Triple Score

by Regina Kyle

  “Fast.” Holly untangled a chubby fist from her hair and handed her daughter a ring of plastic keys, which she immediately began chewing on. “And sneaky. I’m exhausted. It’s like she started walking and hasn’t stopped. Yesterday, I turned my back for a second and she figured out how to open the sliding glass door. She was halfway to the lake before I caught her.”

  Noelle’s gaze drifted to her brace then back to the computer. “Maybe she can give me a few pointers.”

  “Rehab not going well?” Holly asked, bouncing the toddler on her own perfectly healthy knee.

  “Rehab’s rehab. Two hours a day of torture to move an inch forward.” Noelle ran a hand through her still sweat-dampened hair. “I just want to be back on stage, as soon as possible.”

  “Have the doctors given you any idea when that might be?”

  “No.” What she didn’t want to admit—to Holly or herself—was that the question wasn’t so much when as it was if. “They’re telling me to take it one day at a time. Easy for them to say. It’s not their life on hold.”

  “You’re more than your career, Noe.”

  “I know.” And she did. Really. For her, ballet wasn’t about the bright lights, the elaborate costumes or the thundering applause. It was about the dancing, pure and simple. Something she’d done each day, every day since she was just a few years older than her niece. And if she didn’t have that...

  She pasted on a smile. Things were treading dangerously close to The Turning Point territory. Accentuate the positive, her mother always said. “I’m off the crutches.”

  “That’s a good sign, right?”

  “So they say. I’m putting weight on it. Even rode the stationary bike today.” She conveniently left out the fact that she’d practically passed out afterward.

  “If anyone can come back from this, you can,” Holly insisted. “I’ve never known anyone as fearless as you, especially when it comes to your dancing. Remember how you convinced Mom and Dad to let you take the subway into New York for lessons? Alone? At thirteen?”

  “It helped that I was the baby. By the time I was a teenager, you, Gabe and Ivy had already broken them down.”

  “Down.” A tiny toddler voice echoed through the computer’s tinny speakers. “Down.”

  “Nick,” Holly called, struggling to hold on to her fidgety daughter. “Can you come and take Joy?”

  A second later the handsome face of Holly’s movie-star husband appeared over her shoulder. “Hey, Noelle. Fighting the good fight?”

  Noelle nodded. “Always.”

  “Here.” Holly placed Joy into Nick’s waiting arms, her nose wrinkling. “I think she needs a fresh diaper.”

  “I got this.” He hoisted Joy into the crook of one arm and looked straight into the camera. “Hang tough, sis. We’re all rooting for you.”

  “Thanks, bro. See you at Thanksgiving?”

  “If not before. Enjoy your girl chat.”

  He bent to place a quick, tender kiss on Holly’s forehead, and not for the first time Noelle felt a pang of longing for all she’d sacrificed at the altar of ballet. Home. Husband. Kids. She couldn’t even have a pet, for Christopher’s sake. She’d tried once—a Yorkie she named Sous-Sus—and it had been a total disaster. Traveling with a dog, even a small one, had turned out to be a logistical nightmare. How Kelly Clarkson and Taylor Swift managed it was beyond her. She’d wound up giving Sous-Sus to her hairstylist, who was lucky enough to have a rent-controlled apartment within spitting distance of Central Park.

  “Come on, pumpkin.” Nick’s voice brought her back to the present and the computer screen. He had shifted his attention to his daughter, tweaking her button nose. “We’ve got a diaper to change.”

  They disappeared from view, leaving Holly alone on the screen. “Now that it’s just us gals over legal age, how about we talk about something more fun. Like boys.”

  “You’re trying to take my mind off the fact that I’m basically an unemployed invalid for the next who-knows-how-many months.”

  “Is it working?”

  “Not really.” Noelle flexed her feet and grimaced, even that tiny motion straining her overtired knee. “Besides, there’s not much in the way of prime man meat around this place.”

  “Liar.”

  “I am not lying.”

