Changing the Play

by Julia Blake

  It was Nick’s turn to groan. He tore his mouth away to lick and suck his way down her neck to the modest dip between her breasts. He pressed his lips there, teasing the edge of her dress’s neckline, but he didn’t expose her. Frustrated, she rubbed against him again in encouragement.

  “You’re killing me,” he hissed.

  “That’s a bad thing?” she asked, running her nails down his back.

  All that did was earn her a low, though strangled, chuckle. “I had this whole plan for tonight. I was going to charm you with your clothes on.”

  “Clothing is overrated.”

  “You have no idea.”

  “Nick,” she tried to coax him. She wanted him inside of her. Since plan A—don’t sleep with Nick tonight—didn’t seem to be working, she’d go for plan B—sleep with Nick now. They’d both have some fun, and then move on. He’d go back to reporting and be out of her life as soon as Kevin’s profile was shot. She’d never sleep with a reporter—or anyone she worked with—ever again.

  He shook his head, then dipped it, and claimed the crook of her neck again before tracing his tongue in one long, teasing line back up to her jaw. Her hips arched, and she squeezed her thighs tighter, grinding against him. He was driving her absolutely crazy and loving every second of it.

  “Patience,” he murmured.

  Stubborn man.

  If he wasn’t going to do anything, she would. Her hands brushed over the fine cotton of his shirt, testing the ripple of well-toned muscle underneath. Through the fabric she could already tell he burned hot. She did that to him, she realized, smiling at her own power. He was hot and bothered and all hers.

  Her fingers lingered over the first closed button of his shirt. The moment it popped open Nick shot up. Panting, he stared down at her wide-eyed and half-wild. “Dammit, Rachel. Stop.”

  Her fingers toyed with the button she’d flicked open. “Don’t you think it’s a little late to be slowing down?”

  He couldn’t hide the ragged breath that told her how much this conversation cost him. “Probably.”

  “So why stop?”

  He lowered his forehead to hers. “Because I meant what I said. I want to take you out. It matters to me that I do this the right way. That you know that I’m serious about wanting this date to go well.”

  Oh. That wasn’t what she was expecting, and the magnitude of that settled around her.

  Slowly she raised a hand to cup his cheek. His serious eyes pierced her as she traced the outline of his full lips. Her fingers wanted nothing more than to wind in his hair and pull her to him again. Still settled between her legs, his cock pressed hard against the softness of her thigh.

  Choose: sex or date.

  “Okay.” She tried to steady her voice but couldn’t hide the tremble there.

  He sighed and kissed her forehead. “The way you look in that dress, it’s going to be a very long night.”

  “Then we better get started.”

  Rachel shimmied out from underneath him and hurried to her bedroom to get her purse. Her lipstick had rubbed off, so she reapplied it over her swollen, tingling lips. Her reflection stared back at her in the mirror, and she couldn’t help but smile. She felt sharp, sexy, and ready for whatever Nick threw at her.

  Chapter 12

  Rachel hadn’t expected to leave Manhattan. Maybe Brooklyn would’ve been a remote possibility—it did have some of the trendiest restaurants and bars in the city—but that wasn’t where Nick was taking her. Instead, he maneuvered the rental car down the streets of the Upper East Side and across the Queensboro Bridge to Queens.

  “Where are we going?” Rachel asked, the beginning of an idea nagging at her.

  He took his eyes off the road just long enough to flash her a grin. “If I told you, then it wouldn’t be a surprise.”

  Are we going to . . . ?

  “What if I don’t like surprises?” she asked.

  That earned her another grin.

  “You’ll like this one. I promise,” he said.

  The season doesn’t start until . . .

  No. The idea was too ridiculous to entertain—especially since it was the wrong time of year. Instead, she tried to relax into the leather seat and enjoy the ride.

  Rachel had been on plenty of first dates in New York over the years, and she had a pretty good idea what was on the agenda. Dinner at an impressive but not intimidating restaurant. A bottle of wine to share. Dessert, also to share even if neither of them really wanted it. And all of it fueled by the knowledge that if she said no to a second date, Nick would back way off.

