High Heat (Hard Hitters #1) (4 page)

“Tom, I don’t enjoy having this kind of conversation with you, but I don’t have a choice. PowerJuice is threatening to drop you if you get into trouble again.”

Tom let his head fall back against the couch with a thud. These calls with his agent were always so much fun. He made the guy a fortune, but you’d never know it by the way Brandon crawled up his ass all the time.

“What’s their problem this time?”

“‘This time’? Their main problem is that there keeps being a ‘this time.’ First the whole world seeing your bare butt when your old girlfriend tweeted that picture—”

“Oh, come on. That was two years ago. You could hardly see anything anyway, it was so dark.”

“And then Caputo making like she was at a gynecological exam, flashing the world getting out of the limo.”

“I did
not
know she was going to do that.” He ran a finger along the bridge of his nose. Christ, from the furor that had erupted, you’d think nobody had ever seen a vagina before. Frankly, he wasn’t too sure Brandon ever
had
seen a vagina, although Tom was sure he was straight. The guy did not give off the vibes of someone who got laid on a regular basis.

“You’re in a small town, with a chance to redeem yourself, and what do you do but make straight for the first bar you can find and drunk-tweet pictures of yourself with the local floozies. Tom, it’s gotta stop.”

“Brandon, I was in a bar after a start, blowing off steam. I didn’t go home with those girls. I don’t see the big deal.”

“Oh? Who did you go home with?”

“Sarah Dudley, the Thrashers VP of public relations.”

“You nailed the team veep!” Brandon roared.

“No, I didn’t nail the team veep.” Not for lack of trying on his part, but Brandon didn’t need to know that. “Chrissakes, Brandon, give me a break. She gave me a ride home. That was it.”

If he did end up being so fortunate as to “nail the team veep,” as Brandon so classily put it, it wouldn’t be any of his agent’s business, anyway.

Tom loved his job and, most of the time, he loved being a star, but the idea that everybody thought they were entitled to get into his business and tell him who to sleep with had never stopped rubbing him the wrong way.

On the field, he was all business, but on his off-days, he liked to let loose. That made him like most professional athletes. Big deal. At least he knew his limitations. He’d stayed single, unlike a few of the bigger womanizers in sports.

Unlike his dad too. His lip curled. His old man had certainly never let having a wife and son get in the way of a good time.

“All this bad publicity doesn’t appeal to your sponsors. Make my job a little easier, will you? Take a break from reality stars and bimbos for a while. Find a nice girl.”

A week ago, he would have rolled his eyes at his agent’s advice, but he had to admit, Sarah Dudley was one nice girl who didn’t make him want to run screaming in the other direction. Dating a girl who was smart, had her act together, and didn’t take any of his crap might be refreshing for a change.

He’d broken things off with Christina when her constant drama outweighed her sex appeal and lively sense of fun. Unfortunately she had trouble taking no for an answer. She still drunk-dialed him occasionally, despite his giving her no encouragement.

Better not to share that bit of info with his agent. It would send him nuclear in no time.

“PowerJuice is going to cancel your endorsement contract if you have another PR debacle like the Caputo thing, and your other sponsors won’t be far behind. Remember that. They weren’t happy with the drunk-tweeting the other night. Don’t give sports reporters any more grist for the ‘debauched big leaguer sullies the virtuous girls in a small Midwestern town’ stories that they’re dying to write.”

“Fine. I’ll be as pure as the driven snow while I’m in Plainview.”

Brandon snorted. “I’m not asking for an act of God. Just a little effort on your part.”

“Will do.”

He ended the call and switched away from the Marlins game he’d been watching before his agent called. The Marlins were up three runs over the Royals, and nothing pissed him off as much as seeing his former team win a game. He’d spilled a ton of blood and sweat to get them to the World Series, and what had they done? They’d blown the lead he’d left them with in game seven when he had to be pulled because of his injury. Then they’d lost the game, he’d gone out for surgery, and, two months later, they’d let his contract expire.

Insult to injury, literally.

No wonder he could not
wait
to get back to the majors and win that ring.

No other ball games were on. He might as well flip around and see what was on the other channels. Nothing else to do.

