For a Little While (One Strike Away Book 1)

by Mary J. Williams

  "The women?" Travis offered.

  "The money?" Spencer chimed in.

  "The fame?" Nick offered.

  Looking at his friends, Spencer caught their grins, adding one of his own. Women, money, and fame were nice. Hell, they were freaking fantastic. But they knew the real reason they put their bodies through the daily grind. Pure and simple. They did it for the love of the game.

  Spencer learned baseball in the traditional manner. Father to son. Byron Kraig had a passion for the game. He nurtured his youngest son's talent every step of the way. Little League. High school. Two years of college. A brief stint in the minors.

  On the day Spencer started his first professional game, Byron had been right there in the stands. Proud as a peacock.

  Travis and Nick told different tales of their journey to the show. Each much less storybook than Spencer's. On the surface, they had little in common beyond baseball.

  Yet for all their differences, Travis and Nick were his closest friends. And two of the best men he'd ever known. They knew most of his secrets. He knew a good percentage of theirs. Which was a good thing—most of the time.

  At the moment, Spencer wished he'd kept certain things to himself. Especially anything and everything about Blue.

  "Did you see the gorgeous redhead in the stands?" Travis asked, tossing his game-day jersey into the big hamper located about ten feet away. He hit his target. Most of his fellow teammates didn't bother, leaving their dirty uniforms littering the locker room floor.

  "How could I miss her?" Nick rolled to his feet. "When the sun hit her, that hair glowed like a glorious beacon. Did you see her, Spence?"

  How could he miss her? Blue—red hair or no red hair—stood out in any crowd. But rather than pander to Travis and Nick, he shrugged.

  "Unlike you, I had my mind—and my eyes—on the field."

  "True. Yoda's head is always in the game," Travis nodded. Glancing at Nick, his dark eyes danced with humor. "Between innings is another matter. Every time we left the field, Spence glanced toward the stands. Wonder why?"

  Nick rubbed his chin, his expression exaggeratedly thoughtful. "Hm. That's a puzzler. Let me think."

  Spencer rolled his eyes. And these were the men he called friends?

  "Can it, assholes, or I'll get Kaminsky to stick his gunk-crusted foot in your faces."

  Travis held up his hands in surrender. "I'm out."

  "Wuss," Nick countered

  No more jaunty taunts were sent Spencer's way. Understandable. As threats went, Kaminsky's foot was pretty horrific.

  "Seriously, Spence. You need to make your move before somebody else beats you to it."

  Somebody else? As in one of the Cyclones? Spencer didn't like the sound of that.

  What the hell had Travis heard? As much as Spencer wanted to ask—Travis wanted it more. He wasn't getting pulled in.

  "Blue can date who she chooses."

  Not buying it, Travis surveyed the room. "You mean if she were to go out with say… I don't know. Drake Langford? You wouldn't care?"

  "Langford's a good guy."

  Spencer glanced at the rookie. The kid was a star in the making. But he was just that. A kid. Pretty. Well-built. Given a few years to mature, he might rise to Blue's level. At the moment, she was way out of Langford's league.

  "How about Nick?"

  "What?" Spencer's head whipped around, spearing Nick with his gaze.

  "Me?" Nick's expression went from surprised to speculative.

  "Since you weren't impressed by Langford, I upped the ante to somebody with a little more…" Travis paused as if searching for the right word.

  "Sexual cachet?" Nick offered.

  Travis nodded, obviously pleased by the suggestion.

  "Give it a rest!" Spencer's raised voice drew more attention than he anticipated. He softened his tone, the perpetual locker room music camouflaging his words. "I get the point, Travis. But in case you weren't aware, Blue isn't down here to fill her social calendar. She has a job to do."

  "What about after hours? There aren't any rules that prohibit her from dating a Cyclone." When Spencer simply stared, Travis grinned. "I checked. As any good friend would."

  "Nick didn't find it necessary."

  "Where do you think I got the idea?"

  With a sigh, Spencer grabbed a towel, shooting Nick a, are you kidding me look. For three years, their play on the field had run like a well-oiled machine. They made up what experts called one of the best third base, shortstop, second base defensive combos in the history of the game.

