Playing Without Rules: A Baseball Romance

by Rachelle Ayala

  He lowered his face to her level. “Tell him I’m sorry to disturb him. I’m Brock Carter, an old friend of his.”

  “Okay.” The door shut.

  Brock wasn’t sure if he should wait or not. It seemed he’d disturbed Marcia’s family enough. He rocked on his heels and surveyed the weathered paint and the broken screens. Planks were missing in sections of the porch, and the old swing dragged on a single chain. Mrs. Powers’s happy tole-painted welcome sign hung crookedly under a layer of dust.

  Once again, the door creaked open. Mr. Powers peered bleary-eyed, blinking. “You’ve come back for my Marcia?”

  “Uhm, yes, Uncle Ron. I came to give my condolences for Aunt Nanny.”

  He edged the door wider. “Nanny sent you. I remember now. She always said you’d be back.”

  Brock stepped in carefully. He held his hand out to shake, but Mr. Powers turned and shuffled to the fireplace. He removed a picture frame and handed it to Brock. A lump rose in Brock’s throat at the sight of the Powers family after he’d left. Marcia wore a somber expression and stood to the side while her parents held a baby girl between them. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say Marcia was jealous of her newborn sister, one her parents obviously doted on.

  “Beautiful picture,” Brock said. “I’m very sorry to hear of Aunt Nanny’s passing.”

  “Her last words were that you’d be back. See? Nanny, you were right.”

  “Yeah, well, Phoenix is my hometown. Can’t believe how much it’s spread since I left.”

  Mr. Powers chuckled. “It weren’t that long. Marcia’s missed you every day, and so has this little one. You met her. She’s Bianca. See what a fine child she is?”

  Uncle Ron must be really out of touch to believe Marcia missed Brock, but somehow the pronouncement comforted him and brought a smile to his face.

  “You’re very fortunate to have two beautiful daughters.” Brock squatted on the floor in front of Bianca. “How old are you?”

  The little girl plugged her thumb in her mouth and held up four fingers.

  Brock reached to shake her hand. “You’re so pretty. I used to be a friend of your—”

  “Get away from her.” Marcia’s voice cut him off as she enfolded Bianca into her arms. “I told you to leave our family alone. Should I call the police?”

  “Now, Marcia dear,” her father said. “Brock came back for you, just like Nanny said.”

  Brock’s ears perked at the second mention of Nanny’s prediction. Had Marcia really pined for him? So much that her mother had comforted her with those words? He studied her as she put a hand on her father’s shoulder.

  Her demeanor went from shooting daggers to a weary smile. “Pappy, you’re tired. Let me get your medicine and put on a movie for you. I’ll get Bianca ready for bed.”

  “No, no, I can wash up Bianca. You talk to Brock. He’s come home.” Mr. Powers led Bianca by the hand and spoke to Marcia, “Go out to the porch. I won’t listen.”

  Marcia turned on Brock like a bull goring a rodeo clown. “Outside, now.”

  She shoved him through the door before shutting it firmly. The touch of her fingers electrified every square inch of his skin, slamming home the effect she’d always have on him.

  Grabbing her wrist, he felt the pulse thundering through her veins as her breath sizzled at the touch and she tried to jerk herself away. He held her tightly, gritting his teeth to control the desire sweeping like wildfire through his body.

  “I came to pay my respects to your mother.”

  Marcia swallowed and blinked. “I’m sure my father appreciated it.”

  But she didn’t, and he couldn’t blame her. Marcia had been close to her mother, more like sisters.

  “What about you? How’ve you been? Your little sister’s darn cute, but perhaps you should tell her not to answer the door.”

  “I’ll speak to her.” Marcia’s mood shifted from pensive to angry, nostrils flaring and eyebrows dipping. “I told you to stay away from my family. Why are you back?”

  Again, she yanked her hand, but he pulled her closer and wrapped his other hand around her shoulder. “Your father said I’m back for you. Why would he say that?”

  She lowered her gaze and clamped her mouth into a thin line. Her eyes closed and she appeared to be breathing slowly through her nostrils.

