Perfect Game

by Collette West

  Case in point, the whole time we've been talking, someone outside's been beeping nonstop. I try to tune it out, but apparently, it's getting on Ortiz's nerves.

  He jerks his thumb over his shoulder. "Just like that nutcase behind us. I mean, hello! We're in a drop-off lane, getting off a damn bus. Where do they expect us to go?"

  I glance back as I jog down the steps, and my heart stops. "Hold on. That's my Audi."

  "Yours?" Ortiz swings around. "What the heck is it doing here?"

  "Well, now, look who it is. His little, blond hottie." Ian Reisenberg, the guy I can't stand the most on the San Diego team, whistles in appreciation, making me want to bash his head against the side of the bus.

  "Damn, Harper," Ortiz mutters, staring right along with the rest of the guys as Carrie gets out of my car. "How does a man get on a plane and walk away from something like that?"

  "Excuse me, fellas, but if I had a say in the matter, I sure as hell wouldn't be boarding a stupid plane right now." I break away from them as Carrie starts arguing with a security attendant, who's no doubt telling her that she can't park there.

  "I think I'd give up the Kings for someone as fine as her, too. Jesus, look at those tits!" Reisenberg exclaims.

  I clench my fists to restrain myself from pounding his ugly-ass face against the pavement. I gotta get to Carrie.

  "All right, all right," Ortiz says, pushing Reisenberg aside. "But you sure know how to pick'em, Harper," he calls after me as I hurry toward Carrie. "Mmm, mmm, mmm."

  Carrie doesn't see me until I'm practically on top of her and holding her in my arms. She gasps but relaxes when she realizes that it's me. I hold a finger up to the security guard, letting him know that we'll only be a minute.

  I look down at her. She's flushed and out of breath like she's been running a marathon.

  "Care Bear, what's goin' on? Is something wrong?"

  "No," she says, clutching the front of my shirt. "I'm just so glad I caught you in time."

  "You didn't have to come all the way out here just to say goodbye. You could've killed yourself driving here so fast." I smooth her hair away from her face, resting my hands against her neck, her pulse throbbing beneath my fingertips. "Didn't the Kings' game just end, like, an hour ago?"

  "Yeah, but there's something I really need to do before you go," she replies, looking around. "Do you think your equipment manager can open the cargo hold of the bus for me?"

  "I'm sure he could," I mutter, because I can never say no to her no matter how crazy the request. "But he's not gonna like it too much. He has everything all ready to load on the plane."

  "Just bring him over here for a sec." Her eyes soften when she sees me hesitate. "Please? For me?"

  "I don't know what you're up to, but the guys are gonna be giving me shit about it from here to next week." I grimace, not wanting everyone to think I'm seeking special privileges just because of the attention I've been getting on account of my hitting streak.

  Carrie brushes her lips against mine, easing the blow. "You can put up with a little ribbing for my sake, can't you?"

  "I wouldn't have it any other way," I groan against the corner of her mouth.

  She rests her hands on my biceps, looking over my shoulder. "Is that Gary Tuckman, your new manager?"

  "Yeah. He probably won't even notice," I groan. "He practically sleepwalks from city to city in a drunken stupor."

  "Yeah, that's what I heard," she murmurs. "I just wish for your sake it weren't true."

  "He's no Tony Liotta. That's for sure," I remark, leading her over to the bus. "Hey, Juan. Think you can find something for me down below?"

  "Dude, I really gotta get this stuff boarded. There's no time for dicking around," he grunts, pulling another large bag onto the curb.

  "I'm sorry to cause such a fuss, Juan." Carrie slides in front of me, bending over and smiling brightly at him, her cleavage on full display. "There's just some unfinished business I need to take care of before you depart. I promise it won't take long. I just need to see the bag with Scott's equipment in it."

  "Okay…" Juan gulps, looking up at her, completely mesmerized. "Shouldn't be a problem. Wait right here."

  I snicker, "You are something else."

  "I'm not completely clueless. I know how to use my feminine charms to my advantage." She winks at me, and I feel my dick jerk to attention.