  Off the field, the three men spent more time with each other than anybody else. From wild parties to even wilder vacations, to a quiet drink and some video games.

  Yet, no matter how well Spencer knew them, every now and then they surprised the hell out of him.

  "I don't know why you're suddenly pushing me toward a woman. But listen close. Knock it off."

  Nick waited until Spencer was well out of earshot before turning to Travis.

  "Is he really that deep in denial? We aren't pushing him toward any woman."

  "Spencer knows." Chuckling, Travis shook his head, a bit of the southern accent he's dropped long ago coming through. "Jesus. I never imagined when I was growing up in shit poor rural South Carolina that I'd ever play Cupid."

  "I hear you, brother. We were too busy worrying about finding our next meal. Cupid wouldn't have survived five minutes in my old neighborhood. Roasted. Fried. Wouldn't have mattered."

  Nick could laugh now. When he was a kid in Los Angeles, and so hungry it felt like his stomach was eating away at itself, he hadn't found the humor in much of anything.

  "We're latent romantics, my friend." Travis looked pleased with the idea. "I never believed in happily ever after. I'm not sure that's changed. But if anybody deserves one, it's Spencer."

  "DINNER. WHAT CAN it hurt?"

  Blue gritted her teeth, slowly counting to ten. What was it about muscle-headed jocks? The word no—at least when it came to women—seemed to vanish from their vocabularies at an early age.

  And why, oh why, did most men believe—from athlete to ditch digger—that any woman alone at a bar was fair game?

  Technically, Blue wasn't alone. Or, she wouldn't be as soon as Ross Burton, his wife Sherry, and their two teenage sons arrived.

  Ross, the Cyclones' majority owner, was in Arizona to check out the team. Like Blue, this was the first of several visits during the month of Spring Training games. This time, he brought his family along.

  However, Jock Pontiac didn't know that when he approached Blue in the lounge of the Ramada Inn. Nor was he open to listening to her explanation when she politely tried to tell him that she was waiting for friends.

  Blue found one consolation. The paunchy pitcher played for a different team. If he were a member of the Cyclones, she'd feel obligated to don a cloak of diplomacy.

  Because of her position, Blue understood she couldn't cause a scene. No shouting. No slap across the face. No knee to the groin. Not that she wasn't tempted. Especially when his big paw landed on her leg.

  Blue's gaze turned from annoyed to icy. The jerk was pushing his luck. Her father made certain his children knew how to take care of themselves. Foolishly, he touched her with his multi-million-dollar pitching hand.

  Though Blue had never used the move, she'd practiced it often enough. Little did the big galoot know that he was a whim away from a season-ending broken finger. Snap. Jock Pontiac spends six months riding the bench.

  Luckily, Blue wasn't a violent person. And she'd never risk her job in such a ridiculous manner.

  However, nothing stopped Blue from quietly using her wits to knock the jerk down a peg or two. Gently but firm to start. If he didn't get the point, she'd harden her approach. She might enjoy that.

  It had been awhile since Blue had verbally eviscerated anybody.

  "Want to play a game?"

  Silly question. The w
ay she asked. The husky quality of her voice. If Jock had said no, Blue would've fallen off the stool.

  "Sure," he leaned closer.

  The overwhelming scent of Jock's cologne made Blue wrinkle her nose. She blinked, certain the fumes made her eyes sting.

  "Close your eyes."

  Proving he wasn't a complete fool, Jock hesitated. Proving he was a man when Blue turned on her most winning smile, he did exactly as she asked.

  "Picture this. You enter the bar. Any bar. Sitting on one of the stools is a young woman. She's enjoying a drink. Not bothering anybody. Minding her own business."

  "Sounds good," Jock said, his grin cocky.

  "But it isn't just any woman."

  "No?" Getting into the game, Jock's smile widened.

  "It's one of your sisters."

  "What?" Jock's eyes popped open. From the wariness in his dark brown eyes, she could tell he didn't like where this was headed. "Why?"

  "Because, Jock. I'm somebody's sister. Somebody's daughter. Even if I weren't, I should have the right to sit here without getting hit on." Jock still looked confused, though Blue thought there might be a bit of a light dawning. "You asked. I turned you down. That should've ended it."

