by Mindy Klasky
Lindsey finally said, “Who cares what Zach worries about?”
“Go to dinner with me,” Ryan said.
“Tonight?” she asked, confused.
“Yeah,” he said, and the sarcastic lilt to his voice sent a shiver down her back. “Go to dinner with me at eleven o’clock, when every restaurant in Raleigh is shutting down for the night.”
She rolled her eyes. So, she’d asked a stupid question. Besides, she’d eaten dinner five hours earlier.
“Have dinner with me tomorrow, Killer. We’re playing an afternoon game. Meet me at Capodimonte’s at seven.”
She shouldn’t do it. She should wait until she was cast in a new play. She should take some time, figure out why the hell she’d been left at the altar twice in as many years.
But she was the new Lindsey. She was the woman who did whatever she wanted to do. And she wanted to have dinner with Ryan Green. “Okay, Hotshot,” she said. “I’ll meet you there.” The answering flutter in her belly told her she was taking a risk. And that felt like a very good thing.
~~~
Over dinner at Capodimonte’s, Ryan tried not to think about the rest of the team gathered over at Artie’s, the steakhouse where the guys hung out when they weren’t on the road. It was only fair to Lindsey, he told himself, that they have a little privacy. They didn’t want to be stared at by every Rockets player eating out after the game.
They didn’t want to worry about Zach showing up at Artie’s.
The meal was fine. The conversation was better. Ryan walked Lindsey to her car, held the door of the Prius for her. He leaned in close enough feel the heat of her body, and he brushed a kiss against her lips. She kissed him back, but then she pulled away, pressing against the frame of her car. “I…” she said.
He waited, but she didn’t seem to know how to finish the sentence.
“Right,” he said. “Drive safe.” And he kissed her again, cupping his palm against the back of her neck, so he could feel her pulse pounding against his fingertips. He stepped back before they could make a mistake, and he crossed his arms over his chest as she drove away.
Sunday morning, Ryan heard the news from his father—the job with the Satellites had come through. Just like that, months of guilt were washed away. The pressure he’d felt, knowing he wasn’t living up to his promise to his mother… The worry that had woken him up on more than a few nights, nagging that he wasn’t taking care of his father, and Dad wasn’t getting any younger… Just like that it was all gone, washed away, replaced with the steady hum of confidence that everything was on the right track.
The Rockets played an early game on Sunday afternoon, quickly surging ahead over last-place Florida. By the bottom of the sixth, Skip had sat Ryan down, giving him a chance to rest the hammie, letting a defensive sub take over with a six-run lead. By the time the team hit their high fives and headed off the field, they’d notched their eighth consecutive win. The Rockets were four games above .500, and it was only early June.
This was the year they were going to win it all. That was the buzz around the league. The team was stacked with offense. They had a Gold Glove infielder with Brock at first, and the outfield was steadier than it had been in years.
And this was the year they needed to win. No one talked about it in the clubhouse, but everyone was aware of the days Marty Benson was too frail to make it to the park. Every last one of the guys wanted to give Mr. Benson a ring before it was too late. So they played their hearts out—jumping just a little higher for a fly ball headed over the fence, running just a little harder to stretch out a double into a triple, watching just a little more closely for the perfect chance to steal a base, to change the odds, to bring home another game in the win column.
Monday was an off day, and Ryan tried to spend it doing important things—some banking, phoning his father, not thinking about Lindsey. The finances were the easy part—log in on the computer, click some buttons, move some money around. Phoning Dad wasn’t too bad either—they bullshitted about the previous night’s games. Dad caught him up on a couple of hot prospects on the Satellites, some of the new guys who were going to be major players in a few years. Things were going well with the Sats. Not perfect—Dad had never coached in any official capacity before. He was still learning the ropes. Still figuring out the best way to contribute. But he sounded better than he had in months.
And that left Lindsey.
