High Heat (Hard Hitters #1)

by Linda Morris

  “The devil is a handsome man,” Grandma Dudley had always said. That had always confused her as a child. Handsome? In all the kids’ Bible picture books, the devil had been a hideous thing with red skin, glowing yellow eyes, horns, and a forked tail.

  As an adult, Sarah knew exactly what her grandmother meant.

  “You can touch me anytime you want,” the devil said, a smile playing around his lips.

  “I have a feeling you make that kind of offer to too many women.”

  “Only cute ones,” he said with a smile. She lurched as the car started forward. This perch was more precarious than it looked. Tom grabbed her around the waist to steady her, and her inner teenager swooned. What wouldn’t she have given as a sixteen-year-old to have Tom Cord touch her and flirt with her?

  “Thanks.” She pulled a few inches away and braced herself on the seat back, determined to hold steady without Tom’s help.

  The car inched to the start of the parade route.

  “You look nice.” His eyes ran up and down her in a way that was a shade warmer than friendly, but stopped well short of skeevy.

  “Thanks.” She wore a sheer blue and white print cardigan over a sleek blue halter top and a pair of summery gray trousers. She’d taken the time for makeup as well, and had spent twenty minutes blowing her long hair out with a round brush and pinning it back with a couple of large combs. It was a change from her usual ponytail, but it suited her.

  She was glad she’d taken some extra care now that she would actually be in the parade, but she had to admit that she’d had no such idea in her mind when she’d gotten herself ready this morning.

  Instead, she’d only wanted to impress Tom Cord.

  That didn’t mean anything. Any woman who’d been slighted by a man had dreams of making him regret passing her by. That was natural enough. It didn’t mean she was hung up on him.

  Still, Tom’s eyes had lit up when he’d first seen her, and it had sent a zing to her heart.

  The car made a tight turn onto Main Street. Crowds lined the street: the old, the young, families, and groups of kids. She’d known many of the people her whole life. Some she knew from school, Sunday school, or rec league baseball. Others she’d been seeing at Thrashers games for years. When your dad ran the only team in town, everyone knew you, even if the team’s popularity wasn’t what it once had been.

  “This must have been some kinda town to grow up in.” Tom waved and gave a thumbs-up to a ten-year-old boy in a baseball uniform who was waving to get his attention. The kid jumped up and down at the acknowledgment, hugging his mom and high-fiving his dad.

  “It was.” She smiled and waved at people she recognized: the town’s librarian. The woman who cut her hair. Her ninth-grade math teacher. An usher who’d worked at Dudley Field since before she was born. The first boy she’d had a crush on, and the homecoming queen he’d married.

  He watched her point and wave to onlookers. “Do you know everybody in town?”

  “Not everybody, but the Thrashers are the biggest claim to fame this town has. When I was growing up, most everyone went to the games. Not as much anymore. Paul always says, between the Internet and satellite TV, people have more choices. Still, the Thrashers are my family’s legacy. My grandfather founded the team and went to games until the day he died.” She could still remember him sitting in his customary seat behind home plate, frail and silver-haired, but still reading the riot act to any Thrashers batter who swung at a bad pitch.

  “That’s great.” Was it her imagination, or did he sound a little wistful? Surely not. He had an eight-figure deal with a major league baseball team. He lived the kind of life most little boys dreamed of and very few achieved. A backwater like Plainview had nothing to offer him except a few rehab starts and a few nights of boredom until he went back to the big leagues, where he belonged.

  “I take it you didn’t grow up in a small town.”

  “We moved around a lot. I went to high school in Tampa.”

  “Were your parents in the military or something?” Paul had never told her much about Tom’s history. He’d been the star of their college team, but she didn’t know anything about his past before that. She really had no idea where he came from.

  “No.” Was it her imagination, or did his grin falter for the briefest moment?

  Okay, so apparently he didn’t want to talk about his upbringing. Odd. She’d found a chink in his good-time party-boy armor.

  A couple of PR interns walked alongside the car, launching Thrashers T-shirts and prize packs into the crowd with a giant slingshot. Behind them, the Plainview High marching band struck up “Crazy Train,” making conversation impossible.

