Besides, they’d come back before long. They always did.
Introducing the Kilby Catfish in
ALL OF ME
the first book in bestselling author Jennifer Bernard’s brand-new series
featuring the hottest minor league baseball players around.
They’re burning up the diamond . . . and the sheets.
Coming Summer 2015
An Excerpt from
ALL OF ME
IN CALEB HART’S first start as a Kilby Catfish, he set a minor league record—and not the good kind. By the top of the fourth inning, he’d given up seven runs, five homers, and three walks, and nearly taken El Paso Chihuahua Steve Hunter’s nose off with a wayward fastball. Sweat was running down his back in rivulets of failure, and under his brand-new cap, with its cartoonish blue catfish logo, his head felt as if it might spontaneously ignite.
He stepped off the mound and swiped his arm across his forehead. Mike Solo, the catcher, called for time, the pitching coach jogged onto the field, and suddenly his new infielders surrounded him. Apparently they thought he needed some support. What he really needed was . . . well, he hadn’t quite figured that out yet.
“You can take this guy,” said the veteran first baseman Hernandez. “He can’t hit the changeup for shit.”
Caleb didn’t bother mentioning that he couldn’t throw the changeup for shit.
“Just keep ’em down,” said the pitching coach, clearly some kind of baseball genius. “And get ’em over the plate.”
“That’s right, you’re overthinking it,” said the fast-talking shortstop, who looked about twelve. “I saw you pitch with the Twins. Over three games you had an ERA of 2.78, average of five strikeouts per game. ’Course then you had that crazy fourth game. Whatever you do, don’t think about that game. Do what you did during the first three. Forget the fourth. Easy peasy.”
Caleb stared at the smaller player, trying to remember the last time he’d heard a baseball player say “easy peasy.” Never, that’s when. And why’d he have to bring up the worst game of Caleb’s entire life?
Solo, who was the only guy on the team Caleb had played with before, gave a wolfish grin and a wink. “Yeah, easy peasy, big guy. The natives are getting restless. And since it’s Texas, they’re probably armed.”
Caleb looked at the half-full stands, where the crowd of maybe three thousand diehards was starting to shout catcalls. For a painful moment, Caleb remembered the noise level at Target Field in Minneapolis. It was like comparing a 747 jet to a mosquito.
The pitching coach headed back to the dugout, with an air of having done all he could. Caleb glared at the remaining players. “What is this, a damn committee meeting?”
The baby shortstop looked offended. “Excuse me for trying to help you resurrect the correct firing of your synapses.”
Caleb looked incredulously at the other Catfish. “Is this kid for real?”
“He was studying brains before he signed on,” explained Mike Solo. “Now let’s get cracking. Y’all forgot we have a bus to catch after this?”
“Not brains. Neurophysiology,” piped up the shortstop, as they all scattered, jogging back to their positions.
Christ. Caleb had heard the Catfish were a little . . . odd. So far, that seemed to be an understatement.
He settled himself back on the mound, inhaling a deep breath of humid, grass-scented air. It’s just a baseball game. Pretend you’re back home, when baseball was the only fun thing in life. When you ruled the diamond, any diamond.
Solo called for the fastball, low and away. Good call, since an inside pitch might hurt someone, the way he was pitching, and his changeup wasn’t doing shit today. He went into his windup, lined the seams up just right in his hand, and let fly.
Boom. Home run number six cracked off the bat with a sound like a detonation. Maybe it was Caleb’s career blowing up, come to think of it.
Just to torture himself, he swiveled to watch the ball soar high overhead, winging toward the right field bleachers like a bird on speed. Lowering his gaze, he caught the shortstop’s reproachful stare. The Chihuahuas batter cruised around the bases. The guy ought to send him a thank-you note, the way he’d served up that pitch with extra biscuits and gravy.
Someone cleared his throat behind him. He turned to find Duke, the Catfish manager, facing him, hand outstretched. He wanted the ball. Wanted Caleb out of the game. But as much as Caleb hated giving up home runs, he hated giving up the ball more. How could he turn things around if got yanked from the game?