He phoned her during the day, twice, but he only got her voicemail, and he didn’t leave a message. She had an audition; he knew that. She’d played it cool when she told him about the role, but it was the chance to play the lead, to star in A Streetcar Named Desire and what actress wouldn’t want to do that?
When she didn’t answer the third time, he told himself he was being an idiot. What did a woman like Lindsey want with him anyway? After the disasters of the past two years, she should swear off men. She’d said she was tired of following the rules—and dating had to be part of the rules, didn’t it? Were they even dating? Papering a guy’s house, driving to the beach, dinner at Capodimonte’s… What the hell did you call it when two adults wanted nothing more than to rip each others’ clothes off, even if they both knew that was a really bad idea?
Ryan’s gut tightened every time he thought about telling Zach what had happened in Chester Beach. Not that anything had happened. Not really. At least, not half the things he’d wanted to happen.
Shit. He should forget about Lindsey and concentrate on his job. Starting with playing Milwaukee tomorrow night, facing Suzuki on the mound. He set aside his phone as he cued up old video. Speeding through footage of Suzuki pitching half a dozen games, he tried to figure out the approach he should take at the plate the following day. He tried to convince himself it mattered.
By Tuesday night, he was amped up. He’d ordered himself not to call Lindsey over and over during the day. He got to the park early, had one of the trainers work on his leg like he was rehabbing some major injury. He took batting practice, working on the low inside pitches he expected to see from Milwaukee’s ace, and he hit half the balls over the fence.
The game was a hell of a lot closer than the past few had been. Suzuki carried a no-hitter into the seventh. Hart was on the mound for the Rockets. He gave up four hits, but they were all ground balls; nothing got out of the infield.
They were still tied, zero-zero, going into the bottom of the ninth. With two outs, Ryan came up to the plate, looking for a ball to take out the park. The first pitch came inside, a clear bid to brush him off the plate. He leaned back, avoiding the contact, and he took his time digging in again. He knocked the second pitch foul, way back in the stands behind home plate. The third popped almost straight up—the catcher threw off his mask and craned his neck, stretching for a ball that barely made it out of play.
Two strikes. Ryan settled in again, swinging the bat to loosen his shoulders. He heard his father’s steady catalog in his head as he set his cleats, as he flexed his calves. He shifted his hips, just a fraction of an inch, redistributing his balance. He settled the bat over his shoulder, standing straighter than he ever had in high school.
The pitcher wound up. Ryan saw the ball leave his hand like he was watching the game in slow motion. He picked up the rotation, timed the fastball as if he had a radar gun. He swung his bat with perfect timing, connecting with the sweet spot. He felt the perfect hit before he saw the ball’s reaction. He heard the knock that told him the ball was going out of the park. He was halfway to first when the crowd began to roar, and he rounded the base as the ball sailed out of the park.
After that, it was a quick jog back home. The rest of the team waited for him—he threw off his batting helmet to avoid having it pounded into his skull. The stadium set off fireworks, and the cameramen were already running onto the field, filming the walk-off celebration, the crazy high spirits as the team notched its ninth win in a row.
He hung around for a television interview, saying all the usual things about it being a team effort, about ho
w the Rockets were just really hot right now, about how a good team just keeps getting better. Brock and Cantor dragged over a cooler of Gatorade, and he shuddered beneath the icy shower. The girl with the mike wrapped things up.
Most of the team had made it to the locker room when he finally left the dugout. He blinked hard, forcing his eyes to adjust to the dark corridor, and he headed toward the bustling noise in the clubhouse. As he passed the laundry room, the door whispered open, darker black against the dim hallway.
“Pssst. Hotshot.”
In an instant, he was rock hard, his cock raging against his uniform pants. “Killer?” he asked, even though he didn’t need to. He recognized the hand that reached out of the shadows, the blood-red nail polish that pulled him into the pitch-black room. “What the hell?” he asked, as he heard her turn the deadbolt on the door.
“Congratulations,” she whispered. “I guess we’ll have to call you Walk-Off Green for the night.”