  “Are, too.” Holly crossed her arms in front of her chest. “You’ve got a tell.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Every time you lie, you tilt your head to one side. Usually the right. How do you think Mom knew you were the one who borrowed—” she put the word in air quotes “—her cashmere sweater and put it back with a huge stain on the sleeve?”

  “I figured you told her.”

  “So who is he?” Holly asked, refusing to be diverted. “Is he hot? I need the dirty deets.”

  “You’re married to People’s Sexiest Man Alive.”

  “And we have a toddler who doesn’t like to sleep in her own bed. I have to live vicariously through you, at least until we get through the terrible twos.”

  Noelle snickered. “Well, I hate to disappoint you, but he’s definitely not into me.”

  Not after she’d humiliated herself not once but twice by bursting in on him. And then been a total biatch to him on the bike.

  “Ah ha!” Holly snapped her fingers. “So there is a he.”

  Oops. And people thought Gabe was the master of cross-examination. Poor Joy didn’t stand a chance of getting away with anything as a teenager.

  “Don’t get excited. We’re more like squabbling siblings than star-crossed lovers.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Some hotshot baseball player. Jace something-or-another.”

  “Jace Monroe?” Holly squealed. “Oh my God, he’s totally gorgeous, if you go for the whole tatted-up, boy-from-the-wrong-side-of-the-tracks thing. Which you do.”

  “How do you even know who he is?” Noelle rolled her eyes. “You hate baseball.”

  “Nick’s a huge Storm fan from his time in California. He watches all their games on the MLB network.” Holly reached out of the frame to grab a Diet Coke. “But this conversation isn’t about me and Nick. It’s about you and Jace. What makes you think he’s not into you?”

  Noelle propped up the pillow behind her and leaned back against the headboard, juggling the computer on her lap so she stayed on camera. “You wouldn’t believe it.”

  “Try me.”

  While Holly sipped her soda, Noelle spilled the whole, sordid story, from interrupting what she thought was a sexual encounter to the love doll incident, ending with how she’d given him the cold shoulder in the gym that morning. When she finished, Holly clucked her tongue.

  “You need a do-over. Apologize to him again. And get it right this time.”

  “I had a feeling you’d say that.”

  “So what are you waiting for? Hang up and say you’re sorry to that beautiful hunk of man.”

  “I’m afraid of what I might walk in on.” Noelle laughed a little too loud, trying to hide the fact that her words had conjured images of Jace in all kinds of compromising—and mostly naked—positions. “I don’t exactly have the best track record where he’s concerned.”

  “Aha,” Holly nodded and her lips curved knowingly. “Now I understand.”

  “Understand what?”

  “You’ll find out soon enough.”

  “No, I won’t.” Noelle smacked a palm down on the bedside table. “I can’t afford to get sidetracked by some charmer in a muscle tee and athletic shorts. I’m fighting for my career here, Hols.”

  “What good’s a career without someone to come home to?”

  “I’m not looking for a life partner. I’ve got all I can handle right now.”

  “Okay, then. Who says he has to be Mr. Right? What’s wrong with Mr. Right Now? You’re young. Let loose. Live a little.” A baby’s cry made Holly startle, and she sighed. “I’ve gotta go. Nick’s a magician with his hands, but give him a diaper and he falls apart.
”

  “TMI, big sis. TMI.”

  Holly chuckled. “Think about what I said. And call me when you and Mr. MVP kiss and make up.”

  “We’re not going to...”

  But Holly’s smiling face had already disappeared from the computer screen. And Noelle wasn’t any closer to figuring out how she was going to coexist for the next few weeks with the sexiest shortstop in the southwest without making a total fool out of herself again.

  Or jumping his oh-so-fine bones.

  3

  “IN BASEBALL, THE STORM trounced St. Louis 11–3 behind the red-hot bat of rookie phenom Dean Hafler. Hafler’s been on fire since taking over for injured starting shortstop Jace Monroe, hitting .327 with runners in scoring position. He’s settled down in the field, too, playing error-free defense in his last six games.”

  “Effing Sportscenter.” Jace jabbed a finger at the power button on the remote, but the commentator droned on.