If it weren’t for his cute housemate, he’d say Plainview, Indiana, had absolutely nothing to hold his interest.

Sarah Dudley, however, was proving fairly interesting, which was weird. She wasn’t his usual type. He liked ’em busty, blonde, and giggly, not athletic, brunette, and sharp-tongued. The kind of girls he liked wore tiny tops and tinier skirts, not prim trousers and neat little jackets.

Still, sparring with her sharpened his senses and made his heart beat quickly, like when he faced a tough hitter in a tied ball game, with runners at first and third.

Obviously he had issues. Why should a woman who stood toe-to-toe with him and gave him what for make him want to suggest a few better uses for that overactive, lush mouth of hers?

The doorbell rang. He didn’t think anybody knew where he was staying in town, except for Sarah. Could it be his favorite neighbor?

He peered through the glass of his old-fashioned front door. “Paul!” He threw open the door and high-fived his buddy, clapping him on the back.

“How you doing, man?” Paul held up a six-pack of beer. “Is this a good time? I brought refreshments.”

“Come in. Have a seat.” Paul sat on the overstuffed couch in front of the big screen.

“Got a bottle opener?”

“Sure.” Tom hadn’t spent much time in the kitchen since he’d taken possession of his half of the duplex, but he had found that particular implement. Paul opened a couple of bottles and handed him one as they sat down.

“Cheers.” They clinked their bottles together, and Tom took a long swallow as he wondered about the reason for his friend’s visit.

He’d seen Paul a few times since his rehab assignment started, mostly glimpses around the stadium and in the office, but never for very long. Thanks to Sarah, he knew why.

Paul’s girlfriend didn’t like him hanging out with a “troublemaker” like Tom. That told him this girl didn’t know Paul any better than she knew him. They’d made more than their fair share of trouble together back in the day.

Paul gestured to the TV, which had settled on a
Seinfeld
rerun. “No ball games on?”

“Just the Marlins, and I’m not counting that.”

Paul shook his head. “Don’t blame you. Man, they screwed you over.”

“Yep. Doesn’t matter though. I’ve got my fresh start that I wanted. Things are going great. I’ll be in Chicago before you know it.”

“You kicked ass in your first start, that’s for sure. Like you’d never been away. How’s the elbow feeling?”

“Good.” Even if it wasn’t good, he’d die before he’d admit it. Playing against type, he’d followed every doctor’s order, every trainer’s recommendation, been a good boy for a year and a half of rehab, all while thinking every day about the moment he’d set foot on a major-league mound again. Nothing would dissuade him from making that sooner rather than later, especially not some nagging little twinge in his elbow.

Every pitcher dealt with pain. If he couldn’t, his career didn’t last very long.

The conversation moved on, and they reminisced about their college days, talking about guys they’d both come up with and discussing the pennant races in the majors this year.

“Who do you like in the American League?” Paul said.

“The White Sox, once I get on the roster.”

Paul laughed. “You don’t lack for confidence, that’s for damn sure.”

“No one wants a starting pitcher who doesn’t believe he can get it done. Who wants a loser?” It was true of baseball as well as life.

“True.” Paul finished his beer and watched the screen in silence for a while. He nodded at the TV. “My favorite episode is the one where they wander around in the parking garage because they can’t find their car.”

“Yeah, that’s a good one.” He liked the show, but he doubted Paul had braved his girlfriend’s wrath to discuss
Seinfeld
reruns.

Maybe he ought to cast his bait and see if he got a nibble. “Sarah tells me your girlfriend thinks I’m going to lead you astray.”

Paul laughed and shook his head. “Yeah, Susan is a little . . . paranoid about this stuff. She thinks I’m some kind of awesome catch. It’s a small town. It’s not exactly a dating paradise.”

“Obviously not, dude, if she thinks you’re a catch.” Paul flipped him off and Tom laughed. Just like old times.

“You talk to Sarah much?” Paul asked, way too casually.

Ah-ha. So that was what this little visit was about.

Tom shrugged, leaning forward to grab another beer. “Sometimes. She’s my housemate, after all.” Paul scowled, a protective gesture that nearly made Tom laugh aloud. “Dude, calm down. We share the same duplex, that’s all. We’re not shacking up.”