  “You’ve gone quiet on me,” he said, breaking her train of thought. “Doing okay over there?”

  “I’m just worried that this is going to become an episode of Law and Order,” she said, throwing him a little smile. “All of the bodies end up in Queens.”

  He barked a laugh that filled the car. “Don’t worry. Long Island City’s gotten a lot nicer since the nineties. I think you’ll be safe.”

  The conversation stayed light until Nick took an exit off the highway. Rising up high above them stood Citi Field—exactly where Rachel would have suspected a trip to Queens might lead . . . in about three months when it was warm and the Mets were in town. Still, the stadium was lit up like always, even if the parking lot was virtually empty save for a few cars that probably belonged to staff.

  “Nick,” she started hesitatingly, “we aren’t going to Citi Field, are we?”

  He eased the car around a bend and pulled into one of the parking spots close to the stadium’s rotunda gate. “We might be.”

  “But there’s no game tonight.” No concert. Nothing.

  He shut off the ignition and leaned forward over the steering wheel to peer up at the ballpark. “I don’t know. Looks pretty open to me. Want to give it a shot?”

  NICK WATCHED Rachel out of the corner of his eye with a studied casualness acquired from years of locker room scrums and all-star interviews. Show that you care, and you’ll get shut down. Pretend that it doesn’t really matter what happens, and people will come around.

  But playing it cool was killing Nick when what he really wanted was to know what she was thinking. He could’ve taken her for dinner at any number of trendy date spots, but that wasn’t Rachel. And so he’d decided to go big, do something she’d never expect. Something she’d love.

  He watched her slowly turn toward him in her seat, her eyes narrowed in suspicion. “You’re sure we’re supposed to be here?”

  He wasn’t going to tell her that he’d double- and triple-checked the details until Joe had yelled at him to back off. Nick wanted this date to work—badly. The flowers had been a start, but he wanted to prove to her that he’d noticed her all those years ago.

  “Why don’t we go check it out?” he suggested.

  She took one last look at the stadium through the windshield, a small smile curving her lips. “Lead the way.”

  He was out of the car and around to her side to open up her door before her seat belt was off. He gave her his hand, and she slipped her manicured one into his. It felt good to have her skin pressed against his. The flowery scent of her perfume—more feminine than he would’ve guessed but still perfect—wrapped around him. The memory of their kisses roared up in him. The temptation to lay her out over the warm hood of the car and then talk her into the back seat was strong, but he wasn’t going to blow this shot with Rachel for the world.

  With his hand on the small of her back, he guided her toward the main entrance.

  “You’re sure we’re supposed to be here?” she asked.

  “I know you’re used to being the one calling the shots, but trust me,” he said.

  “It’s not that. I just don’t like the idea of getting tackled by Mets security.”

  He nudged her playfully. “I never pegged you for a rule follower.
”

  “Off the record?” she asked with a raised eyebrow. “Representing Brock Ward has given me more than enough adventure for one lifetime.”

  “Can’t argue with that,” he said as Joe stepped out of the shadows. “By the way, how fast can you run in those heels?”

  She peered down at her shoes as though she was actually contemplating the question. “My mile pace isn’t bad.”

  He grinned. “I look for a sub-five-second forty-yard-dash time from all of my dates.”

  “I’m not sure I’m quite that fast.”

  “Well then, it’s probably a good thing I know a guy,” he said as he hailed Joe. “What’s up, old man?”

  Joe grunted. “Who are you calling old, Ruben?”

  He clasped Joe’s hand and pumped it hard. “Good to see you.”

  “Won’t be long until opening day. Are you working this year?” asked Joe.

  “Like always. You think we’re going to get rain for the first pitch?” asked Nick.

