Center Stage: A Hot Baseball Romance (Diamond Brides Book 8) (11 page)

Ryan took a deep breath and focused on getting the words out. By the time they reached the parking lot, Ormond was nodding in agreement. But Ryan didn’t truly believe anything could work out until the other man said, “Let me talk to Anna. Let me see what we can do.”

And that was when Ryan’s phone rang, vibrating deep inside his pocket.

~~~

“Hey,” Ryan said, and Lindsey felt her lips curl into a smile at how quickly he’d answered the call.

“Hey, yourself. That was a great catch.”

“Um, thanks.”

There it was again. The same distance she’d felt the night before. The same challenge for her to string words together, to figure out what to say next, to bridge an impossible gap that hadn’t been there at the farmhouse, at Will’s house, at the beach.

But there was something else going on—she heard a voice in the background. “See you tomorrow,” someone said to Ryan.

No. Not
someone
. She’d know her brother’s voice anywhere. She asked, “Are you talking to Zach?”

There was a pause, and she heard a car door open, then close. “Not any more.” Ryan’s relief was obvious.

“You
were
talking to Zach! And you didn’t want him to know I was on the phone!”

“Well…” he said, and she could picture him squirming. She could see the wincing smile on his lips, the sideways glance as he tried to judge her reaction.

“I’m going to call him right now! I’m going to tell him that you and I talk every single night. I’ll say—”

“You didn’t tell him we went to Chester Beach.”

That took the breath right out of her lungs. But Ryan was right. She
hadn’t
told Zach about the impromptu road trip, or about TPing Will’s house, either. She’d let her brother think she’d spent four straight days at the farmhouse, licking her wounds, putting the disaster of her non-wedding behind her.

And she didn’t want to think too much about why she’d kept her actions secret. It had something to do with the way Ryan had kissed her, she knew that. And it had even more to do with the way she’d kissed him back, when she was supposed to be in mourning, when she was supposed to be lost and dazed and confused about the way Will Templeton had just left her at the altar.

But that wasn’t all.

She hadn’t told Zach because she didn’t want him to think she was just like Beth. Not that her circumstances were anything like her sister’s. She wasn’t in high school, for one thing. And she hadn’t done anything illegal. Maybe not even anything immoral.

Reminding herself of those differences, she made her excuses to Ryan. “You’re right,” she said. “I’d tell him, if there was any reason for him to know. As it is, he’d just worry about me. Because of the wedding,” she hurried to add. “Not because of you.”

“I don’t believe that for a second.”

“You don’t believe I’d tell him?”

“I don’t believe he wouldn’t worry if he knew about me.”

Lindsey’s laugh was unsteady as she wiped her palm against her jeans. She had to admit, Zach would go ballistic, if he ever found out what they’d done. Zach had made his rules pretty clear, ever since he’d told her Jesse Barton was no good for her. He’d acted like the pitcher was a serial killer, just because they played on the same team. Truth be told, though, Jesse’s intensity
had
freaked her out a little bit. The way he’d pushed her up against the wall that time… The way he’d shoved his hands under her shirt, even when she’d told him to stop…

Zach had made the rules, and they were good ones. They’d kept everyone safe—everyone but Beth—for years. They’d let everyone avoid conflict and drama and angst.

But rules changed over time. Rules could be broken.

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 how 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.”