by Nora Roberts
In that fraction of a second, Parks shifted his weight. Wrists square and unbroken, he connected, letting his hips bring the bat around. He had the satisfaction of hearing the ball crack off the bat before the crowd was on its feet, screaming.
The ball sailed over center field, and though three men gave chase, no one reached it before it smashed into the dirt of the warning track and bounced high over the wall. With the fans roaring on all sides, Parks settled for the ground-rule double. There was sweat trickling down his back, but he barely felt it. He thought once that if he’d pulled the ball a bit to the right, it would have gone over clean, scoring two. Then he forgot it.
With Snyder on third, he couldn’t take a sizable lead, so he contented himself with putting only a couple of feet between himself and the bag. The odds that Farlo would sacrifice to score Snyder were slim. The outfielder could spray a ball to all fields, but he wasn’t a power hitter. Parks crouched, shaking his arms to keep the muscles loose.
Farlo fell behind quickly, fouling off two pitches and frustrating the crowd. Parks simply refused to think of the possibility of being stranded on base again. The infield was playing them tight, looking for that ground ball that could be turned into a double play.
Parks saw the pitch, judged it to be a low curve and tensed. Farlo showed his teeth and smacked it to right field. Parks was running on instinct before he consciously told his feet to move. The third base coach was waving him on. Years of training had Parks rounding third at top speed and heading home without hesitation or question. He saw the catcher crouched, ready to receive the ball, shielding the plate like a human wall. It flashed through Parks’s mind that the Herons’ right fielder was known for his arm and his precision before he threw himself at the plate in a feet-first slide that had dirt billowing in the clouds. He felt the red flash of pain as his body connected with the catcher, heard his opponent’s whoosh of air at the hit and saw the small white ball swallowed by the mitt.
They were a tangle of bodies and mutual pain as the umpire spread his arms. “Safe!”
The crowd went wild, stranger pounded on stranger, beer sloshed over cups. Brooke found that E.J. had grabbed her for a quick dance. His camera cut into her chest but it was several moments before she felt it.
“My man!” E.J. shouted, whirling her into the man on her right, who tossed his box of popcorn into the air.
No, she thought breathlessly. My man.
At the plate, Parks didn’t concentrate on the adulation of the crowd, but on drawing enough breath into his lungs so he could stand again. The catcher’s knee had slammed solidly into his ribs. Rising, he gave his uniform a perfunctory brush then headed to the dugout, where his teammates waited for him. This time, he allowed his eyes to find her. She was standing, her arms still around E.J. But her face softened with a smile that was only for him.
Touching his cap, he disappeared into the dugout. The trainer had the cold spray ready for his ribs.
Parks had forgotten his aches long before he had taken his defensive position in the top of the ninth. The Herons had whittled their lead down to one run with some blood and guts baserunning in the seventh. Since then, both teams had held like rocks. But now, Maizor was in trouble.
With only one out, he had a runner on second and a power hitter coming to the plate. We could walk him and put him on, Parks considered as the catcher tipped back his mask on his way to the mound for a conference. But the Herons had more big bats in the lineup and a few pinch hitters who couldn’t be underestimated. Parks sauntered over to the mound, noting as he did that Maizor was strung tight.
“Gonna go for him?” Parks asked as the catcher chewed on a wad of gum the size of a golf ball.
“Yeah, Maizor’s gonna take care of him, aren’t you, Slick?”
“Sure.” He turned the ball over and over in his hand. “We all want a ride in Jones’s new sports car.”
Parks took the mention of the Most Valuable Player Award with a shrug. They were still two outs away, and all three men knew it. “One thing.” He adjusted his cap. “Don’t let him hit it toward me.”
Maizor swore and grinned and visibly relaxed. “Let’s play ball.”
