Miller fouled off another two pitches before earning the walk. Chase heard his theme music start up and his name reverberating through the stadium’s address system, followed by the accompanying cheer. He strolled up to the batter’s box and went through his setup routine.
It was different in college. Girls were liberated and experimental; the dares became bolder, and antics to get his attention were brattier. He was more than happy to deliver, but it wasn’t the same. It was purely for sex, and he couldn’t get too invested in them. Baseball took up a lot of his time, and he took his education seriously, having never forgotten the words his father told him the day he left for California.
“Son, no matter where your talent takes you, you’re going to be a man a lot longer than you’re going to be a ballplayer. Knowledge is the only true power. Learn all you can.”
Chase got a degree in business and stayed at university for the duration. He hit eighteen home runs his freshman year and only got better. It took him until his junior year to convince scouts he wouldn’t be leaving Irvine until he finished what he’d gone there to do. After graduating magna cum laude, he signed with the team he always wanted to play for and began to call New York home. His father died of a massive heart attack two years later, proud of the man his son had become. Chase convinced his mother to sell the farm and moved her into a gated community in Florida, where she ran one of his foundations, dated a doctor from the local hospital, and played a mean game of canasta.
“Strike one,” Chase heard the umpire call. Shit, he had been so busy strolling down memory lane he had zoned out and completely missed the pitch, one that spent quality time over the plate. Not good. Not good at all. He’d better get his head back in the game and start getting down to business.
And that business was Brandon Howard. Chase Walker didn’t take kindly to striking out. It’d be over his dead body that it would happen again. With the bases loaded and his current count, odds were he could expect some junk thrown at him in the hope he’d panic and swing. Or a pitch was coming down the pipe that he was going to send screaming out of the stadium. The latter sounded like the better scenario, if he could just get Howard to cooperate.
Once he hit the majors, all the rules had changed. It became all about excess. Women sought him out, his dominance like a beacon. Some wanted to be hurt. It was no longer about the give-and-take of mutual caring, respect, or even fun. Without the emotional attachment, the act often left him feeling hollow and sometimes guilty. After an array of one-night stands, he’d had a nearly yearlong romance with a well-known actress who indulged him occasionally. But her requests were few and far between, and when it was rumored she was having an affair with a costar, he promptly cut the relationship off. He didn’t want to go back to arbitrary women who were vague memories the next day. He began to shy away from the scene altogether as his responsibilities and his stardom grew. But he missed the feel, the sound, the very company of women. He wanted it all, and he knew it was out there. He just had to be patient.
Patient. Like he had to be with Brandon Howard, who was busy shaking off his catcher, something Chase considered a very good indicator that Howard was losing his confidence, at least for the day. Chase set himself up, and Howard began to wind up.
“Strike two!” the umpire shouted, flamboyantly taking a step and pointing his finger to the side.
Chase backed up off the plate and out of the batter’s box. Okay, this was serious. It was time to think of nothing but baseball. He adjusted his gloves while glowering at the catcher.
“Bet he doesn’t have another one of those in him.”
“What’s the matter, Walker?” He heard the snicker from behind the catcher’s mask. “The thought of going 0-fer giving you the willies?”
“Hardly,” he scoffed, digging a small hole in the dirt with the toe of his left cleat before resetting himself. His sight zeroed in on the ball in Howard’s hand. And as if imagining it was all it took to make it happen, Brandon Howard threw a lackluster fastball that landed smack-dab in the middle of the plate. And Chase Walker did what he did best. He swung. The resulting sound of the bat making contact told the rest of the story.
Chase took a few slower steps in the direction of first base until he was sure the ball was making its way into the parking lot and then he picked up his pace. He ran the bases at a decent clip into the awaiting high fives of his three teammates who had already touched home. They ran as a group into the dugout, and Chase tossed his batting helmet back into its slot, followed by his gloves amid all his teammates congratulatory slapping him on the back. He grabbed a paper cup full of water, and after pouring it over his head, took another and sat down next to Troy.
