Caught by You (5 page)

She opened the little schedule he'd given her, with the cartoonish blue whiskered catfish on the front. One game couldn't hurt, could it? Scanning the schedule, she saw that the team would back in town playing the Albuquerque Isotopes on the next day she had Zack. She'd take Zack to the game, buy him some Cracker Jack, and introduce him to America's pastime.

Too bad it wasn't football so she could mention it to Judge Quinn.

 

Chapter 5

T
HE
C
ATFISH'S FIRST
road trip took them on a swing through Las Vegas, Tucson, and Fresno. Joey and his partner, Jean-­Luc, who happened to be in San Francisco for a tech conference, came to the Fresno game. Mike hit his first home run of the year off a shaky rookie pitcher who didn't know that he fed off the fastball, high and away. He'd learn; Mike had no illusions about that.

While in the dugout, Mike studied the rookie intently, his motion, his pitch selection. He often picked up something that could help the Catfish while watching the opposing pitchers.

Dropping onto the bench next to Yazmer, he said, “You got twice the stuff that pitcher has, but he's got one thing nailed. You see how zippy he keeps the pace? Pitch, throw back, pitch. Keeps it snappy. No messing around. Puts the batters on the defensive, doesn't give them time to adjust. It's a great tool.”

“I gotz a tool.” Yazmer tightened the biceps of his left arm. “Sonic Boom.”

“You named your arm?”

“Named itself, man. Named itself.” He touched two fingers to his lips in a kissing gesture. “Sonic B and me. All it takes. All the way to the top.”

Mike gave himself a little shake. Talking to Yazmer was like walking through a maze with the fog rolling in. Pitchers and catchers had to communicate, but how was that supposed to happen when they didn't even seem to speak the same language?

“You have a great arm, no doubts there. No offense to Sonic Boom, but there's more to pitching than that. Location, strategy. Pitch to contact, have you heard of that? Like Greg Maddux said, the best inning is three pitches, three grounders. Back to the dugout in minutes.”

Yazmer was making more weird gestures, which made no sense until Mike realized that he was carrying on a mimed conversation with an adoring fan draped over the railing.

Mike gave up, and walked over to sit next to Bieberman. Maybe
someone
would listen to his pearls of wisdom.

“If you get on base, steal second.” The shortstop had been fretting lately about his “runs created” stat. “This guy gets in a zone and forgets about his base runners.”

“Forgets? How do you know? Can you read his mind?”

“Yeah. And I can read yours. You're thinking about that promotions girl back in Kilby, aren't you?”

Bieberman turned red. “She's a goddess.”

“Ask her out.”

“I think Trevor likes her.”

“Trevor doesn't like anyone except himself. Right, Stark?”

At the other end of the bench, Trevor sat with his long legs sprawled before him, his cap nearly covering his eyes, chewing gum in a lazy manner. Mike wasn't fooled. Trevor paid close attention to everything that went on. Then he did his best to mess it up.

“Wrong. I like Angeline,” he said now, his jaw clenching and unclenching with his chews.

Bieberman's face fell. “Told you.”

“Doesn't matter, dude. Maybe she prefers brilliant little shortstops to asshole sluggers. You should take your shot. All she can say is no.”

“I wrote her a poem.” Spots of red flashed across Bieberman's cheeks, as if he were coming down with some weird skin condition. “Well, it's more of an epic saga.”

“An epic saga?”

“In three parts. Part one is devoted to the first moment I saw her. Part two is our first conversation, when I asked her about the George Costanza promotion. A lot of ­people say I look like George Costanza. I thought maybe it would give me an edge.”

Mike couldn't say anything, he was too afraid of laughing.

“Part three . . . well, part three is more of a fantasy sequence. I've been working on that one every night.”

Mike let out a spurt of laughter. He turned it into a violent cough, covering his mouth with his hand. On the field, the rookie pitcher glared at him, as if personally offended that he wasn't paying attention to the game. Next pitch, beautiful curveball for a strike. Take that.

Mike tipped his cap to the pitcher, then turned to Trevor. “Well, Stark? Bet you can't beat that. An epic saga in three parts. What are you doing for the lovely Angeline?”

“Taking her to Hooters.”

