Triple Score

by Regina Kyle

  He lowered the weight to the floor with a grimace and leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees and staring at his reflection in the mirror. The guy who looked back at him had never been afraid of a little hard work. Hell, it wasn’t the first time he’d torn a ligament in his throwing arm. Been there, done that and he had come back in record time. But this time he’d needed surgery, and he’d be lying if he said the man in the mirror didn’t look a little scared.

  The pocket in his gym shorts buzzed and he pulled out his cell, glanced at the screen and swiped his finger across, grateful for the interruption. “Hey, dude. Tough loss.”

  On the other end of the line, Cooper Morgan, Sacramento Storm second baseman, swore. “Yeah. The close ones really suck. How’s the rehab going?”

  Slow. Painful. “Great. I’ll be back at short before you know it.”

  “Not until next season.” A note of caution crept into Cooper’s voice. He and Jace were part of the trio the press dubbed “the most lethal double play combo in the major leagues,” and he’d always been the level-headed one. “The good, the bad and the ugly,” a reporter had called them. Cooper was the “good,” Jace the “bad” and first baseman Reid Montgomery, with a jagged scar across one cheek that made him look a modern-day pirate, the “ugly.”

  “I know. I heard the damn doctors.”

  “I’m sure you heard them. But are you actually going to listen for a change?”

  “Who appointed you my goddamn keeper?”

  “It was either me or Reid.” Jace could hear the smile in his friend’s voice. “And he’s got some new chick he’s into, so...”

  Jace chuckled and reached down to grab the water bottle he’d stashed under the bench. “Say no more. Let me guess. Tall, blond and drop dead gorgeous, with an IQ only slightly higher than her waist measurement.”

  Cooper’s answering chuckle echoed over the phone. “Bingo.”

  Like the Duchess. Except for the IQ thing. Jace could tell from her quick barbs she had more going on upstairs than Reid’s usual companions.

  Beauty and brains. A dangerous combination.

  Jace took a gulp of water and swirled it around in his mouth before letting it trickle down his throat. “So what’s the deal? You still coming out here for the All Star break?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Think they’ll let you out for a day or two?”

  “I don’t see why not.” Jace sipped the water again and closed his eyes, letting his head fall back. “As long as I’m a good boy.”

  “You?” Cooper scoffed. “Not likely.”

  “I can be good,” Jace insisted. “When I want to be.”

  “Which, unfortunately, isn’t often.”

  “Did you call to harass me or was there something you wanted?” Jace chugged the last of his water and wiped his mouth on his good arm.

  “To harass you.”

  “Mission accomplished.” Jace stood and stretched. “I better go. Rumor has it they get pissed around here if you’re not in bed by ten.”

  “Are you at rehab or summer camp?”

  “Both.” Jace bent to pick up the weight. “I’ll call you in a few days. Kick some ass for me in St. Louis.”

  “You bet.”

  Jace ended the call, returned the weight to its place on the rack and headed back to his room. Once inside, he flipped on the light switch and stared, open-mouthed.

  “What the hell?”

  The bed had been empty when he left to meet Sara. Now one of those inflatable love dolls lay sprawled on top, her cherry-tipped breasts pointed straight up at the ceiling and her ruby red mouth in a permanent O. A cardboard box sat between her open legs. On one side, the words For Your Enjoyment: Handle With Care were printed in bold, bright blue marker. No return address, but the postmark was from Chicago, where the Storm had finished up a recent road trip.

  Jace flicked open the utility knife on his key chain, sliced through the packing tape and began pulling out items one by one. A box of condoms. A tube of Astroglide. He kept digging. The damn thing was packed with enough sex toys to keep a rowdy bachelorette party whooping it up for hours.

  Cooper and Reid’s warped idea of a care package. They’d probably paid some gullible orderly a fortune to do their dirty work. Or maybe offered him box seats the next time the Storm were in Phoenix.

  “Very funny, assholes.”

  The corners of Jace’s lips curled into a smile in spite of himself. It was funny. Though God only knew what the staff would think when they came to clean in the morning.