“I’m just trying to get my rhythm going, Duke,” Caleb said in a low voice.
“And how’s that working out for you?”
Sarcasm. Ouch. “My last pitch had to have been in the upper nineties.”
“Yup. It sure went over the fence fast.” Duke, a barrel-chested former catcher who’d played for the Expos in his prime, but had spent most of his career bouncing around the minors, didn’t sugarcoat things. “I’m taking you out before your ERA looks like a Texas heat wave. Let’s talk after the game.”
A sickening sensation made Caleb’s gut clench. In the minor leagues, being called into the manager’s office was either good news—you were being called up to the Major League team—or bad news of a variety of kinds. Caleb was a hundred percent sure he wasn’t being called up.
“Nothing bad,” Duke assured him. “Just want to talk.”
Caleb nodded and handed him the ball. It felt like handing over a piece of his heart. He needed the ball, needed to pitch. Because the only chance he had in life was when he had that ball in his hands.
Walking toward the dugout, he caught a “shake it off” from the third baseman, along with a rumble of boos from the stands. His replacement, Dan Farrio, ran onto the field from the bullpen. Farrio was, theoretically, his rival for one of the spots on the Friars’ pitching staff. But after today, that rivalry might be history.
From someone’s radio, he heard the color announcer saying, “We’re checking the history books, but one-time blue-chip prospect Caleb Hart just had possibly the worst first start ever on a Triple-A team. He should have been pulled after the second inning, but the Catfish bullpen’s about as ragged as my kid’s blankie. If the Caleb Hart trade was supposed to add some juice to the Friars’ pitching staff, maybe they should have gone with a shot of the cactus instead. How much you want to bet Crush Taylor’s squeezing the limes already?”
At the mention of the owner of the Catfish, Caleb groaned. With most minor league owners, no one cared what they thought, since the Major League front office called all the shots. But Crush Taylor was a legend, a Hall of Fame pitcher who had purchased the Catfish shortly after his retirement. Not to mention that he was Caleb’s childhood idol. Yep, he’d just had a record-setting horrendous start for the team owned by his childhood idol. And he’d been lectured by a shortstop barely out of high school. Could things get any worse?
He reached the dugout and grabbed a drink of water at the cooler. Man, it was hot today. All he wanted to do was hit the showers and get the hell out of this stadium. But since it was his first game, he ought to stick around and support the team for one more inning. Before he could sink onto the bench, Duke caught his eye and gave him a jerk of the head, releasing him to retire to the clubhouse.
First break he’d gotten all day. He seized the opportunity and stalked out of the dugout. He’d get to know his fellow Catfish sometime when he didn’t want to kill someone.
As soon as he entered the rabbit’s warren of back corridors that wound through the stadium, his tightly maintained control disappeared. He ripped off his sweat-soaked uniform shirt as if he could ditch the sense of failure along with it.
“Fuck,” he bit out, slamming a fist against the wall. “Get it together, Hart.” He usually kept his emotions under tight wrap, but . . . damn it. If he screwed this up, he’d be letting down his sister and the twins, and they’d all been through enough. His entire family was counting on him, and he’d just given up
six home runs in about five minutes.
“What the fuck is wrong with you? You can’t afford another fucking fuck-up.” Veering around the corner toward the home clubhouse, he nearly tripped over someone standing at the double doors that guarded the entrance.
The “someone” pushed an elbow into his stomach, making the breath whoosh out of him. It wasn’t a hard blow, probably accidental, but still, not what he normally encountered on his way to the shower.
Struggling to get his breath—and his composure—back, he steadied his attacker. A woman, a young one. Though he still hadn’t gotten a good look at her, she felt soft and shapely under his hands.
“Geez, you should watch where you’re going.” Her voice had a husky cadence; a local girl. She stepped out of his grasp and spun to face him. He received a quick impression of brilliant but wary dark eyes, quicksilver slimness, and a haphazard ponytail. He was six feet five inches, but he didn’t tower over her the way he did most girls. She must be at least five ten, with a lanky, slim build, all arms and legs. She held a manila folder filled with papers about to spill out. “You must be one of those crazy Catfish players.”