  "That's how you snared me," I moan, gazing at her hard, taut nipples through her thin, white top.

  "Hey! Watch it." She purses her lips, trying not to smile.

  I don't know what it is, but something about the way every man in a fifty-foot radius is openly lusting after her is bringing out the inner caveman in me. It makes me want to bend her over, and take her right here against the side of the bus, letting everyone know she's mine. God, I don't want to even think about what's going to happen when I'm not around. She'll probably have guys falling all over her twenty-four-seven and I won't be there to do anything about it.

  I grit my teeth as Juan rushes over to her. "Here you go, miss, but I'll need it back in, like, five minutes, okay?"

  "Then I'd better get busy." She gives Juan a winning grin. "Here, Scott. Hold my purse." She slams her handbag against my crotch, causing me to double over.

  The guys who are still exiting the bus start heckling the crap out of me.

  "Ha! Looking good, Harper."

  "That boy sure knows how to travel in style!"

  "You are so pussy-whipped, Harper, standing there holding your woman's bag."

  "Keep walking," I mutter under my breath, but Carrie takes a more direct approach.

  "Hi, guys." She waves to them. "Yeah, Scott's holding my bag for me now, but last night, I held something of his that was a lot more substantial, if you know what I mean."

  They chuckle into their hands.

  She shrugs. "A real man knows how to give and take."

  "Carrie!" I nudge her arm, giving her a look to quit blabbing about what goes on in bed between us.

  "Let them see that I don't fuck around and you don't either." Carrie rubs her hands together. "It'll be good for them."

  I shake my head at her. "What has gotten into you?"

  "Can't a girl stand up for her man?" she asks, sticking out her hip.

  "In front of my teammates?" I groan.

  "Shut up. You were enjoying it," she teases me before letting her eyes dip below my waist. "I can see that you were."

  I shift uncomfortably, wishing there were enough time to sneak away with her somewhere so she could do something about it.

  She rummages through my equipment bag, pulling out my most prized possession and shooting me a triumphant grin.

  "Is that what you were after? My bat?" I laugh at her.

  "I have to put enough kisses on it before you leave because who knows when I'll see you again." She takes it in her hands, pointing it at me. "I'm not messing this up on you."

  "But you weren't there for my first three games in San Diego and I still got a hit in them," I remind her.

  "That's because I put a bunch of extra kisses on it before they moved your stuff over from the visitors' clubhouse," she replies, shocking the hell out of me. "I wasn't taking any chances."

  "You did?" I ask, a tingle running through me.

  "Yeah," she responds, her eyes aglow. "I was freaking out that you just got traded and there was nothing I could do about it, but I wasn't going to let your hitting streak end on account of me. I couldn't kiss you at the time, but at least I could kiss your bat."

  "You are incredible." I step toward her, dropping her bag by her feet and scooping her up in my arms.

  "Aren't you glad you have me on your side?" she giggles when I lift her above my head.

  "Always." I smile, bringing her back down, but not before giving her a lingering kiss. I break away to see her smiling up at me.

  "But now, I don't feel as hopeless because I know we're going to be back together in a little less than a month when you finally break that
damn streak." She jabs her finger into my chest. "This is just to carry you through."

  "Keep on saying it and maybe I'll start to believe it," I sigh.

  "You'd better believe it." She cups my chin, pulling my gaze down to meet hers. "Because it's happening. I don't doubt you, Scott, and you shouldn't doubt yourself either. You're an amazing hitter, capable of more than you know."

  "Then get to kissing, woman," I say, my face red-hot from her compliments. "Because when you're done, I intend to taste those delectable lips of yours again."

  "Ooo, I like the sound of that." Carrie smiles at me, rooting through her purse and pulling out a tube of lipstick. "I only have time for Orgasmic Flush, so that's gonna have to be good enough."

  "God, I'm hard just hearing you say that," I groan, watching her apply lipstick to those soft, juicy lips—the ones I can't get enough of.

  "Who are you kidding?" She raises an eyebrow at me, smacking her lips together. "You were already hard."

  "God, I love when you talk dirty to me." I watch as she raises my bat to her lips, ready to enjoy this.