  Joe nudged the brim of his Mets cap to look at the sky, as though he could read the forecast that was still a few weeks away. Who knows, maybe Joe could. The man seemed to have a preternatural sense for anything and everything that affected the ballpark.

  “Hard to say,” Joe finally said, “but I like to think God’s a baseball fan. Now, miss, your date here is being rude and not introducing us. I’m Joe Tesotti. I run things around here.”

  The head of maintenance shot his hand out to shake Rachel’s.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Tesotti,” she said. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  “Is that right?” asked Joe.

  “I used to rep Conner Carter before he retired,” she said.

  Joe’s face lit up. “One of the nicest guys I ever saw walk through the clubhouse. How is Carter?”

  “He bought a ranch in California. He herds cattle now.”

  Joe gave a laugh. “Imagine that. There isn’t much you can herd in Queens.”

  “No, sir,” she agreed.

  “Why don’t we get things going here,” Joe said as he took Rachel’s elbow and started to lead her through the gate and across the rotunda that on game day would be teeming with fans.

  Nick shook his head in amusement at Joe’s steady stream of conversation with Rachel and Rachel alone all the way to section 103. He should’ve guessed that she’d know of Joe by reputation at least. The man was a legend in baseball, one of the longest-running employees working in the league. He also wasn’t afraid of chatting up a pretty woman when the opportunity presented itself.

  “Here you are,” announced the older man when they got to the railings marking their section.

  Rachel looked at the folded blankets and insulated cooler bags sitting on the seats below them. Then she turned those beautiful blue eyes on him, and any reservations he’d had about whether the date was right fell away. Unforgettable. That’s what he was going to give her.

  “Thanks, Joe,” he said, clapping a hand on the old man’s shoulder. “I think I can take it from here.”

  “Just getting things warmed up for you,” said Joe.

  “Appreciate that. I’ll text you when we’re done.”

  He watched Joe head off down the concourse for a few seconds before turning to Rachel. Her hands were clasped low in front of her, and the expression she wore was a little tough to read.

  “I have to admit,” she said with a shake of her head, “I wouldn’t have guessed that we’d end up here out of season.”

  A flush of pride rolled through him. “Come on. I think you’ll like this.”

  He offered his arm, happy when she took it without hesitation, and led her down the stadium steps to row ten. She sat down, and he unfurled one of the fleece blankets emblazoned with the Mets orange-and-blue logo with a flourish. They’d lucked into one of those rare, balmy mid-March nights when it feels like winter will finally give way to spring. Still, he was glad Joe had suggested the thick blankets.

  Nick sat down as she tucked the fleece around her legs. “Let’s see what’s for dinner,” he said. Steam rolled into the air when he flipped the top of one of the black bags open. Rachel leaned against him slightly to peer over his shoulder. His chest constricted, and he lost a little blood flow to his brain. The things this woman did to him . . .

  “What’s in the bag?” she asked.

  He cleared his throat before pulling out two foil- and paper-wrapped packages and handed one to her. “Citi Field’s finest hot Italian sausage with peppers and onions. There are hot dogs too. I thought this might be better than dinner in the city.”

  A pause stretched between them.

  She doesn’t get it.

  I’ve fucked this up and she wants to go home.

  And then she smiled—a genuine, unchecked smile that knocked the breath out of him and made him feel fourteen feet tall.

  “You got me ballpark food in the off season just when I was starting to crave some real baseball,” Rachel said. “This is fantastic.”

  Thank fucking god.

  He dove into the other insulated bag, pulling out two cans of beer. “Can’t have baseball without beer.”

  Rachel threw her head back, her laughter echoing through the empty seats of the stadium. Never before had he seen her so relaxed. She might be a tough woman to crack, but she was worth every ounce of effort. He was starting to understand that the beauty of her was that she was absolutely attainable. To a man who knew what he was doing.

  “I have to say, I’m pretty impressed. All we’re missing is the game.”

  “Well, if we’re lucky—”

  The sound of cheering cut him off, and the massive score screen bordering the outfield came to life with game footage.

