High Heat (Hard Hitters #1)

by Linda Morris

  Sarah, never a hugger, hadn’t been able to help herself. She’d embraced Tracy, happy as she was to finally have a girlfriend.

  The doorbell rang and she dropped her brush into the sink with a clatter. “Dammit.” Why should she be nervous? They’d already been together as a couple for a week or so.

  But they were crossing a line, heading into a frontier that was new for them. There was every chance they’d be spotted by someone who knew her. And heck, everybody with access to ESPN knew Tom.

  Odds were good it would get back to her dad. She took a deep breath. She’d agreed to this. No backing down. She couldn’t live in fear of her dad’s opinion for the rest of her life.

  The sight on the front porch took her breath away. Tom wore a fitted black button-up, crisp and dark, with charcoal shorts that showed off his tanned legs. He leaned in for a kiss, and she met him halfway, letting her lips linger until she got a crick in the back of her neck. “Hi,” he whispered.

  “Hi.”

  He shot a quick glance over her shoulder, biting one lip in a sensuous gesture that made her pulse pound. “We could always stay in, you know.”

  Oh, he was tempting.

  She shook her head. “Better not. This was your idea, and I’ve already made all the arrangements.”

  “Fine.” He feigned a scowl, but she wasn’t fooled. This meant something to him: going out together in public, acknowledging that there was something between them, even if it was transient. He didn’t like being a dirty little secret.

  “I’ll get my stuff.” She disappeared, and came back with her purse and a large picnic basket, locking the door behind her.

  “Where are we going?” They got into his car.

  “Go through town out to the bypass and head north. I’ll tell you from there.”

  “A secret, huh?” But he complied and headed off without argument.

  “More of a surprise than a secret.”

  She gave him directions from there until they arrived at their destination, Riverbend Winery. She directed him to the parking lot and they headed for the sprawling log building that held the tasting room, him toting the basket. “I hope you like wine.”

  He shrugged. “Sure. Whatever. I’m good.”

  “I booked us for a tasting picnic. We’ll try different wines in the tasting room, and then purchase our selections and go for a picnic.”

  In the tasting room, a buzz went up as soon as they entered, but no one approached them directly. This winery catered to an upscale crowd from around the Midwest, and no one was likely to pester them too overtly. She didn’t think so, at least.

  Sarah gave her name to the hostess, who showed them to a sommelier in the corner behind an open-air bar. Behind the bar were wine racks with dozens of bottles. The friendly blonde shook each of their hands and greeted them with a wide smile. “Welcome to Riverbend. My name is Amber. I see you’re booked for a tasting. What kind of wines do you both like?”

  “I like whites,” Sarah said, shooting a look at Tom, who shrugged.

  “Surprise me.”

  The sommelier placed two small tasting-sized glasses on the bar and pulled out two different bottles of wine. She poured the white for Sarah. “This is a Riesling.” Sarah took a whiff and then drank it down. “Hmmm, that’s good.” She’d never mastered the art of BSing about wine, saying, “Ooh, tobacco-like, with a hint of Red Bull!” or some such nonsense.

  Amber poured a glass of rosé for Tom, smiling and flushing the whole time, going into a considerably more elaborate description than she’d given Sarah. “This is our award-winning Chambourcin Rosé, with notes of raspberry and a soupçon of strawberry.”

  When she pronounced the French word, her lips looked as if she’d just sucked on one of the lemon wedges they put in the iced tea at the Ladybird Café. “The limestone soils and hot, humid summers here are ideal for this variety.” She smiled, her lip gloss rosy against her perfect, tanned skin and white teeth. Sarah’s inner jealous wretch kicked in, but even she could see nothing objectionable in Tom’s response. He treated the sommelier with politeness, friendliness even, but with nothing like a leer at her obvious interest.

  He took a healthy swallow.

  “Do you like it?” Amber bowed her head flirtatiously. Sarah drummed her nails on the bar. She was far above a catty display of jealousy over a man. She was. Far. Above.

