All of Me

by Jennifer Bernard

  Sadie winced. Well, if that angle worked for the baseball-game-attending population of Kilby, she could live with it.

  So pucker up, Catfish fans! Every time you kiss a slug, it’s worth another dollar for Save Our Slugs!

  An image of a picture frame appeared in the Jumbotron, along with a cartoonish picture of a slug with giant lips. The camera feed appeared inside the frame, so it would look as if the person in the shot was kissing the slug. The camera panned the crowd. When it settled on the face of a ponytailed young woman in a Catfish cap, she burst out laughing and covered her face. But as the crowd clapped and chanted, she dropped her hands, smiled shyly and pursed her lips so they appeared to kiss the slug’s bulging mouth.

  Everyone laughed and cheered. Sadie couldn’t keep the grin off her face. The campaign was totally working; it was actually cool.

  The Express took the field. Sadie shifted the binoculars toward the dugout, where she found Caleb chatting with the catcher, who was unfastening his giant knee pads. Caleb looked relaxed, his legs sprawled in front of him, thighs straining against the white fabric of his uniform pants. His glove perched upside down on his knee, one hand holding it in place. With a sudden flush, she remembered how that hand felt on her body.

  Embarrassed, she swung the glasses aside, skipping past a blur of faces to find the Jumbotron but instead pausing at the sight of a now-familiar face. Bingo was back in the stands. He wore a different pair of sunglasses this time—horn-rimmed, like a professor—but she recognized that high-voltage smile. He was chatting amiably with his neighbors, then shook everyone’s hands.

  Luckily, Caleb hadn’t noticed. He was still deep in conversation with the catcher. The announcer said, “Up next we have the top of the Catfish lineup, Dwight Conner, T.J. Gates, and batting third, catcher Mike Solo.”

  She jumped at a tap on her shoulder. A young kid in a bat boy uniform stood behind her. He handed her a note, then ran off. She opened it and read: Come out with me after the game. CH. Looking up sharply, she found him in the dugout, looking straight at her. He winked. Her knees shook, even though she was sitting down.

  Oh sweet Lord, she was definitely in trouble.

  With the 3-0 victory over the Express, Caleb brought his ERA down to a respectable 3.42. He’d struck out seven and walked zero. A few more games like that and he’d be back in business. He hurried through his postgame shower, stopped at the food table only long enough to shove a burger down his throat, and headed for the exit.

  The “Good job” congratulations and jibes of “Where’s the fire, in your pants?” barely registered as he stalked out of the clubhouse and into the warm night air. He scanned the small crowd waiting in the parking lot, his gaze lighting on Sadie, who stood apart from the others in simple khakis and a sleeveless purple top, the lamplight creating a ruby halo around her dark hair. Something deep inside him relaxed. The sight of Sadie made him feel . . . better. He couldn’t pin it down any more than that.

  He strode toward her, drawn by her dark eyes, bright as sparklers on the Fourth of July. Her lovely mouth opened, about to say something, but before he could stop himself, he scooped her up and planted a huge kiss on her lips. Her lithe body melted against his like butter on a hot grill, and he was suddenly hard as a billy club.

  Jackass, he scolded himself. Was he going to kiss her every time he saw her? He hadn’t forgotten Crush’s warning, and he knew it made sense. But when he was with Sadie, nothing else seemed to matter. He wanted to devour her, immerse himself in her bright sweetness. He wanted to make her lose control the way she had in the Chevy.

  Out of the corner of his eye he spotted more of the guys filtering out of the big double doors of the exit. A kiss was bad enough, but a kiss witnessed by the whole team . . . she didn’t need that sort of attention. With a huge effort, he lifted his head from hers.

  “What you do to me,” he muttered, running his thumb across her swollen lower lip. “It’s crazy.”

  She cleared her throat, looking equally rattled. “I was about to say, ‘Good game.’ ”

  Caleb nodded. “It was fun. I could use a few more like that. Are you hungry or did you fill up on Cracker Jacks and peanuts?”

  “I’m hungry, but . . . I shouldn’t . . .” She bit her lip. He waited patiently, not wanting to pressure her. “Okay.”

