Playing For Keeps
Body Check
By
Heather Peters
Copyright © 2012 Heather Peters
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of quotations embodied in articles or reviews.
DEDICATION
I lovingly dedicate Body Check to my children and grandchildren, who have shared my love of hockey all their lives; thanks for being the inspiration for this story.
My husband, Mike, adored baseball, so I dedicate Playing for Keeps to him. Nick Dante lives because of Mike's knowledge of America's greatest past time. Thanks, Honey.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Many thanks to D.C. Charles for her awesome cover art; and to my editor, Adrienne Jones – you rock, ladies! To Blanche Marriott, for her patience and time! Also deep heartfelt gratitude to my critique partner extraordinaire Eden Elgabri, who never stops encouraging me, often threatening me with a kick in the butt if I slack off. Thanks, Pal.
PLAYING FOR KEEPS
CHAPTER ONE
Every moment of Nick Dante's life came down to this time and place.
Standing on the mound, eyeing his opponent at home plate, sweat sliding down his back and face, Nick lifted his cap, and swiped an arm across his skin. He took his time, focusing as if hypnotized on the opposing batter taking his stance ninety feet away.
One more strike, and the World Series would belong to his team, the California Condors. One more strike, and Nick would bring his team the first World Series championship in two decades.
To the forty thousand plus fans cheering wildly in San Francisco's CalCon Stadium, Nick appeared to be cool, calm and disciplined. Yet only he knew the opposite to be true.
A long standing rotator cuff shoulder injury, a common malady to major league pitchers, was the reason for his inner turmoil. He stepped off the mound, picked up the rosin bag to dry his palm, then re-claimed the pitching mound. Taking a deep breath to tamp down his nausea, Nick palmed the ball while he eyed the hand signals his catcher directed toward him.
His shoulder was going to cry on this pitch, but all Nick wanted was to win this game and the Series. It had been a long season of ups and downs. He'd won twenty games for the fourth straight season. The win today would just be icing on the proverbial cake.
Top of the ninth, two outs, two strikes, the Condors leading 1-0. His opponents, the New York Knights, were favored to win the series that had gone to seven games. Nick loved being the underdog in his sport and always credited himself with being a competitor.
Shaking off the catcher's sign as the pain in his shoulder grew worse with every breath he took, Nick ignored the queasiness in his stomach. He nodded at his pitcher's sign; fast ball, ok, better. He could do that.
As if in slow motion, Dante wrapped his long fingers around the baseball, feeling the leather stitching between his index and middle fingers. He began to wind up for his blazing two-seam fastball. His six foot three frame stood straight and strong. He lifted one leg, then, cradling the ball, raised his arms, grimacing under the pain. You can do it, just one strike and it's over.
He gripped the ball while lifting his shoulder and right leg. He followed through the motion as his right leg hit the ground, then watched in agony as the ball dipped low, then squarely crossed home plate.
His catcher caught it, and all ears heard the umpire bellow, "strike three, yer out." And Nick Dante exhaled a piercing laugh.
Before the cheering crowd, the underdog Condors became the World Series Champions. Nick Dante became a hero.
A moment of regret grabbed Nick as a fleeting vision of a gorgeous red head who'd been the love of his life over a decade ago flashed before his eyes. She should be here, sharing this moment with him, sitting in the stands, cheering him on. But he knew that she was not.
Victory was bittersweet.
***
Three thousand miles away, in a Manhattan television studio, Jenna Valentine was taping her guest spot on a cable cooking show for future airing. She smiled at the camera, while completing her latest recipe.
". . .And place a basil leaf for an aromatic garnish. And there you have it, a simple, but tantalizing dish that will bring cheers from your hungry guests." Jenna placed her palms on the counter and brought the show to a close.
"I'm Jenna Valentine. It's been a pleasure cooking for you on Food Fever." She held up a glass of red wine and saluted her audience. "Buono appetito."
The house lights went up, Jenna took a long sip of her wine, then relaxed.
"That's a wrap everyone. Thank you." The director pulled off his headphones and took a deep breath, then smiled. "Good work everyone. Great show, Ms. Valentine," he proclaimed, sniffing the air. "Smells good."
"My grandmother's recipe. Never fails," Jenna announced, happy to share the mouth watering Italian stuffed eggplant dish she'd prepared on air with her crew. She also reminded one of the production assistants to take the leftovers of the meal to the St. Francis Mission down the block, where many of the city's homeless would be fed. It was the least she could do, having been lucky enough to share with others less fortunate.
Making her way to a nearby stool, Jenna settled down, then toed off her ridiculously high designer heels. She sipped on her wine, leaned back and closed her eyes, grateful that her guest spot on Food Fever was done. She'd had a chance to plug her new café in Brooklyn. Television would be a great way of advertising Cafe Valentine, which she owned with her sister, Grace. Her intimate, romantic café would have its grand opening next week. Grace managed the business part with expert skill, while Jenna shared cooking duties with their sous chef, Mario.
While thinking about which specials to list for the first night of their debut, Jenna was brought out of her musings by a couple of crew members.
