No Time to Explain

by Kate Angell

  He’d filled her in as they sat around the kitchen table. She seemed extremely pleased. He swore Lori and Twyla exchanged a sly look when he raised his mug and sipped his coffee. An unspoken female exchange. He hated secrets, and hoped theirs didn’t involve him.

  Twyla yawned shortly thereafter. The day had worn her out. She called it an early night and left them to their second cups of coffee.

  Joe eyed Lori. She had a nice body. Firm and athletic. “What’s with the sunburn?” he asked. She would peel, could possibly blister.

  “Testing out my new bikini.”

  “On men at the beach?”

  “On one man only.”

  “And . . .”

  “He took me in, and I took him out. He liked what he saw. First time ever. We went from childhood friends to possibly friends with benefits.”

  Her breasts swelled in the tiny top. High, front and center. Hell, he appreciated them. “You’ve known each other awhile, then?”

  She sighed heavily. “Since middle school. He’s never paid me any attention.”

  “Today? ”

  “A party at Sand Bar brought him around.”

  He knew the place. An enormous stilt chickee hut built offshore, on a solid, submerged ridge of sand and coral. Customers walked through thigh-high waves to reach the watering hole, then climbed a wooden ladder to get up on the raised platform. A palm-frond thatched roof covered a round center bar. Not much shade. No boats. No wake. Swimsuits. Bare feet. Relaxed atmosphere. Beer and wine.

  Joe preferred coastal air-conditioning. Or at least a ceiling fan. “The two of you hung out?” he prodded.

  “All day.” She lowered her gaze to her arms and chest. Kicked out one leg. Winced. “I slathered on sunscreen, but I should’ve gotten out of the sun.” She heaved a sigh. “I just couldn’t leave him. It was my moment. My chance. I don’t regret it for a second.”

  She might have a few regrets by tomorrow, when her entire body felt like it was on fire, and her clothes scraped her skin. “What about the guy? Sunburned, too?”

  “He had a light tan to begin with, but he got a lot more color.”

  Color, as in red.

  The two soon finished their coffee, then went their separate ways. Lori off to take a cold shower. Joe to toss a tennis ball to Turbo in the backyard. He wanted his boy tired out. To sleep through the night. Turbo had.

  They’d awakened at the butt crack of dawn. Jogged two miles. He’d promised Stevie a calm Turbo. Although still somewhat antsy, the rottie had greeted her with a tail wag, not the knock down of the previous day. Joe hoped Turbo would behave himself.

  He glanced up as Sam Matthews strolled into the locker room next. Wearing dark sunglasses and looking slightly disheveled, Sam wore the same clothes as he had the previous day. He clutched a large coffee in one hand, a bottled water in the other. “Hydrating,” he managed.

  Joe shifted his gaze between Sam and Pax. “Where’d you land last night?”

  “Started at the Blue Coconut,” said Sam. “Moved to the Lusty Oyster. By midnight, Hurricane’s. It was recommended, but turned out to be a real dump. Flat beer and dirty glasses. Broken mirror over the bar. Most of the tables tilted. Slanted wooden floors.”

  “Drunk-tilted and slanted?” Joe asked. He figured his buddies were likely red-eyed and staggering by that late hour.

  Pax held up his hand, palm out. “I was buzzed, but not bombed. Took a cab back to my boat before two.”

  “You?” Joe eyed Sam. “How’d you finish the night?”

  Crooked grin from the man. “Biker chick got me back to the Driftwood. Her Harley hauled ass. I thanked her the next four hours for the ride.”

  “You were missed, Zoo,” Sam told him, as he removed his street clothes, put on his uniform. “Major disappointment. More ladies asked about you than were into me.” He went for his wallet, removed scraps of paper. “Phone numbers.” He passed them off. “Call them.”

  Joe pitched them onto a shelf in his locker, saving them for later.

  “Your party posse pouted all night,” added Pax. “Girls threw their own pity parties. I tried, but couldn’t cheer them up. It was you or no one.”

  Joe grinned. It was good to be missed. But a different priority had kept him out of the bars the night before. He and Turbo had a new place to live. Being bedroom neighbors with Stevie had its perks. That very morning, she’d escaped the adjoining bathroom a mere second before he’d entered, seeking a shower after his jog. He’d knocked lightly. Had the water been running, she never would have heard him. The element of surprise. Sneaky. He’d glimpsed her bathrobe, pale blue, silky and trailing, before she’d slammed the door in his face. Good morning to her.

