“SHIT, LESSING, you trying to burn a path to the Bigs?” Grinning, Guerrero threw his glove, hitting Eric in the chest. “You’re on fire, baby.”
“Don’t talk about it.” Mike scooped up the fallen glove and whipped it at Guerrero. “You know how superstitious he is.”
Eric tossed his cap on the locker-room bench and unbuttoned his uniform shirt. “I’m not superstitious. I just don’t like thinking about what might or might not happen.”
“Might…” Chris Littlefield grunted with a trace of resentment. “You know you’re getting the Call.”
Shutting everyone out and turning on the white noise in his head, Eric grabbed a towel and made a beeline for the showers.
These guys knew better. Nothing was certain. Thinking ahead only distracted him from the game. He had to concentrate on playing his best. Nothing else.
He finished stripping down and stepped under the warm spray, squeezing his eyes shut as he let the water hit his face. The temperature had been perfect tonight, not too hot for August in Iowa. He was in top form. His knee hadn’t hurt all summer, not even a twinge. The long months of physical therapy had been brutal, sometimes discouraging but well worth the hard work. He felt great.
Ugly scar though. He moved away from the spray, wiping his eyes and squinting at the marred flesh where a surgeon had made a nine-inch incision. No, he knew nothing was certain, all right, understood how a brief lapse in judgment could change the course of a person’s life.
A skateboarding accident. Christ, he couldn’t have gone down with less finesse. Couldn’t he have busted up his knee running into a burning building to save a puppy? Or hurt himself while skiing? Anything would’ve been better than being a dumb-ass twenty-two-year-old trying to show up a mouthy neighborhood kid.
Now at twenty-five he was older than half the guys on the team. The median age for a Double-A player was twenty-three. He’d fouled his own rule to stay away from statistics he hadn’t racked up himself and looked up the information last month.
To be fair, it wasn’t just the injury that had delayed his career. He’d been a late bloomer. Running track had been his thing in high school. He hadn’t seriously played baseball until his sophomore year in college and that had happened by accident.
“Hey, Eric.” Mike’s voice came from another stall.
“Hey what?”
“Pizza and beer in half an hour.”
“I don’t know.” He squirted shampoo into his palm. “Not tonight.”
“Come on. Sally is getting us a table.”
Eric groaned. “Tell me she’s quit trying to set me up.” For the past twelve home games, a woman had been sitting next to Sally in Miguel’s pregnant wife’s seat. Eric knew she had brown hair, but that was it because he’d purposely avoided encouraging Sally by not looking in that direction.
“You’re safe. The lady doesn’t wanna meet you.”
After a short silence, hoots of laughter came from the other stalls. Sounded like Guerrero and Franco.
“Heard that, Lessing? The lady ain’t interested in your pretty-boy ass.” It was Franco.
“Yo, Mike, you talking about the pretty mama who’s been sitting with Sally? I’ll take her.”
Another round of laughter, and then Franco again. “Have some pride, boy. Don’t be beggin’ for Lessing’s leftovers— Hey, you heard that? Lessing’s leftovers,” he repeated. “Got a ring to it.”
Ignoring them, Eric finished scrubbing his scalp and then lathered his chest with soap. Ever since he’d done a couple of commercials for a local car dealership and a men’s clothing store, the guys had been riding him. He didn’t care. The money had been decent, and he’d ended up with a sweet little Corvette to drive for two years.
“Nothing personal,” Mike added during a brief lull. “Says she’s busy.”
Shit, Mike. Could’ve waited. “Good. I’m busy, too,” Eric said. “Keeping my head in the game.”
That shut everyone up for a few minutes. They all needed to stay focused. The Bulls had a stellar record that had attracted attention for every member of the team. Sure, everyone thought Eric had the best shot, but he wasn’t the only one who had a contract with the Jackson Jaguars and was being given a hard look.
The playful banter resumed, and Eric stepped under the spray again, rinsing off and drowning everyone out.
And tried like hell not to think about getting the Call.
“WELL, BULLS FANS,” the announcer began in a somber voice, telling the crowd what everyone already knew. “Not a good night for Eric Lessing.”