  "I thought you were playing hard to get."

  "Pretend I'm your sister, Jock. Would you accept that excuse from a guy who wouldn't take no for an answer?"

  Jock shook his head, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'd punch the guy's teeth down his throat," he grumbled.

  Blue felt a burst of satisfaction. Maybe—just maybe—she'd succeeded in the re-education of Jock Pontiac. Or, tomorrow night, he might enter this same bar and forget what he learned. Either way, Blue's message had been received loud and clear.

  Out of the corner of Blue's eye, she caught sight of a man moving her way. Spencer. Just her luck. Tall. Dark. Casually dressed in jeans and a light blue button-down shirt. As always, he looked like a million bucks.

  Blue wanted to wave him off. But he only looked her way for an instant. His gaze was locked on Jock.

  "Hello, Jock."

  Spencer held out his hand. Seemingly a friendly gesture, the way he stood near to Blue—hovering, but not quite touching her arm—sent an entirely different message. He exuded an air of protectiveness—bordering on possessiveness—that Blue neither wanted nor appreciated.

  "Spence."

  Though Jock was several inches taller and weighed at least sixty pounds more, next to Spencer—all lean, chiseled granite—he looked more like an unformed pile of molding clay.

  "You look beautiful tonight, Blue. But then, you always do."

  "You two know each other?"

  Jock sent Blue an accusatory look as if she'd deliberately withheld this vital piece of information. She rolled her eyes. How did men dare call women illogical? Did they ever stop and listen to themselves?

  "Blue and I've known each other… How long has it been?"

  Spencer frowned as if he honestly couldn't remember.

  "Almost twenty years."

  "That's right." Tilting his head, Spencer smiled. "You have a birthday coming up fast. April ninth."

  When they were dating, Spencer never forgot her birthday. He had a way of making them special. Not with big, elaborate parties or expensive gifts. A simple rose. A drive in the country and a picnic.

  A kiss that scrambled her brains so much, she missed the moment Spencer fastened a necklace around her neck. Blue wore the platinum chain with the dangling sapphire-shaped bluebell every day. Never taking it off until…

  Without thinking, Blue's hand went to her neck, finding it bare. Spencer's gaze followed, drifting up, meeting hers. Her breath caught in her throat. No matter how she tried, she could never escape their shared memories. There were too many. Most of them damn good.

  "I guess I'll be going." Jock sent Spencer an annoyed look. Blue received a slight smile. "Maybe another time? All that red hair. I can't wait to find out if it's natural."

  "Watch your mouth, Pontiac," Spencer warned.

  Alertly, Blue slid from the barstool, placing herself between them. She wished she had the power to send them to their rooms for a timeout. What worked with her three-year-old niece didn't have the same effect on grown men. More's the pity.

  "Jock," Blue placed a hand on the pitcher's arm. "Remember your sister."

  "My sister wouldn't be hanging out alone in a bar."

  Jock stomped away, his big, boot-covered feet shaking the beer bottles on a nearby table.

  "Okay," Blue said with a shrug. "I guess the bitch was implied."

  "I don't know Jock well. Though the one time I faced him during a game, he plunked me pretty good." Spencer rubbed his shoulder. "The bruise was a thing of beauty. What was that thing about his sister?"

  "My misguided attempt to do the impossible."

  Reprogramming didn't happen in an instant. However, Blue had planted the seed. Perhaps it would grow. Perhaps Jock would morph into a more sensitive individual.

  More likely, he'd continue with his Neanderthal, knuckle-dragging ways. Either way, she wouldn't spend any time worrying about it.

  "I meant what I said."

  Eyebrows raised, Blue focused her attention on Spencer.

  "Is that something new? Do I have to filter through our past conversations wondering when you didn't mean what you said?"

  "A less-evolved man would accuse you of being a ball buster." Spencer laughed as he said the words.

  "But not you." Blue's lips twitched in spite of herself.

  Spencer leaned against the bar, physically moving a few feet away. However, his emerald gaze felt like a warm, gentle caress across Blue's skin.

