Love After Hours

by Radclyffe

  Houlihan’s streamed off the field and the Rivers ran out.

  Gina stiffened. The pitcher settling in on the mound was unexpectedly familiar. Her heart jumped in a weird and worrying way. She frowned. What the heck was that all about? Since when did a little surprise make her breath short?

  Joe hadn’t said much about his teammates when discussing the games with her. Not much reason to, really, since she didn’t know the hospital personnel. But she knew the pitcher. Ms. Longmire, executive admin, had pulled her red hair back into a ponytail and threaded it through a navy blue baseball cap with the number 1 on the front. Her tight black pants ended midcalf, and her baseball-cut maroon jersey with three-quarter-length sleeves fit her the way a sports shirt should, roomy enough to move around in, but not so big as to get in her way. Not so loose that it didn’t showcase her figure, either. Gina’s breathing got a little more uneven and she hooked the other hand in the fence, losing sight of everyone else on the field as she watched Longmire wind up to throw. She was fluid and graceful and looked like she’d been reigning on the mound for a lifetime.

  Longmire lobbed an easy pitch across home plate to the catcher, who threw it back. She snagged it out of the air with a quick flip of her wrist, looked over her shoulder toward first, and threw it arrow straight and lighting fast into the waiting first baseman’s mitt. The ball made the bases in a familiar warm-up routine and then back to the pitcher. Longmire turned toward home, paused, and frowned in Gina’s direction. With a slow smile and the barest tilt of her chin that might have been a hello or just a quick move to chase the errant strands of hair away from her eyes, she rocketed a bullet across the plate. Gina involuntarily jerked at the smack of fastball on leather.

  Well then. Gina reckoned she’d been noticed, and it looked like the game was on.

  *****

  The last person Carrie expected to see watching her from behind the backstop was Gina Antonelli. Even less expected was her reaction to seeing the builder staring at her. Sure, she noticed good-looking women, she was alive and breathing after all, and noticed them looking back, but those casual glances from strangers were a nice ego boost, something to smile at inwardly as she walked on by, but nothing to get her pulse racing. Gina provoked something entirely different. A fast shot of adrenaline mixed with something that felt suspiciously like lust coursed through her the instant she saw her. Not only was that weird, it was really disconcerting. She hadn’t had that kind of hormonal jolt since puberty. Maybe not even then. Not that she minded a good old healthy dose of arousal, but she really wished it wasn’t indiscriminate. And indiscriminate was the only word to describe any reaction to Gina Antonelli. Given her druthers, she’d pick almost any other woman than the just-on-the-edge-of-surly thorn in her side to get the hots over. But there she was, leaning insolently up against the chain-link, fingers foolishly linked through the fence, and annoyingly inciting hotness.

  How did Antonelli know she wasn’t going to throw a wild pitch and slam into her fingers? She had a vision of those long tapering fingers curled over Antonelli’s work belt that morning, cocky and sure like the rest of her. She definitely would not want to damage them. And in the next instant, she was firing a speedball during warm-up, registering the surprise on Harper’s face an instant later as she caught the rocket. Antonelli gave a satisfying jerk from behind the fence and then shot her an impudent grin as if she’d been reading her mind.

  Really. The woman was beyond annoying. Carrie wasn’t going to give her another thought. She had a game to win and wasn’t going to be bothered by a spectator. An inconsequential one at that. She dialed down her arm a little and finished her warm-up at a more reasonable pace, testing the corners of the plate, judging her curveball, working on the slider. She didn’t have to worry about her fastball. No one had clocked her in this league—there was really no need to. She was easily twenty miles an hour faster than anyone else, but she’d had four years of intense pitching coaching at Stanford. Some things came back quickly, and her arm was almost as good as it had been then.