“Strike two.” The umpire’s call seemed to bounce off every single one of Eric’s nerve endings.
He stepped back from the plate, rolled his shoulder, stretched his neck to the side and used everything inside of him to shut out the sudden deafening silence.
The crowd finally started to murmur, and he adjusted his batting glove. No. He wasn’t supposed to touch his glove between pitches. Dammit. What the hell was wrong with him?
Stupid superstition, that’s all.
Focus.
He eyed the pitcher, gripped the bat tighter and hunkered into position. You gonna send me another fastball, Mario?
Without a damn clue on his face, the pitcher wound up and delivered a curveball.
Eric swung.
“Strike three!”
“That, folks, ends Eric Lessing’s hitting streak,” the announcer reported, his voice barely an echo in Eric’s ears.
He tore off his helmet and gulped in the hot, thick Iowa air. Then shifted his gaze to the stands, past the disappointed faces in the first three rows, to the empty seat beside Sally.
2
“SALLY WON’T CALL HER. She says you have to.” Mike slid onto the barstool next to Eric.
“Jesus. I had two off nights. This Tess woman has nothing to do with it.” He finished his beer. The only one he’d allow himself. That was his rule during the season. One beer a day, and only if he went out with the guys or had the occasional date. “And quit asking Sally to call. Is that where you went?” Eric turned to stare at his friend. “She better not think I’m asking you to—”
“Nah.” Mike pushed a frustrated hand through his wavy reddish hair then signaled the bartender. “I don’t know, buddy…you gotta admit…two nights the lady doesn’t show up, and both times you end up stinking. And the streak did start the first home game she came to.”
Muttering a curse, Eric picked up his mug. His empty mug.
Nope, he wouldn’t order another one. He’d already broken one rule…maybe that had caused his slump. “I’ll take a ginger ale,” he said when the bartender showed up to offer refills.
“I’m just saying…” Mike sighed. “Look, maybe it’s a coincidence, but you gotta consider the facts.”
Eric laughed. He wanted to point out that being superstitious about a strange woman in the ballpark had nothing to do with facts, but… “Shut up.”
“Okay, we’ll see tomorrow night.” Sounding wounded, Mike turned to face the mirror behind the bar. “If you start hitting again because she’s there, we’ll know.”
The bartender set down their drinks. Eric frowned at his glass for a second, and then glanced at his friend. The bastard looked too smug. “You know she’s going to be there.”
“That’s what Sally said.”
“You couldn’t have just told me that?”
“Why?” Mike took a sip, amusement tugging at his mouth. “Doesn’t matter to you.”
Eric told him succinctly what he could do to himself, laid down a few bills on the bar and shoved off the stool. When he got to the door, Mike was still laughing.
A BUNCH OF superstitious bullshit. That’s all it was. Eric jogged past second base and headed for third, the crowd roaring in the background. He’d just hit a home run because he’d stayed focused, not because some woman was sitting in the stands.
As he approached home plate, he saw her. Eric hadn’t been seeking her out among his teammates’ wive
s, and it wasn’t as if she stood out in the pale green T-shirt. But somehow his gaze was drawn straight to her happy, flushed face.
Tess. That was her name. She laughed and clapped like everyone else but the crowd’s noise seemed to recede until it felt as if Tess alone was cheering him home.
He ran across the plate, his heart slamming into his chest. Not from exertion, more from elation and relief. Man, this was the way to rebound. A single in the second inning, a double in the fifth and then a homer.
Someone slapped him on the back.
Another player tapped his butt. “Way to go, Lessing.”
Slowing to a walk in front of the wives’ section, he pulled off the batting helmet and smiled at Tess.
She straightened and stopped clapping. Her smile disappeared, and she stared at him as if he’d just done something shocking, and not in a good way.
Sally grinned though, and elbowed her friend.
Eric swung a U and trotted toward the dugout. What the hell was that about?
“You a believer now, dude?” Mike clapped his shoulder, then took the helmet. “She’s back and so are you.”