  Yes. He gave a satisfied grin. Since they’d both brought their cars, he followed her to a tiny Tex-Mex dive called Tico Taco. Over a plate of enchiladas so overloaded pinto beans dripped over the edge, she rattled on about Sluggers for Slugs, as if this were a business dinner. She kept talking about their upcoming event at a local bakery and how excited everyone was.

  He was excited too, but not for the same reasons. Under the table, he felt the brush of her leg against his. Oh yeah, he wanted a little more of that. Surreptitiously, he shifted forward so her leg had to press against his. A slow flush rose to the surface of her cheeks. He watched it avariciously, loving how much he could affect her, and knowing it worked both ways.

  His Sadie could pretend otherwise, but she wanted him.

  His Sadie. A shock ran through him, almost physical in its intensity. What was wrong with him? Sadie wasn’t his, couldn’t be his. He had a career to save. Younger brothers to support. A father to keep out of trouble. All the reasons he should avoid Sadie ran through his mind, nearly drowning out her words.

  “. . . keep things on a professional basis . . . nothing but official slug business,” she was saying.

  He snapped back to attention. “What’s that?”

  She toyed with her fork, dragging it through the lake of beans on her plate. “What happened at my house was a mistake.”

  The hell it was. “Have you been listening to Crush?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Crush says girls are bad for a baseball career. He gave me a lecture about it.”

  She drew back. The red light from the fake cactus-shaped candle flickered across her cheekbones. Fire shimmered in her dark eyes. “Oh really? Did you listen? Because I’m pretty sure I got an invitation delivered by a bat boy.”

  He leaned across the table, taking her chin in his hand. “Hey. I don’t care what Crush says. And I don’t think what happened at your house was a mistake. If I had my way, I’d be in bed with you right now. I’d make love to you all night, and I wouldn’t leave until they dragged me out to pitch the next game. Then I’d come right back and do it again.”

  “And I suppose I’d be lying there waiting for you?” Her pupils dilated, black against the brilliant mahogany.

  “Yes.” His raw answer made her draw in a sharp breath.

  Even though her mouth was still several inches from his, a current of heat arced between them. He felt her soft flesh under his hand, saw the wild light in her dark eyes, and knew what it felt like to hold a bolt of lightning in his fist.

  The click of a camera made him look to the side. A powerfully built twenty-something guy in a Kilby High School football jacket loomed over them; a slightly smaller clone hovered behind him. The guy held an iPhone in his big fist. “Gotta get this on Facebook ASAP. Slutty Sadie’s at it again.”

  Chapter 13

  SADIE COULDN’T CATCH her breath, like one of those nightmares in which she was trying to scream but couldn’t make a sound. She jumped to her feet, gulping air like a fresh-caught fish. “What are you . . . don’t . . .”

  Hamilton and his horrible friend Steve, who had edited the “Birthday Sex Tape,” sneered at her. “Heard you were spreading them for the Catfish lately,” said Hamilton. “Nice to see it confirmed in the flesh.”

  Her skin crawled at the way he said the word “flesh.” Steve put his hand on his crotch and pretended to rub.

  “I’m not . . .” Her blood thundered in her ears. Maybe her head would explode and she would avoid this epic moment of humiliation. She could run to the kitchen and stick her head in the oven. Or in a vat of hot sauce. Kill me now. Just kill me now.

  Then a big hand shot out an
d twisted the neck of Hamilton’s shirt so his face reddened.

  “Delete it,” came Caleb’s cold and deadly voice.

  “The hell—” Hamilton choked. “Steve!”

  Steve reared back and punched Caleb in the jaw. The crack of bone on bone echoed through the hushed restaurant. Caleb shook it off, then drove his free hand into Steve’s stomach; he stumbled backwards. The waiter whipped out a phone, probably calling 911.

  Oh, fireballs. Caleb fighting Hamilton—total disaster. What if Caleb got hurt? What if word got out? One more black mark against the Catfish . . . and Caleb. She was supposed to be keeping a low profile to protect the mayor. She had to get him out of here.

  She tugged at Caleb’s arm as he lifted Hamilton, whose face was now purple, off the ground. “Come on, let’s go,” she hissed at him frantically.

