by Linda Morris
“You’ve got very solid fundamentals.”
“Unlike some people I know.” A smile lightened her teasing, and an answering grin lit his face.
“Hey, I’ve got power and mental toughness. Remember? Two out of three is all you need, baby.”
She’d bet he had power, and not only on the mound.
Where did that thought come from? Distracted by her hormones, she barely got her glove up in time to keep from taking a pitch to the teeth.
She’d better get herself under control before she wound up in the hospital or a dentist’s office.
Friends. Right. They could be friends.
Just because she didn’t actively dislike him anymore, just because he set her nerves abuzz with the briefest look or touch, didn’t mean they were cut out for each other.
Being annoyed with him most of the time sure made him easier to resist. Now he’d somehow slipped past her defenses.
Uh-oh. She had to do something about that. He had a warm light in his eyes she didn’t like. Correction: She liked it too much. She was a strong woman, but not invincible. She could yield to temptation.
Time to remove it, then.
“You may not need fundamentals to get a job, but you might need them to keep a job,” she said.
He caught her pitch and sent the ball back to her leisurely, a grin on his face. “You think the Sox are going to let me go because I don’t point my toe the right way in my windup?”
“Ever wonder what caused you to need Tommy John surgery before you turned thirty?”
“Nope. I know what caused it. I blew out my UCL in the middle of game seven of the World Series.”
“But why?” She crammed the ball into the glove and braced it on her hip, starting toward him. “Did you ever think about that?”
“Wow, you’re really going to start in on this? You would make a good coach.” He came to meet her, and together, they strolled in the direction of the parked car.
She lifted an eyebrow. “Does that mean somebody has tried to talk to you about your form before?”
“Only every coach I’ve had since I was in junior high.”
“I guess listening to coaches isn’t your thing.” Really, was she surprised?
“Results are my thing. Winning is my thing.”
She paused. It wasn’t any of her business. Still, she’d never had a chance to pitch in the majors. He had, and he was going to throw it away if he didn’t wise up and stop being such a cowboy. “How about staying in the game? Is that your thing?”
“Nobody stays in this league forever. Hell, a lot of the guys who pitch into their forties have been juiced, and I don’t do that.”
His blunt talk about performance-enhancing drugs caught her attention. In a young man’s game, she’d guessed a lot of those older pitchers must have been using steroids to stay so great for so long, but hearing an insider confirm it still stunned her.
“You want to burn out instead of fade away?” Their slow steps had put them next to his car, but neither made a move to get inside. “Not stick it out in the big leagues as long as you can?”
“If I thought I would burn out, I might change. Maybe not. I’m not big on sacrificing today for a tomorrow that might not ever arrive.” His eyes were so dark in this light, they looked almost black, like a bottomless well she could tip over and fall head over heels into.
“Tomorrow always does arrive,” she said softly. “You can count on it.”
“But we don’t know what it holds, so it’s always better to live for today.”
She shook her head slightly, unable to look away, unable to wrench herself free of his spell. “I don’t agree. What if you’re throwing away the future because you can’t look past your nose?”
“What if you’re missing out on the here and now because you’re worrying about something that might not ever happen?” He tipped her chin up. She stared at him mutely, unable to resist the pull of those blue eyes.
“You know, I promised your brother I wouldn’t go after you.”
Her eyes widened. “You talked about me?” How mortifying, to imagine Tom and her brother discussing her.
“He’s worried about his little sister. I told him I wouldn’t pursue you.” One thumb stroked her cheek. “But I didn’t promise to fight you off if you went after me.”
“I see.” If anything was going to happen, it was on her.
She shouldn’t do it. Why take a stupid chance? She should keep a safe distance and be unaffected when he left town. If she got involved with him, even if she only kissed him, she would be hurt when he left.
Maybe she could live with that. If she kept her emotions in check, kept things light and fun, maybe she would feel nothing more than a bittersweet ache when he left. Maybe it could be worth the fun they would have together while it lasted.
