Scoring

by Kristin Hardy

  The offhand tone hid warning signs in neon red. For the moment, she’d respect them, even though she wanted to know more. “Well, whatever happened, you’ve come back amazingly well.”

  “Outside of losing my career, yeah, I suppose you’re right.”

  Becka slowed to a jog, then a walk. “It’s a wonder you survived.”

  His lips twisted. “People usually tell me I’m lucky.”

  She glanced again at the scars. She couldn’t imagine a more brainless response. But then she’d just been whining to him about not having Olympic-caliber stuff, when he’d had a brilliant career snatched from him by some idiot’s irresponsibility. The sympathy from days before bloomed in her again, along with something more important. Respect. “I’d say you’re a hell of a survivor.”

  Mace stopped as well and stared down at her. Long seconds ticked by. He brushed a strand of hair out of her face. “And I’d say I’m starting to realize what I find so intriguing about you.”

  Those whiskey-gold eyes delved into hers. She stared back and suddenly it was like diving down into a deep well until she was immersed in him, until sight, sound, and scent, there was nothing but Mace. He just stood there, and yet it was as though he was all around her. She felt warm, molten with a pulse of something that went beyond desire, something that she shied away from thinking about.

  Off in the distance, a dog began barking. Becka stirred and blinked. “Um,” she said blankly. “Well, that’s…” Her voice trailed off again and she started to walk slowly. “Time for the weight room.”

  Mace stared at her for another long moment, she could feel it, and then followed after her. “Wait a minute.” He reached out and caught her arm to stop her. “You don’t walk away from that.”

  “From what?” She wouldn’t look at him, didn’t want to risk a repeat.

  He hesitated, then let go of her. “Never mind. Let’s go lift.”

  THE OLD STEEL BRIDGE arced across the river. The trip across from the UMass track to LeChere ballpark didn’t leave her nearly enough time for her system to settle. It seemed like one minute they were crossing over, the next they were in the gloom under the stadium grandstands, following the concrete walkway that led to the clubhouse entrance.

  Mace leaned one hand against the door as Becka bent to pull a key from the Velcro pouch hooked to her shoelaces. “So how do you rate a key?”

  Becka glanced up at him and took a breath. The shadows hooded his eyes and carved hollows in his cheeks. The lean, predatory look was back, she saw with a surge of adrenaline. Suddenly clumsy, she fumbled with the key.

  “You want some help with that?”

  She ignored him, concentrating on getting the key into the lock and opening the door. Inside, only the glow of the emergency lights illuminated the gloom. She brushed the wall, searching for the light switch.

  “It’s probably along here, somewhere by the door,” Mace said, searching alongside her. The heat of his palm brushed her hand just as she found the toggle and flipped it on.

  “No one’s here, huh?” he asked.

  Becka let a breath out slowly. The bright lighting didn’t help nearly as much as she’d hoped it would. Instead, edgy awareness filled her. “Not this early. Any players who want to work out in the morning have to wait until the front office staff comes in at nine. For the time being, anyway, we’ve got it to ourselves.”

  They walked up to the darkened doorway of the weight room. When she snapped the switch, fluorescent lights flickered on and the walls of mirrors threw their reflections back at them, multiplied them tenfold. Becka and Mace. Mace and Becka. She’d known he was taller than she, but it surprised her to see that her head barely topped his shoulder. He looked deceptively lean; unless you’d seen him without a shirt, as she had, you’d never realize his strength. That outrageously sexy mouth and those hot eyes, though, you saw those coming a mile away.

  “Nice equipment,” he said, waving at the array of work-out gear, but his eyes met hers in the mirror.

  She wouldn’t jump to the bait. “Yeah, they redid it last year. It makes it easier to supervise workouts. Used to be the team had to go to a Gold’s Gym across town. Now all I have to do is show up here and keep circling the room.”

  She walked over to the stereo and flipped it on. Talk radio filled the room with the sounds of a shock deejay she abhorred. Concentrating on changing it to a blues rock station, she didn’t register the motion out of the corner of her eye. She jumped to find Mace standing behind her.