  "Shhh, I have a bat to kiss," Carrie says, finding a spot on my lumber that hasn't yet been claimed by her mouth.

  I stand over her, leaning against the bus, blocking her from view because this show is just for me. "God, you are so friggin' adorable."

  "I know." She grins at me, her lips pressed against the solid wood of my bat, giving me a hot-as-hell visual that's going to carry me through the long string of lonely nights to come until I'll be able to hold her again.

  Chapter Thirty

  Carrie

  "Scott's keeping us all on our toes, isn't he?" Gayle remarks while we wait for our Starbucks order.

  "I don't think my heart can take any more," I admit, wishing for the millionth time I could be there with him every step of the way. It's only been four days and I feel like I'm losing my mind.

  "The last couple of games, he's gotten his only hit of the night in the ninth inning. Talk about edge-of-your-seat excitement!" Gayle exclaims, bumping her shoulder against mine.

  "Tell me about," I groan, stifling a yawn. "I've stayed up till two o'clock in the morning these last few nights so I'd be able to talk to him after each game. Man, keeping up with a West Coast team is tough. I really wish I were still reporting on him instead of just watching him on TV."

  "But I think half of New York has been staying up with you." Gayle glances around. "There are a lot of groggy faces in here this morning."

  "Who knew the GM of the Kings waits in line for her own coffee?" I tease her.

  "How else am I going to keep a pulse on what people on the street are saying about the team?" She shrugs, quickly scanning the headlines of the Post and the Daily News in the news rack next to the counter. "I'm not a detached snob like Terry Bloom."

  "And thank God you're not." I step forward to claim my mocha frappuccino. "My grandfather sure is lucky to have you."

  "Well, I've never worked so hard in my life," she admits. "But it feels good to be the one who's calling the shots. Instead of just dreaming about what I'd like to do with the team, now, I actually get to do it. Sure, I started my own media company and grew it into what it is today, but managing the Kings is a whole new ballgame. I'm well aware that Arnold wanted someone he can trust as GM, and we've known each other for ages now. Decades, even. I have no intention of letting him down."

  I shove my straw through the frothy layers of whipped cream and ask, "But what about what women across the city are dying to know? Who's taking over the Queen of Diamonds?"

  "Grey Whitfield. That's who," Gayle replies without hesitation.

  "You're kidding? That's great!" I reply enthusiastically, knowing that Gayle would, of course, have found the perfect person to fill her shoes. "Grey was pretty bummed when she had to cut back on her travel time in order to accommodate her daughter's schedule."

  "And this way, she gets to stay in New York full time and run the site. It couldn't have worked out better if I'd planned it."

  Gayle reaches for her hazelnut macchiato when one of the baristas calls her name, grimacing when she sees they wrote "Gail" instead of "Gayle" on the side of the cup. I chuckle to myself at her annoyance. Then she points at a nearby table, and I follow her over.

  "Yeah, I only wish Scott weren't exiled to other side of the country," I moan, slipping into the seat across from her.

  "You miss him a lot, don't you?" Gayle asks, taking a sip and watching me over the rim of her cup.

  "We talk a lot on the phone and text each other constantly, but it's not the same." I lower my head and take a deep breath. "I keep thinking that I'll bump into him in one of the hallways at the stadium or something. God, I just never thought I'd grow this attached to someone."

  "But your work sure hasn't suffered for his absence," she remarks, reaching across the table to pat my hand. "That two-part interview you did with Jilly before and after his first night back was riveting stuff, Carrie. You got the big guy to open up, and Jilly doesn't spill his guts to anyone. I'm telling you the network needs to submit that piece for an Emmy. It was that good."

  "Aww, thanks, Gayle. Coming from you, that means a lot. But I guess I've been throwing myself into my work 'cause, in a weird way, talking to the guys helps me feel closer to Scott." I smile at her. "You should hear some of the stories they've been telling me about him."

  "I can only imagine." She rolls her eyes. "There are probably too many to tell."