In any case, she couldn’t pass up an opportunity to at least see how his mouth felt pressed against hers.
She leaned in, rising up on her tiptoes to take his lips, eyes fluttering shut at the heat and pressure of his mouth against hers. Her lips drifted apart, and his tongue sought entrance, tasting and exploring hers in a leisurely foray. The clean smell of his aftershave teased her senses.
He’s a player, in more ways than one. Somehow that didn’t matter right this minute. Maybe she should listen to him and live for today. Focus on the present. God knows she’d never been so much the center of a man’s attention as she was with Tom. He listened, argued, teased, and criticized, but he never ignored her. Never left her guessing.
Hmmm. There was something about a man who paid attention.
Those hours spent chasing Hollywood starlets had clearly not gone to waste. The man knew how to kiss. He pulled her tight against him and she let him, savoring every inch of his hard athlete’s body pressed against hers. Desire stirred in her and her heart began to thud.
Her body heated, eased, and settled into the kiss. He made some deep sound of appreciation in his chest. He wanted her now, no matter how he’d overlooked her back then, and that made her happy. She could admit it.
She tilted her face upward to claim his mouth more fully, and he slipped his arms around the small of her back. Somehow her hands were sliding into his hair, savoring the rough smoothness between her fingers, tracing the curve of skin and bone beneath. His tongue met hers, gently exploring and tasting, teasing. She nipped his lower lip softly, and he chuckled in response.
Oh, he was dangerous. She couldn’t control this. She couldn’t control him. She was like an alcoholic sneaking a drink of wine. A little sip, all by itself, never hurt anybody, but the problem was, it made you want way more than was good for you.
After a minute, she pulled away, leaving her forehead pressed against his, her eyes downcast. “You don’t make it easy to resist you.”
“Who said you should resist me?” His soft exhalation teased the tender skin above her lip and she had to fight her lethargy to come up with a coherent response.
“Ummm, common sense. Natural law. My dad. My sense of self-preservation.”
“Natural law?” He shook his head. “I wasn’t aware that you and I getting together would knock the world off of its axis or anything.”
“Maybe not,” she admitted. “But it would knock my world awry, that’s for sure.”
“What’s so wrong with that?” He brushed his thumb up the tender skin of her throat, making her pulse pound. Her body bowed toward him without her willing it. “We knock each other for a loop, have a great time, and enjoy it while it lasts.”
“And in a couple of weeks, when your rehab assignment is over?”
He said nothing, and then, at long last, shrugged. “Let the future take care of itself. Who knows what it holds?”
He didn’t want to say what they both knew—that he’d go back to Chicago, back to the big leagues, and she’d never see him again.
Until he made another appearance on the arm of a starlet or a Maxim cover girl, that is. She was attractive enough, she suppo
sed, but a small-town girl couldn’t compete with the kind of women he’d meet in Chicago.
The thought killed the moment and she pushed at him lightly. She stepped back—not far, but far enough to give him the message.
“What’s wrong?” He reached for her, but she stopped him with a tiny shake of her head.
Sarah needed distance, and not the kind that could be measured with a yardstick. “It’s too bad you had to hit Gutierrez the other day. That really screwed up your plan, huh? You could have been in Chicago maybe by next week if you hadn’t blown off and done that.”
“What are you talking about?” He crossed his arms and studied her.
“You’ve said since day one that this rehab start would be short-lived. That you’d be back in the majors ASAP. But you screwed that up when you got suspended. Now you’re in town for longer than you expected, with time on your hands. You want to kill some time some way. I understand. That doesn’t mean I’m going to be your entertainment.” Her throat tightened. “I’m sorry there aren’t any reality stars or Internet babes living in Plainview full-time. Maybe they could keep you busy.”
She had to make an effort not to squirm under his too-astute gaze. “What is this about, really?”