  The Pontiac cruised down Main Street, made a right, and cut over to Walnut to double back to the courthouse square. There, the driver pulled off of the road, back to the staging area. He turned around. “Sit tight for a minute until this jam clears. I’ll park the car behind the trailers and you can get out then.”

  “That’s it?” Tom looked around.

  “That’s it. Our downtown area doesn’t take long to cover. It’s not exactly the big cities you’re used to—like Chicago,” Sarah added with a wry smile.

  He shrugged. “I haven’t even played there yet, except away games versus the Cubs when I was a Marlin.”

  “How do you feel about your new team?”

  “I’m happy as hell to be getting back to the big leagues and getting started on that World Series ring. If there is any justice, we’ll win it by beating the Marlins.”

  She tilted her head. “Holding a grudge?”

  He shrugged. “I gave them everything I had, and when I blew out my UCL, they decided they didn’t want to pay an injured veteran his market worth. No big deal. This is a business, not a social club. I’m off to Chicago and I’m going to make them pay dearly for the huge mistake they made when they let me get away.”

  “I wouldn’t want to be a Marlins batter facing you in the World Series,” she said truthfully.

  “Me neither.” He grinned, more predatory than mirthful.

  They dismounted from the car. “Let’s walk to the pitching clinic. The Little League ball field is only a block away, and it will be faster than driving in all this traffic.”

  When she’d come up with the idea to walk to the ball diamond, she hadn’t counted on the curious bystanders. They set out on foot, but were soon slowed by the inevitable admirers. Whether it was a PR event or a walk down the street, Tom drew fans.

  He stopped a dozen times to sign autographs, always with a wink and a smile. When a busty blonde asked him to sign the tight fabric of her jersey, Sarah watched him closely, sure he would leer and ask for her number, but he simply signed, ignored her obvious interest, and moved on to sign a twelve-year-old girl’s glove.

  The sight of the young girl in her jersey, holding a glove, made her heart ache. That had been her once, until her mom died and her dad decided it was time to crack down on her “tomboy” ways.

  Hopefully the girl had a father who understood her love for the game more than hers did.

  “Hey, sweetheart. Are you coming over to me and Mom’s house later for barbecue?”

  Her heart sank as she recognized Rich’s voice. She turned to greet him, a smile plastered on her face until she took in his clothes: too-tight denim shorts and a red T-shirt with “USA” spelled out on it in blue glitter letters. Heat rose in her cheeks.

  “Ah, I’m not sure, Rich. I’ve got some PR events lined up for Tom and I have to accompany him. Maybe another time?”

  His face fell. “You always come over for Mom’s barbecue after the parade. She bought sparklers and everything.”

  Oh, my word.

  Hardly daring to breathe, she shot a glance over to Tom, hoping to see him too involved in autographs to pay any attention to her conversation. Instead, he stood unabashedly eavesdropping, a wide grin on his face.

  “I know. I’m sorry. You didn’t say anything about it and I’m afraid that with as
busy as I’ve been, I forgot all about it.” Yikes, that had sounded harsh, but she’d been thinking so much about this parade and the other PR events she’d planned, she’d hardly thought of anything else. Tom Cord was like a black hole in human form. He sucked all of her energy, attention, and interest into himself, leaving her none for anyone else.

  “I didn’t think I needed to remind you of a tradition we’ve stuck with for three years, Sarah,” Rich said with a sniff.

  “I don’t know what else to say. I’m sorry. Maybe we can do something together this weekend to make up for it?”

  His face brightened, and she knew another wrestling match on his couch would be in her near future.

  He left on the promise that she’d call him soon, and she bit back a sigh as she turned back to Tom, who had just finished signing the last autograph.

  They fell into step on the way to the Little League diamond. Tom said nothing, and she’d begun to hope that he’d let the incident pass when he draped an elbow on her shoulder.

  “Quite a boyfriend you’ve got there.” The laughter in his voice was obvious. She didn’t try to hide her scowl. Why had Rich blundered by just then? She wanted to crawl into the nearest storm sewer and hide. Or shove Tom into one and run away.