  “Yeah, it’s good.”

  “Do you get the hint of chocolate and the fruity notes?”

  Great, she was trying to turn Tom into a wine snob.

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. Tastes like wine to me.” Sarah smothered a laugh and the sommelier’s smile dimmed a fraction, but only for a second. In moments, her beam was restored to full power.

  “Anything else I can try?” Tom asked.

  “Of course,” said Amber, clearly not ready to give up. “We have a Pinot Grigio you might like.” She fetched him another small glass and poured a sample.

  He drank it and wrinkled his nose. “That tastes like wine too.”

  The sommelier’s perky smile was taking on a cast-iron look.

  Sarah bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. Tom was no fool, but he enjoyed playing the dumb jock from time to time. She wondered how often he got away with it; how often his victims were truly convinced he was actually a moron.

  Once, she might have been one of those people, but no longer.

  He nodded at Sarah’s glass. “Can I taste yours?”

  “Sure.” He took her glass, sipping from the same side she had.

  “Hmmm, that tastes like wine too. Do you have anything that tastes different?”

  Amber’s brows lowered. “Different? You mean not like wine?”

  “Exactly.” He beamed at her. Her smile turned downright frosty.

  “No. This is a winery. They all taste like wine.” She worked the cork back into the bottle of Pinot with determination, finally slapping it in with a whack of her palm.

  Sarah looked hard at the tip of her shoe to keep from exploding in laughter. “We’ll take a bottle of the Riesling, thanks,” she finally managed.

  The sommelier fetched a fresh bottle and handed it to them with an insincere smile. “Pay at the cashier, please.”

  They kept their silence while they paid for the bottle, but outside, her laughter escaped. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  “Sorry. I can’t handle that pretentious crap.”

  “Maybe this was a bad choice for a date.”

  “As long as I’m with you, hon, I don’t mind.” He captured her hand in his and swung them loosely between their bodies. “Where can we have a picnic? I hope you brought something to eat. I’m starved.”

  “I did. Come on, let’s head out to the vineyard.” They crossed the lush, landscaped gardens and passed a fountain with a statue of the god Bacchus frolicking with some naked nymphs.

  “Maybe this is my kind of place after all,” Tom said, and Sarah laughed.

  “Naked art and alcohol. What’s not to like, from your perspective?”

  “And my woman. Don’t forget that.” He met her eyes and lifted their interlocked hands to kiss hers, making her heart tumble over in her chest.

  Calling her his “woman” might not be a commitment of undying devotion, but it had to be a start, right?

  Maybe this whatever-you-called-it they had going on would work after all. She could take it easy. She didn’t have to have a commitment. Yet.

  It was that “yet” that always made her fret.

  They found a path that led up a slope to the vineyards, crested, and then eased back down again to the small river that gave the winery its name. “I think I saw a picnic table down that way,” Sarah said.

  “Let’s sit here,” Tom answered. “The grass is dry, and this way, I can get under your skirt while we eat. Thanks for being so accommodating, by the way.” He twitched her flowing skirt with their clasped hands.

  “I aim to please.”

  They settled down an
d she opened the picnic basket, pulling out a box of crackers, some summer sausage, several types of cheese, and fresh strawberries with pound cake. “I give you the finest food the Plainview IGA store has to offer,” she pronounced with a flourish. “With a little help from an online gourmet grocery.”

  He took a bite of the Muenster. “Mm, good.” He found the corkscrew and opened the bottle of Riesling with surprising ease. At her lifted brow, he shrugged. “I drink wine sometimes. I just don’t like all the BS that goes with it. Want some?”

  “Of course.” She held out her glass and let him pour. As they ate, they talked about whatever came to mind: movies—Sarah loved old black-and-white movies, but Tom loved crime dramas; Coco Jackson, who’d lately taken to wearing neon-yellow fingernail polish during games to help pitchers see his finger signs better; the unseasonably cool summer they were having. Tom even relaxed and related an anecdote about his junior high years, when a coach had benched him and told him he’d never make the varsity squad in high school.