He would have answered, but her lips found his before he could speak. Her breath was sweet, like vanilla and mint, and her hair smelled like oranges. No, that wasn’t her hair. That was his jersey, soaked with Gatorade, clinging to his shoulders like a heavy second skin. She laughed as her palms found the soaked fabric, and she skimmed it over his head before he could stop her.
He was still stunned, still blind, but she seemed to know exactly where he stood. One hand cupped his chin; she slipped one of those perfect fingers into his mouth slowly, teasing as his lips automatically drew her in deeper. Her other hand slipped down his belly, tracing its way to his throbbing dick.
“Lindsey,” he finally said, turning his head so that his jaw rested against her palm. He caught her other wrist, closing his fingers to keep her still, feeling her heart beat hard and fast, like she was the one who had just run the bases before a sell-out crowd. “You’re not supposed to be here,” he said, even though words seemed ridiculous, with her body pressing up against him, her hips matching his, slotting against his aching hard-on.
She shrugged, turning the motion into a full-body dance. “Says who?” she whispered.
“Your brother, for one,” he said, forcing himself to take a step away.
“So? Zach’s not the boss of me. Of you either, technically. I told you in Chester Beach. I’m tired of following the rules.”
So she was still on her rebel kick, still proving she didn’t have to be a jilted bride for the rest of her life. That was great—he wanted her to get over that asshole, and all the other jerks she’d ever known. But he didn’t want her just using him, just keeping him around long enough to get her life back on track—especially when her recovery plan apparently meant pissing off her brother.
There had to be some reason Lindsey had chosen tonight to pull him into the laundry room, especially when she hadn’t even picked up her phone when he’d called her three times the day before.
And she knew it too. He felt the moment her hand relaxed in the circle of his grip. She froze, apparently realizing she’d plastered herself against a sweaty, orange-soaked stranger. She pulled away, even though her feet never shifted, even though her body never moved. “I’m sorry,” she said. And now her voice wasn’t throaty, wasn’t flirty at all. She sounded miserable, soft and broken and shy.
“Don’t be sorry,” he said, and he slid his palm up her arm. Now she was collapsing in on herself, shrinking away, but he didn’t let her go. He realized that he was holding her upright, that she might have fallen if he wasn’t there. “What’s this all about, Lindsey? Why didn’t you answer my calls yesterday?”
“I was at an audition.”
He barely heard her answer. But he asked, “And how’d that go?”
“It was terrible!” Her voice caught, hard enough that he knew she was crying. “I—” She swallowed hard. “I went in, thinking I’d be reading for Blanche. But the director said I don’t have the experience for that. He’s Darryl Markham, the best director in Raleigh, and he wanted me to read for a pre-show cabaret. He basically wanted me to wait tables before the real show, to take drink orders with a New Orleans accent!”
Christ. He didn’t know the first thing about acting. He sure hadn’t read the play she wanted to be in. But not even being allowed to try out for a real role at all? That was pretty shitty, after they’d gotten her hopes up. Shitty enough that Lindsey was breaking apart in front of him.
She might have pulled him into the laundry room with a plan to jump his bones, but now that he’d taken that off the table, she seemed totally lost. He heard her catch her breath, and then she sniffed, hard. “Hey,” he said, because he didn’t know what else to do, and that one word was enough—she started to cry in earnest.
He folded his arms around her, pulling her close to his chest. She turned her face to the side, nestling her head against the hollow beneath his clavicle. He tangled his fingers in her hair, flexing his wrist to cradle her closer. Her shoulders surged beneath his arms, and he felt her stifle a sob, biting back her sorrow. “Hush,” he said by reflex, and then she really lost it.
He didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t tell her she’d get some role she wanted, that better plays would come along, that she’d be the actress she’d always wanted to be, because he didn’t know shit about theater. But he understood what she was feeling; he knew the gut-check terror that he wouldn’t always be able to play the game, that he’d end up too old, too slow, too broken to do the only thing he’d ever wanted to do.
