Caught by You

by Jennifer Bernard

  Mike fixed his gaze on the batter’s box, where Trevor was at the plate, staring down the Condor pitcher who’d been giving him fits lately. He crouched over the plate like a lion ready to pounce on a rattlesnake.

  “It’s sunflower seeds, Yaz. Nothing more. And I’m not dictating out there. Just trying to do my job. Control the pace of the game. Share my experience. Like, you don’t let Bill Danson anywhere close to a curveball because he eats them for breakfast and throws up homers for lunch.”

  “Not mine. Popped it up, baby, popped it like a soda.”

  “That’s because he has a sore shoulder. I noticed it when he was warming up. You could have gotten a groundout, easy. But you had to get cute.”

  “Ain’t no thing. An out’s an out. Gotta be me. I don’t do no quick at-­bats. I want my time. My time to shine. The Yaz gotta be the Yaz. Whoo!” He thumped his chest. “Yo, you gonna sign our petition?”

  “What petition?”

  “Keep the queers out of our locker room. Keep it clean, baby.”

  Oh, for fuck’s sake. Mike gritted his teeth against the irritation he wanted to unleash. “Yazmer, this is Triple A in Kilby, Texas. We have, like, two reporters in town. Why do you worry about something like that?”

  “We gotta set an example.” Yazmer popped a piece of gum in his mouth. “Like you, with those Instagrams. Represent, yo. Consent to represent, keep it de-­cent.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Hashtag Suds-­o-­Rama. Hashtag dirty laundry. Hashtag hot chick. Her hands all up in your—­”

  “All right, all right. Can you give it a rest . . . Whose Instagram?”

  “Mine, everyone’s. Re-­gram, baby. Mik-­o Stud-­o gettin’ his freak on. New respect, brah, new respect.” He shoved his shoulder against Mike’s.

  “Nothing happened, Yazmer. I took a vow. Everyone knows that.”

  “What I know is Instagram don’t lie.”

  Oh hell. He needed to see what Bonita had posted, like now. But phones were banned in the dugout. He’d have to wait three more innings to see how bad the photos looked, what they showed. He remembered Donna’s hands on his back, under his shirt, and the way she pressed against him . . . so freaking hot. But they’d been fully clothed. How bad could the shots be?

  “Get smilin’.” Yazmer bumped his shoulder again. “You’re a ballplayer. That’s a pussy jackpot. One of the perks, yo.”

  “Anyone ever tell you you’re an ass?” Mike said it with as much false good humor as possible.

  Yazmer cocked his head to the side. “What’d the Yaz do to you? Besides shake you off like a toxic cloud?”

  “I don’t have a problem with you, as long as you stick to fastballs and curveballs, and stay away from cameras. I care about baseball. I care about playing my heart out and winning games, not photo ops or freaking Twitter.”

  Yazmer worked his gum, giving Mike a sideways liquid glance. “Sorry, Prehistoric, I ain’t staying away from no cameras. Camera’s in my blood. Gotta share this gift with the world. How long you been in Triple A? Take a page out of my playbook. Put yourself on the map. Live big, die hard. That’s my motto. Can’t touch this. Can’t touch this.” He jumped to his feet, punching the air.

  Mike rolled his eyes, then heard the crowd roar.

  Trevor Stark had just hit a monster shot, so high it could knock out a passing bird. Everyone watched it soar and soar, higher and higher, then finally descend toward the stands, well into home run territory, if not even farther, like Catfish record territory.

  Stark could sure hit.

  He managed to round the bases without any overt gloating, which Mike considered a personal triumph. He kept telling Stark what a dick move that was.

  And now, Stark had just saved his ass. The runs Mike had allowed with his home base error were erased, and the Catfish had a one-­run lead. When Trevor jogged into the dugout, barely winded, Mike bumped chests with him.

  “Way to work the count, buddy.”

  “And bail you out.” Stark winked one crystal-­green eye.

  “Tryin’ to steal my pixels, Stark?”

  Mike and Trevor both stared at Yazmer. Sometimes the guy was literally incomprehensible. “What?”