  “Wow, did he have you pegged wrong.” Sarah sat on the grass, ankles crossed, leaning back to support herself on one hand while she sipped wine. Tom lay flat on the ground, his head in her lap, a reassuring weight at the center of her body.

  “Probably not. I was a lazy ass then. Thing was, he told me I couldn’t do something, and that was the best thing he could have done for me. I was determined to prove him wrong.”

  “You did.”

  “Maybe.”

  “What do you mean, maybe? You pitched in a World Series. Game seven. You won the Cy Young Award for the best pitcher in baseball three times. I’m pretty sure you proved him wrong, sweetie.” The endearment slipped out without her intention, but he didn’t seem to mind.

  “I didn’t win a World Series, though.”

  She rested her wineglass on the hard top of the picnic basket and let her fingers riffle through his silky, dark hair. He had such a nice jawline, strong and defined. She smoothed her fingertips down it, feeling the abrasion of an early-evening stubble. Such a beautiful man.

  “I came so close, but close wasn’t good enough.” The bleakness in his voice jerked her back from her reverie.

  “You couldn’t help that you got injured. It was bad luck and worse timing. The White Sox are having a good year, though. They’ll probably make the playoffs, and with you in their rotation, they have a good shot at going all the way.” She wasn’t flattering him. She meant it. He was damn good. Good enough to put a solid team like the Sox over the top.

  “If I don’t go down with an injury again.”

  She kept silent. She worried too much about the same thing to offer him false reassurance. His unorthodox throwing style put him at risk, but this was the wrong time to mention that. “You can’t control everything,” she said finally, settling for a response that was both tactful and true. “You just have to give it your best, and you always do. The rest depends on your team and a little bit of luck.”

  He rubbed his forehead. “It’s hard getting to the World Series. Being damn good isn’t good enough. It’s not under your control. There are so many things that have to fall your way. Once you get there, you can’t let it slip away. I did. I had it in my hand, a lead, and it got away. Who knows if I’ll ever have another chance like that?” He sat up, his shoulders turning rigid. He gazed at the placid river, but she knew he wasn’t seeing it.

  No, he wasn’t the uncomplicated party boy the tabloids would have you believe, but she’d known that for a while.

  “You didn’t let anything slip away.” She pushed herself up and knelt to rub his shoulders. “It wasn’t your time, is all. Someday it will be.”

  After a moment, he shook his head, working to control his emotions, the same way he did in a tense situation on the mound where he couldn’t let his nerves show. “I don’t know what’s the matter with me. Getting stir-crazy in this little town, I guess. The waiting game sucks. I’ll get called up soon and I’ll be fine.”

  She didn’t let him see the dart of pain his words caused. He’d be fine. Back to his old self, pursuing his dreams of glory. Chasing the wins that meant everything to him. Alone. Or, worse yet, with some other woman by his side.

  “Here, lie down on your stomach. You’re always rubbing my shoulders or back. Time for you to have a turn.”

  She complied, shaking her head. “If I never get a shoulder rub from you, it’s because you never stick to my shoulders. Somehow your hands always go wandering.” She crossed her arms and placed her cheek on them, glad he couldn’t see her face and read everything she had no doubt was written plainly there.

  “Is that a complaint?”

  “More of an observation.” Her voice faded as his strong hands dug deep into the muscles at the top of her shoulders.

  “Enough about me. What about you? When will it be your time?”

  “Hmmm?”

  “Your time. You don’t want to be a marketing executive for the rest of your life. I know you don’t.”

  She exhaled. “If you’re trying to relax me, you’re going about it the wrong way by bringing up my father.”

  “Are you going to stay a marketing executive forever, even if you hate it?”

  She shrugged. “You know how my dad is. He has ‘views’ about women in sports.”

  “His views are dumb.”

  She laughed. “You won’t get any argument from me.”

  “What are you going to do about it?”

