by Mindy Klasky
“You’re killing me,” he said, laughing.
“That’s the idea,” she countered. And she held out her hand until he dropped the keys into her palm.
BATTER UP!
Read on, for a sneak peek at the next Diamond Brides romance, Always Right!
~~~
It was a beautiful day for a baseball game—right up to the moment Kyle Norton heard the crunch of titanium and plastic under his right cleat.
The stadium looked like it belonged in some kid’s drawing. The noon sun blazed out of a bright blue sky, and huge white clouds floated high above Rockets Field. Batting practice was in full swing, with the Rockets’ power hitters behind the plate. Kyle was shagging fly balls in right field, keeping an eye on the practice pitcher throwing strike after strike, watching his teammates pound balls to the outfield.
Tyler Brock had just soared three in a row over the fence at center field; no one could do anything but watch the gorgeous high arcs as the balls got out of the play. The guy made it look easy.
Kyle had never hit fly balls like that—he’d always hit for average, not for power. Put him in a game, especially against a left-handed pitcher, and he could get his bat on the ball—solid hits, sometimes doubles. He’d made a career out of being reliable; he’d been the Rockets’ lead-off hitter for the past two seasons.
But he was in a batting slump now, had been for almost a month. Not a single hit, no matter who was pitching—righty or lefty, men who came on with heat, or crafty bastards who knew just where to put the ball. It didn’t make any difference to Kyle—he just wasn’t seeing the ball, just wasn’t getting his bat through the zone in time.
It was a mystery why Skip hadn’t shoved him down in the batting order, to six or seven at least. A mystery that made a thick ribbon of nausea ooze through Kyle’s gut, every time he thought about leading off another inning.
Shit. He was out in the field now. He needed to practice catching the ball; his skill at right field was the only thing keeping him in the lineup right now. And that was the cue for Brock to hit another high fly toward the fence behind Kyle.
He broke into a dead run. He got to the warning track, got to the wall. He whirled and found the ball, soaring straight toward him, like a magnet drawn to an iron column. He tensed his legs. He extended his arm for the catch. He caught the ball in the web of his glove, automatically snapping his fingers closed to keep it safe in its leather pocket.
And he tumbled into the wall, hard enough to jar his neck forward, hard enough to send his sunglasses tumbling onto the warning track. He didn’t have a chance of finding them before he came crashing down, mangling the frames and shattering the lenses.
As the crowd above him applauded his effort, Kyle glanced at the scoreboard clock. Only fifteen minutes left in batting practice. Not enough time to head back to the locker room, to scare up another pair of glasses and get back to right field, rounding out the practice. But there was no way he could play without something to cut the glare.
He turned toward the fence and the fans who were cheering right above him. With a shrug and a grin, he tossed the ball up there, making sure it landed in the long fingers of the woman who was centered at the front of the crowd.
She looked astonished that she’d ended up with the ball. She was there with a group, if the bright green T-shirts meant anything, the ones that shouted Link, Oster, Vogel, and East PLLC in bold letters. Her friends toasted her with their beers, slapping her free hand for high fives. One of the guys looked down toward Kyle and hollered, “Thanks, buddy!”
Kyle made a show of tipping the brim of his cap. That was the good thing about BP; it was warm-up time, sure, and there was a lot of work to be done, both behind the plate and out in the field. But it was also a chance to reach out to fans, to build the team’s reputation. And Mr. Benson, the team’s owner, was always happy to hear that his fans were satisfied.
At the urging of her friends, the woman who’d caught the ball leaned forward. Her long black hair was done up in two braids, like she was a kid. But there wasn’t anything childish about her. Her T-shirt was knotted above her waist, tight enough to show off her chest. Her legs, emphasized by her neatly cuffed shorts, were long and tanned; she looked like some sort of beach volleyball queen. Or maybe he only thought that because of the way she leaned over the railing, sticking her ass in the air as she blew him a kiss.
