High Heat (Hard Hitters #1) (6 page)

“Me?” She kept her voice even somehow, even as her heart slipped into a fast beat. “What’s so interesting about me?”

“I want to know why a pretty, smart girl like you has a schmuck of a boyfriend like that.”

Pretty? Smart? Since when? He’d never given her the time of day back when he was in college. Her brain couldn’t process Tom Cord calling her those things, so it snagged on the one part she could understand. “I told you, he’s not my boyfriend.”

“Of course he is. I’m pretty sure eating barbecue at his mom’s every Fourth of July counts as a commitment. God knows I’m not ready for that kind of serious relationship.”

Oh, he was an ass.

“I said he’s not my boyfriend,” she repeated stubbornly.

He looked at her face closely. “You seem awfully sure about that.”

“Because I am.”

“Do you sleep with him?”

“That’s none of your business!”

“Oh, come on. You know all about my love life. Why can’t I ask about yours?”

“The entire western hemisphere knows about your love life, because it’s on TMZ!”

“Exactly. I’m the last person in the world to judge. Come on. Tell me all about it. That schlub must have something going for him if you’re willing to give him the time of day. Is he some kind of a nasty freak in bed? Let me guess. He can go all night. Or he has a red room of pain like that guy in that one book.”

Her cheeks burned. How did he steer her to the most inappropriate topics with ease? She wasn’t used to that kind of frank talk about sexuality. In a small town like Plainview, she couldn’t talk to anyone about intimate matters without fear of it getting back to her overprotective dad and brother. She’d grown up playing on a mostly boys’ baseball team and worked in such a man’s world that she’d never had a lot of girlfriends anyway.

Tom was right about one thing. Nothing in her very tame love life could ever shock him. The idea of unburdening herself had a lot of appeal, and, oddly, she trusted him not to tell anyone.

“I wouldn’t know,” she admitted. “We don’t sleep together.”

He stopped dead, nearly knocking her silly as his elbow dragged free of her shoulder. “Are you kidding?”

Hmmm, maybe he was shockable after all. “I told you, he’s not really my boyfriend. We do stuff together.” At his doubtful expression, she shrugged. “Plainview is a small town, as you might have noticed. There aren’t a lot of single guys my age to choose from. You know what my hours are like. I can pull twenty-hour shifts when we have a home game.”

“I work long hours too, yet I find a way to have a social life.”

She snorted. “Oh, that’s what you call it?”

He ignored her. “Do you kiss him?”

She tilted her head in puzzlement. “Well, sure.”

“But you haven’t slept together.”

“No, like I told you, he’s not my boyfriend.”

“News flash, but you don’t have to be in a committed relationship to have sex.”

She rolled her eyes. “Sorry, I forgot who I was talking to for a minute.”

He laughed and resumed his long, easy stride next to her, a stride that he had to slow to keep from leaving her far behind. “Sorry. I almost feel sorry for the guy. Almost.”

She stopped, offended. “What’s that supposed to mean? Sorry for him why?”

“Because you won’t give him any.”

“Who said
I
won’t give him any? Maybe he hasn’t asked,” she practically bellowed, and then lowered her voice when nearby heads swiveled. Fantastic. All she needed was for that little tidbit to get back to her father.

“I got a look at that guy, and I’ve gotten a lot of looks at you.” His eyes ran down her, and her skin heated faster than a microwave oven. “You expect me to believe it’s
his
idea that you not have sex? No way.”

She couldn’t deny the plain truth, so she settled into a silence and resumed walking. How did he get her talking about the most embarrassing stuff every time? It was a gift, she supposed, like his 100-plus miles per hour fastball or those blue eyes that seemed to look right through her.

At the Little League diamond, a crowd had already gathered in the stands, offering a welcome distraction. A group of kids stood around home plate, clutching their gloves and squirming with excitement. Thrashers PR staff had set up a portable mike and amp system, as well as a large net, like a soccer goal, on the first base line.

“Are we ready to go?”

Her assistant, Tracy, nodded, looking even younger than her twenty-two years with her ponytail and her blue Thrashers polo shirt. “All set.” Her eyes widened and dropped when Tom smiled at her. Poor kid. High school wasn’t
that
long ago, and Sarah remembered when she’d been totally bowled over by him too.

Luckily, she was long past that.

“Um, where’s Rich?” Tracy asked. “Don’t you guys always spend Fourth of July together?”