Eric pulled off his gloves, threw them on the bench and sat down. Coach Frazer passed him a cup of water. He finished it in two gulps.
“Doing good, kid.” The guy was short and tough and still fast for a sixty-year-old ex-pro. He didn’t say anything else about a new streak or getting the Call, which Eric appreciated. That would be bad mojo.
He waited for Coach Frazer to reach the opposite end of the dugout. The other players’ attention was on Silva, who’d just popped a foul to the fans behind first.
“Come on, baby,” Mike murmured, his gaze darting from the pitcher to Silva. “Knock it outta here.”
“Sally’s friend…Tess?”
“Yeah. Ooh.” Mike jerked back as if suffering a personal blow, grimacing when the strike was called. “Silva shouldn’t have gone for that one,” he murmured for Eric’s ears alone. “The kid’s gotta learn to be patient.”
Eric absently nodded. Tess being here had nothing to do with his hitting tonight so why the hell was he obsessing on her? “You guys going to O’Malley’s later?”
“Nah, not tonight.” Mike slid him a curious glance. “You can just call her, you know.”
“Tess?” he said, as if he didn’t know who they were talking about, then conceded he deserved the annoyed look Mike threw him. “Man, I don’t think she likes me.”
“Why?”
“I smiled at her earlier, and she, like…” He shook his head. “I dunno. She got all weird.”
“You’re wrong, dude. According to Sally, you’re her favorite. Shit, she knows your batting average, ERA, everything about you.”
A lot of fans were into that stuff. “Hey, she’s showing up, I’m hitting again. Better to leave it alone.”
They watched Silva strike out for the third time, and they both got up to head out to the field.
“Tess isn’t coming tomorrow. I’ve got her number in my locker for you.” Mike set his cap on his head. “But if you don’t think she’s bringing you luck, then, hey, like you said, leave it alone.”
TESS RUBBED HER tired eyes and then stared blearily at the lesson plan she needed to finish before she could crawl into bed. School started in three days, she wasn’t completely prepared and she’d had no business going to the game tonight. But the Bulls had won, and Eric had hit a home run and she was glad she’d been there to see it.
That other thing though, when she’d thought he’d smiled at her… Talk about embarrassing. She’d totally froze, unable to breathe. Until she’d realized the smile wasn’t meant for her but for Sally. Between the glare from the bright ballpark lights and her overused eyes, the mistake had been an easy one. At least that’s what she’d tried to tell herself for the past hour. No reason to have been so embarrassed. It’s not as if he knew she’d thought he was smiling her way.
Her cell rang, and she frowned at the rooster clock on the yellow kitchen wall as she got up from the table. Damn, where had she left the stupid thing this time? The next ring led her into her tiny cramped living room. She saw the red blinking cell phone sitting on the antique oak telephone stand she’d inherited from her grandmother and smiled wryly. Go figure, what a place to leave her phone.
The caller’s number was blocked. She hesitated. “Hello?”
“Tess? Tess Meyers?”
“Yes,” she said slowly. Who’d be calling her at this hour?
“Hi, I’m Eric Lessing.”
Her breath caught and her mind went blank for a second. Eric Lessing? No, Sally would’ve warned her. In fact, Sally would never have given out her number without asking. This had to be some kind of joke. Mike maybe? For weeks he’d threatened to pay her back for the yoga incident. “Excuse me?”
“Eric Lessing.” He paused. “I play for the Bulls.”
She’d vaguely heard Eric’s voice once before, at the tail end of a commercial. He sounded different now, although the low, sexy timbre matched the man. Still, this didn’t make sense. “Okay,” she said, felt behind her for a chair and sank onto the Queen Anne that desperately needed reupholstering.
“I know it’s late, but I figured you were still up since you were at the game tonight.”
She heard subdued male laughter echoing in the background. A locker room maybe? Plus the connection was weird. Had Mike seen her reaction when she thought Eric had smiled at her? Did he think this would be funny? Annoyance overtook embarrassment. She’d play along. Dammit, if only she could come up with something clever… Stalling would work for now. “Why are you calling?”