  “My pixels. The ones in the headline. They need to say ‘Yaz.’ ”

  Trevor scratched the back of his head. “As in, ‘Yaz is a fucking asshole’?”

  “Don’t matter what it says. No big—­I’ll be top story soon. I got something brewing.” Yaz smiled smugly. “Need-­to-­know basis. Today, you don’t need to know.”

  Mike glanced at Trevor, who looked just as confused as he was. “Whatever, Yaz. I’ll tell you what I need to know today. I need to know what pitches you’re going to throw. Can we try to keep some open lines of communication on that?”

  “Sure, baby.”

  Ramirez struck out to end the inning, and Mike got busy refastening his gear to get back on the field. He jogged out to home plate, nodding to the young umpire. Always good to be polite to the umps.

  Yazmer took the mound as the first batter, Seth Morton, came to the plate. Mike settled into his crouch and made eye contact with Yaz. He called for a fastball over the plate, because Morton never swung at the first pitch. Never, ever, not once in the history of ever. Yaz shook off the sign. Mike sighed. Arrogant, know-­it-­all kid. What did he mean by that comment about having “something brewing”? He was such a freaking publicity hound.

  Mike gave in and called for the changeup, Yaz’s go-­to pitch. Yaz went into his windup, planted his foot, and hurled the ball right into the dirt two feet to the right. Mike barely managed to get his glove on it.

  Ball one. Gift-­wrapped and hand-­delivered to Seth Morton of the Salt Lake Condors.

  He shook off his irritation and gathered up the ball, tossing it back to Yazmer with no expression. Gotta work with the guy no matter what an ass he is.

  Donna’s face flashed into his mind, her teasing smile as she told him, Mi enemy es su enemy. Daring, fierce Donna, willing to transform herself for her kid.

  And right then, behind the plate, one of his lightning-­quick, intuitive calculations kicked in.

  1.Donna loved Zack.

  2.Mike had gotten her into this mess.

  3.He was a man.

  4.A man with an alleged Superhero Complex.

  In that moment, he knew exactly how he could help Donna.

  Chapter 9

  “HOW BAD IS it?” Donna couldn’t even look at the photos, which was why Sadie had shown up at the Dental Miracles office and whisked her off to lunch at the Roadhouse. An especially nice surprise because Sadie didn’t even live in Kilby anymore. She lived in San Diego with Caleb, but came back often to make sure her mother was handling her absence okay.

  “It’s not bad at all. No boobage is showing, that’s good.” Sadie smiled at her, that bright, optimistic smile that didn’t fool Donna in the least.

  “I’m not worried about that. Does it look like I’m some sort of man-­crazy slut who can’t keep my hands off the hot baseball player?”

  Sadie squinted at her phone. “Well, for sure, no one could blame you. Mike Solo is a great guy, and he’s very sexy.”

  “So that’s my excuse? ‘Judge Quinn, I plead extreme hotness. No reasonable girl would pass up the chance to make out with Mike Solo.’ That’s not going to fly, Sadie.”

  “The photos don’t prove anything, Donna. Even if you slept with him, they don’t mean anything. You’re single, you’re young, why shouldn’t you kiss a boy?”

  “I don’t know. My lawyer has me all stressed out. She called and yelled at me, said if I can’t stay away from Mike she’d drop my case.”

  “Screw her,” Sadie said loyally. “We’ll find another lawyer.”

  “You’re being so nice about this, after I was so rotten and secretive.”


  “Would you stop beating yourself up about that? You were trying to respect the Hannigans’ wishes. And I was buried in my own drama. You should be mad at me for being so self-­centered.”

  Donna made a face at her friend. “Don’t be ridiculous. Why don’t we just agree to be mad at the Wades? They actually deserve it. And Bonita, of course. And Harvey, for proposing to Bonita. And Olympus, who designed the camera.”

  “What about the inventors of Instagram?”

  “I don’t know how they sleep at night, quite honestly.” They smiled at each other. Sadie always made Donna feel better; she was the best friend in the world.

  “So what about Mike? Do you two have something going on?”

  “No.” Donna pressed her lips together. She didn’t want to reveal anything more about her and Mike. Something was going on, but she didn’t know what. Something different, and . . . significant. But nameless. “We’re friends. Between his vow and my new leaf, that’s all it’s ever going to be.”