And so, he held her. He held her while her tears made her cheeks grow slick, while her neck grew hot beneath his palm, while her shoulders hiccuped in a series of broken sobs. He braced his legs, and he tightened his arms around her, and he smoothed her hair and told her everything was going to be all right, even though he didn’t have the first clue how to make that happen.
Finally, she wore herself out. She wore herself out, or she ran out of tears, or she decided she just couldn’t keep standing there and sobbing. She took a deep breath, held it for a count of ten, and exhaled slowly and evenly.
He knew she would pull away from him. But it still felt like he was losing something when she did. “Oh my God,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
“I’m such an idiot.”
“No you’re not.”
She sniffed, hard, and he wished he had a handkerchief to hand her. He fumbled behind him for one of the shelves, closed his hand over a stack of terry towels. He shook one out and passed it to her, regretting when she took it, when she stepped even farther away.
“You know what? Screw Darryl Markham. Screw Blanche Dubois and screw Tennessee Williams and screw the Vantage Playhouse.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“If he casts me as a goddamn waitress, I do.”
“When do you find out?”
“Thursday.”
Good. The team would still be in town. If she got the role she wanted, if some miracle happened and Markham changed his mind, they could celebrate. If she didn’t, he’d convince her she needed to drown her troubles, needed to do something to put the past behind her. Something more than cry her brains out in a pitch-black room.
“We’ll have to wait till Thursday then.”
“We?” she asked. “Like you’re ever going to talk to me again.”
“Oh, I’ll talk to you,” he said, and he imagined she might even smile at that. “It’s not every night I hit a walk-off home run and celebrate like this.”
Good. That made her laugh. A bit shaky, still unsure of herself, of him. But she laughed.
“Come on,” he said. “I need to hit the showers. And you need to get out of here, before anyone catches you on this level.”
She was the one who found the door first, who turned the deadbolt. As she opened the door, the light from the corridor seemed blinding, as bright as noon sun. He bent down and scooped up his soaked jersey, balling it up in his hands so he wouldn’t get any stupid ideas about other things his fingers could be doi
ng. He caught the door from her and gestured for her to move into the hall.
But she only got two steps before she froze. His bare chest came up close against her back. His legs trembled against hers. But she wasn’t moving, not at all. Because she was staring straight into the face of Zach Ormond.
CHAPTER 6
Lindsey recognized that look on Zach’s face. It was the same one she’d seen when Grace had sneaked in after prom, coasting down the driveway in the dark with the front fender of the old Chevy crumpled. It was the one he’d given Rachel when he’d caught her and Tommy Markowitz giving each other tonsillectomies up in the attic one Christmas break. It was the way he’d stared down Dane, when her brother had admitted his girlfriend was pregnant, even though they’d used protection, even though she’d promised she was on the Pill. It was the way he’d glared at Beth a million times, after a million disappointments.
She barely resisted the urge to reach behind her, to twine her fingers with Ryan’s.
That wasn’t going to help. Instead, she told herself to breathe, to take a step forward, to move away from the comforting warmth of Ryan’s chest, from the trembling alertness she felt in every line of his body that pressed against hers. She glanced over her shoulder and jerked her head toward the locker room. “Go ahead,” she said.
“I’ll stay.”
“I’m fine,” she asserted.
“I know that.”
Men! Lindsey almost screamed the word out loud. Instead, she turned to Ryan, making sure their eyes met. She read the fierce determination in his gaze, the absolute certainty that he would protect her, that he would keep her safe.
But Zach wasn’t any threat to her safety. He never had been. He never would be. He was the older brother who loved her, who shielded her, who nurtured her when she needed someone who absolutely, unequivocally had her best interests in mind. Even if he was as stubborn as a mule.
She raised her hand to Ryan’s jaw, letting her fingertips tingle against the rough growth of his new beard. “Please,” she said.