Over his shoulder, Maizor checked the runner on second. Satisfied that his lead wasn’t too greedy, he fired the ball at the plate. Parks could almost hear the rush of the wind as the bat cut, just over the ball. Kinjinsky called out, telling him to bear down and do it again. He did, but this time the batter got a solid piece of it.
As if a button had been pushed, Parks went for it, lunging from his side as Kinjinsky dashed to cover him. He had only seconds to judge the speed and the height. Even as he let his body fall in the direction of the ball, he felt the runner pass him on his way to third. Landing on his knees, Parks caught in on the short bounce. Without taking the time to rise, he fired the ball toward third. Kinjinsky nabbed it and held his ground as the runner slid into him.
“Still trying to make the easy plays look hard,” the shortstop commented as they passed each other. They were both coated with dirt and sweat. “One more, baby, just one more.”
Parks let the long, mixed roar of the crowd wash over him as he crouched at third. His face was utterly impassive. The tying run was on first. By the time the count reached three and two, being on the diamond was like being in the eye of a hurricane. Noise and turbulence whirled around them from the stands. On the field, the tension was dead silent.
Maizor went inside, handcuffing the batter. The ball was hit, drifting foul. Parks gave chase as it drifted toward the seats, running at full speed as though the wall weren’t looming up in front of him. He could get it, he knew he could get it—if an excited fan didn’t reach over and make a grab.
With his free hand, he caught the rail and lifted his glove. He felt the impact of the ball as he closed his leather over it. While the crowd started to scream, he found he was looking directly into Brooke’s eyes. The foul had all but fallen into her lap.
“Nice catch.” Leaning over, she kissed him full on the mouth.
Then one of his teammates had him around the waist, and the rest was madness.
***
Parks had more champagne dumped on him than he could possibly have drunk. It mixed with sweat and washed some of the grime away. Snyder had positioned himself on top of a locker and from there emptied two bottles on anyone in sight—reporters and league brass included. Accused of showboating, Parks was tossed, fully dressed, into the whirlpool. Grateful, he stripped and remained where he was with half a bottle of champagne. From there he gave interviews while the water beat the aches from his body and bedlam raged around him.
The pitch on his double had been an outside fast ball. Yeah, his slide into home had been risky, considering the arm of the right fielder, but he’d had a good lead. He continued to answer questions as Snyder, in a champagne-drenched uniform, was not so gently assisted into the whirlpool with him. Parks slid down farther in the soothing water and drained the cold wine straight from the bottle. Yes, the redhead in the stands was Brooke Gordon, his director on the de Marco commercials. Parks smiled as Snyder wisecracked the reporters’ attention to himself. Teammates might poke and prod into each other’s business, but they protected their own.
Parks closed his eyes a moment, just a moment. He wanted to recapture that instant when she had leaned over and touched her lips to his. Everything had been heightened in that split second of victory. He had thought he could hear each individual shout from the crowd. He’d seen the sunlight glint on the chipped paint of the railing, felt the baking heat as his hand had wrapped around it. Then he’d seen her eyes, close, soft, beautiful. Her voice had been quiet, conveying excitement, humor and love all in two words. When they had touched his, her lips had been warm and smooth, and for an instant that had been all he had felt. Just the silky texture of her lips. He hadn’t even heard the last out called. When he’d been dragged back on the field by his teammates, she had simply lowered her chin to the rail and smiled at him. Later.
He had heard her thought as clearly as if she had spoken it.
It took two hours to urge the last reporter out of the clubhouse. The players were quieting. The first rush of victory was over, replaced by a mellowness that would very quickly become nostalgia. The year was over. There’d be no more infield practice, batting practice, night rides on planes with card games and snoring. They were in a business where today was over quickly and tomorrow took all their efforts. Now there wasn’t a tomorrow, but next year.
Some were sitting, talking quietly on the benches in the midst of the locker room litter, as Parks dressed. He glanced at the second-string catcher, a boy of barely nineteen, completing his first year in the majors. He held his shin guards in his hands as if he couldn’t bear to part with them. Parks put his mitt into his duffel bag and felt suddenly old.
