High Heat (Hard Hitters #1)

by Linda Morris

  Tom’s fourth pitch nailed Gutierrez in the shoulder.

  “Ouch,” she muttered. A gasp rose up from the crowd. In the dugouts, players came to the railing, watching to see how Gutierrez reacted. The kid dropped his bat and grimaced, placing his hands on his knees and leaning forward.

  It must have been an intentional hit on Tom’s part.

  After a long moment, the batter straightened and stared at Tom, yelling something she didn’t hear.

  Tom’s succinct reply consisted of two words. The second one was “you.”

  Everything seemed to happen at once. Gutierrez charged the mound. Tom hurled his glove to the ground and braced himself. Both benches cleared. Players leapt over the dugout fences and converged on the mound. Tom disappeared into a melee of swinging fists and shoving bodies. Fans rose to their feet, the crowd abuzz.

  “Oh my God!” Sarah jumped up, fighting the urge to rush the field. Her father would kill her for getting involved, and Tom wouldn’t thank her for it either. She bit her lip. Leave it alone. He was a grown-up. He could take care of himself.

  What was going on inside the knot of players?

  Steadying herself on Rich’s shoulder, she climbed on top of her seat to get a better look inside the scrum. Tom’s dark head surfaced for a moment and then disappeared again. Umpires and coaches pulled players away from the perimeter, trying to get to the heart of the fight.

  “What happened?” The uproar had gotten even Rich’s attention.

  “Tom hit a batter and the guy charged the mound.” She shaded her eyes from the glare of the stadium lights and stared harder.

  “Serves him right.” She glanced down. Rich’s eyes were back on his phone.

  “What do you mean?” She frowned, staring down at Rich’s blond head. Through his thinning hair, she could see his sunburned scalp.

  “He hit him on purpose. Everybody knows that Cord’s a jerk. Even I know it, and I don’t follow baseball.”

  Sarah couldn’t argue his point. Tom’s reputation for aggressiveness preceded him, but “jerk”? For some reason, she wanted to defend him. She pressed her lips tight rather than give in to the temptation.

  Finally, the officials got most of the players off of the field and broke up a wrestling match between Gutierrez and Cord. Tom’s hat had gone flying and his jersey was a wreck, but otherwise, he appeared no worse for wear.

  She climbed down off of her seat. She hadn’t given a thought to the safety of any other players in the brawl. Why worry so much about Tom?

  No doubt it was because he’d been at the heart of the fight, and because he’d only be here a few more days. He’d sent ticket revenues through the roof with his first two starts. She didn’t want to see him get hurt before he even had a chance to improve the team’s gate receipts for a few more days.

  Yeah, that was it. They needed the boost. The Thrashers weren’t the cash cow they’d once been.

  With a skyward jab of his finger, the umpire ejected both Gutierrez and Tom for fighting. Tom bellowed and kicked dirt on the umpire’s shoes, but Reedy got in there and pulled him off to the dugout, thank God.

  She drew a breath of relief. If anybody could talk sense into Tom, it was the even-keeled pitching coach. Her phone buzzed with the tone that meant a text from her brother, Paul. She looked up to the executive box, where he always sat during games, and nodded to him as she checked her phone.

  Get on it, Sarah. This looks bad for the team. See what you can do.

  She sighed. Another PR debacle, courtesy of Tom Cord. She typed a quick assent and put her phone away. “Rich, I’ve got to go handle this. Do you mind heading home without me?”

  That finally got his attention. “I thought we were going to watch some TV later.”

  Meaning he planned to cozy up next to her, come up with a million excuses to touch her, and then act hurt and pout when she gently rebuffed him. She was unbearably glad that she wasn’t heading home with Rich.

  “I’m sorry, Rich. This is a real PR headache. It doesn’t look good to have a big-league hotshot throwing intentionally at a minor league kid. I really need to handle it.”

  “How will you get home?”

  “I’ll figure something out. Maybe Paul can give me a ride.”

  Rich shrugged. “Suit yourself. Call me tomorrow?”