Nearly choking on her wine, she nearly fell off the stool as she heard a name that rendered her breathless.
Nick Dante.
"Did you see that last inning?" one crew member exclaimed. "Dante pitches a three hitter, then strikes out the last guy to win the Series. Un-friggin-believable."
The other young man nodded in agreement. "Yeah, but see how he collapsed after he won the game? Ah, he's all done with that bum shoulder of his. How old is Dante, anyway, thirty- five, thirty- six?"
Jenna swallowed hard, and answered without thinking. "He's thirty-three."
The two crew members turned to her with eyebrows raised. "Hey Ms. Valentine, you a baseball fan?"
Jenna felt her cheeks blush. "In a manner of speaking."
The other man nodded. "Oh, then you must be a Nick Dante fan."
"Hardly." She frowned.
"Then how. . ."
Jenna needed to end this conversation, but didn’t want to be rude. "I knew him in college." She sighed and hoped she appeared disinterested.
Yeah, there's an understatement. You've known him longer than that. And have loved him all your life.
"You dated Nick Dante?" one of the guys asked wide-eyed, interest obvious now.
Jenna nodded weakly. Wouldn’t these two young men be interested to know that not only did she go to college with Nick, but that she also knew his family, the way he kissed, that his hair was thick and felt like silk when you drew your fingers through it.
Jenna knew his eyes were the color of espresso, and grew darker when
he was aroused. He was six foot three inches, had a small scar on his chin from being hit with a baseball when he was in college.
His voice lowered when aroused, and she used to call him Nico.
And the way he made love as though his life depended on it.
It was all a long time ago. But she could still taste his bone melting kisses, his strong arms wrapped around her.
Shaking herself out of her reverie, Jenna slid from the stool, and hurriedly gathered papers and her bag together. She had to get out of here. After twelve years, the mention of his name still possessed the power to screw up her mind, and affect her body.
Yeah, she knew a lot about Nick Dante.
After all, he was her ex-husband.
CHAPTER TWO
Back in California, the Condor's locker room was in a state of happy chaos. Champagne was sprayed by players, newly printed T-shirts and caps with tags still adorning them were worn by the members of Nick's winning team.
Nick was among his joyous teammates, the burning throb in his shoulder forgotten for a time. This is what he'd worked his entire life for; what he'd given up everything for: a World Series ring.
As champagne splashed his face and burned his eyes, Nick relished the victory. He loved these guys, and couldn’t wait to ride that championship float the following morning through the streets of San Francisco.
Wincing slightly as each player slapped him on the arm or shoulder, Nick took deep breaths to manage the pain. He and the team gathered in the center of the locker room, as the commissioner of baseball entered the room carrying the huge, beautiful championship trophy, signifying that the Condors were the best in the world.
Players threw their arms around him, and Nick mentally fought off the nausea when his shoulder was jolted. When he was chosen as Most Valuable Player of the play-offs, he accepted the trophy with humility.
Much later, after TV cameras and reporters exited the locker room, members of the team and staff bid Nick goodbye. His shoulder needed medical attention and fast, so the team doctor escorted Nick into a nearby ambulance, and together they made their way to the local hospital.
***
After enduring an MRI, shoulder ex-rays and an annoying CT scan, Nick sat up in the hospital bed, staring into the frowning face of the team's physician. He could read the look on the team's orthopedic doctor, Bernie Ramin. "So what's the verdict, Doc?"
"Well here it is in a nutshell, Nick. There is a tear in the tendon that requires surgery asap. Normally, I would wait six weeks, to see if alternating heat and cold would work, but the tear is deep, Nick. Surgery often has good results in lasting pain relief and improved function."
Nick flinched as Dr. Ramin fitted a sling to Nick's tender shoulder. "This is my throwing arm, Doc. I'm not stupid enough to think that this isn’t going to affect my abilities. So what do you think? Will I be able to pitch by spring training in February?"
The doctor looked at Nick's chart, then drew off his reading glasses and faced Nick. "It's really up to the way you heal, Nick. Intense rehab, rest, following instructions to the letter and we'll see where you are come January." The doctor lowered the chart and eyed Nick. "So what are your plans?"
Nick took a deep breath, and shrugged. "Right now I have to get on a plane to New York. Have appearances scheduled on some talk shows."
After giving him a shot of cortisone to lessen the pain, the doctor placed an ice pack on his upper arm, and Nick cringed at the touch of the icy compress. "That's right, you're from Brooklyn, aren’t you?"
The mention of his home brought a broad smile to his lips. "Yeah, Carroll Gardens, the most beautiful place on earth."
The doctor looked up. "Seems as though you have decisions to make before spring training next February, don’t you?"
As the doctor finished administering to Nick's arm, he slid off the table, and carefully slipped into a dress shirt. "I love California, and my friends here, but Doc, you know the old adage, there's no place like home."
The doctor smiled and shook Nick's hand. "Just think about scheduling surgery on that shoulder, asap."
"Sure Doc, and thanks."
