Read Playing the Field: A Diamonds and Dugouts Novel Online
Authors: Jennifer Seasons
Playing the Field: A Diamonds and Dugouts Novel
Playing the Field
A
D
IAMONDS
AND
D
UGOUTS
N
OVEL
JENNIFER SEASONS
This one’s for you, kids.
Because you love me whether I’m half-nuts,
full nuts, or anywhere in between.
Never stop shining your lights and always,
always know you’re loved.
Contents
An Excerpt from
The Mad Earl’s Bride
by Loretta Chase
An Excerpt from
Wanted: Wife
by Gwen Jones
An Excerpt from
A Wedding in Valentine
by Emma Cane
An Excerpt from
Fling
by Sara Fawkes, Cathryn Fox, and Lauren Hawkeye
S
ONNY
M
ILLER HATED
Saturdays. Unusual, she knew. But she had good reason. In her experience Saturday was the day of doom, when everything bad that could happen, did. A long list of travesties had been compiled in her life, providing strong supporting evidence for her decision.
Given the transgressions, it was a rational belief. Saturday was the day her dad had skipped town when she was seven, leaving her with nothing but a crumpled ticket stub from the movie he’d taken her to before he broke her heart.
It was the day she’d found out she was pregnant after a three-month relationship had gone sour and the guy had refused to believe it was his. The jerk had bailed faster than the Bondo could dry on his rusted out Dodge Dart, leaving her with forty bucks in cash and a box of stale Cheerios in the cupboard.
Real swell guy, right?
Yeah. She should have seen it coming, too, but she’d been all of twenty then, about as smart as a box of rocks and up to her ears in daddy issues. So, yes, she’d picked a real winner.
Looking back, there was no doubt that it had been for the best that he’d bailed. They’d been about as functional together as a broken toaster. But he’d given her a son that she loved more than life itself, so the scale had balanced out in the end.
Still, Saturday was a serious pain in her ass. She’d been evicted from her apartment after losing her waitressing job on that awful day because she couldn’t work with a broken ankle and had no money for rent.
And her son Charlie had been diagnosed with type I diabetes after a panicked trip to the emergency room.
If she was prone to superstition, she might just think that Saturday had a personal vendetta against her. As it was, she tried damn hard to avoid going out on that day, other than to her son’s Little League games, preferring to use it for general housecleaning and lying low. When normal people were out partying it up, Sonny was in her sweats, ordering Chinese food, and having a date with the vacuum cleaner.
So when Charlie had asked her one Saturday to take him to a state-sponsored charity event hosted by the Denver Rush pro baseball team, she’d nearly said no. He knew the routine—knew her rule. But one look at the excitement and hope in his soft blue eyes had killed the word before it had even left her lips.
For Charlie she’d do anything.
That didn’t mean that she wasn’t keeping her eyes peeled like a hawk’s, though. A charity event for diabetic kids sounded safe enough, but she wasn’t willing to bet on it. Before they’d left their place up near Longmont she’d shoved an “emergency pack” in her oversized purse. It consisted not only of Charlie’s insulin kit, but pretty much everything a person could need to survive a nuclear war short of the bomb shelter. But even that she could probably fabricate from the stuff in there if the need arose.
She wasn’t taking any chances.
Some might call her paranoid, but they didn’t have her track record. And
for
the record, paranoid was totally different from superstitious. Any sane person, after reviewing the facts laid out on the table, would exert the same amount of caution as she did.
And swear to God, the only reason she got the loan to start her own business last year was because banks didn’t process on the weekends. If they did, there was no doubt she’d be flipping burgers at the local Dairy Queen rather than busting her ass with her organic goat cheese venture, Sonnyside Farms.
“Mom. Hey,
Mom
.” Her son’s voice pierced her thoughts. Sonny glanced down at Charlie’s upturned face as they maneuvered the halls of Coors Field, noting his flushed and eager expression.
“What’s up, kiddo?” It seemed just like yesterday that Charlie had been a toddler. Glancing at her ten-year-old boy, she took him in. School had ended for the summer just a few weeks ago and she swore he’d already grown six inches. The basketball shorts he was wearing used to go clear past his knee. Now a good inch of skin above them was bare. Where had the time gone?
“Do you think I’ll get to meet my favorite player today?”
Sonny tuned back in to her son and replied, “Pretty sure, hon.” The entire team was supposed to be in attendance. “And if JP Trudeau is there, I promise that we’ll get his autograph for you.”
Days of leisure had been few and far between since Charlie’s birth. Most days it didn’t faze her—she’d gotten used to shouldering the responsibilities. But occasionally it got to her and wore her down. On those days she struggled.