“What clued you in? The uniform or the overuse of profanity?” He gave her a rueful smile, remembering his exuberant cursing. He should have waited until he was inside the clubhouse.
Something sparked in her eyes, and her lips quirked. “Well, I guess it must be the profanity, since I don’t see much in the way of a uniform.” She glanced down his torso. He remembered he was bare-chested, having ditched his shirt.
“Yeah, well . . . had to let off a little steam.”
“So that was you cussing up a storm? I’m not sure what was crazier, that or being trampled like a barrel of grapes.”
From the gleam in her eye, she was probably teasing, but just in case, he took a step back.
“No trampling, I promise.” Again, her gaze flicked down his chest, as if she couldn’t help it. “I’m not coming on to you either. Too sweaty. But if you want to hang around until after my shower . . .”
He said that part mostly to get a rise out of her, since something told him she’d be fun to get all riled up.
But her face changed, the playful sparkle vanishing. She took a big step back and narrowed her eyes at him. “No, I do not. I want to deliver this message and get on with my day. Can you tell me where to find Mr. Ellington?”
Ellington—that was Duke’s last name. Most baseball guys had a nickname, but not that many were called after jazz greats. But the Catfish manager broke the mold on just about everything.
“He’s probably busy doing his job.” Deciding to make her work for it, he folded his arms over his chest. Excellent. Now those lively dark eyes were taking in his forearms as well as his torso. Usually at this point, a girl would do something to signal her willingness to spend intimate time with the hotshot pitcher who’d gotten half a million dollars for signing with the Twins.
Not this girl. “I can see you want to be difficult, which is exactly what I would expect given the contents of this document.” She tapped the folder. “Fine. In the interests of moving on with our lives—you to your shower and probably a six-pack and a groupie—why don’t you give me a hint about where Mr. Ellington’s office might be? I’ll wait for him there.”
Holy RBI. This girl could certainly talk. Her face moved as she spoke, her eyes danced; every bit of her seemed alive and in motion. She looked to be in her early twenties and had a sort of student-gypsy vibe about her. Her lips curved in a way that suggested she liked to laugh . . . and talk and tease. She wore a tight white T-shirt molded to high, pretty breasts, and a flowery skirt that ended just above her knees. And red cowboy boots. Damn. How could he resist red cowboy boots? Those things ought to be banned.
He plucked the folder from her hand. “Got a pen? You seem like the kind of girl who would have a pen.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? And yes. But no. Why?”
“Want to clarify any of that?” He raised an eyebrow at her, while trying to get a surreptitious peek at the typing on the document inside the folder. “Whereas we, the residents of Kilby County . . .” it began.
She snatched the folder back. “Yes, I have a pen. No, you can’t write on the petition. And why do you want to?”
He put on a wounded expression. “I was going to draw you a map. These passageways can be superconfusing. It’s completely understandable that you got lost and found yourself at the place where the guys get undressed.” He winked, watching the flush rise in her cheeks. Yes, she was definitely fun to get riled up.
Then her words sank in. “Petition? What petition?” He tried to take the folder back, but she whisked it out of his reach. He barely missed grabbing her breast instead.
Before he could apologize, she stepped back with an exaggerated gasp of outrage. “There you go again. You Catfish really are a menace to decent society. Just like the petition says.”
“What?”
“That’s right.” She waved the folder. “They say you’re completely out of control.”
Caleb had heard the talk about the Catfish too. They liked to party a little too much, and they indulged in the occasional bar-clearing brawl, but then, they were fun-loving young baseball players, so what could you expect? Anyway, it wasn’t his problem. He intended to put Kilby in his rearview mirror as soon as possible. “I wouldn’t know. Can’t say that I care, either.”
“So the stories are true? Did you guys really fill the community pool with rubber catfish? I heard the senior exercise group had quite a scare and had to call the paramedics.”
