some fun. Before it was too late. Because Tommy B., the mover, the shaker, the golden boy of major league baseball was about to become history.

  It couldn’t do any harm. Hell, it was baseball. Women expected it.

  He sidled over to the bar and, ignoring the wolf whistles that sprang up behind him, sat down next to her.

  “Hey, Tommy. What can I do you for?”

  “I’ll have a beer and get another for the lady.” Okay it was an old line, but he was pretty sure it still worked. He rested his elbow on the bar, leaned over to get a better look at her, felt the ever-present twinge in his shoulder.

  She turned at the same time. Tommy’s apple stuck in his throat and he forgot about his shoulder, his reason for being here, his past, and his future.

  The light fell right across her face. Blue, blue eyes looked back at him under high arched eyebrows a shade darker than her hair. It was pulled back in a ponytail, but wisps fell around her face framing the most kissable, pouty lips he could remember seeing. Ever maybe. He could even make out a sprinkling of freckles across her nose.

  She squinted at him.

  And he panicked. She’d recognized him. She’d sink her cute little teeth into him and bleed him dry. “Uh.” He picked up his beer and took a long swallow.

  She tilted her head, reached up, and shielded her eyes with her hand. And he realized that the overhead light was in her eyes. She didn’t have a clue who she was looking at. She was probably only seeing a silhouette.

  But he could see her. It wasn’t that cold in the bar, but her arms were covered in gooseflesh. Her lifted elbow revealed two small firm breasts with nipples pebbling beneath the cotton of her T-shirt.

  The miracles of the human body, he thought, and grinned. Her expression didn’t change. Tommy put down his beer and ran his tongue slowly over his lip.

  This was not your ordinary groupie. Young, yes. And gorgeous in a wholesome kind of way. She exuded sophistication and she hadn’t even said a word.

  She smiled at him.

  His reaction was immediate. Intense. And embarrassingly obvious. Fortunately, she was looking at his face instead of his crotch. And she didn’t look too pleased, either.

  “What?” he asked. He was good looking. He had all his hair. Except that she couldn’t see his face or his hair beneath the cap he wore, just in case he ran into the ST reporter. His body was in decent shape. Flat abs. Long, pitcher’s legs.

  “What?” He repeated when she continued to stare.

  “You look familiar. Do you play for the Beavers?”

  “Huh?” Oh right. What kind of ass was he? She probably followed the majors as well as the indies. And once she recognized him, she’d start gouging him for sex, gifts, and houses in Barbados. Not to mention leaking his whereabouts to the press.

  He should get up and leave before things went any further, but he couldn’t seem to move. Besides, he rationalized, if he got up now, she’d get a load of the grand slam boner in his chinos.

  “No. Just a fan,” he said. “You?”

  She smiled.

  He was lost.

  “I don’t play for them, either.”

  “Huh? Oh.” God he was an ass. Is this what his life was going to be like once he was a retired ballplayer. He’d turn into a bumbling idiot? Some future. Don’t think about it. Just act cool—hot. Whatever.

  She was still smiling at him. What had they been talking about? The Beavers. “Are you a fan?”

  “Yes.”

  He
waited for her to say more while he desperately tried to untie his tongue. He took a deep breath. He was being ridiculous. He was Tommy B. “Are you waiting for someone?”

  She shook her head.

  “You haven’t touched your beer.”

  “I’m not much of a beer drinker.”

  Bingo. “There’s a restaurant not far from here. They actually have a wine list.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. He gave her his trademark Tommy B. smile. What the hell was he doing? He was trying to remember if he had a condom in his wallet. And that wasn’t good. Get up Tommy and go home.

  “I’ve already eaten.”

  “We’ll have a drink and I’ll bring you back here. It’s only a few blocks away.” If you told her who you were, she wouldn’t be afraid to get in the car with you. But if she knew he was Tommy B., he wouldn’t be able to get rid of her after a drink and a—what was he thinking? He didn’t do one-nighters anymore. At least not with strangers.

  He stood up and blinked when the light caught his eyes. “My name’s Tommy.”

  She blinked, too. Hesitated. He could tell she was wary. Who could blame her. She had enough smarts not to get in a car with a strange man. She ran a tongue over her bottom lip and looked at him hard. Trying to decide if he was an ax murderer?

  Finally, she said, “I’m Jay—Jess. I’d love to have a drink with you.” She reached down for her purse, opened it.

  “Put Jess’s meal on my account.”

  “Sure thing, Tommy.”

  That should make her feel more comfortable, Tommy thought. I have a bar tab, I’m a regular, safe kind of guy.

  It must have worked, because she slid off the stool and allowed Tommy to steer her across the floor and out the door. It closed on several low whistles.

  Tommy grinned. He couldn’t help it. He was feeling pretty good.

  J.T.’s skin burned where Tommy Bainbridge’s hand rested on the small of her back. It had taken her a while to recognize him. First the face, then the voice, but when he told her his name was Tommy, she knew.

  She also knew that he was AWOL from the Galaxies. She’d heard the radio announcement on her drive through Virginia. “Personal reasons.” The usual double-talk by management to the press. It could mean a variety of things. But the manager had insisted his leave had “nothing to do with the contract negotiations between the Galaxies and Daituri Isotori,” who they hoped to lure from the Japanese League. Tommy’s spot on the team was “guaranteed, if he wanted it.” The red flags should have gone up with that last statement. But they hadn’t. At least not for her.