Hot Ticket (29 page)

The kid who’d welcomed her with affection in Orlando was now acting out big time. Quinn tried to keep her cool and not make a scene while the boy ran up the bleachers, spilling soda on half the crowd and then throwing the last of it Quinn’s way, almost by accident.

Without thought, Tiago went over to help and gave Quinn a passing nod because she wasn’t his. But after he had the kid in hand, he glanced her way again and did a double-take. She wore an aqua T-shirt with a raised mutant glitter frog on her chest.

The kid hung from his arm like a sack of potatoes, so Tiago carried him back to the dugout with a scarier sense of hope than his first day in the majors.

“Hey, you’re The Stealer,” the kid said when Tiago set him down. “Quinn told me she knew you, but I didn’t know you stole kids.”

“Cute,” Tiago said. “What’s your name?”

“Jesse.”

“Jesse, you’re benched. Don’t move, and maybe Quinn won’t beat you after the game.”

Quinn’s frog shirt made Tiago want to ask the kid a question, except he was afraid to hear the answer. Lizzie sure hadn’t given him much.

Tiago hunched down before the boy. “Jesse, was that your father with you and Quinn at the train station in Orlando the other day?”

“Yeah,” the boy said. “What of it?”

Despite Jesse’s hostile attitude, and the odds against a second answer, Tiago decided to take the swing. “Where is your dad? Why isn’t he here today?” Tiago asked, pushing it and sweating Jesse’s answer.

Monster Boy returned, and Tiago ducked a flying fist before he grabbed the kid’s hands and waited him out. “You wanna know where my father is?” Jesse wrenched his hands free. “He’s on his honeymoon, the bastard, getting laid!”

“Don’t be too hard on him,” Tiago said, trying not to smile at the boy’s fresh mouth or his incredible answer. “Hey, Smokey, throw me a ball and a Sharpie, will you?”

Tiago handed both to Jesse. “Keep yourself busy collecting autographs until the game starts. Smokey, keep an eye on him for a minute?”

With his teammate’s nod, Tiago went to sit beside Quinn.

“Nice shirt,” he said.

She raised a brow as if she doubted his sincerity. “I decorated it myself.”

“No kidding. I mean . . . great job.”

“Did you ever
try
to buy a frog shirt in this town? Gators they got, but frogs . . . I don’t think so.”

“Can’t say as I knew that,” Tiago said, his heart racing. She’d gone
looking
for a frog T-shirt?

“Who’s the tart seducing the cameraman?” she asked.

“June. She’s my publicist. Why?”

“You need a new publicist.”

Tiago chuckled but stopped short, because Quinn had finally looked him in the eye, her gaze open and . . . inviting. Tiago felt a tug, and he knew his heart was coming out of hiding. He thought, hoped, prayed Quinn felt a responding tug. “Lizzie says you want to be a child psychologist.”

“I suck at it. Did you see what Jesse was doing? The people he soaked are talking about giving you an award.”

“He’s a good kid. You would have cracked him.”

“Or . . . worse.”

Tiago grinned. “I thought you should know that I . . . decided to give growing up a shot. I’m going to start a foundation for sick kids and promote the hell out of it.”

“That’ll kill your panty-stealing rep. You ready for that?”

“I can still steal bases . . .”

“What are you gonna do with your lingerie collection? Because I’m willing to take it off your hands.”

His heart beating double time, Tiago took Quinn’s hand in his and rubbed her ladybugs with his thumb. “Remember how we said we’d take it one day at a time after we got off the train?”

“I remember,” she said, eating him up with her expression.

“Well . . . one day away from you is one day too many. I know, because I’ve lived through three now, and it’s killing me. You?”

Her eyes had widened and filled so that they looked like bright sparkling emeralds. “They were the longest three days of my life.”

“I’m glad . . . and I mean that in a good way,” Tiago said. “What’say we steal my plane, head for some island chapel—my family, your father, The Losers—then after the ceremony, we all
go for a swim. No anxiety, no hives, just a honeymoon . . . and a life.”

