by Nancy Warren
She forced a bright smile to her face and tried to pretend it was the future of Pasqualie’s street lighting that had her heartbeat kicking up a notch. “Hi.”
Now he seemed to be looking at her mouth. She closed her lips, certain she had spinach or something stuck between her teeth.
He pushed his glasses more firmly onto the bridge of his nose. “I just wondered how, uh…how it went.”
She stared blankly, her tongue feeling around for stray greenery.
“You know, with the—” he touched his own neck significantly “—your aunts.”
“Oh,” she said. “It went fine. I showed them and they were shocked. I won’t get any questions when I refuse to go out with the mortician again.” Not wanting to appear too conceited, she added, “If he calls.”
“Good. He’s a creep. You shouldn’t go out with him.”
“Yes. I know.” We’ve had this conversation. Why does he keep bringing it up?
“Okay, then.” He hung around for another few seconds, picked up a pencil off her desk, put it down again, then said, “Well, see you.”
She couldn’t stop herself from watching him walk away. What a beautiful sight. She didn’t even notice that her hand had crept up to touch her turtleneck again.
“Whoo-ee. Come to Mama, baby,” murmured Cherise Talon, the crime beat reporter, unabashedly watching Steve as he strolled away from them. “Mmm-mmm, what that man does to a pair of Levi’s! Too bad the brain doesn’t match the bod.”
“What do you mean?”
“Honey, he’s your basic definition of all brawn and no brain.”
She thought about the spark of intelligence and understanding he’d shown her. He hadn’t seemed like a dummy. Not that she’d been that concerned about his IQ when he had his lips on her neck. “I didn’t know he was…you know. Not very bright.”
“Read his stuff sometime, hon. Besides, he’s a sports reporter. I mean, come on. How hard can it be?”
But Harriet had spent her whole life being underestimated because of the way she looked, dressed, spoke and acted. She’d long ago learned not to judge people for superficial reasons. Still, she kept her mouth shut. She didn’t know he was a mental midget, but she had no reason to believe he was an intellectual giant, either.
One thing she and Cherise definitely agreed on, however: the man was a gift to blue jeans. The crime reporter went back to her desk and Harriet was left to worship his back view all by herself.
He halted, as though he’d forgotten something, then turned and walked back to where Harriet was suddenly busy at work, eyes on her computer screen.
“Harriet,” he said when he was beside her. “I knew there was something I wanted to ask you. Do you want to come out for the staff softball team?”
“Softball team?” She raised her gaze to his face, hoping her shock didn’t show.
“Yeah. We’re starting up again for the season. Last year the Star creamed us in the media tournament. Frankly, I still think Mike Grundel bribed the umpire.” But he said it with a grin, to let her know he was joking. “This year, that isn’t going to happen.”
“What makes you think I can play softball?”
He wrinkled his forehead, “I don’t know that you can. I noticed you have, um…” He petered out and suddenly looked at his feet.
Maybe Cherise was right and he was a bit thick in the brain department.
“I have…um…?” She tried to help him out.
“I noticed you have runner’s legs. It’s not like I was looking up your skirt or anything, but you leaned over and…”
Steve Ackerman had noticed her legs? Harriet didn’t think she’d ever felt so flattered in all twenty-three of her years on earth.
“Thank you,” she said with real gratitude. Oh, Lord. She didn’t want him thinking she was thanking him for looking up her skirt when she bent over. “Thank you for inviting me. In point of fact, I haven’t played softball since high school, but I’d love to try out for the team.”
He chuckled. “We don’t exactly have tryouts. It’s more like we bully and threaten until we have enough people for a team.”
“Oh, of course,” she said, flustered.
“Not that you wouldn’t get picked for a team…”
“No. I understand. When’s the practice?”
“Tomorrow night at six. Can you make it?”
“I’ll check my calendar and let you know tomorrow,” she said. Unless there was a dentist appointment she’d forgotten, she pretty much could guarantee she was free. But she’d swallow her own tongue before she’d tell a sports hunk that.