“I think I just told you. You’re looking for something to do to pass the time while you’re stuck in town. That’s great for you, but I don’t need to be a part of it. Maybe you should give the Bailey twins a call.” It hurt to force the words out, but she had to.
He narrowed his gaze. “You told me you wanted me to keep away from the Bailey twins.”
Better them than me. The Bailey twins had had more than one meaningless hookup with a ballplayer. They could take being forgotten after a week or two. Hell, they invited it. They lived for the moment and moved on, like Tom.
She wasn’t built that way.
She grabbed the door handle and tugged, but his body blocked her from opening the passenger side door enough to get in. He didn’t budge, instead bracing his hand at the top of the door to hold it in place. “I’m not letting you go until you tell me what this is about.”
She shook her head. “Don’t you see? I can’t be the next Christina Caputo. I’m sorry you hit Gutierrez and got stranded in this hick town. You should have thought better of it before you did it.”
“I didn’t think at all.” His eyes shuttered, not meeting hers, and she had the feeling he’d gone from being the inquisitor to the defendant.
“What do you mean?”
“It was an accident. I didn’t mean to hit him.” He shrugged and rubbed his elbow absentmindedly. The tiny gesture gave him away.
Her eyes flew to his face, which was still. Impassive. “Your elbow?” When he didn’t answer, she reached out to touch him, her fingers tangling with his and skimming over warm skin and unyielding bone. Her breath caught. Oh, no. “You’re hurting again?”
He pulled his arm away and straightened it, breaking their connection. “It’s a little fatigue. No big deal. I haven’t pitched in a game situation in more than a year. I’m knocking the rust off.”
“Tom, how can you say that? You might be right, but what if you’re not? You need to see a doctor.”
His eyes turned dark and resentful. “What, and have them tell me I need to take it easy? That I’m not quite ready, that I need to spend another six months in rehab, tossing simulated games and lifting weights while I wait for some egghead doctor who has never thrown a pitch in his life to decide that I’m ready? I know I’m ready.”
“What if you’re not?”
“I am!” He let go of the door so abruptly she nearly lost her balance.
“Tom, the White Sox have a great medical staff. It can’t hurt to drive up to Chicago for the day. They can do an ultrasound, see if you have a problem with that ligament. You’ll be in and out before you know it.”
Her words were a waste of time. He was such a competitor. Even if he suspected he was hurt, he wouldn’t admit it.
“Yeah, and word will be out on ESPN and Deadspin before I know it too. ‘Tom Cord suffers setback in rehab, future uncertain.’ No thanks.”
He climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine so quickly she had to scramble to get in. The car was backing up before she could even fasten her seat belt. His fingers drummed the gearshift console, beating out a staccato rhythm of annoyance.
“But you said you didn’t worry about the future,” she said.
“I don’t. I leave that to other people.” He gave her a long look as he headed for the park exit.
People like you. He didn’t say the words, but he didn’t need to. The implication was clear. He was one kind of person, and she was another.
As if she didn’t know that already.
Chapter Eight
The call came as she was on her way into the office, slurping at her daily indulgence—a tall latte from the Ladybird Café. “Damn.” She shifted the giant cup to the cup holder and groped in her purse for her cell phone, never taking her eyes off of the road.
It was Tracy.
“Have you looked at TMZ lately?” Her assistant sounded worried.
Sarah frowned. “I never look at TMZ unless I can help it. Why?”
“Christina Caputo was arrested on a DUI yesterday. It’s her second and she’s looking at jail time.”
She rolled her eyes. Tom sure could pick ’em. “So? They’re broken up.”
“She’s going to do an interview on ESPN.”
“ESPN?” The only possible reason a sports channel would want to talk to Christina Caputo would be to get dirt on Tom. “God.”
“Yeah.” Tracy sounded sympathetic. “I thought you might need to do damage control.”
Her lip curled as she slowed to a stop at one of Plainview’s few traffic lights. God, Tom had showed some abysmal judgment where women were concerned. As soon as she started to take him seriously, something happened to remind her of what a playboy he’d been for years.