“Ribbit.”

“I love you,” Tiago said, and kissed Quinn Murdock senseless. Then he led her over to sit with the team wives.

And the crowd went ballistic.

Can’t Catch This
Geri Buckley

January, Northwest Florida Arena Season Week 1

Row 1 . . . seats 12 and 13 . . . at the sideline barrier and smack center on the twenty-five-yard line.

The season-opener tickets were every arena football lover’s dream, which is why Lindy Hamilton’s fanny warmed the coveted seat instead of that one-minute wonder of an ex-boyfriend of hers.

Not that she was still bitter about finding him cavorting buck-naked with a bimbo who had no neck and hairy thumbs. No, she’d gotten over what’s-his-name eons ago and had kept the pricey season tickets for her own use, especially since she was the one who’d eaten frost out of the freezer for a month to afford his surprise birthday gift.

He was surprised all right, right up until the moment she thwacked him up side the head with his prized stuffed trout and then peeled out of his driveway and out of his life.

Okay, she also kept the tickets so the cheapskate and his bimbo du jour would have to rot up in the civic center’s nosebleed section
because all the better seats were sold out. So happy birthday to Lindy instead . . . but she wasn’t bitter.

She was getting even.

From now on, no more settling, not for a mediocre love life, not for a routine relationship, and not for monotony. Instead of looking back on memories, she was going to look forward to possibilities.

It was either that or punch out the next friend or family member who spouted another platitude about being grateful she’d found out how what’s-his-name really was before things got more serious between them.

“Aunt Lindy?”

Lindy strained to hear over the noisy six thousand or so people crowding into the stands, the racket intensified by music blaring from the center’s gigantic speakers. New Orleans jazz echoed off the civic center’s high walls with the brassy, earthy demands of the brothel juke joint. The mouth-watering aroma of hot dogs and popcorn rode the warm air that gushed out of cavernous vents in the ceiling.

She might have been attending a rock concert, except that down on the artificial turf that was the field, players littered the padded surface in pregame warm-up stretches. Multi-colored ads were plastered on the sideline barriers that surrounded them, hawking everything from home security systems to running shoes. Part of the reason Lindy’s seats were pricey was because the only thing separating the players from their eager—and sometimes vengeful—fans were those high-density foam rubber barriers.

The first week of the season kicked off with a new franchise called the Moccasins joining the AFL fold in the Southern Division. The Mocs were the new home team, having adopted their name and attitude from the cottonmouth snake that was native to the Florida panhandle.

From the look of the mascot to merchandising to handing fans
boxes of cotton as they entered the arena, the team name provided management with a promotional bonanza.

Lindy had no idea which team was which, but it didn’t matter—between the amalgam of people in the stands and the shiny white uniforms stuck like flypaper to muscular buns, she was assured of something interesting to watch.

She settled back against her winter coat, pushed her sweater sleeves up to mid-forearm, then leaned her head to her right and smiled at her date for the evening, her eleven-year-old nephew Casey.

The apple of her eye was her brother-in-law all over again: sweet, sturdy, mature beyond his years, and elbow-deep in a pound bag of cherry Twizzlers. Like his dad, Casey was enamored of French cuisine and junk food, so much so his world revolved around food he ate and food he was going to eat. Lindy hoped exposure to some of the more physical sports might one day rub off on her husky nephew.

“Aunt Lindy?” Casey said again.

“Yes, my little Mensa sweetums,” she said. “Whatcha need?”

Pudgy fingers gestured beyond her with a limp Twizzler.

“Don’t look now, but isn’t that what’s-his-name coming toward us? Y’know, the guy you used to date?”

In a moment of wide-eyed quiet, Lindy managed to keep her game face in place. She didn’t lick her lips, blink, or fiddle with Mount Vesuvius that was threatening to erupt on her chin.

Her smile twitched only once. Okay, twice.

Glancing over her shoulder, she mentally blew off her inner drama queen and braced herself for an icky run-in.