  "I like a strong-minded woman. I like you. Always have. Sharp tongue. Sharp wit. Only a fool would have a problem with either."

  Whoa. Blue's stomach did a slow roll. She hadn't forgotten what it felt like to be the center of Spencer's attention. Still, it had been four years. Time enough—she'd hoped—to become immune.

  Blue sighed. Apparently, once hooked on Spencer Kraig, getting him completely out of her blood was impossible. A month ago, that would have distressed her. Now…? She didn't have an answer.

  Lord knew Blue had looked hard to find a substitute. Unfortunately, nothing compared. Not even close.

  "Spencer—"

  Whatever Blue had been about to say was cut off by the arrival of Ross Burton and his wife.

  A big man both regarding the size of his body and his personality, the owner of the Cyclones filled up a room the second he entered. Tall and close to three hundred pounds, he looked like a vacationing Santa Claus—substituting his red suit for a tan and casual attire.

  However, anybody foolish enough to believe Ross' jovial demeanor meant he was a pushover when it came to business quickly learned their mistake. Before jumping into the world of professional baseball, he cut his teeth in corporate America. And made a fortune in the process.

  Most of the time, Ross treated his players as a part of the family. But when the time came, he could be a stern, no-nonsense parent. Money was the bottom line. Winning followed closely behind. If you no longer cut it with the Cyclones, he wouldn't hesitate to send you packing. Either to another team or in some cases, into oblivion.

  Professional sports was a cutthroat business. For a good reason, some people—out of earshot—called round-cheeked, perpetually smiling Ross Burton the executioner.

  As Tom Hanks once famously said, there's no crying in baseball. Nor was there room for sentimentality. When deadwood needed eliminating, Ross took care of it.

  Quick, clean, and painlessly as possible.

  "I didn't expect to see you here." The Cyclones' owner looked pleased. He held out his hand. "Good to see you, Spencer."

  "Hello, Ross. And your beautiful wife," Spencer smiled at Sherry Burton. "Are you enjoying the Arizona sunshine?"

  As thin as her husband was wide, Sherry Burton's personality matched Ross' perfectl
y. The attractive brunette bubbled with warmth and personality.

  "What do you think? Yesterday, I shivered through my morning coffee. Today, the boys and I spent the day by the pool." Sherry sighed with happiness, her dark eyes sparkling. "I love Spring Training."

  "How do you feel about it, Blue? Are you enjoying your first foray into spring baseball?"

  "This is my first time in a professional capacity," Blue informed Ross. "But I've been before."

  "Really?" Ross raised his bushy dark eyebrows. "Sounds like a story I want to hear. Our table is ready. Let's continue this conversation in the dining room. Spencer? Will you join us?"

  Blue sent Spencer a look that said, don't you dare. A look that Spencer chose to ignore.

  "Thank you, Ross. I'd love to."

  Spencer's smile encompassed the group, but his eyes lingered on Blue. He made a gesture with his hand, indicating she should precede him. She held back until Ross and Sherry were far enough ahead of them so her words wouldn't be overheard.

  "What are you doing?" Blue hissed

  "Walking toward what I anticipate will be an excellent meal. The chef here knows her way around a piece of prime rib."

  "Don't be cute."

  "I—"

  Knowing exactly the quip Spencer planned on making—something about he couldn't help it, he was born that way—Blue stopped him with her sharp gaze.

  "You aren't that cute. Certainly not at the moment."

  "Relax, Bluebell. This isn't a date. You aren't expected to kiss me when I walk you to your door—unless you find yourself overcome with desire. In that case, I won't complain. Or fight you off."

  "Oh, for the love of—" Blue wondered at Spencer. Had he forgotten the last time they were together? "You seem awfully cocky considering how we left things."

  "Not cocky. Hopeful."

  Hopeful, Blue thought. The word—and all its connotations—had followed her all the way from her bedroom in Seattle to a hotel bar in Arizona.

  "What exactly are you hoping for?"

  Blue held her breath. Part of her wanted to hear Spencer's answer. The other part…? Who was she kidding? Every bit of her wanted to know what he was thinking.