“How’re the ribs?” Kinjinsky asked as he slung his own bag over his shoulder.
“Fine.” Parks gestured to the boy on the bench. “The kid’s barely old enough to vote.”
“Yeah.” Kinjinsky, a ripe thirty-two, grinned. “It’s hell, isn’t it?” They both laughed as Parks closed his locker for the last time that year. “See you in the spring, Jones. My woman’s waiting for me.”
Parks zipped up his bag while the thought warmed in him. He, too, had a woman, and it would take him thirty minutes to drive to the mountains.
“Hey, Parks.” Snyder caught him before he’d reached the door. “You really going to marry her?”
“As soon as I can talk her into it.”
Snyder nodded, not questioning the phrasing of the answer. “Give me a call when you set it up. I’m the best man.”
With a smile, Parks held out a hand and shook the beefy one. “Damned if you’re not, George.” He walked into the corridor, closing the door on the clubhouse and the season.
When he emerged outside, it was dusk. Only a few fans lingered, but he signed autographs for them and gave them the time they wanted. Parks thought idly about picking up another bottle of champagne for himself and Brooke as he signed his name to the bill of a twelve-year-old’s battered hat. Champagne, a fire burning low, candles. It seemed like a good setting to propose marriage. It was going to be tonight, because tonight he didn’t think he could lose.
The parking lot was all but deserted. The overhead lights were just flickering on as twilight deepened. Then he saw her. Brooke was sitting on the hood of his car, spotlighted in the flood of a security light, her hair like tongues of flame around her strong-boned, delicate-skinned face. Love welled up in him, a fierce possessive love that took his breath away. Except for the lips that curved, she didn’t move. He realized then she had been watching him for some time. He struggled to regain some control over his muscles before he continued toward her.
“If I’d known you were waiting here, I’d have come out sooner.” He felt the ache in his ribs again, but not from the bruise this time. This was from a need he was still not quite used to.
“I told E.J. to take my car. I didn’t mind waiting.” Reaching up, she put both hands on his shoulders. “Congratulations.”
Very deliberately, Parks set his bag down on the asphalt then dove his hands into her hair. Their eyes held briefly, endlessly, before he lowered his mouth and took what he needed.
His emotions were more finely tuned than he had realized. All the pleasure of victory, the weariness that came from winning it, the dregs of excitement and tension surfaced, to be doubled then swept away by one all-encompassing need. Brooke. How was he to have known that she would grow to be everything—and all things? A bit unnerved by the intensity, Parks drew away. A man couldn’t win when his knees were buckling. He ran his knuckles down her cheek, wanting to see that very faint, very arousing clouding of her eyes.
“I love you.”
At his words, Brooke rested her head against his chest and breathed deeply. She could smell his shower on him, some subtle soap fragrance that spoke of gymnasiums and locker rooms that were inhabited only by men. For some reason, it made her feel acutely a woman. The light grew dimmer as they remained, held close and silent.
“Too tired to celebrate?” she murmured.
“Uh-uh.” He kissed her hair.
“Good.” Drawing away, she slid from the hood. “I’ll buy you dinner to start it off.” Brooke opened the passenger door and smiled. “Hungry?”
Until that moment, Parks hadn’t realized that he was starving. What little he’d eaten before the game had been devoured by nerves. “Yeah. Do I get to pick the place?”
“Sky’s the limit.”
***
Fifteen minutes later, Brooke gazed around the garishly colored Hamburger Heaven. “You know,” she mused, studying the overhead lights that were shaped like sesame seed rolls. “I’d forgotten your penchant for junk food.”
“A hundred percent pure beef,” Parks claimed, picking up an enormous double-decker sandwich.
“If you believe that, you believe anything.”
Grinning, he offered her a French fry. “Cynic.”