  Brock lightened the hold on her wrist, and she twisted from his grip. Whatever was going on with her, he’d better step back and observe before charging in with his usual bull-in-the-china-shop approach.

  “My father hasn’t been the same since my mother passed away. You shouldn’t pay attention to what he says.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” Brock took a step forward, forcing Marcia to step back until she was against the broken rail. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “No, nothing.” Her voice was subdued, appearing defeated.

  He hated to see his Marcia Powers so sullen and down, so unlike her spunky, feisty self, that hopeful girl with the big eyes and bigger dreams. The one who’d made him feel like a hero, a champion, larger than life, until it had changed. Suddenly.

  “If you need me, need anything, call me.”

  Abruptly, she strode by him and entered the house. The door shut, the lock turned, and the porch light went out.

  As he stood there, a breeze blew around him and the wind chimes clinked the five pentatonic tones, pure and sweet, the song of first and lasting love.

  # # #

  “He what?” Jeanine’s voice shrieked high over the phone.

  Marcia threw the blanket off and covered the earpiece, listening to the night sounds of the desert. Had that been the roaring rumble of a Harley?

  Brock had left earlier. She’d checked after making sure Pappy and Bianca were asleep. Peeking out the windows, she scanned the empty front yard and driveway. All was quiet except for the tinkling wind chimes, the ones Pappy refused to throw away because he liked the saying on the metal tab.

  She put the phone back on her ear. “He’s not out there.”

  “That’s good, but did he see Bianca?”

  “Of course he did, but he doesn’t suspect a thing. I was watching him. He seemed charmed about me having a little sister.”

  “True, but what if he digs around town? I mean, I won’t tell,” Jeanine said in a reassuring tone. “But you know how gossip carries around here.”

  “I don’t think anyone cares. It’s not like the ballplayers mingle with the locals.” Marcia dived back to her bed and wiped the sweat from her forehead. “Thanks for calling and checking up on me. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  “Sure, not a problem. So, what are you going to do about Brock?”

  “Nothing, absolutely nothing.” Marcia clenched her fist as a wave of heat broiled in her lower belly. What the heck was wrong with her traitorous body? Hadn’t she trained herself to be immune to all manly enticements? Desensitized herself by her repeated mantra against men with great bodies? Convinced herself that physical attraction was base and superficial, and that strong, virile men were all players to be avoided?

  “What’s Conrad going to think, knowing Brock’s back in town?” Jeanine asked, always the friend who made her face issues head on.

  Conrad Riggins was supposed to be her cure for Brock. A flabby, persnickety man deathly afraid of germs, he had a habit of sterilizing the chessboard and pieces before every game. He was as opposite to ballplayer as she could find. Although his father owned the Rattlers baseball team, Conrad never attended any of the games, preferring brainy activities over brawn.

  “There’s nothing for him to think, seeing as Brock’s not in my life. I told him to leave and he did.”

  “Are you disappointed?”

  Marcia could picture Jeanine smirking, while twisting a blond lock around her finger. Her friend knew exactly which buttons to push.

  “Yeah, I guess.” Marcia clamped a pillow between her legs. “Sometimes I can’t muster enough hatred for him. It�
�s so tiring.”

  “I’ll say. The way he looked at you tonight was enough to burn my bra and panties. So intense and fixated, like he was remembering all the sheets you tore through together.”

  Marcia shut her eyes and forced herself to breathe deeply. Why, oh why, had she so liberally shared every detail with her best friend?

  “You know,” Jeanine continued, “if you’re really through with Brock, then it’s open season right? You said I could play him, and oh la la, I see a lot of playing with that one. He’s hunkier than I remember.”

  A chill seized Marcia’s heart at the thought of Jeanine having her way with Brock. But then, what better way to get him out of her system than to have her best friend score and dump? Maybe it would teach Brock a lesson or two. After all, he was a ballplayer, traveling all over the country, free and single, a real stud, a power hitter who played third base. What’s to say he wasn’t scoring grand slammers every town he hit?

  “You still there?” Jeanine’s voice rattled the nerves in Marcia’s inner ear.