  When Harper called an end to warm-up, she jogged over to the bench, studiously ignoring Gina, who sauntered back toward the bleachers directly behind them. At least she hadn’t come to watch Houlihan’s. That might be the final straw, if she was rooting for their competition. Flann sprinted across the field from the parking lot just as Harper was going over the starting roster. Harper was Flann’s mirror opposite in looks, in temperament too. Dark hair to Flann’s sandy blond, blue eyes to Flann’s brown. She was cool and steady while Flann burned hot and fast, but at the heart, they were carved from the same stock. Solid, strong, family-oriented, and loyal. Not to mention the hotness factor, which Carrie ignored, seeing as they were both married, or about to be, to her best friends. She didn’t begrudge Presley and Abby their perfect matches, since she knew she’d be looking for the same thing one day. Someone to count on, someone who wanted to build a life with her, someone who looked at her as if she was the only woman in the world. There had to be at least a few more woman left like that, and she was in no hurry.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Flann said, dropping her duffel onto the ground and her butt onto the bench. She leaned over and pulled out her cleats. “I wanted to stop home to see Blake first.”

  “No problem,” Harper said. “How is he?”

  “He’s good. He’s tough.”

  Everyone murmured some version of awesome and turned their attention back to Harper, who continued reading out the expected starting lineup. Carrie was on the mound, Harper was catching, and Glenn was at first base. They had the field first, so Carrie would have first shot at striking out Houlihan’s leadoff hitters. She liked the chance to make her mark first.

  “Remember to shift right for Beecher,” Harper said to the infielders. “She always pulls to that side, and she’ll take the first pitch that’s anywhere close.” Harper glanced at Carrie. “Give her something low. She swings high.”

  “Right,” Carrie said, although she didn’t need the advice. She knew how Houlihan’s big hitters hit. She’d done her own scouting at their games a couple times in the last few weeks, watching for weaknesses in their hitters. Overkill maybe, but she liked to be prepared. She found that being prepared cut down on unwelcome surprises. She wasn’t big on surprises. She liked knowing what was coming down the pike, she liked preparing for all contingencies. Almost against her will, she glanced behind her at the bleachers. Maybe that’s why Gina’s presence was like a little nagging spur in the back of her mind. She didn’t have any plans in place to deal with the unsettling force of her personality blowing into her day and disrupting her evening. She sure as hell wasn’t prepared for her own completely out of left field response to Antonelli showing up at the game. She couldn’t seem to forget that Antonelli was sprawled on the top bleacher, her lean legs in tight dark jeans propped on the bench below her, her arms stretched out across the top rail behind her. The picture of relaxation and, damn it, hotness.

  Presley, Margie, and Ida Rivers waved as they came around the corner of the bleachers and climbed up to the midsection, Margie carrying a cooler. Carrie’s cousin Mari followed a few seconds later, a bag of what looked like sandwiches under one arm. Glenn waved and Mari sent her a brilliant smile.

  Everyone’s girlfriends or spouses were there and none of them were distracted. Of course, she wasn’t, either. Resolutely, she turned her back to the bleachers and Gina Antonelli.

  “Something bothering you?” Flann asked quietly, walking over to join her as everyone grabbed their gloves.

  Carrie jumped. “No, why?”

  “I don’t know, you seem a little…distracted.”

  Carrie bristled. “Not at all. I’m totally ready.”

  *****

  Watching Carrie talking to the blond jock, Gina took in the swift dismissal as Carrie pointedly turned away. Carrie, as she’d learned from listening to the players call to their pitcher, had very clearly sent a physical message. You are not worth a second look. She
would’ve believed it too, if she hadn’t already gotten a second look. Actually, she’d gotten a couple more looks than that. Carrie had checked her out a few times, even if she had been scowling while she did it. Gina smiled, remembering the double take when Carrie had first seen her standing behind the backstop. Oh yeah, she’d gotten a look. Good thing bullets hadn’t come with it. Knowing she’d stirred her up a little gave her a little charge.

  Being checked out wasn’t completely out of the ordinary for her. She worked jobs all over the county, and she met women now and then who would give her a look or two. Most of the time she let the silent questions pass right by her. She wasn’t interested in any kind of looks or any of the unspoken messages that went along with them. For some reason, though, she enjoyed knowing she’d gotten Carrie Longmire’s attention.