  “Monroe reinjured his UCL in last month’s series against Philadelphia, and it’s uncertain when—or if—he’ll return. Sources close to the team say even with Monroe healthy, Hafler’s stats may put him in the running for the starting job next season.”

  “Sources, my ass.” No doubt Hafler’s barracuda of an agent had floated that rumor, trying to up his client’s ante in the free-agent market in the off season. Jace threw the remote down, stalked over to the television and turned it off. “The only way that little pissant’s gonna steal my job is over my dead body.”

  Jace snatched his cell off the nightstand. He needed some air and to have a good, long talk with his own worthless agent. He had a few questions that needed answering—like why the hell was he hearing this shit on ESPN and not from the guy he paid to protect his career.

  He pulled open the door, already hitting his agent’s speed dial, and almost plowed into Noelle.

  “Bad time?” She stood with her fist raised to knock on the door he’d flung open. He found himself hoping she’d drop her palm on his chest, let its heat scorch through the well-worn cotton of his favorite T-shirt, right over the word guy in I’m the Guy Your Mother Warned You About. Instead, it fell to her side, a smile playing around the corners of her mouth. “Again? I thought the third time was supposed to be the charm.”

  He pressed the end-call button, stuck the phone in his back pocket and leaned against the door frame. “No PT. No sex toys. Just me, about to go for a walk.”

  “Can I join you?” The way she moistened her lips told him she was nervous, although it didn’t shed any light on why. But that didn’t stop his dick from twitching as her tongue darted out again. “I’m not exactly up to warp speed, but the doctors say I need to start moving around more now that I’ve lost the crutches.”

  He stuffed a hand in the pocket of his jeans, hoping to hide what was sure to be a monster erection if he didn’t get the damn thing under control, and fast. “I can’t guarantee I’ll be good company.”

  “Bad company’s better than no company. And everybody else in this place is either still going through puberty or over sixty.”

  “Meaning?” His eyes narrowed.

  “Meaning I’m going stir-crazy, and I need someone to share these with.” She produced a tin from behind her back.

  “What’s in there?”

  She jiggled the tin and the contents rattled. “Contraband.”

  He crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Drugs? Laundered money? An AK-47?”

  “Better.” She cracked the lid and held the tin under his nose. He smelled almonds and something he thought was coconut. “My mom’s homemade macaroons. Strictly off-limits under the rehab diet. I was hoping they’d convince you to give me another shot at apologizing.”

  “Apology accepted.” He pushed off the door frame, closing the door behind him. His agent could wait. He wasn’t about to turn down a beautiful blonde, especially one bearing baked goods. “Come on. I know the perfect spot to enjoy them undetected.”

  She snapped the lid of the tin shut and followed him down the hall toward the reception area. He slowed, shortening his steps so she could keep up with him.

  “Hold it right there.” The nurse manning the main desk abandoned her post and jumped in front of them, one hand outstretched like a traffic cop or a member of the Supremes. “Where do you two think you’re going?”

  “Easy, Nurse Ratched.” Jace softened the jab with his never-fail-to-charm-their-pants-off smile—if you didn’t count Noelle—and snaked an arm around the ballerina’s waist. “We’re only going for a walk.”

  Noelle not-so-subtly elbowed him in the ribs.

  “It’s okay, Connie. Now that I’m off crutches, the doctors want me to work the kinks out of this thing.” She tapped the brace covering her knee. “I promise we won’t go far.”

  “Stay on the grounds.” Connie let them pass.

  “Thanks, doll,” Jace called over his shoulder as he steered Noelle to the exit. “Don’t wait up.”

  “Nice try,” Connie hollered back. “But if you’re not back by curfew, I’m calling in the search dogs.”

  “Great. I love dogs.” The automatic doors slid open, blasting Jace with a burst of Arizona air, still hot even with the sun low on the horizon.

  “Where’s this so-called perfect spot?” Noelle asked after they’d walked a few feet.

  “Don’t knock it until you see it.” He guided her onto a concrete path that ran alongside a man-made pond before disappearing down a hill into a strand of acacia. “And it’s just past those trees.”

  At least it was two years ago.