Bieberman nearly choked on a peanut. Mike shook his head sadly and watched the rookie strike out Ramirez to end the inning. Life just wasn't fair, not when it came to women or baseball.

Still, it was a good game, topped off by dinner with his brother afterward. He met Joey and his longtime partner, Jean-­Luc, in the type of restaurant they preferred—­white tablecloths and metrosexual bartenders. Joey stood up from the table and opened his arms wide. Mike thumped him on the back, with his usual flood of gratitude that his kidney had been a match for Joey, and that his brother had accepted it. He hadn't want to, at first, knowing how opposed their father was to the donation.

But Joey had always been there for Mike, and the hell if he'd just let his brother die. When he'd threatened to donate his kidney to Goodwill if Joey didn't take it, his brother had finally given in. In Mike's opinion, the planet was the better for his big brother's presence. Joey didn't know what it was to be mean, or cruel. If there was a more compassionate man on earth, Mike had yet to meet him. Being around Joey made everyone feel good about themselves; it was a gift.

As Mike hugged his brother, he felt bones where there had been muscle. He drew back, alarmed. “What's going on? Aren't you following my workout plan?”

“Don't worry.” Joey smiled in reassurance. “Bout of stomach flu. My students think I look romantically tragic, so it's not all bad.”

“More than the usual number of crushes?”

“Sad to say, yes.”

“It's a tragic day when a gay economics professor gets more chicks than a studly baseball player.” He shook hands with Jean-­Luc, and they all sat down. Jean-­Luc, reserved and darkly sophisticated, watched Joey surreptitiously. By profession he was a tech investor, but ever since that first E coli infection, Jean-­Luc had appointed himself nurse, caretaker, cook, and physical therapist.

“I don't think you've ever had to worry in that department,” said Joey, dryly. “How are you feeling?”

“Home run, that's how.”

“Those extra pounds are really paying off, aren't they?”

At this moment, Mike wished he could donate some of his extra muscle to Joey. He was too thin. What would happen if he got sick again? Mike didn't want to think about it. “How's Chicago?”

They spent the rest of the dinner catching up on the new apps Jean-­Luc was financing and their plans for a trip to see his family in France, as soon as Joey was well enough to travel. Joey shared what news he'd gotten from Rita and Marie, their sisters back in Chicago. After they'd finished their last bites of extra-­rare steak, Joey carefully blotted his mouth and said, “Been thinking. I want you to give Dad a break.”

“A break? Hell no. He would have let you die. And he still lectures me about the kidney.”

“His beliefs are his beliefs. I don't begrudge him that. If
I
don't, you shouldn't. I'm asking you, please. He's your father. Our father. And hating him doesn't do you any good, my brother.”

“It is what it is.”

“Well, think about it. It's important to me. It's important to the family. Rita says he still keeps all your stats in a scrapbook. He reads the
Sporting News
and follows all the Friars' transactions.”

“I get it, I get it. Change of subject, please.” It tore him in two, that his father put all his love and pride into one son, and not the other. “Let's talk about something more pleasant, like Ebola.”

“How about the girl you mentioned, the one you met in Keelby?” Jean-­Luc spoke with a slight hint of French accent, though he'd lived for many years in the United States.

“How'd you go from Ebola to Donna? Although come to think of it, she did put me under quarantine.”

“You'll wear her down,” Joey said. “You're irresistible to women. It's the Vow of Celibacy. Women love a challenge.”

But Donna wasn't just any woman. She was . . . Donna. Funny, brave, loyal Donna. And she was dealing with something big; his radar told him that. His better judgment told him to give her a wide berth. Another part of him—­the protective side he could never silence—­wanted to know what was going on, and how he could help.

“Jean-­Luc pointed out that you've said more about Donna than about any woman since Angela.” Joey raised an eyebrow. “And you don't use the tone of voice you used for Angela.”

“What tone of voice?”

Jean-­Luc answered. “As if you were tiptoeing through church.”

“
What?
”

“Oh yes.” Joey gave Jean-­Luc a high five. “Nice description, for a French guy.”

Mike took a long swallow of wine. So maybe he had been a little tongue-­tied around Angela. He'd been so crazy in love with her, so profoundly infatuated. At least those days were over. He hadn't tiptoed once around Donna, but that was most likely because he wasn't in love with her.