  “Sorry, I was just looking for one of these,” he said, gesturing to the stack of towels that sat on the table next to the stereo. He reached around her, leaning in until she could feel his breath on her shoulder and his arm curving around her body. She couldn’t move away from his arm without backing into him. She wouldn’t move away from his arm because she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

  After what seemed like an eternity, Mace stepped back and Becka took a deep breath. He crossed over to the quad machine and began to work his legs pitilessly, intensity and relentless drive etched into his face.

  Becka sat down at the lat machine and reached up to grasp the wide bar that dangled from a cable over her head, pulling the bar down over and over.

  Normally when she worked out, she focused on the movement, on making each muscle work to maximum effort. This time, her eyes kept straying to the mirrors, and Mace. He started doing cable flies. The muscles in his arm rippled and tensed, and Becka stared, mesmerized, holding onto the bar over her head. She’d seen his power the day he’d hit the homer at batting practice, but now there was no one around to distract her from the rigid definition of his body.

  “Don’t you have some weights to lift?”

  She jumped, and saw Mace grinning at her in the mirror. He could see everything in the room, she realized, thanks to the myriad reflections. Including her staring at him, she thought with a flush. With renewed determination she went back to working her lats, staring determinedly at the tubular white frame of the weight machine. Behind her, the weight plates clanked as Mace finished working the other arm.

  He moved to the bench press and began loading up the bar with weight plates. Becka stirred and stopped her exercise. “You shouldn’t lift that kind of weight without a spotter.”

  “Do tell.” He rolled his head to look at her as he put his hands up to the bar. “Does that mean you’re volunteering?”

  She didn’t answer, just crossed over to the head of the bench press and put her hands on the weight bar. Mace stared up at her, his eyes tawny and direct, his legs corded with muscle, hips lean and tight. He wrapped his fingers around the bar and gave a grunt as he lifted it out of the rack and lowered it to his chest, then pressed it up, straightening out his arms. As he lowered it, Becka held her palms under the bar, not carrying any weight, just shadowing the motion in case he needed help.

  But clearly he didn’t. The bar rose and sank, smooth and controlled, his muscles swelling with each lift. Each time, Becka leaned toward him, watching the intensity on his face as he moved the weight in a smooth line. He stopped after seven repetitions, his breathing quickening.

  “You want to do one of your sets while I’m waiting for my next one?”

  “Sure.” Becka sat down on the chest press machine and moved the pin to select the weight plates.

  “No free weights?”

  “Not for chest press. I usually work out alone and I have an aversion to strangling myself with the weight bar.” She sat upright on the padded seat of the weight machine and gripped the shoulder-high handles.

  Mace walked up and stood in front of her. Taking a deep breath, she began to push out on the handles, breathing out as she did so. Mace curled his fingers around the square tubes of the weight machine, shadowing the motion of the bars as Becka pushed out to raise the weights, leaning in toward her each time she let the bars move in toward her body, lowering the weights. Mace leaned in and away, tracking the motion of the bars, a motion that was rhythmic,
repetitive. Like sex, she thought suddenly. He leaned in again as though he was going to kiss her, and Becka stopped abruptly. “Your turn,” she said, with only a slight tremor to her voice. Kissing him was definitely not on the program. In fact, thinking about kissing him wasn’t even on the program.

  Mace stayed put a moment, then turned to the bench press. “Whatever you say.”

  Becka watched as he lay back down on the bench and lifted the bar. There was something she’d always found enormously sexy about weight lifting. The process had always made her immensely aware of her body, its motions, its hungers. Suddenly Mace’s eyes locked in on hers, his gaze intent, even as he pressed the weight up over and over. His eyes pinned her, held her until she forgot to move, forgot to breathe. Then he’d racked the bar and was sitting up again, raking his hair out of his eyes with a careless hand.

  They moved to the military press bench and loaded up the bar, Mace sitting in the ruthlessly upright seat that faced the mirrors. Becka stood behind him, resting her hands on the bar. She stared at the tight sinew of his forearms, fascinated by the strength and power. Then his fingers brushed hers and she jumped.