“If you call me names, I won’t read you the sports page.” She put her hand over the folded paper she’d just bought. “Then you won’t hear the accolades the press have heaped on you.” When he shrugged, unconcerned, she opened the paper. “Well, I want to hear them.” With one hand on her milk shake, Brooke began to thumb her way through. “Here . . . Oh.” She stopped dead and scowled.
“What is it?” Parks leaned over. On the front page were two pictures, side by side. The first was of his over-the-seats catch of the final out. The second was of Brooke’s impulsive kiss. The caption read:
JONES SCORES . . . TWICE
“Cute,” he decided, “considering I didn’t score but snagged a pop fly.” He twisted his head, skimming down the article which ran through the highlights of the game—critiques and praise. “Hmm. . . . ‘And Jones ended it with a race to the rail, snagging Hennesey’s long foul out of the seats in one of the finest plays of the afternoon. As usual, the MVP makes the impossible look routine. He got his reward from the luscious redhead—’” here he shot Brooke a brief glance “‘—Brooke Gordon, a successful commercial director who’s been seen with the third baseman on and off the set.’”
“I really hate that,” Brooke said with such vehemence that Parks looked up in surprise.
“Hate what?”
“Having my picture splashed around that way. And this—this half-baked speculation. This, and that silly business in the Times a couple days ago.”
“The one that called you a willowy, titian-haired gypsy with smoky eyes?”
“It’s not funny, Parks.” Brooke shoved the paper aside.
“It’s not tragic, either,” he pointed out.
“They should mind their own business.”
Leaning back, Parks nibbled on a fry. “You’d probably be the first to tell me that being in the public eye makes you public property.”
Brooke scowled at that, knowing they were precisely her words when they’d discussed the poster deal. “You’re in the public eye,” she countered. “It’s the way you make your living. I don’t. I work behind the camera, and I have a right to my privacy.”
“Ever heard of guilty by association?” He smiled before she could retort. Instead of a curt remark, she let out a long sigh. “At least they’re accurate,” he added. “I’ve often thought of you as a gypsy myself.”
Brooke picked up her cheeseburger, frowned, then bit into it. “I still don’t like it,” she muttered. “I think . . .” She shrugged, not certain how foolish she was going to sound. “I’ve always been a little overly sensitive about my privacy, and now . . . what’s happening between us is too important for me to want to share with anyone who has fifty cents for a paper.”
Parks leaned forward again and took her hand. “That’s nice,” he said softly. “That’s very nice.”
The tone of his voice had fresh emotion rising in her. “I don’t want to hole up like a couple of hermits, Parks, but I don�
�t want every move we make to be on the evening news, either.”
With a bit more nonchalance than he was feeling at the moment, he shrugged and began to eat again. “Romance is news. . . . So’s divorce, when it involves public people.”
“It’s not going to ease up with the de Marco campaign, either, or if you decide to take that part in the film.” She took another French fry out of its paper scoop and glared at it. “The hotter you are, the more the press will buzz around. It’s maddening.”
“I could break my contract,” he suggested.
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“There’s another solution,” he considered, watching Brooke swallow the French fry and reach for another.
“What?”
“We could get married. Want some salt for those?”
Brooke stared at him, then found she had to search for her voice. “What did you say?”
“I asked if you wanted some salt.” Parks offered her a tiny paper packet. “No?” he said when she neither answered nor moved. “I also said we could get married.”
“Married?” Brooke echoed stupidly. “You and me?”
“The press would ease off after a while. Quietly married couples don’t make the news the same way lovers do. Human nature.” He pushed his sandwich aside and leaned toward her.
“What do you think?”
“I think you’re crazy,” Brooke managed in a whisper. “And I don’t think this is funny.”
Parks gripped her arm when she started to scoot out of the booth. “I’m not joking.”
“You—you want to get married so we won’t get our picture in the paper?”
“I don’t give a damn if we get our picture in the paper or not, you do.”