STEVE KNEW the first time he watched Harriet run the bases that his gut had been right about those athletic legs of hers. Although the plaid Bermuda shorts and yellow golf shirt had certainly caught his attention first.
Not that he was a GQ kind of guy, but some of the outfits Harriet put together were…well, out there.
Then her bat had connected with the ball, a nice respectable crack. She’d taken off like a scud missile, her long, muscular legs eating up the ground, her red hair flowing behind her like the mane of a Thoroughbred, silky and glowing in the evening light. He forgot all about her wardrobe as a huge grin cracked his face. Look out Pasqualie Star, the Standard had a new and lethal weapon. And her name was Harriet MacPherson.
His “team” had never played so well during a practice—or during an actual game. He had to think Harriet had something to do with that. He’d seen the jaws drop—as soon as he could snap his own jaw shut and look at something other than Harriet speeding around the bases, that is. That quirky redhead had hidden talents.
As the team captain, if they had such a thing, he felt it was his duty to congratulate her after practice. Which he did with a friendly pat on the back. “You were amazing, Harriet,” he said. “You blew everybody away.”
She flushed with pleasure. “I like sports.”
He nodded. “You have talent.”
“Thanks,” she said again.
Her face glowed with health and a bead of sweat stood out on her upper lip, making him want to stroke it off with his thumb. “Coming to Ted’s?” he asked her.
She blushed, looking as thrilled as though Prince Charming had just fallen at her feet to propose. “I’d love to.”
They all piled into various vehicles and met for the weekly post-game conference at Ted’s, where the beer was cheap, the nachos hot and the big-screen TVs blasted out all sports, all the time. To Steve, it was as near as heaven as he could imagine.
There were angels in his heaven, too. The Bravehearts—Pasqualie Braves’ football team cheerleaders—also held their practices on Thursday nights and often found their way to Ted’s afterward. Some people might think it was a coincidence that the Standard’s softball team practiced the same nights. If they wanted to think that, it was fine by Steve.
Sometimes the Braves players themselves showed up, as well. For them Steve had a darker reaction. Pure, plain envy. They were warriors with their bulky bodies, war paint and their perfect vision. Men who’d been blessed with extraordinary physical talent, twenty-twenty eyesight and thicker heads than he had.
He had other assets, of course, but Steve was an athlete at heart. He’d been given strength, agility, competitiveness, speed and an enduring love of sports. In fact, he played sports—particularly football—so eagerly and with such competitive zeal that he’d got himself one concussion too many, putting his brain—his whole life—at risk if he continued. His pro sports career had ended not long after he’d discovered it was what he most wanted.
Still, he couldn’t complain. He was a pretty serious recreational athlete and he made the best of things. If you couldn’t play sports professionally, the next best thing had to be to write about professional sports.
And the next best thing after that was spending time with the Bravehearts. He perked himself out of his temporary gloom as the women invaded the bar en masse.
Steve might not see all that well long distanc
e, but up close he did just fine. And he’d been up close and personal with his fair share of cheerleaders. There was something about them he found hard to resist.
All that perkiness, energy and their own brand of athleticism. They were gymnasts and dancers—women who could do amazing contortions with their bodies—on and off the field. His kind of woman.
You could feel the men, young and old, sniff the air as the Bravehearts bounced in. If there’d been a big thermometer hanging on the wall he imagined the bulb would explode.
The cheerleaders exchanged greetings, hugs and high fives with a few of the regulars and Steve sat back and watched. Those women were sex appeal in motion. Damn, he was crazy about them. Linda Lou spotted him first.
“Hey, Steve,” she cried in the Southern drawl that turned each syllable into poetry. She’d been a runner-up to Miss Georgia Peach; he figured the competition must have been something to beat out Linda Lou.
He returned the greeting and earned a big hug and kiss, as though she hadn’t seen him just a week ago in this very spot. She sat on the arm of his chair and curled her body into him like an affectionate kitten.
“How was practice?” he asked her.