  “Yeah, sure, have at it. Just spare me the details, okay?”

  “Wuss,” Jeanine said. “You shared everything with me, enough so my expectations are huge.”

  Sour acid bubbled in Marcia’s stomach and her gut ground and rumbled. What could she do? Brock was a free agent. If hearing about Jeanine and Brock in bed wasn’t enough to stop the aching and dreams she had for him, nothing would.

  Bottom line, she had a daughter to worry about. A daughter whose biological father had sworn he never wanted children.

  Marcia bade Jeanine good night, silenced her phone, and pulled the covers over her head. Once, she’d believed in the power of love, sure that her love and that of her parents would show Brock the possibility of a happy, loving family. They’d been friends since high school where he was a star athlete, but a shy and bitter boy, always a loner. She’d been so sure of his love, that when she found herself pregnant, she’d prepared him a candlelight dinner to tell him about it.

  Brock had been excited all evening, waiting for the draft. “It has to be the Rattlers. I want to stay here.”

  “It’s okay if it isn’t,” she said. “I’ll move wherever you go.”

  Perhaps that had been too forward, but she was sure he wanted her company. Besides, she had a positive pregnancy test, and once he found out, he’d do the right thing and stick with her.

  He had gobbled up her steak and downed her wine, and she’d subtly turned the conversation to more practical matters, such as where they’d live and what she would be doing.

  His response had shown his immature thinking. “I’m sure you can find a job easily. There ought to be waitressing jobs everywhere we go.”

  “I don’t want to spend the rest of my life waiting tables. I’d rather start a family right away. I’ve always loved children.”

  Brock put down his fork and knife, his eyes big. “Is that what you want? A family?”

  Feeling encouraged, she slipped a hand on his knee. “Yes, hopefully.”

  His leg muscles tensed, and he cupped his hand over hers. “It’s only going to be us two, you know.”

  “For now, but you never know. Maybe someday we might have a few additions.”

  He shook his head, his entire body knotted. “Not with me, sweetie. I thought we’d agreed.”

  “Well, yes, but, that was before you proposed.” She touched the side of his face and smiled sweetly.

  “Why would that change anything?” His voice had grown cold. “You know I could never be a father. Never. It hurts me when you bring it up, knowing what my father did to me and my mother.”

  Of course she’d known. But his father had gone overseas for business the past few years, and she’d thought he’d healed from his wounds.

  That night, they’d made love and he was as sweet and tender as ever, holding her, stroking her face and pampering her. She’d almost believed he’d reconsider, that he’d be elated to find out about her pregnancy.

  But, as she was falling asleep, he’d said, “I don’t like children. Sometimes I can see why my father beat me. I was such a brat. I was noisy and broke things. I pissed him off and he hurt my mother. I’d never want to take it out on you, ever.”

  When he was drafted by a minor league team in Louisiana, she’d shut him out of her life, telling him she didn’t love him enough to leave her parents and her home, that he wasn’t the man she wanted to marry.

  An owl hooted outside and coyotes yipped in the desert night. Marcia flipped the curtains aside and looked up at the full moon. Now that he was back, her excuse wore thin, onion skin thin. Her love for him flared hotter, whether he wanted Bianca or not. It was something she couldn’t control.

  For her daughter’s sake, she could not succumb to his charms. Never. Brock Carter was an awesome lover, but as he admitted himself, he wasn’t cut out to be a father. All he’d known was violence, and that would be his natural response.

  The sooner Brock left town, the better. Being asked to spring training with the Rattlers wasn’t a done deal. Marcia had a few strings she could pull with Conrad’s father, who owned the Rattlers. Maybe she could orchestrate a trade and ensure he played ball far away in Boston or Seattle.

  Comforted by her plan, Marcia dropped back onto the bed, bunched the pillow under her head, and closed her eyes.

  Pebbles rattled against her window. She clutched the sheets to her chest and listened, her heart thumping painfully, expectant.

  Her cell phone vibrated on the nightstand. A text message from Brock popped onto the screen. I’m outside your window. Can we talk?

  She texted back. No, I’m going to sleep.

