High Heat (Hard Hitters #1)

High Heat

Linda Morris

InterMix Books, New York

An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

HIGH HEAT

An InterMix Book / published by arrangement with the author

Copyright © 2015 by Linda Morris.

Excerpt from
Screwball
copyright © 2015 by Linda Morris.

Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

INTERMIX and the “IM” design are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

For more information about the Penguin Group, visit penguin.com.

eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-19472-4

PUBLISHING HISTORY

InterMix eBook edition / June 2015

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Penguin Random House is committed to publishing works of quality and integrity. In that spirit, we are proud to offer this book to our readers; however, the story, the experiences, and the words are the author’s alone.

As always, for my menfolk.

Would he remember her?

Sarah Dudley shaded her eyes and looked over the green checkerboard lawn of Dudley Field. The Plainview Thrashers had a home game tonight. In the bullpen, the starting pitcher was throwing. A crowd had gathered around him. That could only mean one thing.

Tom Cord had arrived.

A nervous dance started up in her stomach. She’d known the big leaguer could show up on the Plainview Thrashers’ roster any day. He was recovering from his elbow surgery of a year and a half ago, and she’d been hearing for a while that he would soon be ready for a rehab assignment in the minors right here in Plainview, Indiana. Apparently he’d gotten the call.

Nah, he probably wouldn’t remember her.

Back then, he’d been a superstar prospect full of charm and good looks, looking ahead to a bright future, talking of nothing but the big leagues and the World Series ring he’d have someday.

As she watched from the stands, he gloved the ball and paused for a drink of water. A nineteen-year-old outfielder approached him and handed him a pen.

Goodness. Even his teammates wanted his autograph.

He nodded and signed the ball, giving it back to the kid and flashing the grin that had lit up the cover of
Sports Illustrated
two years ago.

She rolled her eyes. No wonder he thought he was hot stuff. Everyone he came into contact with drank the Tom Cord Kool-Aid.

Not her, though. She wasn’t a skinny tomboy anymore. She was VP of public relations for the Thrashers, and having a big-league star on their team for a few weeks was a big deal. She needed to greet him—get him lined up for some PR appearances during his brief stay here.

Ticket sales had been slumping for the last couple of years. Lord knows they could use the boost he would bring.

But no matter how famous he was, she’d treat him like every other athlete—no better, no worse. All business.

So why did her stomach flutter as she drew near the bullpen? She cast a quick glance down at herself and smoothed her sweaty palms down her hips.

Her crisp gray jacket and pants screamed “professional, practical.” Her flats made it easy to walk on the infield. It was the perfect uniform for a woman in a man’s world. So why did she wish she’d worn a skirt, maybe, or taken more than five minutes to swipe tinted sunblock on her face and put some lip gloss on?

Tom had dropped out of college when he was drafted by the Florida Marlins. Her brother, Paul had been his college teammate and good friend. Paul had finished school, knowing he wasn’t good enough to make it to the big leagues, and the two men had mostly gone their separate ways.

Sarah’s contact with Tom Cord since then had been limited to watching him pitch on TV and lingering on his picture on some online Sexiest Male Athlete list. Like everyone else, she’d shaken her head every time he’d made the news for dating another reality star or celebrity baseball groupie.

Then there was that incident a couple of years ago when his girlfriend du jour had tweeted a dark, grainy photo of him swimming naked in the pool of his Florida mansion. The girl had deleted the picture eventually, but not before Sarah had gotten enough of an eyeful to make several of her teenage fantasies come roaring back with a rush.

She pushed that out of her mind. Acting like yet another celebrity-addled baseball groupie wouldn’t exactly leave a professional impression.

He looked different now than he had back when he was in college. His skin was darker, rougher, from years spent out in the sun. He’d gained a little weight since his skinny college-playing days: all muscle, as far as she could tell. He wore his dark brown hair in a shorter crop than he had then, when he used to let it grow until it stuck under the back of his collar.

Some things hadn’t changed, though. That rough-hewn all-American face. Those blue eyes, and the half-wise, half-amused expression he always wore, like he knew some joke you didn’t, and it was probably on you.

She stopped at the third-base wall, short of the bullpen. He’d resumed throwing, hard, to the Thrashers’ starting catcher. Below her, the pitching coach, Reedy Johnson, aimed a radar gun to check the speed of the pitches. Cord drew himself up and stared over his glove, his expression all business.