Sometimes he wondered if the doctors had taken his heart along with his kidney, because he hadn't come close to falling in love since Angela. Flirtation and sex, sure. Plenty of that, at least during the off-­season. Lust, hell yes. Especially around Donna MacIntyre. But love . . . that shit was off-­limits. Not happening.

Zack was so excited for his first baseball game that Donna couldn't understand why she'd never taken him before. They got Cracker Jack and a hot dog, and big cups of Sprite. Luckily, he had no interest in the intricacies of the game, since she wasn't exactly well versed in the rules of baseball. She pointed out Mike in his lobsterlike catcher's gear, and said that he was her friend. When a home run cracked off his bat in the third inning, they both jumped up and cheered, and Zack flung his Cracker Jack over a ten-­foot radius.

The Catfish organization went out of its way to make the game fun for kids. A blond girl with a microphone kept popping up and announcing new games. “Hey kids! Is your birthday in the month of April? Come on down to the field!”

“Mama! When's my birthday?”

“September, sweetie. Want to come back then so you can go on the field?”

“Yeah!”

“Maybe Mike could take us.” Look at her, pretending that she and Mike were such good friends that he'd do anything for her.

“No, just us.”

“Fine. Be that way.” She popped a peanut into her mouth to hide the salivating inspired by the sight of Mike jogging around the bases. There was something very arousing about watching someone do something so well. Sure, he was incredibly fit and powerful, and he knew how to move his body with complete control and efficiency. But it was more than that. It was the lightning-­quick pickoff of someone trying to steal second. It was the way he scrambled to catch a foul ball that fell nearly out of reach in the stands. It was the way he communicated with the pitcher, a young, copper-­skinned man who seemed very jittery and nervous. Mike kept going out to the mound to converse with him.

Afterward, they waited at the exit where the players came out. When Mike Solo strolled out, his hair damp from his shower, his eyes lit with the satisfaction of a good game, her heart did a slow twist. Had she ever really gotten over that crush last season?

Mike crouched down and offered his hand to Zack. “You must be Zack. I'm Mike Solo.”

Zack peered at his hand. “What's that white stuff?”

Mike spread the fingers of his right hand wide, and Donna couldn't stop the flash of memory of what his hands had felt like roaming her body. “That's some leftover Wite-­Out. I paint a line on each finger so the pitcher can see my signals. Sometimes, when I can't find my Wite-­Out, I dip my hand in the chalk on the baseline. Guess I should go wash my hands again, huh?”

So fascinated he didn't even make a funny face, Zack stared from Mike's hand to his face, and back again. Donna's gaze strayed to Mike's thighs, so incredibly strong, bulging against his jeans in his crouched position. He must be in phenomenal shape.

“Hey, I have something for you.” From his pocket, Mike dug out a baseball and handed it to Zack. “Look, it's got your name on it. From Mike Solo to Zack.”

“Say thank you, Zack,” Donna reminded him, when her little boy just kept staring at the ball.

“Thank-­you-­where's-­the-­lobster?”

“Lobster?” Mike glanced up at Donna.

Donna let out a snort of giggles. “Your catcher thingie that you wear on your chest. He thinks it looks like a lobster. Actually, he thinks it looks like Larry the Lobster from one of his books. He's never seen an actual lobster.”

“Well, I think we have our next mission then.” He rose to his feet. “There's got to be someplace in this town that serves lobster.”

“Oh no. No. No, Mike, we're not going out for lobster.”

He shot her an innocent look. “I had in mind something a little different.” Ten minutes later they were standing in the foyer of Captain Scrugg's, gazing at the lobsters crawling around the big tank. Zack pressed his face to the glass and made faces at the beady-­eyed creatures.

“I figured cheeseburgers after this,” Mike said in a low voice. “I don't remember being into seafood much as a kid.”

“You don't have to do that, Mike.”

“Relax, Mother Superior. I'm hungry. Hitting home runs takes a lot out of a guy.”

“That was really exciting. Zack loved it.”

“What about you, did you love it?” He said the words close to her ear, so his warm breath tickled her neck.

“Sure, what's not to love about a guy running the bases in tight baseball pants? I liked how you kept going out to talk to the pitcher too. What were you talking about? Exchanging recipes? How he got that pattern shaved into his scalp?”