  He started chucking stuff back in the box until all that was left was the doll. No way was she going to fit, not in her present state. And he sure as hell wasn’t leaving her like that. With a sigh, Jace opened the valve.

  Nothing.

  He picked up the doll and squeezed it. A long, slow whoosh of air escaped from the valve. He squeezed again. “Come on, baby. Give it to me.”

  A shrill, female squeak from behind him made Jace turn toward the door, the doll still in his arms.

  “Sorry.” Noelle leaned against the door jamb, almost as if her crutches weren’t enough to keep her vertical. Her porcelain cheeks tinted red. “Again.”

  “Back for some more covert operations?” Jace loosened his hold on the doll. “Has anyone ever told you your timing sucks?”

  “Maybe it’s not my timing.” Her eyes traveled from him to the doll and back again. “Maybe it’s your...libido.”

  “Very funny.” He smiled in spite of himself. She was smart, sassy and not in the least bit intimidated by his tattoos or his attitude or his fame, like so many women. “You know there was nothing going on between me and Sara.”

  “That doesn’t explain you and...” she wagged a finger at the doll “...her.”

  “A practical joke from a couple of friends.”

  “Some friends.”

  He threw the doll onto the floor and stepped on it, squashing one plastic boob. The air came out in a hiss, and he continued to flatten the doll with his feet.

  “You’re going to pop it.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Do I look like I care?”

  “You never know. You might need her for...something.”

  “Like I said, I’ve never been that hard up for female companionship. And I don’t plan to start now.”

  “From the way things looked a minute ago, you could have fooled me.”

  He stopped his rhythmic stomping to stare at her. “Was there a reason for this late-night visit? Couldn’t sleep? Lonely? Miss me, maybe?”

  Her face flushed an ever deeper scarlet. “Sara said I should apologize for spying on you guys.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Not much of an apology if she’s making you do it.”

  “I’m here, aren’t I?” she huffed. “And no one’s holding a gun to my back.”

  “Well?” He folded his arms across his chest.

  “Well, what?”

  “I’m waiting.” She narrowed her eyes at him, and he tilted his head. “For your apology.”

  “You really are the most infuriating man.” Her lower lip jutted out into a pout that he shouldn’t have found so sexy.

  “I’ve heard.” He shrugged. “Many times. But I’m not the one who has something to apologize for.”

  “All right, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have listened in. And I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions.” Her aqua eyes flashed with righteous indignation. “Are you satisfied?”

  “Hardly.” He picked up the deflated doll, stuffed it into the box and closed the lid before she could get a glimpse of any of the other goodies inside. “But it’ll do. For now.”

  “Forever,” she countered as she turned to leave. “I’m here to get back on my feet, not make friends.”

  “We’ll see about that, Duchess.” He frowned, realizing he still didn’t know her damn name, and watched, transfixed by the swaying of her perfect ass as she disappeared out the door. The squeak of her crutches on the linoleum of the hallway echoed in her w
ake. “We’ll see.”

  He tossed the box onto the floor and stretched out on his bed, the room strangely empty without her larger-than-life presence. He liked sparring with her. She was a worthy opponent and a certified babe to boot, with eyes a guy could get lost in, hair that begged to be mussed and a body built for sin. And she’d made him forget for a moment, had briefly lifted the tension that had gripped his chest since he went down on the field.

  He smiled and reached for the TV remote. Maybe rehab didn’t have to be a total drag. All work and no play made Jace a dull boy.

  And if there was one thing he wasn’t, it was dull.

  2

  THE CLOCK ON the wall read 11:15 when Jace sauntered into the PT room the next morning. A full 45 minutes before his session was scheduled. No one would mind if he did a little cardio first, right?

  Wrong.

  “What are you doing here?” Sara rushed over to him before he could even put down his water bottle. “Your appointment’s not until noon.”

  “I wanted to get some time in on the treadmill.”

  “No way.” Sara shook her head. “I don’t want you jarring that elbow until it’s more stable.”