“Of course not. Sarah would never shack up with you.”

Tom scratched at the loose corner of his beer label with his thumbnail. “If it weren’t for my amazing self-confidence, I might think you’re insulting me.”

“Please. She’s too classy for you. I know you, man. I remember the girls you dated in college. Probably better than you do. God knows you barely seemed able to keep ’em straight half the time.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t remember you living the life of a monk either. You did okay with girls too.”

“That was a long time ago, for me.” He looked at Tom steadily. “I had to grow up and settle down. I got a real job.”

Real job? Tom set his beer down with a clunk. “Come on.” What the hell did Paul know about making it on his own? He’d inherited his job from his father, and his biggest qualification for beating Sarah out for the job had apparently been having a dick. Tom had worked his ass off for everything he had. “I got a real job too. Doing pretty well. Maybe you heard about it. I sold my South Beach condo and bought a Gold Coast penthouse when the White Sox signed me in the off-season. You ought to see it. Lake Michigan is beautiful with all the lights at night.”

“Settle down, Tom. No one questions your earning power, or your will to win. You’re a damn good pitcher, and in many ways a great guy.”

Oh, here we go.
“In many ways” he was a great guy, but apparently not in the ways that qualified him to date Paul’s sister. Did he even know this guy anymore? Paul truly belonged in a baseball front office. This was all the kind of BS an executive gave you to soften you up right before he delivered the sucker punch. The Marlins general manager had sung his praises for fifteen minutes before telling him he didn’t plan to renew his contract. “I sense a ‘but’ coming.”

Paul exhaled. “She’s my sister, Tom. I’ve got to be honest with you. Your track record with women sucks.” He put down his beer and leaned forward, all business. He wore a pair of khakis and a button-down plaid shirt, the kind of thing a suit wore when he was trying not to look like a suit.

Tom shouldn’t ask, but he couldn’t help himself. “I can’t help wondering if all this concern is on behalf of your sister. Has she said something about me?” He couldn’t keep the hopeful note out of his voice, and Paul briefly passed his hands in front of his eyes.

“No, and I want to keep it that way. I remember the way she used to follow you around when she was a teenager.”

Tom scoffed. “That was a long time ago. I can assure you she doesn’t do that now.” She wasn’t a skinny teenager anymore either, but a grown woman, which made her more dangerous. “She can handle herself.” She had one hell of a sharp tongue when she wanted to. Weird thing was, he kinda liked it.

“I want you to know that she’s not some reality star who has a revolving door on her bed. You get involved with her, she’s going to notice when you’re gone. You’ll be gone soon, Tom. You know it as well as I do.”

Tom couldn’t argue with that. His shoulders slumped. What was he even arguing for? Everything Paul said was true. Who could blame him? Sarah was his sister. He was looking out for her like a brother should. Tom didn’t have any siblings, but if he had a little sister, he damn sure wouldn’t want someone like him sniffing around her.

Still, that hard little nugget of pride in his chest wouldn’t ease up. It was a lot easier to appreciate a brother’s protective instincts when you weren’t the one being warned away. “Look, I’m not going to go after your sister or anything.” The stiff set of Paul’s shoulders eased. “But she’s an adult, and so am I. She doesn’t have to ask your permission for anything. That’s the best I can do.”

Paul nodded slowly. “I guess that’ll have to do. I wouldn’t want to have to kick your ass if you did hurt her.”

Tom snorted. “You could try.”

Paul grinned and then glanced at his watch. “It’s late. I’d better be getting home. Susan’ll be worried.”

“Don’t be a stranger, okay? Come over anytime. I’ll be here.”

“I’ll do that.”

Tom walked him to the door. On the porch, Paul stopped and turned to him. “Out of curiosity, what’s Christina Caputo really like? She’s hot, man.” A wistful note crept into his voice.

“She’s a reality star with a revolving door on her bed,” Tom said. “She’s got no hidden depths, man.” He laughed ruefully. “We had that in common, I guess.”

He had never felt more like his father than he did in that moment. Not a pleasant feeling.

Paul nodded and walked away, not answering. As he watched Paul walk to his car, he wondered which of them was more pathetic: the playboy athlete who couldn’t be trusted around a good girl, or the suit who envied him so.