  Sadie looked at her phone, which still displayed the photo of Donna and Mike locked in each other’s arms, then back at Donna, her skeptical expression saying it all.

  “Okay, okay.” Donna gave in. “I find him attractive. I like him. He makes me laugh. There’s a lot more to him than I knew at first. And he defended me at the Roadhouse last fall. I’ve never forgotten that. What can I say? I’m a girl, and when a guy protects me like that, my ovaries start doing the conga. That’s all.”

  “Mm-­hm.” Sadie, aggravating girl that she was, got a smug expression on her face. “Sounds like trouble to me. Take it from someone so deep in love it would take dynamite to get me out.”

  “Aww. You deserve it, sweetie.” A memory flashed into her mind—­the last time she’d seen Caleb and Sadie together, in Sadie’s hospital room. He’d been kneeling next to her bed, his tawny head bent over Sadie’s dark one. They’d looked completely lost in each other and so beautiful that Donna had teared up. Sadie deserved a wonderful man and a happy future. Donna knew exactly what her friend had gone through before Caleb had come into her life.

  That kind of fairy tale wasn’t for her, even though part of her longed for it. What would it be like to have a strong, caring, protective man fall passionately in love with her? What would it feel like to bring a man like that to his knees?

  As if reading her mind, Sadie said gently, “You deserve it too, Donna. Maybe you don’t believe it now, but someday the man of your dreams is going to sweep into your life like a hurricane and you won’t know what hit you.”

  Those prophetic words came back to Donna when she opened the door later that night to find Mike Solo on the front landing. In typical Texas spring fashion, it had gone from shorts to jacket weather in less than a day. A strong wind tousled his hair and sent moonlit clouds skittering across the sky behind him. He hunched his body protectively over a bouquet of lilacs. Their tiny petals shivered with each gust.

  “Can I come in?” The wind seemed to snatch his words away, like a gleeful, mischievous imp. “Little windy out here.”

  “Yeah, sure.” She cast a quick glance down her body to make sure she was decent. Sleep shorts and an Emperor’s New Groove T-­shirt. She’d been attempting to balance her checkbook, which had required the comfort of her favorite childhood movie. She gave the lilacs a suspicious glance as she stepped back to let him in. In her experience, flowers were a bad sign. They indicated an apology, which suggested wrongdoing of some kind. Even so, they smelled wonderful, like a hopeful spring dawn. “What’s this all about?”

  Mike passed a hand across the back of his neck, a nervous gesture she’d never seen from him before. “I . . . uh . . . did something stupid.”

  “Are you talking about kissing in a Laundromat? I already told you, I don’t blame you for that.”

  “No. It’s not that.” He inhaled a deep breath, then seemed to remember that he still held a clear plastic cone filled with lavender petals. “Do you mind taking this? You might need something to hit me with.”

  She didn’t take it. “Now you’ve got me worried, Solo. Spit it out, would you? Are you in trouble with the Catfish? Did Moses come down to smite you with a burning bush because we made out?”

  A faint smile finally softened the stern set of his mouth. Unfortunately, that drew her attention to his mouth, and to the rest of him, sexier than ever in black jeans and a Chicago Bulls jacket. He glanced around her apartment, at the posters of Texans player J.J. Watt, the football-­shaped beanbag chair, the wastebasket that looked like a football helmet.

  “Why does it look like the NFL threw up in here?”

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “Because this is Texas and we love football here. And Judge Quinn’s a fan and I have to prove I can provide a suitable home environment for Zack.”

  Mike looked revolted, so she switched the subject back.

  “Spit it out, Solo. What’s up?”

  He squared his shoulders. “Did you know that Bonita uploaded those photos to Instagram and hashtagged the Catfish? A bunch of ­people saw them.”

  “Yes, I know. Sadie looked at them for me. She said my hair looked amazing and—­”

  “I reposted them. And I said you were my fiancée.”

  “You what?”

  ­“People were making Laundromat jokes about dirty laundry and between the sheets and all kinds of crap. I had to do something. So I did that. Now everyone thinks we’re engaged. So . . .” He sank onto one knee and held the bouquet toward her. “Donna, will you marry me?”