“What time is it?” Chase asked before swallowing the water in one gulp.
Troy squinted at the opposite end of the dugout and the digital clock near the phone to the bullpen. “Two past two. Why?”
Chase crushed the paper cup in his hand and tossed it in the direction of a nearby trash can. He reached for a towel, then held out a fist for Troy to bump.
“I just wanted to know exactly when I’d found the sweet spot for this season.”
The Kings went on to beat the Orioles 8–3. And Chase had his first grand slam of the year.
He gave his interviews when the game was over and headed for the showers.
“Want to grab some dinner?” Troy asked him as Chase finished buttoning his shirt before tucking it into his trousers. Troy was new in town, having been traded in the off-season from Atlanta. His wife had stayed behind in Georgia until they decided what, if anything, to do with their house there. Troy’s and Chase’s lockers were side by side, which provided camaraderie, and Chase often asked Troy to join him after games for whatever he was up for. It was also a way for Chase to keep an eye on Troy, after it became apparent that Troy clearly had a drinking problem, which was only exacerbated by his wife’s reluctance to join him in New York. Chase would never stand in the way of another guy’s party, but he could make sure the man got home in one piece.
“Can’t.” Chase sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose in anticipation of his impending headache. “I’m having dinner with my agent.”
“Sorry to hear that,” Troy replied, understanding everything Chase implied. They shared the unique negotiating style of Alan Shaw, not that Troy got nearly as much attention. Chase would be working 365 days a year if he didn’t keep Shaw reined in. “I hope at least you’re going someplace where the food is good.”
“So do I, but I doubt it, ” Chase said, running his fingers through his full head of still-damp sandy-blond hair before he finished getting dressed. “It’s someplace in Hoboken. One of those chic, trendy places that refuses to serve lunch. I’m totally expecting to need a pizza after they serve me four peas, half a potato, and a leg that belonged to the tiniest chicken on record.”
CHAPTER 3
AMANDA RETURNED TO the Cold Creek just in time for opening. She had gone home, showered again, and redressed. She’d redone her makeup, but hadn’t taken the time to blow-dry her hair again, and the result was curly instead of straight, not the sophisticated look she usually went for, but it would have to do. While at home, she also rechecked the reservation list from her own computer and saw that one of the parties was friends of her parents. After a slightly awkward phone call on her end and the promise of their next meal being on the house, the couple politely gave up their reservation to accommodate the guests Amanda had begun to refer to as “the nuisances.” She didn’t bother telling anyone about the phone call that resulted in the order to roll out the red carpet; her being distracted by it was bad enough. It was probably an actor; they usually came with the general sense the world revolved around them. Maybe it was a politician, though that was unlikely. Her parents were well-connected, and the reservation call would have reflected that. Odds were it wasn’t a musician, which was something to be grateful for, since they tended to bring entourages.
Alan Shaw arrived promptly at six fifty.
He was everything Amanda imagined he would be, right down to his overpriced suit, his prematurely receding hairline, and his creepy, flagrant once-over, although he looked younger than she imagined. She didn’t see any sign of a cigar. She seated him at a booth in a quiet back corner, which seemed to meet with his approval. He dismissed her with the order of a Red Bull and vodka while pulling out his smart phone. She was more than happy to remove herself from his proximity, not bothering to tell him she’d send over his server. Amanda went back to the podium to seat another party after a quick stop at the bar to give Eric the drink order. Her smile started feeling forced and unnatural. Fussy customers she could handle; feeling manipulated by obnoxious superiority in her own establishment was nothing new, either. But today was a different story. The timing was awful and only added to the general feeling of malaise that always accompanied the cosmic forces of the world determined to keep her in check. She spent the next ten minutes awaiting the arrival of the man she had spent the better part of the afternoon thinking of as “the king.”
She had no idea just how close to the truth she was.