  The locker room door opened once again. Dean Jensen eased inside. The man was so sunburned, he shone like a beacon. He had dark red hair, and this morning it was hard to tell where his forehead ended and his hairline began. He walked stiffly, slowly, across the room. His Triple-A teammates stared as he made his way to his corner locker.

  Comments and concern reached Joe. He listened. “Bro, what the hell?” came from the minor league catcher.

  “Too much fun, too much sun.” Dean was paying for it now.

  The catcher shook his head. “Hope she was worth it,” he said, assuming it was a woman.

  A hint of a smile from Dean. “Eye-opening.”

  Eye-opening. Zoo’s ears perked up. Sunburns were a part of Southwest Florida, but the man was a mirror image of Lori. He wondered if the two knew each other. Had they hooked up? Had her sexy bikini turned Dean on? A distinct possibility.

  He got his answer within seconds, when the catcher asked, “Beach or bar?”

  “Sand Bar.”

  Joe didn’t like his response. Down the road, would Dean and Lori start dating? If so, Dean would be coming by Unleashed, assuming the woman was, indeed, Lori. Joe’s stomach soured. There wasn’t room for both rivals at the dog day care. One would have to go. That would be Dean.

  The side door swung wide, slammed against the wall, drawing Joe’s attention. Team captain Rylan Cates, third baseman Landon Kane, and right fielder Halo Todd strolled in. Their conversation drifted to Joe as they approached. Wives and off-season vacations were the hot topics. No wife for Joe. He and Turbo had spent the summer months in Richmond. He had nothing to contribute to the conversation. He gave each man a high five. Then kept to himself and dressed.

  Baseball pants, belt, navy jersey. The Rogues would be wearing batting-practice uniforms for the duration of spring training. He dropped down on the bench and pulled on his logo crew socks. His cleats came next. Adidas Z. Z for Zoo. His personal brand insignia. He had a lucrative contract with the company. They kept him well-stocked.

  He fitted a wristband. Superstitious, he nabbed his lucky baseball cap. The one worn only for spring training. Sunglasses in hand, he turned when Rylan called his name.

  “Zoo, I heard you got bounced from the Driftwood.”

  Townie grapevine. Word was out. Joe didn’t much care. “I was away for the day, and Turbo tried to chew his way out of the hotel room.” He didn’t share where he was now playing house. Later.

  Halo rounded on him. “Was that Turbs at Unleashed?” he asked. Joe nodded. “I caught sight of your boy when I dropped off Quigley.” His and his wife, Alyn’s, black pug. Handicapped after an accident, Quigs had been confined to a canine wheelchair, but his nerve endings had healed over time. The pug now ran and fetched with the best of them.

  “Was Turbo behaving himself ?” Joe hated to ask, but needed to know.

  “Define ‘behaving himself.’”

  Damn. That didn’t sound good. “He was supposed to hang out with two dogs today, two more tomorrow, and so on, until he’s fully acquainted.”

  Halo frowned. “Stevie was in the office, cornered by a pet owner. The woman wanted her poodle groomed. Last-minute. Turbo was running the hallway. Not sure where he was supposed to be.”

  Stevie had promised a slow initiation. That Turbo
had been left to his own introductions did not bode well. It was essential to know what was going on. Webcam. His iPhone had too small of a screen. He needed a computer. Fast. He glanced at his watch. Twenty minutes, give or take, before they took the field. He didn’t want to be the last player out of the tunnel. Rogues needed to set a precedent.

  He quickly headed to the Media and Communications Center, where reporters gathered for coach and player interviews. The team had four high-tech computers at their disposal. Joe logged on. Located the Internet web page. Typed in his password. Unleashed was live. Six squares divided the screen, covering different areas of the dog care.

  He leaned in close, and immediately saw Turbo, darting between the screens. Running, chasing, panting, he was everywhere all at once. He nearly knocked over the three-legged miniature pinscher. Fortunately, Triple Threat kept his balance. Turbo slowed down beside an English bulldog. Female, from what Joe could tell. Turbo sniffed vigorously, nearly inhaling her. She snapped at him. Not good. Misfit. Misbehavior. Major problem.