  “Sure.” The thought had about as much appeal as a career spent worrying about bobbleheads, but she couldn’t turn him down flat. They had history.

  Besides, who else in Plainview would take her to the movies or go out with her on New Year’s Eve?

  He leaned in for a quick kiss, and she turned her head at the last minute, assuring it glanced off her cheek rather than landing on her mouth. She waited until she was past security and in the tunnel to the clubhouse before she surreptitiously wiped the traces of his touch away from her skin.

  ***

  She leaned against the cinder block wall outside the clubhouse and waited for Tom to emerge. It would be so much easier if she could stick her head in and holler for him, but her dad would have a fit if she put so much as a toe into the all-male domain.

  In a way, Tom had made her job easier. He’d no doubt get suspended for a few games for today’s little adventure. That would give him time in Plainview with nothing to do but PR. She’d already gotten down to business, thinking of events he could do to promote his stint in the minors and give his image a little much-needed burnishing as well.

  A roar from the stands above her caught her attention. What was she missing? Before she could head to the opening of the tunnel to check it out, the metal door behind her opened with a screech.

  It was Tom, with Paul by his side. Tom had changed into street clothes already: well-worn Levi’s and a White Sox T-shirt. His damp hair flopped across his forehead and the smell of soap wafted off of him. Her fingers itched to smooth that lock of wet hair back, but she clenched her fist and resisted the urge.

  “You.” He stopped in the hallway and glared at her.

  She forced a smile. “Nice to see you too.”

  Paul glanced back and forth between the two of them. “I need to get back to my box upstairs. Tom, you know your way out to the player parking lot, right?”

  Tom nodded and Paul left, giving her a long look that she supposed meant “Keep him out of trouble, and stay out of trouble yourself.”

  “If you’re headed back to the duplex, I could use a ride.”

  He gave her a long stare. “Fine. Something tells me you’re not happy with me, though.”

  “Something tells you’re right. What were you thinking? It’s a rehab start in the minors, for Pete’s sake! What’s the point of hitting a batter and getting suspended?” She braced a hand on a hip. “Not that it doesn’t make my job easier, in a way. You’ll have more time to do PR while you’re suspended.” Somehow she doubted he saw that as the silver lining she did.

  “Let me guess. Paul got after you to clean up the mess I made tonight.”

  She blinked. He realized he’d made a mess? That didn’t add up. He’d hit Gutierrez on purpose. He had to have known he’d get tossed, so why was he acting so glum? This was a rehab start. He didn’t care about the Thrashers. In a few weeks, tops, he’d be on the south side of Chicago, starting for the White Sox.

  “Something like that, yeah.”

  She fell in step beside him. In the player parking lot, they walked under a streetlight. The glow illuminated his face, and she gasped. In the dim light of the tunnel, she hadn’t been able to see the damage: his swollen cheek, reddened and abraded, and a nick on his ear.

  She stretched out a hand, but stopped herself before she touched him. Stay professional.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’ll be fine.” He didn’t look fine, though, with his bruises and his slumped shoulders. He led her to his rental car, a sleek, silver BMW.

  She settled into the plush interior, trying and failing not to be impressed. His tanned hands gripped the leather-clad steering wheel with au
thority, and she forced herself to look away. He had a pitcher’s hands—strong, well-shaped, and calloused.

  As a teen, she’d been too innocent to fantasize about what those hands could do. No longer. Now, she was experienced enough to have some serious suspicions about the kind of pleasure he could give a woman. She shifted in her seat.

  “Anything wrong?”

  “No, not at all.” Just having some inappropriate fantasies I’d die before I indulged.

  She waited to pounce until he had the car out on the road. She’d had some time to think while she waited for him, and she’d come up with the perfect first step on his road to redemption from this latest gaffe. “It looks like you might have some time on your hands, with your probable suspension and all. Feel like being in a parade?”

  “Has anyone ever answered ‘yes’ to that question? ‘Yes, I feel like being in a parade’?” He tilted his head thoughtfully. “What would that even feel like?”