It started precisely at seven o’clock, with a flurry of activity at the entrance. Patrons waiting for the rest of their parties to arrive and those lingering with their good-byes cleared a path when three exceedingly large figures seemed to fill all the remaining space at the front of the restaurant. Two of the men looked nearly identical. Both were burly and clean-shaven with short hair, matching blue suits, and serious expressions.
The third man was instantly recognizable.
His charisma had entered the room ten seconds before he did, branching out to everyone within its vicinity. And at its nexus was well over six feet of stacked muscle and magnetism presented casually in gray tailored slacks and a teal cashmere sweater. The collar of a button-down shirt peeked politely from beneath the sweater, the ensemble completed with thousand-dollar Louis Vuitton shoes. His movie-star good looks only added to it, from the perfectly mussed wheat blond hair right down to the cleft in his chiseled chin. It was a heady combination and the room began to buzz.
Great Caesar’s Ghost! The Golden Boy is hot and then some. It was Amanda’s automatic response to whenever he was mentioned in any capacity. It was the usual response of Nicki, too. Baseball was a mandatory tradition that started when Amanda was in grammar school. Summer in Jersey just isn’t summer if you don’t catch at least one baseball game. Nicki had had no problem jumping on that bandwagon, and the two of them went once a year, always to a Kings game. There may have even been a whistle or two in his direction from their seats once he hit the roster when they were in attendance. Other variations on the theme were: steamy hot, fig-leaf-wearing-in-the-garden hot, and fry-an-egg-on-his-left-pec hot. Amanda surmised sunglasses would have been a bit over the top, and as he moved away from the men who stood on either side of him, she waited for him to approach.
“Hi. I’m Chase Walker,” he said when he reached her.
Amanda stared at him for a moment. He didn’t say it in a way that was different from anyone else making an introduction would. But her rotten day dictated she heard him announcing his arrival as the final straw. It reeked of ego. Everyone on the planet knew who he was, even if they didn’t know a thing about baseball. He was one of those extraordinary specimens that became a national treasure, probably against the greater good. You couldn’t swing a dead cat without hitting something that had Chase Walker’s face on it. He probably just liked to hear the sound of his own name, even if he was the one having to say it. And in that moment, for reasons she couldn’t begin to explain, she chose to stand up for every person who was ever forced to cater to the perpetually pampered. Even on the best day of her life, people like him were difficult for her to take. She had the one luxury of not having to worry about getting fired; she was the boss. Her day already stank; she might as well make it memorable. When he and his goons left in a huff, she could have the added pleasure of tossing Alan Shaw out on his keister. She looked from one security guard to the other and then tilted her head at him, looking thoughtful.
“Mr. Walker, has anyone ever told you that your name is an oxymoron?” she asked, and then blinked at him with the subtle dare that he wouldn’t make the connection and she’d have to explain.
He raised his eyebrows before breaking out into the most boyishly genuine smile she had ever seen.
“Not since the fifth grade.” He chuckled, playing right into her observation. “Very funny, can’t really chase anyone when you’re a walker. Thanks for bringing it up. My therapist can probably start picking out his new car now.”
His smile was disarming and his voice even more so. Both were warm and easy and terribly engaging. His reaction was completely unexpected. Suddenly she felt ashamed for acting so immature. He saw through her thinly veiled and well-mannered route into calling him a moron, and quick-wittedly called her out on it. He didn’t seem insulted, nor did he seem ready to leave. She started to blush.
Chase studied her briefly before leaning back a bit and turning his head. One of the suits immediately rushed over, and he whispered something in the suit’s ear. The man nodded and the two security guards left the building. Then he straightened and returned his attention to Amanda. He drew his head across the podium and closer to hers. Because of his height, he could’ve come clear across it and breathed in her ear, but he stopped just short of it. “I’m guessing my agent worked you over pretty good?” he said pleasantly. “Because back in fifth grade, I think I beat that kid up on the playground. I’d hate to think you really want to pick a fight.”