She would not look at Tom. She would
not
look at him. “He had some other things to do.”

“Oh. Really?” Was that a look of disappointment? Her father wanted her to get serious about Rich, and now Tracy did too? Did everyone see her as the town spinster who needed to be married off as soon as possible? The thought rankled.

“I think he might have some extra barbecue and sparklers on hand if you want to drop by later,” Tom said. “I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.”

Tracy frowned. “What?”

“Never mind,” Sarah said hastily. “Want to address the crowd?” She turned to Tom with a bright smile.

He looked at her like she was nuts. “Hell, no. Let’s get to pitching.”

And he did, wading right into the group of kids.

“Can I have an autograph?” one gap-toothed kid asked.

“In a little bit, yeah, but right now, we’ve got work to do. Why don’t you kids line up facing the net? About fifteen, twenty feet away. Yeah, that’s good. Who’s got some baseballs?”

Tracy brought a box of baseballs and passed one out to each kid.

“Okay, one at a time. I want to see you guys pitch. Come on, show me what you got.” The kids looked uncertain. No one stepped forward.

“You, in the green shirt.” He pointed to a freckled eight-year-old. “Don’t be shy. Come on up here. The best you got. Let’s smoke some balls into that net!”

The boy shuffled to stand next to Tom, sneaking shy glances from under the bill of his cap. After a little more encouragement from Tom, the boy wound up and let it fly, his pitch dropping several feet shy of the net. His face fell.

“Okay, that’s good, but here’s the thing,” Tom said. “You’ve got to take advantage of your gifts as a pitcher. Me, I’m a power pitcher. That’s my gift. I can throw the ball a hundred miles an hour!”

An “Oooh!” went up from the group of kids.

“My dad’s car doesn’t even go that fast!” one boy said.

“That’s good, because if it did, he’d get a ticket,” Tom said, prompting a laugh from the group. “So there are three things about pitching. A perfect pitcher has flawless technique, power, and mental toughness. Anybody know what mental toughness is?”

“It means you’re a badass!” a heavyset kid spoke up, earning a shocked gasp from the group.

“Not exactly,” Tom said. “It’s the ability to keep calm and make your pitches when everything’s going wrong out there. Nobody’s perfect. Make sure you have two out of the three of those qualities, because that’s what you need to succeed. If you don’t have power, you have to work on technique and toughness.”

He turned to the green-shirted boy. “You’re not a power pitcher, so you’ll need to improve your technique.”

The boy’s gaze dropped and his chin came to rest on his chest.

“That’s nothing to be ashamed of. Anybody here know Greg Maddux? He’s one of the greatest pitchers of all time. In the later years of his major league career, he only threw about eighty-five miles an hour, but he was all about technique. He could put the ball in a location where hitters couldn’t hit it. Power isn’t everything.”

Tom clapped the boy on the shoulder, earning a tentative smile.

“Try that again, but this time, don’t lean so far back during your windup. Try to keep your body straight.”

Sarah crossed her arms and looked on, fascinated. She would never in a million years have expected Tom Cord to take so well to working with kids. This was obviously pure pleasure for him.

A staffer retrieved the ball and tossed it back. The kid tried again, and this time, the ball sailed farther, hitting the net with a soft plop.

“Fantastic! Try that again, but this time, bring your knee up a little higher. Try it in slo-mo first. That’s it.”

She watched Tom go down the line, working with each kid, watching them pitch, giving them suggestions mixed with praise and encouragement, joking and winning smiles from them as he went. As he moved along, each kid continued to throw, until about six kids were all throwing simultaneously. The rest of the kids shifted back and forth, fiddling with their gloves and watching with wide eyes as they waited their turns. As he worked with a ten-year-old girl in pigtails, Sarah frowned at the boy in the green shirt he’d started with.

“Something the matter?” Sarah startled, surprised to see Tom’s eyes locked on hers. He’d been concentrating so fiercely on each kid, she hadn’t realized he’d been paying her any attention.

“That boy you were working with. He’s holding the ball too tight. That may be why it’s still going in the dirt. Maybe you should tell him?”

Tom looked back at the kid, watching him for a moment. “Huh. Maybe you’re right. Tell him yourself.”

Sarah’s eyes narrowed, trying to read him. It wasn’t easy. Was he annoyed with her for offering advice? He didn’t seem to be, but who knew? That type of remark from her certainly always sent her father over the edge.