“Um…why am I calling?” He sounded confused. Good.
She was going to strangle him…no, both of them. No, Mike had to be acting alone. Sally wouldn’t be this cruel. “That’s what I said.”
“Right.” He cleared his throat. “I, uh—I wanted to see if you were busy.”
“Busy? For you?” For all she knew she was on speakerphone, with the whole team listening in, just waiting for her to say something stupid. “I’m just sitting here in my new black lace teddy waiting for you, honey.” She didn’t do the sexy sultry voice thing very well, but apparently it was enough to stop him cold.
After a long awkward silence he said, “I don’t know where you live.”
“Oh, baby, you had no trouble getting hold of my number. My address should be a piece of cake for a hot hunk of jock like yourself.” She winced. Hot hunk of jock? Oh, God. How lame. She could’ve done better than that. But, dammit, she was tired. “Okay, that’s enough. It’s late, and not funny by the way. So this is me hanging up.”
She pulled the phone away from her ear but before she disconnected she heard him say, “Tess? I don’t know who you think it is, but I’m really Eric Lessing.”
She stood perfectly still, the phone a few inches away from her face, her jaw nearly hitting the floor. If it wasn’t Mike… Crap. Oh, crap. “Did you say Tess?” She laughed, the sound higher pitched than normal. “Oh, sorry, wrong number.”
She flipped the phone shut, and dropped it on the couch before it seared her hand. She moved all the way back to the hall still staring at the offending cell. If it rang again, she swore she’d flush it down the toilet.
“GOOD JOB, GUYS.” Tess ruffled little Tommy Mason’s brown hair, and he tipped his head back and gave her a crooked smile before scampering off. “Remember that Monday is the first day of school so no practice again until Wednesday.”
“We remember,” the Little Leaguers she coached said in unison as they ran toward the parking lot, so cute in their red-and-white uniforms.
“Tommy, don’t forget your hat and glove.” She waved at Jordan King’s mother waiting for him at the curb, and then stuffed her small notebook in her jeans back pocket.
Hot from too much sun, tired from too little sleep, she was so ready for a tall iced tea and a cool bath. She wouldn’t leave the park though until all the boys had been picked up. Shading her eyes
, she scanned the waiting cars, identifying most of them, and then she saw Billy and Connor doubling back toward her.
“What did you forget?” she asked and checked the ground around her feet. Finding nothing she looked up and saw Billy pointing excitedly to something behind her.
“I told you that was him.” Billy backhanded Connor’s shoulder, and both boys started running toward Tess.
When they raced past her, she turned around to see who had them all hyped up.
Eric Lessing?
It was him, all right, and he was headed straight for her.
Oh, God. Oh, no. This couldn’t be happening. Him. Here. Had to be a coincidence, right? She tugged down the bill of her ball cap, tightened her loosened ponytail. What the hell was he doing here at Fortune Park in the middle of the afternoon?
Good thing the boys had intercepted him. He stopped to talk to them, and she spun toward the parking lot. In three minutes she could be locked in her car. Not all the parents had arrived yet, but she could still watch for them from her Mini Cooper.
She dug in her pocket for her keys, and head down, made a dash for safety.
“Tess, wait up.”
She pretended she hadn’t heard him and picked up the pace.
“Coach!” Billy yelled at the top of his lungs. “Wait.”
Crap, crap, crap. She could ignore Eric, but not one of the kids. Already a few of the mothers were straining to see what the commotion was about.
Tess stopped, took a deep breath, then slowly turned around to face Eric. Of all days to have forgotten her sunglasses.
He smiled, that wide, dazzling, so-not-fair smile. “The boys want me to sign their caps,” he said almost apologetically. “Obviously I won’t do that, but if you have some paper or something…” His gaze ran down the front of her white T-shirt and worn jeans. “Or if not…”
“I have paper.” She reached behind for the small notebook and pen in her back pocket, and his gaze fell to her breasts, just long enough for her to realize they were jutting out while she fumbled for the pen. Which she dropped in her embarrassment.
Extra Innings and In His Wildest Dreams Page 14