Sunshine glinted off the glasses she was using as a hairband. “Hey, sweetheart,” he called. “If you really want to thank me, let me wear your glasses!”
He watched her shake her head in disbelief, curving her hand to point at her chest like she couldn’t believe he was talking to her. He was not going to think about that chest. He was not going to speculate about what she had on under that knotted tee. Instead, he pointed toward the shattered remains of his own glasses.
“Go on,” one of the guys urged her, an older man who looked like he was in charge of the office outing.
The woman slipped off her glasses and looked down at Kyle doubtfully. “Go ahead,” he shouted. “I’ll catch them.”
“Sure,” she called, and she glanced at the ruined glasses beside him.
“It’s my job,” he said.
“Go on, Amanda,” one of the other guys urged her. “Don’t impugn his manhood.”
Kyle hadn’t meant to call attention to his manhood, one way or another. Maybe the jeering embarrassed Amanda, because she started to back away from the fence. At the last minute, though, she turned back and held her glasses over the railing. He reached up his arms, cupping his hands to receive them. She let go, and he made the easy catch.
They were high-end glasses—polarized lenses, lightweight frames. Hell, they were probably better than the ones he’d just pulverized into the warning track. He shouldn’t take them.
But balls still cracked off bats behind him. The other outfielders and relief pitchers still scrambled to catch the ones that got past the infield. The grounds crew still lay in wait on the warning track, ready to roll away the cage that kept the pitcher safe, ready to groom the diamond and get the show on the road. It was time to get back to work.
And work he did—through the rest of batting practice. Through the familiar routine of settling into the dugout as the announcers went through the ceremonial first pitch, the congratulation of game sponsors, the recognition of military veterans. He took his place on the field for the singing of the national anthem, and then he trotted out to right for a few last-minute tosses, long balls to Green over in center.
The game started, and Hart sat down the Milwaukee batters, one, two, three, with eleven easy pitches. And then it was time for Kyle to trot in from right, to step over the chalk that marked the first base line, taking care not to smudge it with even the tip of his shoe.
Traditions—that’s what mattered in baseball.
He exchanged his regular red cap for his batting helmet. Pine tar nearly obscured the rockets logo on the front, the accumulation of hundreds of at-bats. That was more of the tradition—never clean a batting helmet mid-season, never break up the flow of the game.
He stepped to the plate, taking his time to dig in. In the past, he’d loved batting lead-off. He knew all the statistics, all the numbers that the coaches tossed around. Getting the first batter on base was the single most important thing his team needed to win. It didn’t matter if Kyle hit a single or walked on balls, he just had to get ninety feet away, get to first base.
Those rules were etched in Kyle’s bones. He knew them without thinking. That was why he needed to step out of the batter’s box, why he had to check the straps on his batting gloves. That was why he had to touch the bat first to his right shoulder, then to his left. That was why he needed to touch the shoulder of his uniform, tug just a little on the jersey, the way he had when he’d played Little League, when he’d played college ball, when he’d come up through double-A down in Chester Beach.
Habit. Ritual. Superstition. It calmed him, let him concentrate on the
game.
He swung the bat over his shoulder and looked out at the Milwaukee pitcher. He sensed the catcher shifting behind him, flashing signs out to the mound. He saw the pitcher nod once, twice. It would be a fastball, then. Kyle couldn’t be certain where the ball would be targeted, inside, outside, high, low. That shouldn’t matter. Knowing a fastball was coming, he should be able to catch up to the pitch.
He glared through Amanda’s sunglasses, willing himself to concentrate on the ball. The pitcher wound up. Kyle watched the ball emerge from the other man’s glove, watched it leave the guy’s fingers. He knew where it was going to be when it crossed the plate, and he swung his bat, connecting with the clear, sharp sound of maple on stitched leather.
Kyle knew it was a home run before he completed his swing—the sound, the feel of the ball coming off the bat, the graceful line as it jetted toward the deepest part of the park, toward the center-field fence. His third home run of the season, and the crowd roared the entire time as Kyle trotted around the bases.