“All right then.” She took a breath and went over to the boy, taking the ball from him and showing him the proper grip. She found herself copying Tom’s style, joking and praising the boy. He responded, taking the ball back from her and carefully copying her.

This time, the ball sailed into the net with authority. “All right!” She applauded and gave the kid a high five.

She looked up to catch Tom watching her with a look on his face that she couldn’t name. An assessment, definitely, mixed maybe with the pleased surprise of surpassed expectations?

Whatever it was, she was pretty sure she’d worn the same look when she heard Tom tell a dispirited young pitcher he was just like Greg Maddux.

“I’m starving,” Tom said after they’d finished the clinic and packed everything away into the trucks for the interns to haul away. “Any place to eat in this town?”

She checked her watch. “Yikes, it’s nine. Almost every place will be closed.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“You’re not in Miami anymore. You can’t roll up in your Beemer to South Beach at nine o’clock at night and get carryout from Joe’s Stone Crab. In Plainview, it’s Steak ’n Shake or nothing at this hour.”

He shrugged. “That sounds fine. A good greasy burger is all right with me.”

“If it’s any consolation, you can probably blow off your training regimen for a day or two, since you’re suspended and all.” She gave him a honey-sweet smile.

“That’s no consolation whatsoever, but thanks for pointing it out.”

“No problem.” She gave him directions to the Steak ’n Shake, Plainview’s only twenty-four-hour restaurant. They hit the drive-through.

“You want something?” He turned to her. “It’s on me.”

“Wow, you are a big spender. No wonder you do so well with the ladies.”

He winked. “Sorry, but that’s not why I do so well with the ladies.”

She would
not
rise to the bait. She suspected she knew part of the secret to his success, and although it was in his pants, it wasn’t his wallet. She cleared her throat and studied the menu. She really shouldn’t eat this junk, but the heavenly aroma of seared beef and crispy fries wafting out from the drive-through window overcame her scruples.

She gave him her order and took the paper bag that he handed her minutes later, noticing the goggle-eyed stare of the fast-food employee at the big leaguer in a BMW coming through her drive-through. She’d tell everyone she knew about this, no doubt.

Great. Being spotted at a PR event with him would be seen as work-related, but she had no excuse for hitting a late-night drive-through with a player on the Thrashers roster. Sarah slunk down in the leather upholstered seat and wished for a Harry Potter–style invisibility cloak.

In a gossipy town like Plainview, this would get back to her dad in a flash.

“Where can we go to eat this?”

She looked at him in surprise. “Uh, home?” It would be ideal. No witnesses.

He shook his head. “Nah. Too wired from the clinic. That was fun, though.”

“It was fun,” she agreed, feeling as surprised as Tom sounded.

“I need someplace to wind down. All that talking about baseball got me juiced up and I feel like throwing. Is there some park around here where kids hang out?”

The first place that sprang to mind was Jules Park, which was known for its view of the starry night sky over the Blue River. Teens parked along the bluffs and drank, smoked pot, and had sex. So she’d heard, anyway. Her father would have throttled her if she’d done any of the three as a teen. Heck, he wouldn’t be happy about her doing those things now if he found out about it.

It was so
not
the ideal place to take Tom Cord after dark.

Maybe Bales Park? No, it had a skateboard ramp and would be full of teen boys at this hour. They’d get mobbed. Founders Park was mostly a kids’ water park, and they locked it after dusk.

Resigned and hoping she wasn’t doing something stupid, Sarah gave Tom directions to Jules Park. At least the other people would no doubt be up to their own illicit behavior and wouldn’t pay any attention to them. The bluffs nestled under cottonwood trees short of the river, and a couple of cars sat spaced a good distance apart in the nearby parking lot, no doubt to afford privacy to their occupants. A bad case of nerves brewed in her stomach.

Tom parked, rolled down the windows, and killed the engine. The music of frogs on the riverbank filled the car as fireflies winked to life and faded out below them. The river glimmered in the light of a nearly full moon. A dragonfly flickered to a rest for a moment on the wiper blade, stretching his iridescent wings in the moonlight, and then flittered away as quickly as he’d arrived.

“This looks like a good make-out spot.”

She snorted. “Trust you to know one when you see it. Here’s your sandwich.” She shoved the foil-wrapped burger into his gut and then handed over his fries. “Drink your water. You worked up a sweat at the pitching clinic. Better stay hydrated.”