  "I love the one about how Scott thought Sasha Roberts was an intern the first day she arrived and the one about how the guys got so sick of him walking around the locker room naked that they hid his clothes and he had to walk out to his car in nothing but a towel." I giggle. "They're hilarious!"

  Gayle crosses her legs and sits back in her chair. "But I have to say, for me, the one thing that has always stood out about Scott is that he never let Drake get to him."

  I nod. "I don't think he ever gets mad at anybody."

  "And keeping your cool when you're around Drake Schultz as much as he was is no easy feat. I know he's gotten into it with Chase, Brooks, Jilly—you name it."

  "Like fistfights?" I ask, my mouth hanging open.

  "I'd definitely put them in the brawl category," she says, sounding none too pleased with her third baseman.

  "Wow," I respond, gaining a new perspective on things. "I never knew Drake was such a maniac."

  "Let's just say he has issues and leave it at that," Gayle replies, taking another sip. "But that's what I admire about Scott. It's like, somehow, he's aware of that and he lets whatever Drake says roll off his back. That's why I think he'll break the record. He doesn't take himself too seriously. No matter what's going on around him, he still knows how to go out there and have fun."

  "I hope you're right." I smile weakly at her. "The pressure's going to get more and more intense the longer the streak goes on. It's going to be a lot for him to handle. I only wish I could be at every game and support him through all of this instead of just being a voice on the other end of the phone."

  "Funny you should mention that," Gayle says, leaning forward and resting her elbows on the table. "Ever since I got promoted to GM, my phone's been ringing off the hook. Everybody wants to offer me their congratulations and check in with me to see where they stand. With Terry's alliances in question, a lot of agents have been touching base to see what they can do to get on my good side, feeling me out, so to speak."

  "That's why it must be a godsend that you've been around the team for so long," I respond, trying to bolster her up because I certainly don't envy the position she's in. "You already know who to trust and who to keep your eye on."

  "And now that I'm on the flip side of things, a lot of the people I need to be wary of are in fact in the media," she says with a rueful grin.

  "That must be weird for you," I remark, trying to imagine what it must be like to be in her shoes.

  "That's why I need people in the right positions that I can trust," s
he says, leveling me with her gaze. "So I returned some calls, reached out to a few key contacts, and lo and behold, SportsTV was looking for a correspondent to cover Scott's hitting streak." She pauses dramatically. "They wanted to know if you were available, and if they could borrow you from the Kings for a while." She laughs when she sees the look on my face.

  My brain scrambles to catch up. "Gayle, are you for real?"

  "Pack your bags, McKenzie." Gayle raises her cup to me. "'Cause you're headed to San Diego."

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Scott

  "Ow! C'mon. Quit it."

  I watch the rookie, Bryce Sanders, flinch as Reisenberg snaps his towel at him, leaving a red stripe across the kid's back.

  "I don't think so, Sanders." Reisenberg hits him again, this time even harder. "Getting picked off of first when there are two outs? What are ya, stupid or something?"

  I get up from the shower room bench—so much for keeping a low profile and blending in with the team. But I saw a lot of this kind of shit go down back in military school. I didn't like it then, and I don't like it now. I'll sheepdog Reisenberg's wolf ass if that's what it takes to get him to lay off Sanders.

  I step in between them, laughing in Reisenberg's face. "It was a rookie mistake, man. Lighten up."

  "One that's been happening far too often," Reisenberg snarls.

  "Yeah." I stand in front of the brute, providing cover for Sanders so he can get by him. "But you don't have to torture the dude for it."

  "How else is he gonna learn?" Reisenberg scowls at me, clearing not liking that I'm stepping into any kind of leadership role on what he considers to be "his" team.

  "I don't know." I scratch my head, playing it cool. "Maybe have one of the guys who's been around a while take him aside and explain to him what he's doing wrong instead of giving him red welts all over his goddamned back."

  "So, is that what you do, Harper? Take the easy way out when rookies like Sanders need some discipline?" Reisenberg scoffs, shoving me aside.

  "You can twist my words all you want, man, but I know a bully when I see one," I respond, shoving him right back.

  He tosses the towel aside. "So, Harper, are you really gonna stand up for that little dipshit or what?"