He wound up, his knee lifting high for a big leaguer, past his navel.

“Wow,” she murmured under her breath, moving to Reedy’s side. “Look at those mechanics.” She’d seen him pitch on TV, of course, but in person, his style looked even more unorthodox. He did nothing by the book: he torqued around too far away from home plate on his windup, pulled his arm back to throw before he had his front foot down, and moved his elbow behind his body. He even tilted his head at a weird angle.

“Why don’t you go over there and set him straight?” Reedy said with a laugh. “He’s only won the Cy Young Award three times, and he’s been to a World Series. He’s probably been wondering what he’s doing wrong.”

Despite Tom’s odd form, when the ball landed in the catcher’s glove, it popped like a fast pitch. She checked the gun. One hundred miles per hour. Reedy whistled through his teeth. “The boy hasn’t thrown less than ninety-eight all morning.”

She shook her head. He’d spent a year and a half rehabbing from surgery. This was a practice session the day of his first rehab start in the
minor
leagues, for Pete’s sake—a pit stop on his way back to the majors.

“He shouldn’t be throwing hard in practice his first day back. He’s got to pitch tonight. What if he blows out that ligament again before he’s even thrown a pitch in a game?” She shaded her eyes with one hand and watched him wind up again. Same motion, almost the same result. A ninety-nine-mile-per-hour pitch.

“You know how he is. He’s not going to like being told to stop.”

“You’re the pitching coach, not me. It’ll sound better coming from you.”

Not to mention that her dad would be furious if he found out she’d said anything to a player about his game play. He’d made her VP of public relations for a reason. Walter Dudley didn’t think a real lady should interact with players and deal with baseball operations. It was crazy, but her dad was the boss.

“Fine.” Reedy shook his head slowly. “Remember, this was your idea.” He put the radar gun down and hollered at Tom, who came over, eyes on Reedy.

He stopped an arm’s length away, but she swore she could still feel the heat radiating from him. She wasn’t petite, but his height made her feel tiny. He’d gotten even taller since college. He must be six foot three at least.

“What’s up?” Cord braced his glove on his hip. The move pulled his jersey tight across his chest and Sarah chided herself for noticing it.

Don’t go mushy-headed over the players.
Rule number one for a woman in baseball.

“That’s enough for now,” Reedy said. “I don’t want you going all out on your first day back.”

Cord pulled off his cap and wiped sweat from his brow, then replaced the hat. “It’s fine. I feel good. I always throw all out the afternoon before a start. It’s part of my routine.”

“Maybe so, but I think you’d better give it a rest. You haven’t put that arm through game conditions yet.”

Tom shook his head. “I don’t want to mess with my mojo. I have to be consistent. Hard throwing on the day of a start is routine for me. I always do it.”

“But you’re not always recovering from surgery, are you?” Sarah said.

That pulled his gaze to hers in a hurry. His hard stare went straight through her. “I’m
recovered
from surgery, not recovering. I’m completely back to normal.”

“Maybe so,” she said, although she had her doubts. No one would know if he had completely recovered until he’d pitched in real game conditions, which was what this foray into the minors was all about. No point in arguing that yet, though. “Throwing hard on the day of a start is risky for anyone, even someone who isn’t recovering—I mean
recovered
,” she said, correcting herself at his scowl, “from major surgery.”

“It’s normal for me.” He looked at her hard. “Who the hell are you, anyway?”

She extended her hand, ignoring the hollow feeling in her chest. Surprise, surprise. He didn’t remember her. “Sarah Dudley, VP of marketing and public relations.”

He shook her hand, his skin rough with calluses and blisters, trademarks of his profession. “Marketing? What the hell are you doing down here?” His face cleared. “Ah, Paul’s sister. That explains it.”

She raised a brow. “Excuse me?”

“Your dad owns the team. Your brother’s team president. No wonder you feel like you can come down here and tell me what do to.”

Reedy sucked in a breath.

“If I think I can tell you what to do, it’s because I can,” she said, keeping her voice level with effort.
Never let them see they’ve gotten to you.
Rule number two for a woman in baseball. “My department is going to spend money advertising your stint down here. I don’t want you blowing out the ligaments in your elbow again. As VP of public relations, that gives me a stake in whether you actually play while you’re in town.” She made herself look him right in the eye, ignoring the pounding of her heart. She wasn’t another batter he could stare down and fake out into a swing and a miss.