  He ignored her, completely focused on Hamilton. “You pathetic twit, you take one more picture or say one more thing like that about Sadie and you’re going to pay.”

  “You . . . know . . . who . . . I . . .” Hamilton raged, as much as a guy could rage when held tight in a death grip.

  “I don’t know who you are and I don’t give a flying fuck. Never again, you hear me?”

  “Let him go!” Sadie pulled at Caleb’s arm. His right arm. The nonpitching arm. Jesus, he was going after Hamilton with his pitching arm. “It’s not worth it. Let’s get out of here. Please, Caleb. Please.”

  Finally, her plea seemed to penetrate. He lowered Hamilton to the floor, though he kept his grip in place. “You got lucky this time, dickhead.” With his free hand, he dug in his pocket for some cash, then tossed it on the table. “There’s a big tip in there, mister,” he called to the waiter, who snapped his phone shut. “Bring extra guacamole for everyone who had to put up with this scene.”

  He wrapped Sadie close to his side, where she felt the wild beat of his heart, then thrust Hamilton against the wall, barely missing a giant cactus. Her ex rested his hands on his knees, letting out great gasps of breath.

  All her worries vaporized and a primal thrill of satisfaction raced through her blood. Hamilton deserved that. And more. Maybe it shouldn’t feel good to see him like this—vanquished, humiliated—but boy, did it ever. She wanted to jump up and down and yell and scream. Instead she skipped to keep up with Caleb as he hauled her out of the restaurant.

  “I let him off too easy,” he muttered, pausing at the exit to the parking lot.

  “It doesn’t matter. You need to leave, Caleb. You don’t want to be here when the police get here. The chief of police is Hamilton’s uncle.”

  “That was your ex? Hamilton?”

  She nodded. “Go. Please.”

  “You’re coming with me. I don’t want you dealing with them by yourself.”

  She pulled out her keys. “I have my car here, remember?”

  “Then you leave first. I’m not budging until I know you’re safe away from here.”

  “But Caleb, you don’t understand!” She wanted to cry. “If Chief Wade gets here and sees Hamilton like that—”

  “I was defending myself. That other guy hit me first.”

  “But this is Kilby, and Hamilton’s a Wade. Please, Caleb.” To that plea, she added her entire being’s worth of silent begging.

  After a visible struggle he gave in. “All right. But you first. Are you safe to drive?”

  “Yes. I promise. Please.”

  “Call me when you get home.” With one last scorching look, he waved her toward her Corolla. She started up her car in record speed, gripping the steering wheel tight to stop from shaking.

  Caleb had stood up for her. No man had ever done that before.

  When he finally got in his car and followed her out of the parking lot, her heart nearly burst out of her chest. She was falling for him, so fast and hard there was no going back. Caleb—her champion. Her defender. And he didn’t even know what he was defending her from.

  A sense of dread settled over her. She’d have to tell him everything.

  But when? The Catfish left on a road trip to Colorado Springs the next morning, and she couldn’t tell her story over the phone. It hung between them during every phone call. Their conversations were strained and rushed, as if they were trying to talk around a giant mountain. He didn’t press her to explain what had happened at the Tico, but she knew he was curious. Who wouldn’t be?

  Luckily, the Wade family hadn’t said or done anything publicly about Caleb’s fight with Hamilton. Maybe Hamilton hadn’t said anything. If so, it would be a first. Normally, the entire family closed ranks whenever one of their own screwed up.

  She didn’t see Caleb again until the day of the big cupcake promotional event that had the fans buzzing.

  Brett’s sister’s bakery, What’s Up, Cupcake?, invited the Catfish players to take over for the day to bake and decorate “Slugger’s Sweetheart” cupcakes. Word had spread like wildfire that you could purchase an actual cupcake decorated by an actual ballplayer. By the time Sadie arrived, lines of customers snaked around the block.

  Her role was to answer questions about the horn-toed slug; she wasn’t anticipating much action. In fact, Brett had left the media outreach in her hands.

  “You can handle the press, Sadie,” he’d said on the phone. “You’re a pro.”