A week later, Sarah cracked open a peanut and leaned back in her seat. It was a beautiful night for a ball game: clear, warm, and not too muggy. A mosquito buzzed her ear once in a while, but other than that, she was in paradise. Paul had given her a standing invitation to watch games with him in the executive’s box, but she liked to be close to the action and out in the open air.

Tom had made his second start tonight and was doing well, although he wasn’t on cruise control like he’d been his first game. In the third inning, he’d given up a two-run homer on a fastball that got away from him. He’d pulled his hat over his face and screamed into it. That brought Reedy trotting out from the dugout to make sure he was okay.

He must have convinced Reedy, because he’d stayed in and done pretty well since, getting himself into some jams with runners on base but getting out of them without giving up any runs. A couple of pitches had come perilously close to hitting batters, leading to some angry stare-downs from the batter’s box. Tom hadn’t blinked.

He
had
to be throwing close to the batters on purpose. Intimidation was the name of a pitcher’s game, and he clearly wasn’t happy about giving up a two-run homer to a minor league hitter. So-called brushback pitches kept hitters from getting too cocky.

After the seventh-inning stretch, when “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” had been sung by an enthusiastic seventh grader from Plainview Junior High, the score stood 3–2, Thrashers.

“When do you think we’ll be able to leave?”

She glanced at Rich Blakely, her CPA and sometimes date.

“It’s a close game. I thought we’d stay to the end.”

His mouth turned down, and she knew he’d been hoping to slip away soon.

“Fine.” He sighed, pulling out his cell phone and checking Twitter for the hundredth time that night.

Not for the first time, she wondered why she’d brought Rich to the game. He paid lip service to liking baseball, but he only tolerated the games she dragged him to. If he had his way, every date would be a trip to a local steak house followed by the latest sci-fi blockbuster, ending in a wrestling match on her couch while she tried to politely explain that no, she wasn’t really ready for that kind of intimacy yet.

He wasn’t her boyfriend, definitely not. More like an escort, except not that hot and she didn’t have to pay him. He didn’t exactly sweep her off of her feet, but going out with him beat doing things alone in a small town like Plainview. Here, most people got married by twenty-two or so, and a single professional woman wound up watching reruns on Netflix alone.

Not that a night with Rich was a huge improvement over reruns of
Battlestar Galactica
, but still. Sometimes, a woman needed a date.

Tom took the mound as he readied for the first hitter. The wicked curveball started high and dove right before it crossed the plate. Strike one. The batter, a twenty-year-old named Gutierrez, knocked the bat against his cleats and stepped in for pitch number two, a ferocious fastball that he missed by a fraction of an inch.

Sarah whistled low. “He was swinging for the fences on that one.” Tom knew it too. She could see the intensity of his stare from here. Pitch three had the hitter doing a dance to avoid the path of the ball.

“Did you say something?” Rich murmured, not looking up from his phone.

“Nothing.” She heard the edge in her voice. Really, maybe coming to the games alone wouldn’t be so bad. It had to be better than being annoyed at Rich the whole time.

Tom’s fourth pitch nailed Gutierrez in the shoulder.

“Ouch,” she muttered. A gasp rose up from the crowd. In the dugouts, players came to the railing, watching to see how Gutierrez reacted. The kid dropped his bat and grimaced, placing his hands on his knees and leaning forward.

It must have been an intentional hit on Tom’s part.

After a long moment, the batter straightened and stared at Tom, yelling something she didn’t hear.

Tom’s succinct reply consisted of two words. The second one was “you.”

Everything seemed to happen at once. Gutierrez charged the mound. Tom hurled his glove to the ground and braced himself. Both benches cleared. Players leapt over the dugout fences and converged on the mound. Tom disappeared into a melee of swinging fists and shoving bodies. Fans rose to their feet, the crowd abuzz.

“Oh my God!” Sarah jumped up, fighting the urge to rush the field. Her father would kill her for getting involved, and Tom wouldn’t thank her for it either. She bit her lip.
Leave it alone.
He was a grown-up. He could take care of himself.

What was going on inside the knot of players?