He laughed, blue eyes sparking against his tanned skin. His anger had blown away like clouds in front of a stiff breeze. “Lady, I have about a million reasons for not wanting to blow out my arm again, and your PR budget isn’t one of them. Why don’t you let me worry about my arm and you go worry about the bobbleheads you’re going to give out to the first five hundred fans tonight?”

Heat erupted in her cheeks.
Oh, this guy thinks he is so big-time.
Several players had found an excuse to wander within earshot.
Don’t let the guys get away with disrespecting you.
Rule number three for a woman in baseball.

“Look, you’ve spouted off and done what you pleased everywhere you’ve played. You may have some people so buffaloed that they’re afraid of you, but not me.”

“Last I heard, you weren’t part of the coaching staff. Why the hell should I listen to you, anyway?” He glared at her, his blue eyes turning sapphire.

“Not that you listen to them, either, from what I hear.”

His lips quirked, but before he could respond, her father’s voice from behind cut them off.

“What seems to be the problem here?”

Damn. She kept her face impassive, trying not to look like the naughty girl who’d been caught out by the principal. Heart sinking, she turned to see her father, looking cool despite the heat in a crisp white business shirt and dark dress pants. His silver hair glinted in the summer sun and dark aviator glasses shielded his eyes. She didn’t need to see his eyes to know they were hard with anger.

“I come down here to say hello to our newest addition, and I find you yelling at him, Sarah.”

Her gut clenched.

“Tom was throwing a little hot in his practice session,” she said. “He’s got a start tonight. I was concerned.”

“It’s not your place to be concerned, Sarah. You’re the VP of PR. Don’t interfere in coaching decisions. You know I don’t like you on the field during practice anyway.”

“My point is—”

“
My
point is I don’t want you on the field, Sarah. It’s not part of your duties. What I need you to do is to sell more tickets. We’re down seven percent from this time last year. Please return to your office.”

She pressed her lips together. She couldn’t change her father’s mind on this issue, and continuing to argue would only make him dig in harder. “Yes, Dad.” She nodded to her dad and Reedy, and finally to Tom Cord, whose face she couldn’t read. “I have some things I need to take care of.” And they weren’t bobbleheads, dammit. “Good-bye.”

She returned to the stands and headed for the outer concourse, holding her head high, although she wanted to slink away. Damn her dad. He never gave a thought to shooting her down in front of the rest of the organization. She supposed he had to go out of his way to show that he didn’t give his daughter special treatment, but it still burned. Damn Reedy. If he’d been doing his job, instead of being intimidated by the big-shot superstar, she wouldn’t have had to interfere.

Most of all, damn Tom Cord. Not for throwing hot, and not for arguing with her. What really ticked her off was that he hadn’t had an inkling who she was until she told him.

***

The old man droned on with an apology for his daughter’s behavior, but Tom was focused on watching Sarah Dudley ascend the stairs, the funniest feeling chewing at his gut. If he had to name to it, he’d call it guilt. God knows why. She’d butted in where she shouldn’t have, and her dad, who also happened to be her boss, had taken her to the woodshed for it.

And Tom had stood by and let the old man pick her apart.

The little scene between father and daughter made it clear he’d been wrong. Sarah Dudley wasn’t the spoiled pet of an indulgent father.

“She’s a frustrated baseballer. Should have been born a boy.” Walter Dudley sighed.

Tom couldn’t imagine it. Sarah might be working in a man’s game, but she was a no-doubt-about-it woman. Long dark hair hung in a shiny fall, held out of her deep brown eyes with a simple clip, and she had luscious lips that seemed to have no problem putting a man in his place, even if he had earned eighteen million last year. She had a slim figure, not too curvy on top, but as she’d walked away, he’d seen a nice ass he’d had to remind himself not to ogle as her dad watched.

After she’d introduced herself, he’d vaguely remembered her. Paul had brought him home for Christmas vacation one year. She’d been an awestruck, skinny tomboy who’d grilled him about baseball.

My, how things have changed.

“No need to apologize.” He shook off his guilt and grinned. “Lots of people have tried to straighten me out over the years, and I haven’t listened yet.” Why fix what wasn’t broke?

Walter didn’t share his humor. “Maybe, but my daughter shouldn’t be one of them. She’s in PR for a reason. Baseball is a man’s business. She wouldn’t even be in PR, except she and her brother hounded me so much, I couldn’t say no.”