  You’re not asleep now. I’ll take you for a ride.

  A ride on his Harley, like old times. To feel the rumble between her thighs, her arms wrapped around the man she still loved, the wind buffeting her face. It could never be. She had Bianca, and he’d hate her for foisting a child on him.

  The phone vibrated again. I’m not going away until you ride with me.

  She typed. Then you can stay out there all night.

  This time, she turned off her phone and hid her head under the pillow. Not that she was getting any sleep tonight. Not anytime soon—knowing Brock was out there, knowing she had only to open the window.

  Should she?

  Chapter Three

  Pounding and hammering noises woke Marcia the next morning. Outside, her father’s voice and Bianca’s alternated between buzzes of a power saw and the snapping of a nail gun.

  It was way too early in the morning for such ruckus. Had her father forgotten to tell her about a renovation project he’d contracted? They had to watch their budget, and with the expansion of The Hot Corner into a full service restaurant, money had been too tight to take care of the house.

  Marcia flung on a robe and strode out of her room. The curtains were wide open in the living room, and bright sunlight assaulted her aching eyes.

  Bianca leaped into her arms for a hug. “Brock’s building me a playhouse.”

  Brock? Since when had he introduced himself to Bianca?

  “He’s fixing the porch too,” Pappy chimed in. “And he cooked breakfast. Pancakes and ham.”

  “But, he’s not supposed to be here,” Marcia sputtered, unable to keep herself from sampling the fluffy pancakes on the kitchen counter. She drew her father aside and whispered, “Remember, Brock hates kids. He could be abusive. His father beat him, and he says he might beat his own children.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m not that forgetful,” Pappy said. “But deep inside I don’t think he’s that type of guy.”

  “I majored in psychology in college,” Marcia said. “You never know. I think we should ask him to leave.”

  “But the porch needs fixing and Bianca wants that playhouse in the tree.” Pappy sounded as whiny as a four year old.

  This wasn’t good. The more time Brock spent with Bianca, the more likely he’d figure out the truth. Marcia stomped to the front door.
“I’ll hire someone else. Let me get rid of him.”

  “I like Brock. He’s funny.” Bianca tugged Marcia’s robe. “Please, pretty please, can we go to the ball game?”

  “That’s right,” Pappy said. “He gave us tickets. Home plate seats.”

  “Home plate? That’s not as good as third base. We can’t accept them, remember, Pappy?” Marcia poked the older man in the upper arm. “He’s not supposed to be our friend.”

  “Why?” Bianca said, her freckled face and fair hair a dead giveaway of her paternity.

  “He’s a stranger.” Marcia dragged Bianca away from the window facing the front porch. “You’re not supposed to open the door for strangers.”

  “He said he was a friend.” Bianca’s thumb popped into her mouth.

  “Where’s the Tabasco sauce?” Marcia collared her father. “You haven’t been putting it on her thumb.”

  “Actually I have.” Pappy’s eyes twinkled. “She likes her thumb hot and spicy.”

  “Ahhh!!!” Marcia wanted to go back to bed, if only to make the nightmare known as Brock Carter go away. “Bianca, I want you to stop sucking your thumb. Pappy, have you been letting her?”

  Her father smiled like a kid caught with his fingers in the cookie jar. “Since you’re not her mother, you don’t get a vote.”

  “That’s right, Marcia.” A deep, full-bodied male voice rumbled from the living room.

  Marcia gaped at the open front door. How the heck did Brock sneak in without her noticing? Sweat plastered his hair against his forehead and sawdust dusted the fine hairs on his arms and bare chest.

  His physique was perfectly sculpted, from the well-defined pectorals to the ridges of his abdomen and wedge shaped waist. Carpenter pants hung low over his hips, and Marcia’s gaze wandered hungrily. Where was Jeanine when she needed her to run interference?

  “Brock!” Bianca skipped toward his open palms. “Pappy says you’re Marcia’s friend. Can we play ball?”

  “Stay away from her.” Marcia ripped her daughter from his arms. “You’re a stranger, and I don’t want Bianca talking to strange men.”