“It was incredible. We’re trying out some moves that are top secret, but man, are they somethin’.” She put a bright-pink manicured finger to her lips. “Remember, top secret.”
“Can’t wait.” He snuggled her over a bit with one arm so he could reach his beer. She anticipated the move and picked up the glass for him, helping herself to a hefty swallow first. She passed it to him with a wink and he thought Ted’s draft beer had never tasted better.
“How was the softball?”
“It was great.”
She shook out her mane of blond hair and rolled her shoulders. “I used muscles I haven’t used in years. Sheesh, I’m going to be sore tomorrow.”
He couldn’t imagine what muscles those might be. Every part of her seemed in excellent shape to him. He didn’t bother voicing his thoughts, though. Linda Lou wasn’t the insecure type. She knew she looked fine. She gazed around the table, nodding to those she knew, then leaned into him and whispered in his ear.
“What’s up with the redhead? She’s staring at me like she wants to have my babies.”
Startled, he gazed at Harriet, sitting across the table from him, and immediately understood why Linda Lou had asked the question. Harriet seemed star-struck. She gazed at Linda Lou with rapture in her face, a smile playing over her lips.
She looked as though she was in love.
With horror, he remembered he’d kissed her neck and felt a momentary zing of attraction. He had nothing against women who preferred women, but he didn’t want to think about kissing one. It would be sort of like kissing a boy, he figured. And the fact that he’d enjoyed his brief encounter with Harriet’s neck made him twitchy.
“I don’t think she swings that way,” he whispered in Linda Lou’s ear. “Don’t really know.”
“Well, if she does, tell her Kelly’s her gal. Definitely not me.”
“I’ll tell her.” Kelly was a…one of those? He glanced over at the petite woman with short blond hair and a pixie face. He’d considered hitting on her once or twice. “They should wear a sign,” he complained to Linda Lou. “Make it easier on a guy.”
“I hear you. Same goes for us.” She sighed into his beer. “Gay men are always so good-looking.”
He couldn’t think of a single thing to say to that. He gazed over at the table the cheerleaders had settled into, trying to detect some subtle difference in Kelly he’d never noticed before. Nope. He had to be honest, he wouldn’t have known. A slim, pretty hand flapped madly in his direction. “Beth’s waving to you,” he told Linda Lou.
“I guess I better go sit with the girls. We’re planning a shower for Ellen.”
“Ellen’s getting married?” he asked with casual interest.
Linda Lou smacked his shoulder. “She got married last year.” She sighed. “Now, she’s having a baby.”
“You have a pregnant cheerleader?”
“For about another month. We’re holding tryouts to replace her. I hate it when the team changes. Breaking in the new girls is so hard.”
He commiserated and then she gave him another kiss and a hug, waved to the others at the table, and sauntered off to join her co-cheerleaders.
Harriet was directly across from him and she gazed at him with her eyebrows raised, clearly wondering about all the kissing and hugging he’d just received. He shrugged. “Very friendly state, Georgia.”
She still wore a fatuous expression. “She’s so beautiful,” Harriet said softly. “They all are.”
Oh, well. He didn’t figure one kiss would mark him for life. If that was her bent, he should at least steer her in the right direction. “You should meet Kelly,” he told her heartily, man to man, passing on the hint Linda Lou had given him.
She sighed, the way a fan sighs when a movie star walks down the same street, sprinkling a little fairy dust onto their humdrum existence. “My whole life I’ve wanted to be a cheerleader.”
He blinked. Harriet wanted to be a cheerleader? “Is that what all the sighing and goo-goo eyes are about? You’re not…”
“Not what? One of those women who think cheerleaders are antifeminist, you mean? No. They’re athletes and dancers and…so…beautiful.”
Feeling a whole lot better that the woman whose neck he’d kissed hadn’t turned out to be playing for the other team after all, he asked, “Why weren’t you a cheerleader in high school?”
She stared at him as though he wasn’t all that bright. “I had red hair, braces, and weighed a few pounds more than I do now.” Her face wrinkled as though her high school memories weren’t the best. “I tried out.” She sighed. “I never had a chance.”