His long dry spell was over. He was back.
For the rest of the game, Amanda’s glasses worked like a charm—better, as he’d suspected, than the ones he’d ruined. As the team poured onto the field for its post-game celebration, he glanced toward the right-field fence. The cluster of green shirts was moving up the aisle, toward the exit and home. It was too late to thank Amanda. Too late to tell her the glasses had made all the difference.
~~~
Amanda Carter sat at her desk, rubbing the back of her neck and hoping her headache would go away. She glanced at her computer screen, at the clock that seemed to pulse in time with her heartbeat. It was just past eight. She had hours to get some real work done.
She should have skipped the baseball game that afternoon. She didn’t have time for baseball, not with the trial of her life coming up in two and a half months. She should have stayed at the office all afternoon, writing her briefs, arguing more intricacies of patent law to the court.
But as the firm’s newest partner, there’d been no way to refuse going to the Rockets game. Her absence might have been construed as dislike for the firm, as disdain for camaraderie and team spirit. Harvey—whose name was first on the letterhead—was all about team spirit.
He was also the Rockets’ greatest living fan, so the entire crew from the office had gotten to the park two hours before the game, ready to watch batting practice. And because Amanda—whose name would be off the letterhead if she didn’t win her patent case—was the most unlucky lawyer in the world, the game had gone into extra innings, a total of twelve. She’d wasted nearly seven hours at Rockets Field.
Her colleagues had been thrilled, enjoying the chance to scarf down extra hot dogs, to indulge in peanuts washed down with multiple beers. But as the afternoon had worn on, Amanda hunched deeper in her chair. She’d spent more time reviewing the facts of her case, drafting a brief in her head. She’d kept an eye on the scoreboard—on the clock in the scoreboard—and she’d waited, waited, waited to be sprung.
All with a headache pounding hard behind her eyes. Why the hell had she tossed her sunglasses to Kyle Norton? Her reaction had been completely illogical—she’d been egged on by Harvey, by everyone from the office, hooting and hollering. That was the only excuse she had for leaning over the fence, for blowing a kiss to that ballplayer.
She wasn’t usually such a sucker. She didn’t roll over and do whatever a guy asked her to do—even if he did have an incredible smile. And rippling forearms that made her toes curl inside her shoes. And blue eyes that seemed to see past her silly group T-shirt, that seemed to see straight to her soul.
She shook her head. She’d given the guy her glasses because Harvey had told her to. And whatever Harvey wanted, Harvey got. That was the habit that had guaranteed Amanda made partner. Harvey liked hummingbird cake, so Amanda baked a hummingbird cake for Harvey’s birthday, every freaking year. Harvey liked Christmas carols, so Amanda organized the Christmas Chorale, every freaking year. Harvey liked baseball, so Amanda wasted seven hours of her life, hours she’d never get back, hours lost when she could least afford to lose them.
And she’d given away her best sunglasses, too. They’d been a gift from a client, a thank you for a hard-fought case down in Miami. Those glasses were a hell of a lot nicer than the crappy drug store ones she’d always owned before.
But it was completely illogical to sit at her desk mourning those glasses, hours after she’d tossed them down to Norton. Actions had consequences. She’d given in to Harvey. Now she could swing by Walgreen’s for a cheap new pair of sunglasses to wear in the morning. Get over it.
Because she wasn’t about to walk away from Link Oster.
Amanda had worked like a dog at the firm for the last seven years, since graduating from law school. Her entire plan had been to make partner. That’s what everyone had told her she was meant to do, from the very first time she challenged her mother’s rules for bedtime, from the very first day she argued—in five bulleted points—why she should be allowed to adopt a dog from the local animal shelter. When she’d discovered her love for math and engineering, her career goal had become even more clear—she would be a patent lawyer.
Alas, no one had told her how much it would cost to execute that plan. Sure, there were the hours she’d poured into law school, going to class, to study group, to bar preparation classes. There were the education loans she was still paying back. There were the thousands of billable hours spent on client projects.