Sure enough, coming down the concrete steps like the wrath of God was none other than her ex. A show pony with a flawless hair flip stumbled in his wake on three-inch heels and wore the uncertain smile of someone who wanted to be anywhere but here.

Of all the times God could have picked to sift through the
romantic wreckage of Lindy’s life, why now? And why here? Didn’t He like e-mail or telephones?

Her ex certainly didn’t—no spectators to applaud his performance when he let his hubris run amok.

Wait a minute . . . was that still the imprint of a dorsal fin on his face? Or a trick of the fluorescent lights? Lindy couldn’t decide.

She didn’t care, either.

Apparently, her ex felt a tad bit touchy about it because he contemptuously shouted for her as if he were calling an ugly mutt to heel.

“
Lindy
, I’m talking to you . . . !”

“Oh, stuff it, Fish Face,” she said but doubted he heard because he followed his nasty tone with a loud litany of choice words that turned heads around them, attracting the audience he craved and stiffening Lindy’s spine. She was so not into witnessing more of his me-me-me indulgence.

If a man wasn’t the right fit for a woman’s need, the relationship wasn’t working. Plain and simple.

So why go through a gnarly breakup? Why not just say it? Flat out.
I’m sorry. I truly am. I don’t think this is working between us. I think we should end it now. Thanks, anyway. Bye-bye.

It all boiled down to attitude, that’s why.

And unfortunately, Lindy’s attitude stunk. Nothing was sadder than an awesome beginning followed by a big ugly splat. Just ask Lindy. She’d tell you. Not only did she write the book on splatting, but she held the Guinness Book record for the most duds picked by a size-twelve bank service manager.

Honestly, were there any men who weren’t just dogs?

Think happy—get happy was fine in theory, Lindy discovered, but didn’t relate well at all in real life. So she was working on her attitude. Really, she was.

But bitter came easier.

Yes, taken together, all signs pointed in one direction . . . this was going to be a real sucky encounter.

Lindy started to rise from her seat to offer Fish Face a few verbal brickbats but was stopped before the fabric of her jeans even left the cushion. A drop-dead-gorgeous guy with mussed brown hair and a blunt jaw shadowed by beard stubble had leaned from behind her and kissed her on the cheek.

The devil danced in his eyes.

“Sorry I’m late, beautiful,” he said, a throb of dark passion in his voice. “Did you miss me?”

A faint smile played at the corners of his mouth as one large hand kneaded her shoulder with a supersoft stroke, sending an unspoken message of help. With his other hand, he resettled a worn-in black cowboy hat on his head.

Oh, my.
She’d read somewhere that hands—and what a guy did with them—could tell a woman a lot. Lindy was too busy making a rapid mental rundown of his considerable attributes to worry whether her ex was about to bust a nut.

But even if he did, so what?

Tall, dark, and hunky looked like he could take care of himself as well as make a woman’s knees buckle with bliss.

In that ridiculously chivalric moment, it would have been easy for Lindy to play the passive martyr and cling to Cowboy Bob’s leg like a poodle. To her credit, though, she decided to amp up the action instead.

After all, what did she have to lose?

“Well, hello there, cowboy,” Lindy said with a saucy grin. “I’ve missed you like crazy.”

Then, in one fluid motion, she surged up out of her seat, dislodging his protective hand and putting the kibosh on the notion that she lacked the strength and confidence to handle one measly ticked-off guy. On the contrary, it was Fish Face who lacked the chops to confront her in private.

She knew the cowboy had read her correctly when he said loud enough for Fish Face to hear, “Say the word, beautiful, and I’ll see he doesn’t bother you again.”

“That’s very sweet of you,” Lindy returned a nanosecond before she cupped his bristly face in her hands and planted a kiss on him that would leave him grinning for a week. “Tell you what . . . keep Casey here company. I’ll be right back.”

The cowboy winked, gave her a rush with a lingering look, and said, “Promise?”

“Oh, yeah.” Not relinquishing her hold for another moment, she heard herself practically purring. “You can count on it.”