  “Can I take that as a yes?”

  “You can take it as a no. Are you kidding? Me, in a small-town parade?”

  Cocky son of a gun. “Maybe appearing in a Plainview parade is no big deal compared to being on the cover of Sports Illustrated, but you don’t have to be so superior about it.”

  “I’m not superior! I just don’t see the point.”

  “I’ll bet your agent sees the point. He’d like to see you doing some small-town glad-handing, especially after tonight.”

  His growl told the story. She had him, and he knew it.

  “Come on,” she coaxed, twisting in her seat to face him. “I got an invite for you to be grand marshal of the Fourth of July parade. I didn’t give it much thought, because the Thrashers always have a lot of games around the Fourth, but this will be perfect. Your suspension is going to coincide with the holiday!”

  “Thanks. You know, I planned it that way when I threw that ball right at Gutierrez’s shoulder.”

  She smirked. “Well, that makes more sense than any other explanation I can think of.”

  “Or maybe I wanted to win. Did you ever think of that?”

  She scoffed. “A minor-league game? The whole point of sending you down here to rehab is that nobody from the majors cares if you blow a game or not. Risking a suspension and delaying your return to brush back a cocky minor leaguer is insane.”

  “Nobody ever accused me of being a strategic thinker when it comes to baseball. I like to win.”

  “Even if it hurts you in the long run?”

  “I like to win,” he said again, his mouth a hard line.

  “No matter what?”

  “No matter what.”

  It explained a lot. No wonder he hadn’t paid attention to the coaches who had to have told him that his crazy-hard, unorthodox throwing style put him at risk for injury down the road. From his point of view, why endanger today’s win with concerns about the future that might not ever come to pass?

  Not her problem, though. Her problem was keeping him out of trouble for the duration of his stay. She couldn’t control what he did on the field, but maybe she could get some solid image-burnishing PR appearances out of this suspension. The Thrashers were a team, and as long as her father was in charge, they’d have a good-guy image. If she could get him to do some appearances, she could restore that luster and maybe boost the gate receipts for the Thrashers this summer as well.

  Her dad would like that. Who knew, maybe it would boost his opinion of her enough that he would give her a shot at a job she really wanted. Something in coaching or scouting.

  “That kind of attitude rubs some people the wrong way.”

  He shot her a sidelong glance from beneath his surprisingly long lashes. “Some people? Like you, maybe?”

  Yes. She’d never had the chance to see how far she could go in baseball. She couldn’t understand someone who had everything and played so recklessly that he might throw it all away.

  “No,” she lied. “What I think doesn’t matter, anyway.” Her denial had sounded convincing enough, and then she had to go and ruin it by being honest.

  “In other words, yes, it does rub you the wrong way.”

  She gave him a measuring look. Tom Cord was smarter than people gave him credit for, unfortunately. Smarter than she’d given him credit for. “My opinion doesn’t matter,” she insisted. “The people who matter are the White Sox front office, your coaches, the fans, your agent—”

  “My agent, my ass. Like he gives a damn what I do as long as the check clears on time,” he scoffed.

  “Okay, maybe he’s not the best example, but I have to believe you care about how you’re perceived, down deep. Maybe you don’t think the tabloids ought to write about your love life. Maybe they shouldn’t, but a big leaguer throwing at a twenty-year-old minor leaguer looks bad, and you know it.”

  He didn’t answer. The lack of a snarky comeback was as good as an admission from Tom.

  “Come on, Tom. You’ll have time on your hands. Come do the parade and let people see another side of you.” A non-arrogant, non-hypercompetitive side of you. If there is such a side. “We can do a clinic if you want, with some local kids who want to improve their pitching.” She held her breath, aware that might be pushing it, but to her surprise, his face lightened, like maybe that part didn’t sound so horrible.

  After a long silence, he let out a sigh. “On one condition: that you come with me.”

  A strange condition, but one he needn’t have made. Her lips curved in a small smile. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  Chapter Six

  “This has got to be the weirdest thing I’ve ever been a part of.” Tom and Sarah watched the chaos from the staging area of the Plainview Fourth of July parade. “And that’s saying something.”