He snorted.
She shook her head sadly. “Things sure have changed since I came to games as a kid. And to think I thought it was safe here for a nice, civilized girl like me. Next time I’ll make sure to bring a bodyguard.”
A bodyguard? Now that was taking it a little too . . . he caught the gleam of mischief she hid under the sweep of her eyelashes. Damn. He’d been right before. She was teasing him.
Whether it was the incredible frustration of the past two hours, on top of the preceding frustration of being sent down, then traded—throw in the never-ending worry about his family—whatever the cause, all his emotions boiled over in that moment. In two quick steps, he crowded her against the wall—no contact, just heat and sweat and closeness.
He growled in her ear, his lips almost brushing against the delicate skin there. “There’s only one way to find out if the stories are true. But you have to want it. Bad. You have to be so hot for it, you come chasing after me and beg for it. Then you have to prove you can handle it. Put that in your petition.”
She stared up at him, her pupils dilated so far her eyes looked black, with a rim of glowing amber. The little pulse in her neck beat like a drum.
All of a sudden his cock was so hard his vision blurred. Damn. Where had that come from? She wasn’t even his type. In fact, she was on the irritating end of the female spectrum.
He let her go as if she was a grenade about to explode. “Duke’s office is down the hall to your right.”
Pushing open the clubhouse door, he headed directly for the shower. It was going to have to be a cold one.
And don’t miss the latest installment in the Bachelor Firemen series!
Read on for a taste of
THE NIGHT BELONGS TO FIREMAN
Available now from Avon Books.
An Excerpt from
THE NIGHT BELONGS TO FIREMAN
When fireman Fred Breen rescues a bachelorette party after a construction crane collapses onto their limo, the media label him “the Bachelor Hero.” But all Fred can think about is the petite brunette with the sexy mane of dark curls who bolted away from him faster than a wildfire after he carried her to safety. And when he discovers she’s none other than Rachel Kessler, the daughter of a tech billionaire, the girl whose kidnapping riveted the nation, he’s intent on learning every intimate detail about this intriguing woman who sets his pulse on fire.
Rachel can’t deny the lean-muscled firefighter is smokin’ hot. But after having one too many drinks at the bar where she first meets him, Rachel knows she’s made a fool of herself. Yet when he rescues her from the limo, she feels the safest she’s felt since she was held for ransom as a child. Then her overprotective father insists Fred be her bodyguard—and his close presence kindles a burning desire that only he can extinguish.
NO WOMAN COULD help but notice the two men who strode into the City Lights Grill just after midnight. Not with that amount of pure, knockout maleness walking through the door. One had the broken-nose look of a boxer, the other a more fresh-faced appeal, along with a slight limp. Both moved as if they knew exactly what to do with their bodies at all times.
The two, who happened to be off-duty firefighters, didn’t register the influx of feminine attention, maybe because they were used to it. Or maybe because the rougher of the two firemen was too busy lecturing the other.
“The problem with you, Fred,” said Mulligan, “is that you’re too—”
“If you say ‘nice,’ you’ll be on your ass in two seconds.” Fred Breen was at the tail end of a rough night. “And you know I can do it.”
“Yeah, now I know, since you finally let me in on your big secret. But check it out.” He reached for the trophy Fred dangled from one finger, as if he didn’t even care about it. “ ‘Second place,’ it says here. You know who second place is for? Nice guys. Guys who don’t have the killer instinct. Guys who give kittens CPR—”
“Don’t start with the freaking kittens again. They lived, didn’t they?” Fred flung himself into a chair at a table in the corner, then winced. He’d just spent the evening getting the crap beat out of him at the Southern California Muay Thai Championships. Every bone in his body ached, and his muscles had gone into some sort of traumatic shock. “And did you happen to notice the guy who took first? Jet Li couldn’t have beaten that guy. He’s like a sixth-generation master.”
It's a Wonderful Fireman: A Bachelor Firemen Novella (The Bachelor Firemen of San Gabriel) Page 13