“Thanks for letting me know. I’ll look into it.” Christina and Tom were a thing of the past, so she couldn’t see how this could affect the Thrashers too much, but still. Their names were linked publicly and someone usually mentioned him in any of Christina’s coverage.
If you had a job in baseball operations, say, as team president or in coaching, you wouldn’t have to deal with this PR crap.
That thought, and others like it, ran through her head around one hundred times a day on average, but as always, she pushed it aside. The Thrashers were her family’s legacy, and the legacy wasn’t what it used to be. The team needed her—her family needed her—and she wouldn’t desert either.
Her phone rang again, and she eyed the display. Southland Novelties. Probably calling about her order of five hundred bobbleheads for next week’s game. With a sigh, she answered the call.
***
Oh, dear God. If you are the merciful Lord I learned about in Sunday school, please kill me now and put me out of my misery.
Sarah lowered her forehead to touch the cool rim of the toilet. She’d lost count of how many times she’d hurled since she got home after the game tonight.
She’d heated up leftover Chinese food in the office kitchen hours ago. Maybe that had been the culprit.
Her eyes drifted shut. She was too tired to think anymore. Her throat and chest ached from repeated vomiting. So tired. She could fall asleep right here with ease. A tall glass of water for her parched throat sounded good, but the effort it would take to walk to the kitchen was too much to contemplate.
Somewhere in the house, the doorbell rang.
“Go away,” she cried weakly, knowing whoever was at the front door couldn’t hear her. Thirty seconds later, the bell rang again.
Damn. Whoever it was wasn’t giving up.
She hauled herself up and gripped the edge of the sink as the room whirled around her. When it finally righted itself, she shuffled down the hardwood floor of the hallway, her stocking feet making her slip more than once. She flipped on th
e porch light and glared through the tiny pane of glass. Her body ached, she was exhausted, and she was pretty sure she had barf on her pajama top.
Who was bothering her at this hour?
“Of course,” she muttered.
Tom pushed back his cap in the bright light of the front porch.
She opened the door and leaned her forehead against the door frame, her eyelids at half-mast. “What do you want?”
“You look like hell.” He sounded shocked.
“Thanks. Can I go back to bed?”
“Can I come in?”
Only years of etiquette lessons from her late mother kept her from saying no and slamming the door in his face.
“You’d better not. I think I may be contagious.”
“I wasn’t planning on giving you a big kiss or anything. No offense, but I’ve seen you look better.”
“Did you come here to insult me?” She pried her eyes open enough to give him a dirty look.
“No, I wanted to check on you. I could hear the retching through the wall of our duplex. Thin walls. You need anything?”
She shook her head and pulled herself upright, ruining the gesture by swaying when the room spun. Like a flash, he pushed the door wide and grabbed her by both arms, steadying her.
“You okay?”
“I think we’ve established that I’m not,” she said, enunciating as carefully as any drunk. She paused. Good Lord, it had taken a lot of energy to say that. “I just want to go to bed.”
“Good idea. Let me help.” He pushed past her and shut the door behind him. “Which way is your bedroom?”
She would have argued, but she didn’t have the strength.
“Up there.” She nodded at the stairs, too tired to lift her arm to point.
“Aw, hell.” Before she could ask what he meant, he hefted her into his arms and started up the stairs.
“What are you doing? You’ll hurt yourself.”
“Oh, no way. You’re light as a feather.” She doubted that—she’d never been petite—but being sheltered in his strong arms felt too good.
At the top of the stairs, he followed her directions and did a U-turn to the door on the left.
He looked around the dimly lit room with its plush coral comforter, teak bedroom set, and array of throw pillows. “Nice room.” He lowered her to the bed and tucked her in like a dad, making tears come to her eyes. Her emotions always shimmered close to the surface when she was ill. That must explain why such a simple gesture touched her so.