  “This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity,” Sarah said. “I can’t remember the last time an out-of-towner was given such an honor!”

  “Hmmm.” He sounded unconvinced. “I’m just not sure where I fit in, between the tiny cars, the people dressed as raspberries, and the guy spinning a basketball on the end of his toothbrush.” A man walked by in a donut costume—with sprinkles, of course. Tom nodded at him. “See what I mean?”

  “That’s easy. You’re the big celebrity. Everyone’s excited to get a chance to see you in person.” With the ten-day suspension the league office had handed down, the locals would have more opportunities to get to know him than they’d ever dreamed.

  “They see me in person from the mound every time I’m pitching. Why do I have to make an appearance alongside people dressed as baked goods?” He crossed his arms and leaned against a horse trailer. Inside, a pretty paint pony nickered, and Tom gave it the side-eye. Nearby, parade volunteers were affixing a “Grand Marshal” sign to a vintage convertible red Pontiac Firebird.

  “Sure, but this gives them a chance to see another side of you. A more personal side.”

  He looked unconvinced.

  “Personal? Really? Because if you think this is what I normally do in my personal life, you’re nuts.”

  “I have a pretty good idea of what you do in your personal life, thanks to TMZ, and it’s not appropriate for a family parade.” She didn’t trouble to hide her smirk.

  “Fine. But the only reason I’m doing this is because my agent called again.”

  Hah. She’d known his agent would be on her side. “Not happy about the suspension, I take it?”

  “He worries too much about what the press thinks. He thinks my image needs some rehabbing, and this is a good time to do it, before I start with my new team. Fresh start, and all that BS.”

  “You don’t agree?”

  “Why should people care what I do in my free time? I’m a grown-up.”

  Knowing another argument about his image would go nowhere fast, she took another tack. “The parade won’t last long. When it’s over, you can do demonstrations at the pitching clinic.”

  His face brightened. “Yeah, that part’s okay.”

  The driver of hi
s parade car, a geriatric volunteer from the Lions Club, appeared. “We’re ready for you, Mr. Cord.”

  “Thanks.” He looked at her. “I hope you realize you’re coming with me on the parade.”

  “Me?” Sarah clapped a hand to her chest. “Why should I come? You’re the star attraction.” This was another reason she wasn’t cut out for PR. She could organize an event all right, but being in the spotlight herself always made her feel exposed. “You said you wanted me to come to the parade, not be in the car with you.”

  “You’re the VP of public relations. That means this kind of thing falls in your domain, wouldn’t you say? Besides, if I have to make an ass of myself following a walking bagel, I don’t want to do it alone.”

  She exhaled slowly. “I think he’s technically a donut, but I see your point.”

  Hand on her elbow, Tom guided her to the car, assisting her as she sat atop the small seat at the back of the car.

  “The donut represents the Burnside Bakery,” she said. “They’re an important Thrashers sponsor.”

  “Fine. Just don’t make me get my picture taken with a guy wearing sprinkles.” He cast a wary eye at the circulating team photographer. “That’s one PR debacle my image can’t stand.”

  “Oh, if you insist.” She cast an eye down him. He looked good today. Nothing new about that—he looked good every day. For this occasion, he’d traded in his usual T-shirt and jeans or Under Armour gear for a pale blue, checkered button-up with the sleeves rolled up, a pair of crisp khakis, and Italian loafers. He looked surprisingly dapper when he took the trouble. Without thinking, Sarah reached up to smooth his collar.

  She froze, feeling the warm ridge of tightly knit muscle and bone in his shoulder. The gesture was too proprietary, the kind of thing a woman would do for a husband. Or a lover. She withdrew her hand, letting it drop in her lap. “Sorry. Your collar was out of whack.”

  His dark hair really was the perfect foil for those bright blue eyes. It set them alight. “Devil’s eyes,” her grandmother would have called them if she’d been around to see them.