Bittersweet memories and unanswered questions clouded his thoughts as he left the locker room with a list of do's and dont's for his injured shoulder. Nick refused any kind of narcotic pain medication and opted instead to take regular non-aspirin for the discomfort. He'd seen too many of his friends become addicted to pain killers and it ruined their career. He had too much respect for his body to do anything so stupid.
Making his way to the underground garage, he climbed into his red Ferrari, and careful not to jostle his shoulder, he drove out and began the long drive to his Penthouse. If it wasn’t for the adrenalin pulsing through his veins from the victory celebration, the pain in his shoulder would be unbearable. As it was, he was still nauseous, needing to get home, put a fresh compress on his injured shoulder, and relax.
***
Sitting in a cab on the way back to Brooklyn moments later, memories of Jenna's short-lived marriage to Nick came flooding back to haunt her. They'd grown up together in grammar and high school, then college sweethearts. Having given each other their innocence, they’d vowed on prom night that whatever happened, they'd always find a way to be together.
Easier said than done. Jenna and Nick eloped soon after, but both sets of parents being old fashioned, traditional Italians, soon interfered and the ensuing meddling and in-law intrusion eventually tore the young lovers apart. They were still legally married when Jenna's parents whisked her off to their Naples home, thinking Jenna would forget Nick. It didn’t work.
After two months of begging her parents to relent, Jenna was all set to return to Brooklyn. At just the same time, Nick was signed to the Condor farm team in San Francisco. As a horrible fate would have it, on the way to the airport, Jenna and her family were victims of a deadly car accident. Parents killed instantly, Grace critically injured, Jenna suffered broken bones in both legs and was in no condition to return to the States. At the same time, Nick's career was just taking off.
She couldn’t ask him to give up everything to come to Italy and take care of her and her family. It wouldn’t be fair. So she filed for divorce, and made it clear to Nick that she didn’t want him in Italy. She wouldn’t burden him. After all, his career was something Jenna wouldn’t put in jeopardy at any price, even at the risk of losing him forever. She loved him too much to tie him to her injuries.
Jenna spent nearly a year in a wheelchair and walked with a cane for years, and even now, needed a cane when the weather was humid and rainy.
Immersing herself in food to fill the void left by Nick, Jenna finally pulled herself together after Grace began to heal. So she immersed herself in food in other ways, finally realizing she had more talent preparing it rather than eating it. With the large sum of money she and Grace received from their parents’ estate, Jenna decided to stay in Naples, and attend a culinary academy.
And oh, so slowly, she and Grace healed and thrived. But Jenna knew it was too late to think her life with Nick would ever come to fruition. Their marriage was over, yet to this day, she'd never forgotten him.
Lives changed, fate intervened, some dreams recognized, others dashed that day her parents were killed in that accident. Nick had gone to California to realize his dream, and Jenna was the one who pushed him away.
***
By the time Nick arrived at his apartment, he was drained, both emotionally and physically. His shoulder throbbed with hot slicing pain, and all he wanted was a hot shower, a cold beer, and his bed, in that order. Tomorrow was the victory parade, and he wanted to be fresh and ready to celebrate.
After a steaming shower, he padded barefoot into his spacious bedroom, naked except for a towel around his waist. With an annoyingly uncomfortable ice pack taped to his shoulder, Nick grabbed a beer, settled onto his bed and sat up against the headboard. He reached for the TV remote and turned to ESPN.
He saluted the segment on his team,
especially the highlights that left him happy, proud and wonderfully exhausted. After several replays of his winning pitch, Nick smiled and decided his ego had had enough stroking. So he continued clicking.
Until he came to the Food Channel. "Ah food. Here's something I can get into," he said aloud, then took another pull of his beer and nearly choked. That's when he saw her. Nick swallowed the beer and coughed, his body stiffened, then he grabbed the remote and put up the volume.
Watching the auburn haired beauty smiling at the camera, those amber eyes glistening with happy familiarity, those lips that could stop a heart.
"Oh my God….Jen. You're back."
***
He hadn’t seen her in twelve damn years. Twelve years of living with a void in his heart. A void which he'd never been able to fill. And questions that had never been answered. His eyes drank her in like a man dying of thirst.
His chest contracted, and he dared not blink, lest he lose sight of her for even a second. When had she come back to the states? Was she married? Have children? He wondered.
Damn, still beautiful. Chestnut silky waves flowed over her shoulders, begging for a man's touch. Doe shaped amber eyes twinkling with enjoyment, and a contagious laugh filtered through the speakers. The smile she radiated through the glass screen reminded him of a time when those full, soft lips kissed and loved him.
Something stirred deep within Nick at that moment. A sensation that drove him to pick up the phone to call her. To hear her voice.
Wait, you idiot. Just out of the blue, you're going to call her? Recall old times? Gee, Jen, just saw you on TV; want to go out for a drink? What's twelve years between ex's?
But he picked up the phone in any case, made a few calls, and was able to secure her number. Nick wanted answers. She owed him that much, and so much more.
Playing for Keeps/Body Check (Rules of the Game) Page 1