Steadying herself on Rich’s shoulder, she climbed on top of her seat to get a better look inside the scrum. Tom’s dark head surfaced for a moment and then disappeared again. Umpires and coaches pulled players away from the perimeter, trying to get to the heart of the fight.

“What happened?” The uproar had gotten even Rich’s attention.

“Tom hit a batter and the guy charged the mound.” She shaded her eyes from the glare of the stadium lights and stared harder.

“Serves him right.” She glanced down. Rich’s eyes were back on his phone.

“What do you mean?” She frowned, staring down at Rich’s blond head. Through his thinning hair, she could see his sunburned scalp.

“He hit him on purpose. Everybody knows that Cord’s a jerk. Even I know it, and I don’t follow baseball.”

Sarah couldn’t argue his point. Tom’s reputation for aggressiveness preceded him, but “jerk”? For some reason, she wanted to defend him. She pressed her lips tight rather than give in to the temptation.

Finally, the officials got most of the players off of the field and broke up a wrestling match between Gutierrez and Cord. Tom’s hat had gone flying and his jersey was a wreck, but otherwise, he appeared no worse for wear.

She climbed down off of her seat. She hadn’t given a thought to the safety of any other players in the brawl. Why worry so much about Tom?

No doubt it was because he’d been at the heart of the fight, and because he’d only be here a few more days. He’d sent ticket revenues through the roof with his first two starts. She didn’t want to see him get hurt before he even had a chance to improve the team’s gate receipts for a few more days.

Yeah, that was it. They needed the boost. The Thrashers weren’t the cash cow they’d once been.

With a skyward jab of his finger, the umpire ejected both Gutierrez and Tom for fighting. Tom bellowed and kicked dirt on the umpire’s shoes, but Reedy got in there and pulled him off to the dugout, thank God.

She drew a breath of relief. If anybody could talk sense into Tom, it was the even-keeled pitching coach. Her phone buzzed with the tone that meant a text from her brother, Paul. She looked up to the executive box, where he always sat during games, and nodded to him as she checked her phone.

Get on it, Sarah. This looks bad for the team. See what you can do.

She sighed. Another PR debacle, courtesy of Tom Cord. She typed a quick assent and put her phone away. “Rich, I’ve got to go handle this. Do you mind heading home without me?”

That finally got his attention. “I thought we were going to watch some TV later.”

Meaning he planned to cozy up next to her, come up with a million excuses to touch her, and then act hurt and pout when she gently rebuffed him. She was unbearably glad that she wasn’t heading home with Rich.

“I’m sorry, Rich. This is a real PR headache. It doesn’t look good to have a big-league hotshot throwing intentionally at a minor league kid. I really need to handle it.”

“How will you get home?”

“I’ll figure something out. Maybe Paul can give me a ride.”

Rich shrugged. “Suit yourself. Call me tomorrow?”

“Sure.” The thought had about as much appeal as a career spent worrying about bobbleheads, but she couldn’t turn him down flat. They had history.

Besides, who else in Plainview would take her to the movies or go out with her on New Year’s Eve?

He leaned in for a quick kiss, and she turned her head at the last minute, assuring it glanced off her cheek rather than landing on her mouth. She waited until she was past security and in the tunnel to the clubhouse before she surreptitiously wiped the traces of his touch away from her skin.

***

She leaned against the cinder block wall outside the clubhouse and waited for Tom to emerge. It would be so much easier if she could stick her head in and holler for him, but her dad would have a fit if she put so much as a toe into the all-male domain.

In a way, Tom had made her job easier. He’d no doubt get suspended for a few games for today’s little adventure. That would give him time in Plainview with nothing to do but PR. She’d already gotten down to business, thinking of events he could do to promote his stint in the minors and give his image a little much-needed burnishing as well.

A roar from the stands above her caught her attention. What was she missing? Before she could head to the opening of the tunnel to check it out, the metal door behind her opened with a screech.

It was Tom, with Paul by his side. Tom had changed into street clothes already: well-worn Levi’s and a White Sox T-shirt. His damp hair flopped across his forehead and the smell of soap wafted off of him. Her fingers itched to smooth that lock of wet hair back, but she clenched her fist and resisted the urge.

“You.” He stopped in the hallway and glared at her.

She forced a smile. “Nice to see you too.”