  “It’s in a brace, for Christ’s sake.” Jace looked at his arm, the joint in question almost immobile thanks to the range-of-motion splint, and scowled. “How much more stable can it get?”

  “You just got here yesterday.” She pursed her lips. “I haven’t had a chance to fully assess it yet.”

  He held up his arm. “Assess away.”

  “I have other patients to deal with right now.” She waved a hand around the room. A handful of other residents were using the equipment. One in particular caught his attention—a very familiar one on a stationary bike in the far corner, her ponytail swinging as she pedaled.

  He registered the empty treadmill beside her and grinned. Like Hannibal Smith, leader of the A-team, he loved it when a plan came together. “How come she gets to work out?”

  “Because she’s been here for a few weeks already. Today’s her first day off crutches.” Sara looked from Jace to the blonde, then back again. “And she’s taking it easy. She follows instructions. Unlike some people.”

  “Hey, I can follow instructions.” Never mind that he’d completely ignored them last night. “When I have to.”

  She smirked. “You forget I have your records from the hospital in California.”

  Yeah. He hadn’t exactly been a hit with the staff there. Noncompliant, they’d labeled him. Uncooperative. He preferred to think of himself as focused. Goal oriented. “What if I promise to go slow, like the Duchess?”

  “The Duchess?” Sara’s brows knotted together.

  Damn. He hadn’t meant to let that slip.

  “Yeah. She seems kind of...prissy. What’s she in for? Fall off her high heels? Get trampled by crazed shoppers at the Macy’s one-day sale?”

  “You don’t have any idea who she is, do you?” Sara jabbed a finger at his chest. “That’s Noelle Nelson.”

  Finally. The Duchess had a name. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

  “She’s only like the most famous ballerina in the country. Maybe even the world. Principal dancer with the New York City Ballet.”

  Ballet? Jace knew as much about ballet as he did about nuclear physics. But he knew you needed two fully functioning knees. And from the look of the contraption on Noelle’s leg, she was in the same boat as him where her career was concerned. Without a paddle.

  He watched her as she pedaled, her mouth set in a harsh line, a bead of sweat forming on her temple, her knuckles white on the handlebars. As slow as she was going, it still took an emotional toll. “Shit.”

  “Yeah, shit.” Sara gave him a not-so-gentle shove toward the treadmill. “Go. Walk. But if I see you doing anything more than that, I’m hitting the emergency stop button.”

  “Deal.” Jace started to offer his hand to her but pulled it back. “I’d shake on it, but I wouldn’t want to jar anything.”

  “Ha-ha.” Sara picked up a physioball and headed across the room, where an older man with one ankle wrapped was sitting on a mat next to a set of low parallel bars. “I’ll come get you when it’s time for your session.”

  Jace set off in the opposite direction.

  “Morning, Duchess.” He plunked his water bottle into the holder on the treadmill console. “Fancy meeting you here.”

  She stared out the window, not so much as glancing at him. “I thought we agreed to steer clear of each other.”

  “You agreed. I just smiled.” He flashed her another of his never-fail-to-charm grins and hit the start button on the treadmill, setting the speed as high as he could without incurring the wrath of Sara.

  “If you have to work out next to me, could you at least keep your mouth shut?”

  “I thought we’d chit-chat. Get to know each other. Pass the time. Hell, at this speed, I could recite the Gettysburg Address.” He peeked over his shoulder for Sara. Her back to him, she was totally occupied with the guy in the ankle wrap. He edged the rate of the treadmill up a notch. “If I remembered it.”

  Noelle swiveled her head to look at him. Finally. Too bad her baby blues flashed with annoyance and not a more...pleasurable emotion. Like desire. “What part of ‘I’m not here to make friends’ did you not get?”

  “You can’t have too many friends. And you know what they say about all work and no play.”

  “Well, I don’t want to play.” Her head snapped forward, her attention back on the window, or whatever lay outside it. “You’re not the only one with a job on the line and people counting on you.”

  “Sara says you’re some big-time ballerina.”