  That was different, but it made sense. She wanted to be on Carrie’s radar, especially if it would get the work orders out sooner. Funny, though, that Joe had never mentioned her before. It wasn’t like him not to bring up any eligible woman in a fifty-mile radius.

  A tight knot twisted in Gina’s stomach. Maybe Joe never mentioned her because she wasn’t available. A woman like her—smart, sexy, beautiful—would catch the attention of any unattached man or woman. For some reason, that idea didn’t sit very well, although it shouldn’t matter to her if Carrie was single or married or living with three lovers. All that mattered was that Carrie straightened out the mess that was keeping her from doing her job.

  Satisfied she’d sorted through the reasons for the unexpected jolt of heat she’d gotten when Longmire—Carrie—had turned and locked eyes with her in the bleachers, she settled back to watch the game. Just like any other night.

  Chapter Seven

  Carrie planned to pitch the first two batters a little on the slow side, playing with the zone, keeping them just a little off balance with the changeup and then, just when they thought they had a good read on the ball, sliding one past them low and hard. The first batter struck out, and she could hear him mutter an oath all the way out on the mound. The second grounded to short, a whiff of a slapshot with nothing behind it. Mindy McIntyre, a neonatal specialist by day and a superjock by night, fielded it easily and tossed it to Glenn at first for the out with almost casual nonchalance. Her husband cheered from the sidelines, and Mindy grinned as if to say, Nothing to it, baby.

  Carrie smiled at the attitude. The team was feeling good about this game. The third batter, a power hitter, came to the plate. Rachel Beecher, a lefty, co-owned Houlihan’s along with Howie Murphy. Carrie’d heard rumors the two had been hooked up when they opened the bar, had parted less than friends, and barely spoke to each other when they weren’t on the field. Classic story of business and pleasure definitely not mixing. Not a cocktail Carrie ever intended to sample.

  She felt the team shift right behind her even without looking. Rachel pulled right like most lefties, and as sure as Harper had predicted, Rachel jumped on Carrie’s first pitch. She swung even earlier than Carrie had expected, though. The sharp crack of a well-hit ball careening off a strong bat had her pivoting, watching the ball loft into the outfield way to the left of where the right fielder had set up.

  Crap. That was going to drop in for a double. Joe Antonelli sprinted out of center field while the right fielder made a mad dash for the ball. Joe was faster, or maybe just more determined, and called off the right fielder before they had a head-on collision. Just as the ball arced down toward the ground, Joe made a full stretch dive, his glove hitting the ground just under the ball. He landed hard, bounced, and somehow came up on his feet in one fluid motion, waving his glove with the ball firmly in hand.

  “Out!” the ump in the field called.

  Three up, three down. Just the way Carrie liked it.

  “Nice catch,” she called to Joe as he jogged by on his way in to the bench.

  He grinned, grass staining the front of his jersey and a streak of dirt on his chin. “Nice pitching.”

  “You landed pretty hard—you okay?”

  “Oorah.”

  Carrie laughed and followed him to the sidelines. Before she could catch herself, she glanced up at the bleachers. Skimming past the middle section where her friends and her cousin Mari congregated, she focused in on the top row. Gina leaned forward, elbows on her knees and hands laced beneath her chin, watching her. Carrie tried to tell herself she was imagining it, but Gina’s gaze never wavered, even when their eyes locked. Carrie flushed.

  Look away, idiot!

  Gina nodded and mouthed, “Good inning.”

  Carrie blushed. Wonderful. How many other ways could she be uncool?

  Before Gina had a chance to read her pleasure, Carrie turned away. She wasn’t exactly comfortable having no control over her reactions and no good reason to explain why Gina’s approval pleased her so much. Or why she felt just a little bit like showing off. Gina’s attention had absolutely nothing to do with it.