“He does seem to bring out the worst in people,” she murmured, trying to stand her ground and not apologize, but also feeling guiltier for having been so antagonistic and unprofessional. He was making her feel downright childish.
“He’s a legend in his own mind,” he whispered in her ear, all mirth and amusement. “He bullies me into bringing the security. He can be insufferable. But he acts that way so I don’t have to. Can we start over?”
Amanda looked up into his sparkling green eyes and felt her breath catch. He was already towering over her and had moved in so close. His subtle hint of body wash surrounded by pure raw masculinity was intoxicating. It was hard to believe that Chase Walker could be bullied by anyone. And he was going out of his way to make her comfortable. He was a perfect gentleman. She blinked up at him, flabbergasted again, but this time for entirely different reasons.
“What’s your name, darlin’?” His casual use of an arbitrary endearment had the opposite effect of his agent’s use of one. It sounded warm and smooth, like honey.
“I’m Amanda Cole,” she said, instantly playing along and extending her perfectly manicured hand with a more relaxed smile. “Welcome to the Cold Creek Grille, Mr. Walker. Your party is already waiting.”
Then her hand completely disappeared within the grip of his. His hand was huge, in keeping with the rest of him. It was also surprisingly gentle.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Amanda. Please call me Chase,” he replied, refraining from telling her that her smile was radiant for fear it would sound condescending, since they had already started off on the wrong foot. In fact, she was beautiful in general. As soon as he’d walked in, he was drawn to her. Her big round eyes were so blue, her lashes long and inviting. Such contrast with the long ebony curls that framed her face. She had a pert little nose that looked adorable even when she’d wrinkled it up just prior to insulting him moments before. He could picture himself nibbling on her rosy bottom lip. He was surprised by the burst of kinetic energy, brought on just by placing her hand in his. She must’ve felt it too, because as soon as he lightened up on his grip, she quickly pulled her hand away and turned to lead him to his table.
Amanda Cole wasn’t thin, but instead was robust and buxom. She had curves, lots of them, and in all the right places, he noted. Making sure she was several steps ahead of him, he pulled out his phone as he walked. The action served a dual purpose. If he looked foc
used on something, people were less likely to try to stop him. It was all about avoiding eye contact.
He could also discreetly look her up and down without looking like a letch as he followed behind her. And since it was his specialty, he could tell in one sweeping glance that beneath the lines of her royal-blue Halston dress, Amanda Cole was a brick house. Right down to her bodacious booty, which he guesstimated how much of his hand could cover in one shot. She had certainly given him reason to want to. She had a brat switch, and he had tripped it the minute she saw him. If she had spoken any louder, she would’ve cut him to the quick in front of half a dozen people, including his own employees. But she had been careful to make sure he was the only one to hear it. She wasn’t flirting with him, though. She had reverted back to trying to act professional and move things along. Thanks to his agent, she’d probably spent the afternoon hating him. In too short a stroll, they arrived at the booth where Alan Shaw was waiting, and Chase took a seat. She wished them both a lovely dinner and promptly removed herself. He allowed himself one more thorough blink as she walked away.
“You had a good day,” Alan said, taking another swallow of his drink as Chase settled into his side of the booth.
“All my days are good,” Chase replied, gearing up for the onslaught that always came from dinner with Alan Shaw. He picked up his menu as Alan snapped his fingers, even though Nicki was already hurrying over.
“Mr. Walker,” Nicki tried to stifle the giggling. “What can I get you to drink?”
“Please call me Chase,” he said, thinking that that particular phrase was starting to sound like a broken record. “And I’ll take a Heineken.”
“Right away . . . Chase.” Nicki giggled and scurried off.
“I should have ordered a waiter,” Alan muttered before waving his own glass and calling after her, “I’ll take another one, too.”
“Nice play on words. Seems there’s a bit of that going around,” Chase commented dryly, casting another glance at Amanda. “I could have done without you pissing off the hostess. If she wasn’t so cute and you weren’t so pushy, I’d seriously consider complaining.”
The Sweet Spot Page 2