  For one long, frozen moment, Donna dared to believe it was real. Her crazy thoughts from earlier in the day flashed through her mind. What would it feel like to have a man fall passionately in love with her . . . to bring him to his knees . . . But this wasn’t passion or love. This was some kind of cosmic joke. She snatched the bouquet from his hands and threw it across the room, onto the beanbag chair. The plastic cone slithered off the vinyl and landed upside down on the floor. “Screw you.”

  For a guy whose fake proposal had just been brutally shot down, Mike didn’t look very crushed. “Maybe you should think about it a little more.” He held her gaze, his green eyes dark and steady.

  “I know what’s going on here. You’re doing that knight-­in-­shining-­armor thing. Just like at the Roadhouse. Listen to me, Solo. I don’t need you to get me out of trouble. I can handle this.”

  “You’ve got it wrong, Donna.”

  “Oh really? Do you always propose to girls after you make out with them?”

  “Hardly ever.”

  “This isn’t a joke. And no, I won’t marry you. Because you’re insane and I can’t taint my gene pool with any more craziness. It has plenty already.”

  Something flickered deep in his eyes. Had she hurt his feelings? Could she hurt his feelings? Did he have any feelings toward her? “I was thinking that there’s a lot of potential here. We get along well. The sparks are there.”

  Everything he said made it worse. “Shut up, Solo. Just shut up. And get up off your knees.” To work off her fury, she whirled around her apartment like a mini-­tornado. Get along well? Get along well? That’s why he was springing this “proposal” on her? “I’d rather marry a horn-­toed slug.”

  “Donna, you’re reacting emotionally. Just think about it.”

  “Oh, I’m not supposed to react emotionally to a proposal of marriage?” A proposal was supposed to be romantic and special, one of the most beautiful moments in a girl’s life. A ­couple’s life. They weren’t even a ­couple!

  She marched to the front door and flung it open. “Get out, Solo.”

  He got to his feet but made no move to leave. “I will. But you’re not thinking about the big picture. You’re not thinking about Zack.”

  “What about Zack?”

  “Don’t you think the judge will look at you differently if you’re engaged to
be married? To a very well-­compensated, up-­and-­coming baseball player?”

  She tasted bile in her throat and ran for the bathroom. Bent over the toilet, she heaved for a moment, but nothing came up. Get a grip, Donna. Get a grip.

  With the cold porcelain of the tank clamped between her hands, she tried to push all the hurt aside. The problem was that she felt too much for Mike, and he didn’t have a clue about it. It wasn’t that she was in love with him, but . . . the image of him at the door, his face so gravely serious, that bouquet of lilacs in one big hand . . . oh sweet Lord in heaven. Maybe she had fallen for him. Somehow that pesky crush had developed into a full-­on infatuation.

  But he didn’t know that. And he never would either. She’d keep that reality hidden away until it wasn’t reality anymore. She’d cure herself of her crush. Because clearly he didn’t feel anything of the sort for her, or he would have mentioned it when he proposed marriage. It was the kind of thing that seemed relevant.

  She rose to her feet and stared at her reflection in the mirror. What about Zack? Mike had asked. Yes, what about Zack? She’d do anything for Zack, anything to keep from losing him. Get Zack back.

  It pissed her off that Mike had a point about the judge, but he did. A single, barely employed twenty-­four-­year-­old suddenly transformed into the fiancée of a solid man with a bright future? Bonita would eat her heart out. For a moment she wavered.

  No. No, she couldn’t do it. It wasn’t fair to Mike. He could have a hundred different girls. He was a hot ballplayer with his whole future ahead of him. Why should he get stuck with her because of one spontaneous make-­out session in a Laundromat? Then again, this “engagement” was Mike’s idea, so why should she try to protect him?

  Most of all, what was best for Zack in this situation?

  She splashed water on her face, took in a few deep breaths, then soldiered into the living room. Mike, hands in his pockets, stood at the front window, watching the tops of the cottonwoods whip back and forth in the wind. The square set of his shoulders, his upright posture, the tension in his stance all said one thing: a man doing his duty.