  “Becka?”

  Her eyes met his in the mirror. “Yes, what?”

  The look in them was knowing. “Can I lift now?”

  “Knock yourself out,” she muttered, her face flaming. It was that body, she thought as her hands shadowed the moving weight bar. That body and the fact that she hadn’t had sex for three months. At least not with another person, anyway. Those were the only reasons she was getting distracted.

  Mace lifted and the damp T-shirt caught on his back, inhibiting his movement. He put the bar down abruptly. “This has got to go,” he muttered and pulled off his T-shirt.

  If it had been hard before to keep from getting distracted, now it was impossible. His body had stopped her cold the first time she’d seen him with a shirt off. Now, watching his muscles tighten and shift in the mirror, she was hard-pressed to keep herself together.

  Mace finished his set and wiped the seat with the towel. “You doing any shoulder work?”

  “Military press, same as you.” She fastened bright red lifting straps around her wrists.

  “I thought you didn’t do free weights.”

  “Just not bench press.” She loaded up the bar and sat down.

  Mace stood behind her. She wrapped the lifting straps around the bar and clenched her hands on top to aid her grip. Then she took a breath and pressed the bar up. Instead of shadowing the bar with his fingers, he touched his hands under her elbows, following them as she pushed the weight bar up and her arms straightened. His touch sent tendrils of awareness curling through her muscles, tendrils she tried to ignore, focusing instead on her breathing. Three reps became four, then lifting the bar became an effort.

  “Come on, you can do a couple more,” Mace said, pushing lightly on her elbows to encourage her. Becka took a deep breath and began to press the bar up again, this time panting and concentrating on making the weight move. “Oh yeah, sugar, just like that,” he said in that honey molasses drawl. “Oh yeah, that’s good, don’t stop.” He was talking about weight lifting, but his voice…

  His voice was talking about sex.

  Muscles suddenly weak, Becka racked the bar and walked toward the squat rack without looking back, lifting straps still dangling from her wrists. She loaded the weight plates, then stepped into the frame to get the bar on her shoulders. Slowly, carefully she lowered. Concentrating on the movement let her keep from thinking about the man in the room. The first few reps were easy—they always were—but then she began to work. She saw Mace step in close behind her and waited for him to press his fingers on the weight bar.

  Instead, he put his hands above her waist, high on her ribs and pushed up.

  Becka caught her breath in a gasp. His hands slid under her cropped running T-shirt and burned into the skin like a brand. Becka tried to concentrate on her breathing without success. She should move to stop him, but it was hard because, she finally admitted, it was what she really wanted. As her endorphin buzz mounted, a growing part of her was whispering that having his hands all over her was all that mattered. “What are you doing?” she managed.

  “Spotting you.” His eyes were on hers in the mirror before them, intent as they rose up together until she was standing. “Again.”

  She sank down and he moved with her, his body curving against hers as she moved down to the floor, then brushing against her as they moved back up in tandem.

  “Once more,” he challenged her, his fingers moving infinitesimally upward. “Come on, sugar, I’ll go with you. Give me one more.” His hands pressed against her, his breath ruffled her hair, his eyes held hers in the mirror. Becka moved down through the rep and back up, her entire body humming. It was all she could do to rack the weight bar and step out from underneath it, her legs trembling with fatigue as she turned—

  —only to find him closer than she’d thought. She started to brush past him, but then his hands snapped up to clamp around her waist even as her hands somehow flew in to clutch his shoulders. She opened her mouth to speak.

  And he pulled her against him, his mouth taking hers hard and urgent.

  There was no seduction; it was as primitive as the mastery of muscle over mass that they’d just fought through. His mouth tormented, making her want more even as he plundered. His flavor intoxicated, pulling her into a hot darkness that promised to set her afire. Every urge that she’d suppressed over the past days was alive, trembling through her, set loose at last.

  His hands were warm on her skin, sliding up under her flimsy T-shirt, down over her hips. The touch made her twist herself against him to get even closer. The urge was insistent and insatiable as she ran her hands over his back, over the muscle that she’d seen flex and pull, feeling the defined ridges.