“Wow, I’d be touched by your concern, except I suspect you just want to shut me up.”

“You’d be right.”

Silence fell as they both tucked into their burgers. The flavors of hot beef, onion, and cheese exploded on her tongue, and she had to bite back a moan. Even though she no longer played organized baseball, she’d never given up the healthy habits she’d acquired back then. She still ate right and ran five times a week. This was an unexpected orgy of indulgence, and damn, it was good.

“Tell me the truth.” Tom swallowed a mouthful of burger and washed it down with some water. “Did you ever come up here when you were a teenager and rub uglies with your boyfriend?”

“Did I—” Words failed her. It took a moment for her to master her voice. “Did you just refer to sex as ‘rubbing uglies’?” A French fry dangled forgotten from her fingertips as she watched him chew and swallow another enormous bite of burger.

“Do you object to that one? I have lots of others. Hide the salami, make the beast with two—”

“Yes, I know! You don’t need to share any more.” She shook her head slowly. “I get it. I was just temporarily in shock that a man over the age of fourteen had used that phrase.”

“Obviously you don’t spend much time in a baseball clubhouse.”

“Obviously.” She meant it matter-of-factly, but it came out sour.

“Oh, yeah. Right. Your dad’s got that thing about keeping you away from the players, right?”

“That’s right.”

“So, he said you were a frustrated baseballer.”

She took a long time chewing her burger, and then swallowed and washed it down with iced tea. “You could say that. I played Little League with the boys when I was a kid. I was pretty good too.”

“What position did you play?”

“Pitcher.”

“No kidding? Just like me.”

She smiled. That was sweet of him to say, really. Her game had been based on finesse and smarts, not power, like his. She couldn’t throw a 100 mph fastball if you gave her a thousand tries—no woman could—but he’d compared them as equals anyway.

It almost made up for the “rubbing uglies” comment.

Almost.

“You were good, huh?” His brilliant grin shone bright in the car’s dim interior, and she suddenly understood why all those women lined up to make fools of themselves over Tom. Even without the money and the fame, he had a charm she couldn’t deny.

With
the money and the fame, he was deadly.

“I went 10-6 my final year. They don’t keep stats, of course, but my father was such a number cruncher, he did it for my brother and me unofficially. I had a 2.1 ERA.”

A low whistle escaped him. “That’s a big-time number.”

She shrugged, unaccountably pleased at his praise. She’d been going up against pubescent boys, not major leaguers, but still. A killer ERA was a killer ERA.

“Why did you quit?”

Just like that, her pride winked out. “My mom died when I was twelve. She had a heart defect and didn’t know it. A time bomb, the doctor said after she died.”

She pondered the lettuce on her burger like it was the most fascinating thing she’d ever seen. Tears thickened in her throat, but she swallowed them down with a gulp of tea. Her mom had died sixteen years ago. She ought to be able to talk about it without crying. Unfortunately, sometimes it still seemed like yesterday that she’d come into the kitchen to see her mother lying on the floor, pale and slack.

She’d screamed for Paul, who’d called 911, but it was too late. When her mother was taken to the hospital in an ambulance, she and Paul, who had just gotten his driver’s license, had followed behind. Both of them had cried the whole way. Their father, who had been at Dudley Field at the time, had met them grim-faced in the waiting room an hour later to tell them their mother was dead.

“Mom always encouraged me to do what I loved—play baseball. My dad was never thrilled about it, but she talked him into letting me do it.”

“And when she died, there was no one left to run interference with your dad?” Tom’s voice was ripe with sympathy.

“Yeah. It’s understandable. He loved her and took her death hard. He was never the same, really.” She lowered her burger to her lap, not hungry anymore. When her mom had died, Sarah had lost her mother, her defender, and her best friend in the blink of an eye. Of all the hard losses she’d endured, baseball shouldn’t matter, but it did. “I don’t know why I took it so hard. I was never going to pitch in the majors. No woman can throw hard enough for that. Very few universities even have sanctioned women’s baseball programs. It was only a matter of time before I was forced out of organized ball.”

“Maybe so, but your dad should have been on your side, fighting for you, not against you. He didn’t have to take away the one thing you loved because he was hurting.”

She looked up swiftly. Sorrow gathered thick in the back of her throat. Those blue eyes of his. They saw everything, and sometimes not in a comfortable way. Sympathy. Understanding. Compassion. Maybe it shouldn’t surprise her, but it did.