But the real cost, the one that had come closest to breaking her, was actually buying into the law firm partnership. Each member put up a share of the firm’s capital. Her first check—with more zeroes than she’d ever written after Pay To The Order Of—was due in a week.
She’d drawn up countless spreadsheets, charting her income and expenses to the penny. She knew exactly when her rent was due, when she had to pay for electricity, gas, and water. She knew her mother’s payment schedule as well, because that was her duty, her obligation, to help out the woman who had raised her, the woman who had worked countless double shifts as a waitress before her knees and back gave out.
That’s what Carters did—they stood by each other, as long as they were able. And they never told anyone in the outside world that a family member was in need. Privacy. That’s what her mother had drilled into her from the day Amanda babbled her first word in baby-speak. There was no need to wash dirty laundry in public. No need to share secrets at all. Ever.
She’d tried to make ends meet. She’d knotted the shoestring of her budget once, twice, a dozen times all told, trying to come up with the money. But now, a week before that giant check was due, it was time to admit defeat. She’d have to go to the bank tomorrow. It would take every ounce of her legal acumen to negotiate a loan, to argue that she was a sound risk.
Because salvation was within sight. The United Pharmaceutical Alliance case would free her from debt. All she had to do was win the damn thing, convince a judge that UPA’s patents had been infringed to the tune of millions of dollars. Link Oster would collect thirty-three percent of the award, and Amanda would get a bonus large enough to pay off every penny of her debt—and then some. Until then, it was simply a matter of putting her head down, tightening her belt, and getting the hard work done.
Which would be a hell of a lot easier to accomplish if she didn’t have a headache lancing behind both eyes.
Or if she wasn’t picturing Kyle Norton, looking up at her from that broad expanse of green grass, laughing as he waved for her to throw down her sunglasses. She could still feel that moment between them, that strange tug as their eyes met. Sure, everyone had been laughing. The office folks around her had thought it was all a big joke; Harvey had thought it was the most hilarious thing in the world. But looking down at the right fielder, she’d felt a hell of a lot more than a joke.
She’d felt something melt all of her insides, a warm bath that spread from her chest to her toes in a tingling rush that left
her wondering where all the oxygen in the stadium had gone. She’d stared at Norton’s fingers as he cupped his hands; she’d watched the strength flow from his shoulders to his biceps to his forearms and his wrists. Their eyes had met, and the entire ball park had dimmed around her—not just the sight, but the sound as well, and the tang of hot dogs and beer and funnel cakes.
The effect had only lasted for a heartbeat. Then Harvey had hollered, and she’d dropped the glasses, and everything had slipped back to normal.
She shook her head, exasperated with her imagination. Right. Like Amanda Carter would go boy crazy now, at age twenty-nine.
She rolled her eyes and pulled her keyboard closer to the edge of her desk. Amanda Carter had to go research crazy. Clicking her tongue and shaking her head, she opened up the powerhouse program all the lawyers used to gather information for their cases. At one flick of her fingers, she could search through vast databases of court decisions and newspaper articles and scientific journals. She needed to pin down an expert witness for UPA, someone who could testify about a particularly obscure aspect of phamacokinetics. An associate had already identified half a dozen likely candidates; Amanda’s current task was digging up dirt on each of them, figuring out how each scientist could harm them if called to the stand.
Due diligence. That was the name of the game. Every sane lawyer did it, to protect against disasters at trial.
As Amanda typed in the name of the first expert, her thoughts drifted back to the game. Back to Kyle Norton. Back to those cobalt eyes.
Cobalt. Right. Like any human being actually had eyes the color of the element at atomic number twenty-seven. Get a grip, Carter. Sheesh, she was smitten.
Not smitten, so much as bored. It was a hell of a lot more entertaining to think about a baseball player than it was to think about some balding, wheezing expert on monocompartmental models of pharmacokinesis.