He knew about those kinds of dreams. Something you wanted so badly that was always out of your grasp. You were a superb athlete, but had taken one hit to the head too many, for instance. Still, people who didn’t make teams—even cheerleading squads—usually lost out for a good reason. Harriet could blame her high school failure on her braces, but it was more likely she had two left feet.
“Not everybody’s cut out to be a cheerleader,” he said.
“Oh, I am,” she told him with a bland confidence that had him smiling. “Twelve years of gymnastics, fourteen of ballet. I could outdance and outflip them all. But only the popular girls got to be cheerleaders. Only the pretty girls.”
Had a truly talented athlete like Harriet been barred from being a cheerleader because she wasn’t pretty enough?
“I’m sorry,” he told her with real sincerity.
She shrugged. “I got over it. I still love to watch them and imagine that’s me out on the field.”
He knew how she felt. She could be describing him watching the Braves play. “You never get over it, do you?”
“If I could be a cheerleader, even for one day, I’d feel like I fulfilled a dream. Instead, I watch them at halftime and pretend I’m one of them.”
“Really?” He set his elbows on the table and leaned closer to her. “I thought I was the only one who did that.”
She blinked. “You dream of being a cheerleader?”
“No. No! I imagine I’m the quarterback on the team.”
Sympathy flooded her face. “You mean…?”
He pointed to his head. “When the doctors warned my parents that one more concussion could leave me a vegetable for the rest of my life, they made me promise I’d give up football. Toughest thing I ever did.”
“I guess some dreams aren’t meant to become real,” she said, and sipped her beer in a ladylike way that barely got her lips wet.
It was too bad she’d never had a chance. A few pounds and some braces shouldn’t have stopped a girl with all that potential from having her moment in the sun.
He put down his beer mug with a thud as an idea—starting out as a niggle behind his belly button—hit him. Linda Lou said they were holdi
ng tryouts for a new cheerleader. Harriet no longer wore braces and those extra pounds seemed to have melted away just fine. Harriet would never qualify for Miss Georgia Peach, but…What if…
Trying to keep his voice casual, he said, “Did you keep up your ballet or gymnastics?”
“I still do a ballet stretching routine every morning, and I take classes to stay in shape. When I came home from college, I used to teach in the summers, but I gave that up when I started working at the Standard.”
The niggle in his belly became a burn. “How about the gymnastics?”
She shrugged. “I can still do a back flip.”
“Only one?”
An impish grin lit her face, bringing the dimples to life and making her look about twelve. “I can back flip from the edge of the street in front of our house all the way to the back fence. It’s an acre lot. But don’t tell my aunts. They’d be horrified.”
“My lips are sealed.” Sealed maybe, but he couldn’t keep them from curving into a grin. Damn if he couldn’t just picture the tartan skirt flipping end over end as she covered an acre of lawn. Of course, when she was upside down the skirt probably rode up, exposing those sleek legs and muscular thighs. He was going to have to spend some time on Harriet’s street in case the back-flipping urge took hold.
His idea was probably completely insane, but why not? He might never be a pro football player, but there was no reason Harriet couldn’t live out her own dream. She obviously wanted to be a cheerleader and this was her chance. And if someone on the staff of the Standard became a contestant, he’d have the makings of a behind-the-scenes sports feature that could win him a coveted newspaper award. Talk about a win-win situation.
“Harriet, I just had a thought.” He glanced up and grinned at her, feeling as excited as a kid on Christmas morning. “And it involves you.”
Her eyebrows rose. “Me?”
He nodded. “One of the Bravehearts is leaving to have a baby, so they’re going to have an opening. I think you should try out for the squad.”
Harriet blinked, feeling as if she was underwater. Steve’s lips were moving, but she couldn’t seem to grasp the words. Excitement mixed with dread built in her chest so that all she could hear was the roar of her own blood pounding. Her throat felt so dry she reached for her beer and gulped.