  “He’s not my boyfriend.”

  “How can that be? He called you sweetheart. You spend every Fourth of July at his mom’s house. Eating barbecue and lighting sparklers.”

  Of course he’d heard every mortifying detail. “What were you, taking notes?” She shot him a glare.

  “I have a good memory for things that interest me.”

  “Why Rich should interest you, I have no idea.” He barely interested her and he was her date.

  “Oh, is that his name? No, he’s not interesting. I’m interested in you.”

  “Me?” She kept her voice even somehow, even as her heart slipped into a fast beat. “What’s so interesting about me?”

  “I want to know why a pretty, smart girl like you has a schmuck of a boyfriend like that.”

  Pretty? Smart? Since when? He’d never given her the time of day back when he was in college. Her brain couldn’t process Tom Cord calling her those things, so it snagged on the one part she could understand. “I told you, he’s not my boyfriend.”

  “Of course he is. I’m pretty sure eating barbecue at his mom’s every Fourth of July counts as a commitment. God knows I’m not ready for that kind of serious relationship.”

  Oh, he was an ass.

  “I said he’s not my boyfriend,” she repeated stubbornly.

  He looked at her face closely. “You seem awfully sure about that.”

  “Because I am.”

  “Do you sleep with him?”

  “That’s none of your business!”

  “Oh, come on. You know all about my love life. Why can’t I ask about yours?”

  “The entire western hemisphere knows about your love life, because it’s on TMZ!”

  “Exactly. I’m the last person in the world to judge. Come on. Tell me all about it. That schlub must have something going for him if you’re willing to give him the time of day. Is he some kind of a nasty freak in bed? Let me guess. He can go all night. Or he has a red room of pain like that guy in that one book.”

  Her cheeks burned. How did he steer her to the most inappropriate topics with ease? She wasn’t used to that kind of frank talk about sexuality. In a small town like Plainview, she couldn’t talk to anyone about intimate matters without fear of it getting back to her overprotective dad and brother. She’d grown up playing on a mostly boys’ baseball team and worked in such a man’s world that she’d never had a lot of girlfriends anyway.

  Tom was right about one thing. Nothing in her very tame love life could ever shock him. The idea of unburdening herself had a lot of appeal, and, oddly, she trusted him not to tell anyone.

  “I wouldn’t know,” she admitted. “We don’t sleep together.”

  He stopped dead, nearly knocking her silly as his elbow dragged free of her shoulder. “Are you kidding?”

  Hmmm, maybe he was shockable after all. “I told you, he’s not really my boyfriend. We do stuff together.” At his doubtful expression, she shrugged. “Plainview is a small town, as you might have noticed. There aren’t a lot of single guys my age to choose from. You know what my hours are like. I can pull twenty-hour shifts when we have a home game.”

  “I work long hours too, yet I find a way to have a social life.”

  She snorted. “Oh, that’s what you call it?”

  He ignored her. “Do you kiss him?”

  She tilted her head in puzzlement. “Well, sure.”

  “But you haven’t slept together.”

  “No, like I told you, he’s not my boyfriend.”

  “News flash, but you don’t have to be in a committed relationship to have sex.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Sorry, I forgot who I was talking to for a minute.”

  He laughed and resumed his long, easy stride next to her, a stride that he had to slow to keep from leaving her far behind. “Sorry. I almost feel sorry for the guy. Almost.”

  She stopped, offended. “What’s that supposed to mean? Sorry for him why?”

  “Because you won’t give him any.”

  “Who said I won’t give him any? Maybe he hasn’t asked,” she practically bellowed, and then lowered her voice when nearby heads swiveled. Fantastic. All she needed was for that little tidbit to get back to her father.

  “I got a look at that guy, and I’ve gotten a lot of looks at you.” His eyes ran down her, and her skin heated faster than a microwave oven. “You expect me to believe it’s his idea that you not have sex? No way.”