  Carrie plunked down on the bench as Glenn got up to bat, and studied her with a little twinge of worry for any sign she was stiff or sore. The chief ER physician assistant—and her cousin Mari’s new love—had been hospitalized not that long ago after a car accident. What could have been a major injury thankfully had been only bruises and bumps, but the scare still lingered. Glenn, rangy and lean, settled in at the plate and looked out at the pitcher with almost Zen-like calm. The Houlihan’s pitcher twitched at his shirt, his hat pulled down low over his face, his hand tucked into his glove. With an abrupt, abbreviated windup, he whipped a fastball toward the plate. The ball was high and headed straight at Glenn’s head. Glenn jerked back from the plate, nearly stumbling, and went down on one knee in the dirt. Every person on the Rivers team was on their feet, yelling and waving their arms in protest.

  The Houlihan’s pitcher glanced over at them and smirked.

  Harper took an angry stride toward the field, but Flann caught her by the back of the jersey.

  “She’s okay, Harp,” Flann said. “We don’t need you getting tossed this early.”

  “Come on, that was intentional!” Harper, usually the controlled one of the pair, strained in her sister’s grip. “He ought to get tossed, not me!”

  Carrie flanked Harper on the other side. “The ump’s going to give him that one, Harp. Sometimes the ball gets away from you. Or he’ll say Glenn was crowding the plate, and he was just trying to establish his strike zone. You gotta let this one go.”

  The ump took his time brushing off the plate while Glenn got to her feet. Waiting for the uproar to die down, he glanced at Harper, whose neck strained with the tension of staying quiet. With a quick nod, he called, “Play ball.”

  Carrie’d said what needed to be said to keep Harper from exploding. Sometimes the ball did get away from you. And sometimes if a batter was crowding the plate, messing with the strike zone, making it difficult to get the ball where you needed to get it, then you pitched in close and pushed them back. No one wanted to hurt anyone. That wasn’t what had happened with Glenn. The butthead on the mound was trying to intimidate them. Steaming inwardly, she stayed standing, as did most members of the team. Daring him to try it again.

  His second pitch was way outside and Glenn let it go. On his third pitch, Glenn contacted solidly and smacked a ground ball between third base and shortstop and made it easily to first. Harper batted next, waited the pitcher out for the ball she wanted, and advanced Glenn to second on a sacrifice fly. That put Flann and Joe up next, their place and power hitters. Flann hit into a double play and, just like that, the inning was over.

  Houlihan’s was good, but so were they, and going into the last inning, Carrie’s team had a slim one-run lead. Carrie was still pitching, and Harper stopped her on her way out to the field.

  “How’s your arm?”

  “Fine,” Carrie said instantly.

  “We’ve got the tournament this weekend. We’ll have another crack at these guys before the season’s over, but I want you to be able to pitch at lea
st parts of three of the tourney games.”

  “I’m fine.” Carrie knew herself well enough to judge. She had a little soreness in her shoulder, but her elbow and forearm were pain free. “I can pitch another inning, and I’ll have plenty of rest by Friday. Besides, I don’t want to wait to beat these dicks.”

  Harper grinned. “Neither do I. How’s your fastball feeling?”

  “Fast.”

  “Then give them everything you’ve got so we can get out of here.”

  “You got it.”

  She threw the first batter out on strikes, and the second popped-up in the infield. One more out and they had the win. Carrie didn’t let herself think about winning. She just thought about throwing the pitch she wanted, every time.

  The pitcher came up to the plate. A lot of pitchers, her included, were only average hitters. This guy was big and strong, and she’d seen him hit. He settled himself in the batter’s box, adjusted his various parts, and stared at her as if to tell her she didn’t have anything to challenge him.

  Carrie didn’t bother to smile. She didn’t have anything to prove. She added a little extra spin on her first pitch, and it dove under the bat as he swung hard. Behind the plate, Harper caught it cleanly, threw it back, and signaled for a fastball high and away. Carrie put it right where Harper called for, and the batter stood watching it. Two strikes—one more was all she needed. She put the fastball down at his knees, but he was a good hitter and he must have read it coming out of her glove.

  The ball came straight at her, so fast she couldn’t even see it.