Before she could stop it, the sob burst out of her. Tears streamed down her face. She clapped a hand over her mouth. Oh, God. Of all the people to lose it in front of, she had to pick him.

Who cared if he could be surprisingly kind, shockingly understanding? He still hit on everything in a skirt, and he hadn’t given her the time of day when she’d been that lonely teenager. She had to get it together, but she couldn’t. The harder she tried, the bigger the grief swelled, as fresh and raw and goddamned
painful
as if it had happened yesterday.

She didn’t know what she was crying for, exactly. For memories of her mother? Anger at her father’s brusqueness to a lonely, sad, teenage girl? Disbelief that a playboy passing through town for a few weeks understood her better than people she’d known for years?

If her mother had been alive, she’d have taken her in her arms and held her. Something her dad had never done. Paul was kinder, but still freaked at the sight of her tears. He became so frantic every time she cried back then, she’d soon learned not to do it in front of him.

“Shhh,” Tom soothed, running one broad hand down her back, his fingers tangling in her long hair. “It’s okay. Cry if you need to.” He put her food on the dash, along with his.

She fumbled in her purse for a tissue and dried her tears, trying for one of those ladylike, discreet nose-blowings she’d never quite mastered. This one was no better than average. She shot Tom an embarrassed look as she wiped her nose, but he didn’t react.

Oddly, he didn’t seem to be falling to pieces at the sight of a crying woman. Instead, he kept up that pressure, his broad hand moseying up to her neck and down again, then across her shoulders, firm, warm, and comforting. She didn’t know what the heck he was thinking about this chick who’d burst into tears in his car, but caring and comfort radiated from his splayed fingers. She soaked it in, the hard ball of anxiety in her chest easing.

As he soothed her, the pain faded from a burn to a sting, and then finally to a dull ache. Quick on the heels of calm came awkwardness. They were in uncharted territory.

Who could she be around Tom Cord if she wasn’t yelling at him about his promiscuity? Looking down her nose somehow took the sting out of his rejection all those years ago. Scolding him for being the kind of guy who talked about “rubbing uglies” came so much more naturally than having a heart-to-heart with him.

“Hey, come on.” Before she could ask, he got out and went around behind the car. “I’ve got an idea. When I’m having a bad day, this fixes everything.”

“Wha—” She twisted in her seat and saw him pop the trunk. Moments later, he appeared at the passenger side window holding a couple of gloves and a ball. She opened the door and looked at him mutely.

“C’mon. Let’s play catch.”

“That fixes everything?”

“Baseball fixes almost everything in my experience. What baseball doesn’t fix, winning does.” His cocky grin brought a smile to her lips. What a rooster he was—but his good humor was infectious.

Maybe Tom was right. She’d had enough soul-searching for the night.

He turned and headed off into the darkness, shoulders square. She followed him in a hurry, glad she’d worn low-heeled sandals.

“Come on,” he called back over his shoulder. “We’ll throw under the streetlight.”

The park’s entrance, a block or two back, glowed in the beam of a security light. He staked out a patch of ground and tossed her one of the gloves. She trapped it against her stomach.

“You just happen to be carrying a ball and gloves with you?”

“Never leave home without ’em. Show me what you got, boss lady.” He lobbed the ball to her and she snagged it cleanly.

“I’m not warmed up. I haven’t pitched competitively in years.” A flutter started in her stomach. Damn, but he was intimidating. He threw the ball 100 miles per hour! She couldn’t compete.

“Quit making excuses and throw the damn ball. I know you’re not a big leaguer and I know you’re not a guy.” He held up his glove. “Put it there.”

“Fine,” she grumbled. Taking a deep breath, she donned her glove. It was too big, of course, but she wiggled her hand and jammed it in as tightly as it would go. She palmed the ball and let herself get the feel of it.

“Come on, do a few warm-up tosses before we do anything for real.”

She nodded. She didn’t know if it had been Tom’s intention, but his words took some of the pressure off. They were warming up. It didn’t matter if she made an ass of herself. She wound up and let the ball fly at half power. It hit Tom’s glove with a satisfying
thunk
.

He tossed it back to her, light and easy. They threw it back and forth a few more times, and she felt her muscles start to warm up and loosen. She could have gone on like that forever, but Tom said, “You warm yet? Why don’t you give me your best shot?”