  Stevie soon came on-screen with a short leash in hand. She hooked it to Turbo’s collar. Momentarily kept him by her side, restricting his freedom. Joe decided to call her. He kept his eye on the screen while he dialed.

  Stevie slipped her cell phone from her shorts pocket. Eyed the incoming name and number. Visibly debated answering. Seven rings and a sigh. “Unleashed.”

  “I’ve got you on the webcam.”

  “Who is this?”

  “Who do you think it is?”

  “What do you want?”

  “I’m waving.”

  “I’m not waving back.”

  So he noticed. Her expression was set. Narrowed gaze. Compressed lips. Her arm flexing as she held Turbo in check. The bulldog ambled by, and Turbo gave her his best smile. A smile Joe recognized—with one canine tooth showing—but it had no effect on the bulldog. Another snap his way. Stuck-up female.

  “What’s with the snotty bulldog?” he asked Stevie.

  “Etta is not a fan of Turbo.”

  “Why the hell not?” His boy was likeable.

  “She’s not into roughhousing. Or humping.”

  “Turbo’s neutered.”

  “Hasn’t stopped him.”

  “What happened to his slow launch into the group?”

  “Didn’t happen. He ignored my ‘sit and stay.’ Took off on his own.”

  “Adventurous.”

  “Troublesome.”

  Turbo took that moment to stick his nose right into Stevie’s crotch. He inhaled the crease right out of her shorts. Joe couldn’t help smiling. Turbo was his boy.

  “Stop smiling,” she hissed, sidestepping.

  “How’d you know?” He wasn’t on webcam—she was.

  “I know you.”

  He wanted to know her better.

  Another pass by the bulldog. Etta side-glanced Turbo. The rottie strained against his leash. “She’s flirting with my boy.”

  “Not flirting. She’s making sure he’s secured.”

  “Who’s her owner? Maybe I could set up a private playdate between the two.”

  “Or not.” Pause. “She belongs to Dean Jensen.”

  Shit. The Triple-A asshat. Of all the female dogs at the doggy day care, Turbo had to go after his adversary’s pet. Joe wanted them separated. It was irrational, perhaps, but that was his mind-set. It would not change.

  “How well do you know Dean?” he asked.

  “We’re . . . acquainted.” Slightly evasive.

  “He and Lori, too?”

  “She likes him.”

  Stevie affirmed what he’d already guessed. They were sunburn buddies. Stevie apparently knew Dean through Lori. Bad news. He returned to his dog. “Can you keep Turbo and Etta apart?”

  “What happened to their playdate?”

  “The standard poodle is cuter.”

  “Good-bye, Joey.”

  “Later, Stewie.”

  She hung up, and he signed off the computer.

  “Zoo, you’re second to the last man out,” Pax called to him from the doorway. “Move it.”

  He wondered who lagged behind him. “I’m there.”

  A pass through the locker room, and he discovered Dean Jensen still getting dressed. He stood in profile to Joe. In his sliding shorts. White shorts. Red skin. Joe had never seen anyone so sunburned before. Stupid man. Hot for a woman, he’d lost track of time in the heat of the day. There’d be no sex in his immediate future. Despite his newly ignited interest in Lori.

  Dean grunted, loudly, struggled to pull on his uniform pants. His breath caught. He closed his eyes, gritted his teeth when he drew on his jersey. Joe’s own skin felt sore and stretched just from watching Dean’s exertions. Even the man’s feet were bright red. He’d soon be agonizing over his socks and athletic shoes.

  No reason to stay. Outta there. Joe ducked around a locker, knocking the corner with his shoulder. “Carl?” he heard Dean call out. Pathetically. He’d mistaken Joe for the custodian.

  To respond or not? There was real pain in Dean’s voice. Joe could be a dick and disappear. He hated the guy and all he represented. Notwithstanding, there’d be entertainment value in seeing Dean on the field, sunburned and hustling. Cringing and hurting. Falling short. Not at his best.

  Dean’s misery drew Joe’s smile. He reversed. “Not Carl. What the fuck do you want, Jensen?”

  Dean was uncomfortable. Having Joe come to his aid was unbearable. He screwed up his face. His shoulders stiffened. He waved him off. “Nothing.” From you. Unspoken.