She took heart in knowing that everyone did from time to time. Considering she’d been raising a son all by herself for a decade—plus getting a college degree, working full time, and now starting a business—Sonny figured she kept it together better than anyone could expect.
Competency was a skill she’d had to learn, self-sufficiency a character trait she’d had to develop, whether she’d really been up to the task or not. Raising a boy into a man took practicality, strength, and perseverance. Not to mention a ton of patience and an appreciation for a boy’s often gross sense of humor. Charlie had more jokes about human anatomy and its baser functions than she could shake a stick at.
Which reminded her, “You did remember to bring your mitt, right?”
Charlie lifted his well-loved baseball glove and grinned, “
Duh
, Mom. Like I’d forget it.”
Sonny quipped back with a grin of her own, “You seem to forget your homework an awful lot, so I was just checking.” Sometimes fear shadowed her, making her uncertain and afraid. But nobody knew. Nope. Everybody thought that Sonny Luanne Miller had it together. Including herself. Steadfast avoidance had kept that niggling fear that she was in denial at bay.
Same went for the voices that whispered at her loneliness. Those weren’t meant for her, she told herself. They were for someone else.
Tossing an arm around Charlie’s angular shoulders, Sonny pulled him close as they rounded a corner and stepped onto the freshly cut ball field. Next month her baby would feel different to hug than he did right now, he was growing so fast.
She took a moment to savor the now with a prolonged squeeze. “Love you, kid. Let’s go get that autograph.”
JP Trudeau was the new hotshot Rush player who had the media all in a tizzy. They were enamored with his cover-model looks and RBIs. And she couldn’t blame them. The guy was hotter than an Arizona desert. His face was regularly plastered across the front page of the tabloids that were displayed in the checkout line at the grocery store. Last week someone had captured him trail-running shirtless down near Morrison and she’d actually bumped into the customer in front of her when she’d caught a glimpse of all those gorgeous, rippling muscles. They were that good.
The realization that she was about to see those whiskey-colored eyes and washboard abs up close and personal had a butterfly taking flight in her stomach. It’d been a long time since her blood pressure had shaken loose over a man. And Sonny found the buzz of fresh anticipation a real surprise.
Not that she had the time to do anything with it. But she had to admit it was nice to know she still had a pulse. Even if it was a weak and thready one.
Planting a reassuring kiss on Charlie’s sandy blond hair, Sonny’s gaze scanned over the crowd. She wasn’t looking for anyone in particular. Okay, well maybe she was looking for a Denver Rush baseball jersey, number thirty-nine. Charlie really wanted to meet his sports idol.
A tidy woman with a brisk walk and a Sarah Palin smile blocked Sonny’s view before she could land her eyes on the prize.
“Hi there. My name is Connie Jackson and I’m the event coordinator. Would you mind giving me your tickets and names so that I can cross you off the list?”
Giving the woman her polite stranger smile, Sonny dug into her purse and pulled out the envelope that held the tickets. “Here you are.” She handed the envelope over and added, “This is such a cool thing that the Rush players are doing. Charlie here could barely sleep a wink. He was so jazzed about meeting the team.”
As it was, Charlie was vibrating in his cleats—which he’d insisted on wearing. People were milling all around the outfield grass and Rush team members populated the crowd with the occasional green and yellow jersey. Photographers and reporters mingled with the guests, flashing their media passes and snapping pictures. Her son’s eyes were super wide and glued to the scene; his mouth hung a little gaped.
It totally made the Saturday excursion worth it.
Score one big fat mom point for her. With a mental pat on the back, Sonny watched her son pull up on his tiptoes and crane his neck. No doubt it was killing him being so close to the famous shortstop, yet not being able to see him.
The woman crossed their names off the list and sent them on their way with another practiced smile. Sonny placed her hand on Charlie’s shoulder and led them into the crowd, narrowly avoiding clipping shoulders with a photographer. She did smack his camera hard with her elbow though, sending it swinging from its braided canvas strap around his neck. “I’m so sorry!”
The guy smiled at her, not even phased—though he was now sporting what looked like a pretty decent rug burn. “Not a problem.” He raised the camera and brought it to his face, focusing the lens on her. “Bill Haman. Photographer with the
Post
. Mind if I take a few pictures?”
Sonny glanced down at the media pass dangling at the front of his shirt. Sure enough, his name was in fact Bill Haman and he was a photojournalist with the
DenverPost
. Said so right there next to his headshot and everything. How very official.