  Mace ran his fingers over the stretchy fabric of her sports bra, then edged his fingers underneath to brush against the soft skin of her breast until she moaned. He opened his eyes and the mirrors reflected the two of them everywhere, replicating their images all around the room as he plundered her sweetness and tore a cry from her.

  Finally, he edged her toward the lat pulldown machine, laying her back on the flat padded bench and pressing himself against her. He’d known she’d feel like this, soft and taut and tempting. He wanted to be on her and in her, but somehow he wanted more, driven toward some edge he couldn’t name.

  Becka shivered at the touch of his hands. It was like the times she’d tried body surfing, being bowled over, pulled under, tossed around until she was wholly disoriented and operating only on instinct. One moment, everything was a chaos formed of sensation. The next, Mace was leaning back from her, pulling her to stand up, stretching her hands toward the lat bar. His mouth on hers kept her mind clear of thought so that she only vaguely registered that he was wrapping the lifting strap of her left hand around the bar, then closing her fingers over it. “Hold on tight,” he whispered, and turned his attention to her other hand. When she opened her mouth to protest, he covered it with his and whirled her around with more of those mind-bending kisses, running his hands up and down her arms until she had goose bumps.

  Brushing lightly, his fingertips slipped down onto her torso, slipping up under her shirt to tease her breasts, rubbing over the nipples through her bra until they were unbearably sensitive. Then he pulled the fabric up and his hands slid in to find her.

  Becka gasped as his fingers stroked the soft flesh, slipping up until they touched a nipple. It jolted her entire system, the heat, the pressure, the friction. He rolled the nubbin of flesh between his fingers until she moaned, then slipped his whole hand around the firm globe of her breast.

  She pressed herself toward him, toward the pressure of that hand. Need and desire had her twisting against him. It gave her a strange thrill to see them reflected in the wall of mirrors, her slender arms stretched apart, Mace’s torso dark against the pale flesh of her body.

&nb
sp; A slow, sexy blues song came out of the radio, the rhythm providing a counterpoint to their movement. Mace bent and put his mouth against her, stroking his tongue over her nipple, sucking and nipping it until she gave a strangled cry, then switching to the other side. His hands ran up and down her body until she wanted to scream.

  Becka tried to move her hands on the bar, the lifting straps tightening against the pull as they were designed to do. Mace’s mouth was sending her places she’d never been, even as his fingers stroked down over her hips and along the outside of her thighs, trailing up along the sensitive inner flesh until they just skimmed under her loose nylon running shorts. In a hypnotic circle, they ran up and down, even as the smooth stroke of his tongue and the scrape of his teeth on her nipples drove her mad. Then those clever fingers slid up under the shorts, swiftly, to find her hot and wet.

  Becka stiffened and cried out at his touch. She moved against it. Mace stroked her slowly, teasingly, even as he traced a path over her quivering stomach with his tongue. Feeling her shudder against his hand wasn’t enough. He wanted, needed to taste her. He moved to trail his lips up her thigh, then he was pulling her shorts to one side and finding her with his tongue.

  She tasted like passion, and the flavor intoxicated him. He knew from her incoherent cries and the helpless motions of her hips that the swirling strokes of his tongue were pushing her to the edge. It wasn’t enough, though. He wanted more, wanted to feel her move against him when she came, knowing that she couldn’t stop herself from tumbling over the edge. And he licked and stroked, sucked and nipped to drive her there.

  Becka gasped for air and tried to hold onto her sanity. She opened her eyes and saw herself and Mace, reflected in the mirrors all around the room. Saw herself, arms stretched out as though she were tied up, and Mace plundering her.

  Suddenly, she realized the chance they were taking. Anyone could come walking in unexpectedly, she thought with dawning horror, to see her hands bound apart like some virgin sacrifice, breasts exposed while Mace sampled her. She tried to pull her hands away from the bar, but the lifting straps still held her in place. “Stop,” she gasped. “Let go, let…” She finally remembered the canvas around her wrists and fumbled to free them. But Mace had pulled away and was already unwinding them so her hands were loose.