  “You weren’t very nice to Connie,” Noelle scolded.

  “Connie’s okay.” His voice cracked on the last syllable. Damned if Noelle’s schoolmarm tone didn’t get him hotter than center field at Wrigley in July. He cleared his throat and started again. “We go way back. She’d be disappointed if I didn’t mess with her.”

  “Old flame?” Noelle eyed him suspiciously.

  “Not even close.” They rounded a corner at the bottom of the hill and he led her to a wooden bench on the other side of the trees. Just as he’d remembered it, down to the sun-faded, weather-worn slats still needing a fresh coat of paint. “She was here the last time I was in.”

  He sat, patting the spot next to him. She followed suit, stretching her bad leg out in front of her. “The last time?”

  He nodded, lifted his elbow, then let it fall. “This is my second stint with this thing. Tore it two years ago and got away without going under the knife. Not so lucky this time.”

  Her eyes filled with a pity he didn’t deserve and sure as hell didn’t want, especially from her. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be.” He scuffed the ground in front of him with the toe of his Vans. “Odds are it’ll be stronger than ever.”

  “Good.”

  He liked that she didn’t ask questions or spout any of the bullshit he’d heard every day since his injury: “It could be worse,” or “You’ll be back out there sooner than you know it.” And his favorite, “A million guys would kill to have the career you’ve had.”

  Assholes. Like he didn’t know how lucky he’d been. Like he was a greedy bastard for wanting more.

  “So how about those cookies?” He gestured toward the tin. She popped the lid and they each took a macaroon. He bit through the crisp shell and was instantly rewarded with a burst of moist, coconutty goodness.

  “Damn, your mom can bake,” he mumbled through a mouthful of cookie.

  “She’s Italian,” Noelle said, as if that explained everything. And, in a way, it did. His mom’s idea of preparing a meal had involved a takeout menu and a cell phone. At least he hadn’t missed her cooking when she’d ditched him and his dad for greener pastures.

  He reached for another and they ate in silence for a few minutes, the only sound their chewing, interrupted periodically by his moans of pleasure.

  “Ballet did this, huh?” He nodded at her knee, extended in front of her.

  She put
the tin down on the bench between them. “We’re not going there again, are we?”

  “I never went there in the first place.” He grabbed another cookie and stuffed it into his mouth. “I’m an athlete. But you—I watched you. You’re an athlete and an artist.”

  “You...watched me?”

  “You can find just about anything on YouTube these days.”

  She winced. “Then I suppose you saw the video of my accident. It’s got over a million hits. Seems people enjoy watching the suffering of others. The Germans even have a word for it. Schadenfreude.”

  “I don’t know about the Germans, but I don’t get my jollies by seeing folks in pain.” He tapped his brace. “I tore this in front of 40,000 people at Citizens Bank Park. Had to be escorted off the field.”

  “Ouch.”

  “You said it.”

  “And I thought twenty-five hundred witnesses at Lincoln Center was bad. That calls for another cookie.”

  She held up a macaroon, but instead of taking it from her he leaned forward and bit into it, his lips brushing her fingertips. The contact sent a buzz of lust through him, and he jerked back.

  “No good?” she asked, her voice husky. Her tongue darted out to moisten her lips and his cock swelled.

  “To the contrary.” His voice matched hers. “A little too good.”

  “The cookie? Or...?” Her hand still hung midair, clutching the remains of the macaroon.

  “Or.” He took hold of her wrist and brought her hand to his mouth. “If you don’t want me to eat that damn cookie right out of your pretty little fingers then suck them into my mouth one by one, licking off every last crumb, stop me now.”

  Her eyes darkened to the navy blue of the Yankees logo. “And if I do?”

  He nipped her fingertips. “Then sit back, relax and enjoy the ride.”

  * * *

  RELAX? HE WANTED her to relax? Who was he kidding?

  If pressing against him as he’d helped her up in the gym had been trapeze-without-a-net stupid, then this was Russian-roulette reckless. But Holly’s words echoed in her head.

  Let loose. Live a little. Who says he has to be Mr. Right? What’s wrong with Mr. Right Now?