  “Tom Seaver. April 17, 1977,” he said as he watched her eyes widen. “Seaver throws a one-hitter against the Chicago Cubs.”

  “This is amazing,” she murmured.

  And that, he realized in a rush of relief, was all he needed from this evening. The way she settled against the arm he’d slung over the back of their seats, her eyes crinkling into a smile when she used that perfectly manicured nail to pop the top off her beer with a hiss, it all shifted something deep inside of him. Later he’d look back and think on things as BSD and ASD—Before the Seaver Date and After the Seaver Date. It was that monumental.

  But for now, he hiked a foot up on the seat in front of him and opened his beer as the Mets took the digital field.

  SOMEWHERE BETWEEN the rotunda and section 103, row three, seat two, Rachel realized this wasn’t just a first date. This was the first date. The one that blew all the others away.

  She’d been wined and dined in New York City and every major metropolitan area with a sports franchise in between. Men had shown off to her and shown her off. Even the nice ones had felt as though they were taking her out just to prove to themselves that they were rich or connected enough to grab a powerful woman’s attention. She’d always accepted that this was part of the game. Until now.

  Nick had managed in one night to show her what a date should be. Not a grand, sweeping gesture like renting out a ballpark necessarily, but a thoughtful night. He’d guessed what she might like—remembering her Tom Seaver jersey from high school and her love of the game—and he’d tailored the evening around her. He’d shown her that he paid attention.

  The Mets commentators narrated Seaver’s windup at three to nothing in the fifth inning. She watched as the pitcher drew the ball down close to his chest, exhaled in one smooth breath, and then fired off a blazing fast pitch.

  “He had incredible control,” Nick said next to her before taking a sip of beer. The sandwiches were long gone, but they’d been nursing their beers for a couple of innings now.

  “One of the best starting pitchers ever to play the game,” she said. “My stepfather used to make me bre
ak down Seaver’s game on these VHS tapes we had. He was a Mets fan through and through.”

  “But you were a Diamondbacks fan. And you wore a Suns hat from time to time.”

  She blinked. “Why do you remember these things? You never really spoke to me. We weren’t friends.”

  “I don’t know.” He moved his arm from around the back of her seat so that he could rest his forearms on his knees, his long fingers turning his beer in his hand. “I’ll be the first to admit that I screwed that up.”

  On the game feed, the crowd cheered, but Rachel had no idea why. Her attention was fixed solely on the man next to her. “What do you mean?”

  “I regret not telling you how much I liked you. I feel like I lost years when I could’ve been getting to know you. You’re incredible. You’re smarter than I’ll ever be. You’re fierce, and you’re not afraid of anyone. Me included.”

  Emotion stuck in her throat. They were sweet words, but they weren’t true. At least one part wasn’t. She was afraid because right then and there, sitting in the middle of an empty Citi Field, she could see the possibilities open up before her. Nick had done what no man had before. He’d made her hope that maybe—if everything went well—they just might have a future together. One where they could come home at night, excited to just be around each other. She could have a partner to tell all of her aspirations and frustrations to. She could have a man who was there for her even with her long, unpredictable work hours and constant on-call job demands. For a woman protective of her independence and guarded with her private life, that was terrifying and thrilling all bundled together.

  Rachel twisted in her hard plastic seat and raised her hand to his cheek. Slowly she stroked her thumb over the strong cut of his jaw, the light fuzz of his day-old stubble rasping against its pad. Then she kissed him.

  They’d kissed in passion and in challenge, but never before had they kissed just because they could. Now, as his lips moved over hers, she wondered why they’d waited so long.

  Nick molded her mouth to his, taking control as his fingers kneaded the nape of her neck. He nipped at her lip, her mouth gasping open at the sting that morphed into pleasure. She moaned and deepened the kiss. With a little suck, she grasped his lower lip lightly with her teeth and rasped it as she pulled away. Just before she let go, he growled low and pulled her back to him, stroking her lips with more urgency now.