  “Sara’s new. She talks too much.”

  “What’d you do?” He gestured toward her leg. “Torn ACL?”

  “How did you guess?”

  “I’ve seen a few in my time. Not on a dancer, though.”

  “Dancers are just as much athletes as baseball players.” From the way the last two words dripped off her tongue, it was clear she considered his profession on par with used car salesmen and politicians. “More so, if you asked me. You don’t see us sitting on the bench, spitting tobacco. And the guys I work with throw around hundred-pound ballerinas, not a five ounce sphere.”

  “Easy, Duchess.” He held up a palm. “I wasn’t trying to insult you.”

  “You don’t have to try.” She tossed her ponytail. “You just do.”

  “Like Yoda?”

  “Minus the green skin and the pointy ears, obviously.”

  “So you think dancers are better athletes than ballplayers?”

  “Not better.” Wrinkles creased her forehead like she was deep in thought, searching for the right word to bridge the gap between her occupation and his. “Different. But we earn our living with our bodies, just like you do.”

  “Finally.” He flashed another mega-watt smile, with as little effect as the last one. Damn. He hadn’t struck out this many times in a row since he’d faced Johan Santana at Shea his rookie season. “Something we have in common.”

  “I seriously doubt there’s anything else.”

  “Do you?” He raised an eyebrow.

  “Let’s just say I’m not interested in finding out.” She slowed, then stopped pedaling.

  “That’s disappointing.”

  “I guess you’ll have to learn to live with disappointment.”

  She eased herself off the bike and made her way over to the free weights. He shrugged off her pissy attitude, knowing from personal experience she was covering for something. Like the fear of losing a lifetime of hard work.

  Besides, it was just as well. If their conversation had gone on any longer, he might have let slip just how well acquainted he was with disappointment.

  “What the hell?”

  He stumbled as the treadmill came to a stop. Sara stood next to the machine, her finger still on the e-stop button. “I warned you.”

  “I was barely movin
g.”

  “You were practically running.” She handed him a towel. “It’s time for your session. Wipe off your machine and let’s get going. You’re in my army now, hotshot.”

  Great. Not even noon and he’d already managed to piss off two women. With a groan, he balled up the towel, tossed it into a nearby hamper and followed Sara.

  It was gonna be a fan-freaking-tabulous day.

  * * *

  WHAT WAS IT about Jace Monroe that brought out her inner diva?

  Noelle flopped onto her bed, if you could call gingerly lowering herself so as to avoid jolting her bum-knee flopping. She really should take a shower, but she didn’t have the energy after her workout. Half an hour on a stupid stationary bike, and she felt as spent as if she’d danced Aurora in Sleeping Beauty. Plus, she was supposed to Skype with Holly in—she glanced at the digital clock on her nightstand—ten minutes.

  Fuming, she ran a brush through her hair in a futile attempt to look presentable and pulled her laptop out from under the bed. Why did she let him get to her? She’d dealt with plenty of macho morons who saw ballet as some sort of sissy thing. One fairly innocuous comment from Jace, and she’d flown off the handle.

  The guy must think she was a lunatic. Not that she cared what he thought. Not one bit.

  Now she just had to convince her brain, which seemed to be fixated on him. And her heart, which beat a little faster every time he looked at her with that maddeningly sexy, Patrick-Swayze-in-Dirty-Dancing smile.

  She shrugged it off and booted up the computer. Nothing like a little time with her sister and niece to get her mind off bedroom eyes, sun-kissed skin and sculpted muscles, three things she didn’t need occupying valuable brain space. No, what she needed now was to be totally focused on her rehabilitation. Without that, her chances of dancing professionally again were next to nil.

  She’d just logged onto Skype when an alert flashed showing an incoming call. She clicked on “answer with video,” and a live feed of Holly popped up, a squirming, curly-haired toddler in her arms.

  “Hey, Hols.” Noelle settled in on the bed, adjusting the laptop across her knees so her own face showed in a box on the corner of the screen. “How’s my baby girl?”