  She couldn’t deny the plain truth, so she settled into a silence and resumed walking. How did he get her talking about the most embarrassing stuff every time? It was a gift, she supposed, like his 100-plus miles per hour fastball or those blue eyes that seemed to look right through her.

  At the Little League diamond, a crowd had already gathered in the stands, offering a welcome distraction. A group of kids stood around home plate, clutching their gloves and squirming with excitement. Thrashers PR staff had set up a portable mike and amp system, as well as a large net, like a soccer goal, on the first base line.

  “Are we ready to go?”

  Her assistant, Tracy, nodded, looking even younger than her twenty-two years with her ponytail and her blue Thrashers polo shirt. “All set.” Her eyes widened and dropped when Tom smiled at her. Poor kid. High school wasn’t that long ago, and Sarah remembered when she’d been totally bowled over by him too.

  Luckily, she was long past that.

  “Um, where’s Rich?” Tracy asked. “Don’t you guys always spend Fourth of July together?”

  She would not look at Tom. She would not look at him. “He had some other things to do.”

  “Oh. Really?” Was that a look of disappointment? Her father wanted her to get serious about Rich, and now Tracy did too? Did everyone see her as the town spinster who needed to be married off as soon as possible? The thought rankled.

  “I think he might have some extra barbecue and sparklers on hand if you want to drop by later,” Tom said. “I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.”

  Tracy frowned. “What?”

  “Never mind,” Sarah said hastily. “Want to address the crowd?” She turned to Tom with a bright smile.

  He looked at her like she was nuts. “Hell, no. Let’s get to pitching.”

  And he did, wading right into the group of kids.

  “Can I have an autograph?” one gap-toothed kid asked.

  “In a little bit, yeah, but right now, we’ve got work to do. Why don’t you kids line up facing the net? About fifteen, twenty feet away. Yeah, that’s good. Who’s got some baseballs?”

  Tracy brought a box of baseballs and passed one out to each kid.

  “Okay, one at a time. I want to see you guys pitch. Come on, show me what you got.” The kids looked uncertain. No o
ne stepped forward.

  “You, in the green shirt.” He pointed to a freckled eight-year-old. “Don’t be shy. Come on up here. The best you got. Let’s smoke some balls into that net!”

  The boy shuffled to stand next to Tom, sneaking shy glances from under the bill of his cap. After a little more encouragement from Tom, the boy wound up and let it fly, his pitch dropping several feet shy of the net. His face fell.

  “Okay, that’s good, but here’s the thing,” Tom said. “You’ve got to take advantage of your gifts as a pitcher. Me, I’m a power pitcher. That’s my gift. I can throw the ball a hundred miles an hour!”

  An “Oooh!” went up from the group of kids.

  “My dad’s car doesn’t even go that fast!” one boy said.

  “That’s good, because if it did, he’d get a ticket,” Tom said, prompting a laugh from the group. “So there are three things about pitching. A perfect pitcher has flawless technique, power, and mental toughness. Anybody know what mental toughness is?”

  “It means you’re a badass!” a heavyset kid spoke up, earning a shocked gasp from the group.

  “Not exactly,” Tom said. “It’s the ability to keep calm and make your pitches when everything’s going wrong out there. Nobody’s perfect. Make sure you have two out of the three of those qualities, because that’s what you need to succeed. If you don’t have power, you have to work on technique and toughness.”

  He turned to the green-shirted boy. “You’re not a power pitcher, so you’ll need to improve your technique.”

  The boy’s gaze dropped and his chin came to rest on his chest.

  “That’s nothing to be ashamed of. Anybody here know Greg Maddux? He’s one of the greatest pitchers of all time. In the later years of his major league career, he only threw about eighty-five miles an hour, but he was all about technique. He could put the ball in a location where hitters couldn’t hit it. Power isn’t everything.”

  Tom clapped the boy on the shoulder, earning a tentative smile.

  “Try that again, but this time, don’t lean so far back during your windup. Try to keep your body straight.”

  Sarah crossed her arms and looked on, fascinated. She would never in a million years have expected Tom Cord to take so well to working with kids. This was obviously pure pleasure for him.