Paul glanced back and forth between the two of them. “I need to get back to my box upstairs. Tom, you know your way out to the player parking lot, right?”

Tom nodded and Paul left, giving her a long look that she supposed meant “Keep him out of trouble, and stay out of trouble yourself.”

“If you’re headed back to the duplex, I could use a ride.”

He gave her a long stare. “Fine. Something tells me you’re not happy with me, though.”

“Something tells you’re right. What were you thinking? It’s a rehab start in the minors, for Pete’s sake! What’s the point of hitting a batter and getting suspended?” She braced a hand on a hip. “Not that it doesn’t make my job easier, in a way. You’ll have more time to do PR while you’re suspended.” Somehow she doubted he saw that as the silver lining she did.

“Let me guess. Paul got after you to clean up the mess I made tonight.”

She blinked. He realized he’d made a mess? That didn’t add up. He’d hit Gutierrez on purpose. He had to have known he’d get tossed, so why was he acting so glum? This was a rehab start. He didn’t care about the Thrashers. In a few weeks, tops, he’d be on the south side of Chicago, starting for the White Sox.

“Something like that, yeah.”

She fell in step beside him. In the player parking lot, they walked under a streetlight. The glow illuminated his face, and she gasped. In the dim light of the tunnel, she hadn’t been able to see the damage: his swollen cheek, reddened and abraded, and a nick on his ear.

She stretched out a hand, but stopped herself before she touched him.
Stay professional.

“Are you all right?”

“I’ll be fine.” He didn’t look fine, though, with his bruises and his slumped shoulders. He led her to his rental car, a sleek, silver BMW.

She settled into the plush interior, trying and failing not to be impressed. His tanned hands gripped the leather-clad steering wheel with authority, and she forced herself to look away. He had a pitcher’s hands—strong, well-shaped, and calloused.

As a teen, she’d been too innocent to fantasize about what those hands could do. No longer. Now, she was experienced enough to have some serious suspicions about the kind of pleasure he could give a woman. She shifted in her seat.

“Anything wrong?”

“No, not at all.”
Just having some inappropriate fantasies I’d die before I indulged.

She waited to pounce until he had the car out on the road. She’d had some time to think while she waited for him, and she’d come up with the perfect first step on his road to redemption from this latest gaffe. “It looks like you might have some time on your hands, with your probable suspension and all. Feel like being in a parade?”

“Has anyone ever answered ‘yes’ to that question? ‘Yes, I feel like being in a parade’?” He tilted his head thoughtfully. “What would that even feel like?”

“Can I take that as a yes?”

“You can take it as a no. Are you kidding? Me, in a small-town parade?”

Cocky son of a gun. “Maybe appearing in a Plainview parade is no big deal compared to being on the cover of
Sports Illustrated
, but you don’t have to be so superior about it.”

“I’m not superior! I just don’t see the point.”

“I’ll bet your agent sees the point. He’d like to see you doing some small-town glad-handing, especially after tonight.”

His growl told the story. She had him, and he knew it.

“Come on,” she coaxed, twisting in her seat to face him. “I got an invite for you to be grand marshal of the Fourth of July parade. I didn’t give it much thought, because the Thrashers always have a lot of games around the Fourth, but this will be perfect. Your suspension is going to coincide with the holiday!”

“Thanks. You know, I planned it that way when I threw that ball right at Gutierrez’s shoulder.”

She smirked. “Well, that makes more sense than any other explanation I can think of.”

“Or maybe I wanted to win. Did you ever think of that?”

She scoffed. “A minor-league game? The whole point of sending you down here to rehab is that nobody from the majors cares if you blow a game or not. Risking a suspension and delaying your return to brush back a cocky minor leaguer is insane.”

“Nobody ever accused me of being a strategic thinker when it comes to baseball. I like to win.”

“Even if it hurts you in the long run?”

“I like to win,” he said again, his mouth a hard line.

“No matter what?”

“No matter what.”

It explained a lot. No wonder he hadn’t paid attention to the coaches who
had
to have told him that his crazy-hard, unorthodox throwing style put him at risk for injury down the road. From his point of view, why endanger today’s win with concerns about the future that might not ever come to pass?