  Now that was music to her ears. If she could get people to see her as a competent professional instead of as Hamilton’s scandalous ex, all this would be worth it.

  She did a quick tour of the bakery to check on how things were going. What’s Up, Cupcake? was crammed full of big, strong, good-looking baseball players—none of whom were Caleb. The space practically vibrated with testosterone. The players were having a ball with the cupcake project, laughing with the customers and joking around with each other.

  Dwight Conner, the tall center fielder, had pulled mixing duty. He bent his powerful frame over a big bowl of soupy batter. “Hey, photog!” He whistled to the young PR assistant taking photographs. “Check me out.” He tossed a wooden bat in the air like a baton, then pretended to stir the batter with it. With his big grin and goofy pose, Sadie could just imagine the picture on the front page the next day.

  Gold. Pure gold.

  The decorating table saw most of the action. A long banquet table covered with white butcher paper dominated the seating area of the bakery. The players stood behind it, using tubes of frosting and dishes of candy sprinkles to create their masterpieces. Some wrote their initials with frosting, others made simple slug designs. One Hispanic player had a long line of people in front of him, and Sadie quickly saw why. With trancelike focus and breathtaking skill, he was meticulously copying a photo of a horn-toed slug onto a large cupcake.

  “Man, I thought Ramirez was just wasting time with that sketchbook,” grumbled Mike Solo, picking up a tray of freshly baked cupcakes in the kitchen. He wore a red bandanna and looked like a pirate, except for the plate of bare cupcakes balanced on his huge palm. “If I tried to paint a slug on a cupcake, it would look like my dick.”

  “You had to go there, didn’t you?” grumbled Jim Lieberman, the shortstop. “A million words in the English language and the only one you use is ‘dick.’ ”

  “Not true. I use ‘dickhead’ too.” Solo flicked him on the head.

  “Do. Not. Flick me.” Lieberman waved a tube of icing at him.

  “You’re going to frost me?” Mike gave a wide grin and winked at the PR assistant. “Go ahead. Make my day. I bet I can convince someone to lick it off.”

  The PR assistant rolled her eyes and whispered in Sadie’s ear, “I’m used to these guys, but if they get too rowdy for you, let me know.”

  “They’re fine,” Sadie whispered back. “Let’s go out front and get some pictures of the cupcakes. And make sure they don’t look like anyone’s . . . you know . . .”

  Because now that Mike had mentioned it, the slugs did look sort of phallic, or maybe they seemed that way to her because she couldn’t stop thinking about Caleb’s h
ard body against hers . . .

  And then he walked in, and every cell of her body went on high alert. Caleb’s here. Caleb’s here.

  Of course, she wasn’t the only one who noticed. A low roar filled the bakery as his fans crowded close, begging for autographs. The PR assistant began snapping photos, while she hung back, the knowledge of what she had to say to him ruining the moment.

  As Caleb took his position behind the banquet table, she couldn’t help admiring how gracefully he moved. You’d think that all those muscles might get in the way, but no. They all synchronized perfectly together, flexing and tightening in just the right ways. He tied an apron around his hips—yes, he made that sexy too—then glanced up and caught her gaze. He looked more handsome than ever—his eyes clear and gray, his face browned from pitching in the Texas sun.

  She gathered her courage. Better get this over with as quickly as possible. “Caleb, could I brief you on a few things before you get started?”

  “Sure.” He left the table and squeezed past the other players lined up with their tubes of frosting. The sense of distance between them made her want to cry, but maybe he was trying to be professional. They were in a public place, after all.

  Too public. Everyone wanted to talk to Caleb about the upcoming all-star break, and to ask if he was upset that he hadn’t been chosen for the Pacific League all-star team. He patiently answered all the fans’ questions, while Sadie’s anxiety spiraled higher and higher. Finally they found a quiet corner in the kitchen, where Dwight was rocking out to his earbuds.

  “I need to explain what happened at the Tico,” Sadie whispered.

  Caleb’s hand rested on the wall above her head as he bent to listen to her. “You don’t have to explain anything. We all have our secrets.”

  “But I don’t want to have any secrets from you.”