  “It’s me or nobody.”

  “Son of a bitch.”

  Silence widened the gap between them, thick with animosity. Dean ran his hand through his hair. Cringed. Sunburned scalp. He gave up, gave in. “Cleats,” he mumbled. “I can’t wear my present size. Eleven. Too tight with socks. My feet are swollen, will bleed. I’ll need a half size larger.”

  “I wear a twelve.” Joe’s tone said take it or leave it.

  Mental debate from Dean. “I’ll make them work.”

  Joe exhaled slowly and further offered, “Adidas supplied me with Superlite socks for spring training. Climacool ventilation. Not uniform-approved, but I wear them anyway, during practice. Cushioned and comfortable. They’ll take some pressure off your feet.”

  Dean was skeptical. “You’d lend me both your socks and your shoes? Knowing I’m out for a spot on the team? ”

  Not just any spot, either, but Joe’s position. “My sharing won’t help you today, dude. You can barely raise your arms. You won’t be doing a lot of running. I’ve got you hands-down. I’m still the star.”

  “Twinkle, twinkle, while you can.” Dean smirked. “My sunburn will fade, and I’ll outshine your talent. I’m here to stay.”

  Ungrateful bastard, Joe thought, as he retrieved the footwear. He dropped a new pair of Adidas cleats and complimentary socks on the bench next to Dean. “You’re late on the field, and you’ve made me late, too,” he stated. “I’m totally blaming you.”

  Dean sucked air as he raised one foot, worked on a sock. “Expected.”

  Joe snapped his fingers, as if just remembering something important. “Initiation. Last minor league player out of the locker room shaves his head.” Dean’s shaving his sunburned scalp would hurt like hell.

  Dean jerked. The sock he’d been pulling on popped off. “Bullshit. Wasn’t in effect last year.”

  “New season. New rule.”

  “According to whom?”

  “Rylan Cates.” Ry carried more weight than Joe. Especially in a lie.

  Joe snickered. Left his rival. He jogged the short tunnel. Sunshine broke around him when he stepped onto the main field. A blue, cloudless sky. Four practice fields stood empty. Awaiting player assignments. The bullpens were beyond the fence in right center field.

  The head coach wound down his morning introductions and briefing, which Joe had missed. He’d heard the speech before: Staying in good health, and getting the tea
m to be competitive right out of the gate were the primary goals. The players soon spread out, warmed up. Muscles stretched. Mind-sets strengthened.

  Four groups eventually formed for batting practice. The hitting coach joined the starters. The projected rotation would be established within a week. No later than two. Joe presently batted sixth, the middle of the order. He was aiming for second or third by Opening Day. Which meant bumping Halo Todd or Landon Kane down the roster. Difficult, but doable. Joe was determined.

  He kept his eye on the visitors’ dugout, awaiting Dean Jensen’s arrival. How long did it take a sunburned man to finish dressing? Nearly thirty additional minutes by his watch.

  Joe purposely shouted at Dean when he did show. “Nice of you to join us, Jensen.” Which drew everyone’s attention. “Must be sweet to sleep in so late.”

  The coaches frowned. They cut him no slack. During scrimmage, they positioned Dean in the outfield, chasing down balls. To the best of his ability. He had limited range of motion. His guttural groans reached the dugout.

  Joe had near-perfect placement at-bat. He intentionally airmailed Dean a fastball that sailed right over his head. On a good day, Dean would have run his ass off, snagged it. There was no run in him today. Barely a jog. He stepped out of his left athletic shoe—twice. The fit was too big for him. He made a poor showing. Too bad, so sad.

  Triple-A next went on the offense. The Rogues, on defense. The Rogues’ pitcher, Will Ridgeway, took the mound. First day out, and he took it easy, toyed with the batters, setting his own pace. He allowed hits. Left them complacent. The Rebels grew cocky. A significant smugness especially from Dean when he laid down a bunt. Their downfall loomed. Imminent.

  An exhibition game was scheduled for Sunday afternoon. At the end of the first week. Promotion. The two teams would face off. Will would be ready for them. An ace force, he would dominate with his precision pitches. Firing strikes. Going for a shutout. The Rebels wouldn’t know what had hit them.