  Her eyes popped open. “Do about it? There isn’t much I can do about it. It’s his team. Someday Paul will run things completely.” Her voice trailed off. The passing of the torch someday was inevitable, but she didn’t like to think about that.

  “Will Paul ever really be in charge as long as your dad is alive?”

  She didn’t answer that question. She didn’t need to. They both knew the answer already.

  “Is that what you want to do? Spend your life waiting for him to pass so that you can finally get to do the kind of work you want to do?”

  “That’s awful!” She sat up. “That’s not what I’m doing.”

  “Shh, I didn’t mean it that way. I know you love your dad and you don’t want him to be gone, but you can’t have the job you want in baseball working for the Thrashers while he’s alive.”

  She crossed her legs and stared at the ground. Plucking a blade of grass, she split it with her fingertip. Just like that, Tom had put into words what she’d been trying for so long not to think about.

  “I do a great job in PR. My dad realizes that.”

  “I’m sure he does.”

  “Someday he’ll realize he’s being unfair and give me a chance.” She’d been holding on to that hope for so long, but when she spoke it aloud, it sounded hollow.

  “Wrong. His refusal to give you the job you want has nothing to do with your performance, so turning in a great performance won’t accomplish anything. He doesn’t want to give you the job because you’re a woman. Anyone who’s been around you for more than an hour knows you have a lot to offer a club, if he’d let you out of the freaking marketing department.”

  She shook her head. She knew her dad better than Tom did. “Someday, my dad will realize his mistake and give me the chance. I grew up here. My grandfather founded this team. Dudleys have been running the team for generations.”

  “You’ve been a big fish in a small pond for a long time. Want to try being a goldfish in the ocean instead? You ought to move on. Find a team somewhere that can appreciate what you can do for them.”

  He said nothing about them being together. Nothing about them having a future. She knew they didn’t have a future, but it hurt to hear him discuss it so cavalierly. He didn’t seem to care whether she ended up a thousand miles away. Was she the only one who got a catch in her throat whenever she thought about him being called up?

  Of course she was. For him, getting called up would be all upside.

  “I don’t see the major leagues hiring a lot of women in the front offi
ce, much less the coaching staff.”

  “No, but other minor league teams are more open-minded than your dad. There are female general managers—female coaches, too.”

  “I know that.” For Pete’s sake, did he think she hadn’t noticed? She threw down the shredded blade of grass. Every time a woman was promoted to a job in a minor league team, she wanted to cheer and weep at the same time. Cheer for the pioneering woman’s success, but weep because it wasn’t her. Damn it. Tears pricked behind her eyes. She hated women who cried all the time. She certainly didn’t want to turn into one.

  He chuckled. “Hey, don’t get mad at me. I just hate to think of you working here for the rest of your life, doing something you hate, when you could be somewhere else, being a manager or something.”

  She shook her head and dredged up a smile. It wouldn’t be like that. Her father would see the light. She knew it. Despite all his flaws, she loved him, and he loved her. He’d raised her and Paul on his own after their mom died. She wouldn’t betray him. Besides, her life had revolved around the Thrashers as long as she’d been alive. She couldn’t imagine another way of life. “You’ve got your own things to worry about. The Sox are going to call you up any day. Worry about that, not about me. I’ll be fine.”

  “If you say so.” He reached across to take her hand in his as the clicking of a camera shattered the moment.

  They looked up to see a twenty-something guy in a Purdue baseball cap snapping their picture again. “Oh my God. Tom Cord! My buddies are never going to believe this. Can I get your autograph?”

  Tom pulled his hand back and nodded. “Sure.” She could tell he wasn’t thrilled at having their moment interrupted, but he took the paper the guy scrounged out of his pocket and signed it anyway.

  “Hey, you mind taking a picture of me and him together?” The guy held his cell phone out to Sarah.

  “Sure.” She stood and took the camera, snapping a couple of quick pics when the man threw an arm around Tom’s shoulders and beamed.