by Kate Angell
“Holy fuck,” came from Joe. “The man himself.”
“What the hell’s going on?” shouted Halo.
“No idea,” from Rylan. “Get in position.”
They jogged deep into the outfield, awaited his pitch. Will Ridgeway threw one wild fastball, calmed, took possession. Kincaid went two balls, two strikes, before he delivered a hit, solid and streamlined, into right field. It dropped, bounced, and Halo was on it. Too late. Kincaid stood on first.
Joe walked a small circle. Staying loose. This was a game like no other. He’d been in high school during Kincaid’s era. He’d watched and learned. Imitated the man.
Minutes later, the next batter appeared. Joe would’ve known him anywhere. Kason Rhodes. Broad-shouldered, thick-chested. His face spoke graphically of hardness. He didn’t smile often, but when he did, it was sincere. Joe had stepped into his shoes when he’d retired. Rhodes had joined the front office as senior vice president of international scouting. He had an eye for athletic talent. He’d put the present team together.
The crowd welcomed him. A surge of clapping, stomping, shouting his name. He stood at home plate, game face on. In the zone. Determined. The pitcher laid a fastball over the middle of the plate. “Strike! ” the umpire called. Rhodes reset, widened his stance.
Joe had a good initial read on the next pitch. A curveball, and Rhodes crushed it. A hook toward left field. Joe’s real estate. He reacted, let his eyes guide his body. Crossover steps, then a full-out run, back to the warning track. He hit a spot where the ground was slightly uneven. He had to slow down to keep his balance, felt a heartbeat of fear that he wouldn’t make the catch. Adrenaline pushed him. He caught it at the outlying cement pole that marked the ball in play. But he’d moved too far left and missed the Safefoam, the stadium wall padding. His shoulder struck the post, jarring his neck and scraping his face. Right cheek and chin. He tasted blood on his lip.
He shook it off, and threw to third. Too late. Rhodes was out, but Risk Kincaid scored. Eight to four. The Rebels fans were on their feet. They couldn’t sit still, screaming, jumping, proud.
A switch in the Rebels’ batting order brought Dean Jensen on-deck. He was team captain and a Triple-A star. Joe couldn’t see Stevie among the crowd, but he sensed that she was cheering him on. That sucked. Jensen followed the Rogues legends with a solid hit to center. He held on first. Two further Rebels landed singles, and the bases were loaded.
Low-flying planes could’ve heard the cheers rising from the stadium. Deafening. Not only for the minor leaguers, but also for the next player on-deck. The most identifiable Rogue of all time took his practice swings. Cody “Psycho” McMillan. Once arrogant, wild, and intimidating, he’d breathed baseball as no other player had. A feared contact batter and base stealer. A force to be reckoned with. Even now.
Direct, opinionated, take-charge, he’d claimed the title of senior vice president and general manager. He was responsible for the day-to-day operations of the club. The organization ran like a well-oiled machine.
Psycho stood at home plate now and surveyed the field. Owned the moment. He had every right. He had a financial stake in the team. He kept his finger on every player’s pulse.
Joe admired the older Rogues from a distance. The earlier generation hadn’t even seemed to age. They were in their late thirties now, and the legends still remained fit. Joe would often pass executives and officers in the athletic room at the Richmond stadium, working out. Players sweating with the front office bigwigs formed a bond. It was all about staying strong mentally and physically, whether on the field or behind a desk.
Psycho proved he still had it. An eye for the right pitch. The strength to kill the ball. He was ready for Will.
Will pitched with accuracy and velocity, taking Psycho to two balls, two strikes. The fans erupted. A fusion of cheers for the Rebels, for the present Rogues, and for the older returning players. Joe had never been bothered by the noise. But today the sound seemed to ricochet around the stadium, carrying out to the beach.
Will’s next backdoor slider went in the dirt, a pitch that bounced before reaching the catcher. Psycho didn’t move a muscle. He kept his stance at full count. Joe was antsy. His whole body alive. Waiting for the hit. It came with a grand slam. Undeniable power and placement. Over the centerfield wall.
Rylan Cates made a valiant attempt to save the runs. The ball sailed high into the second row of the outfield bleachers. Ry could jump; he just couldn’t clear the wall. Four additional runs scored. Tied, eight-eight.
Commotion, chaos, a near-riot in the stands. Excitement sparked like fireworks. Fans congratulated each other, as if they’d hit the grand slam themselves. Psycho accepted the ovation with a cocky grin and a strut back to the dugout. Lasting applause brought him out for a second bow.
Joe looked at Rylan, then Halo. Their expressions said it all. They admired Psycho’s ability, but they refused a loss. Will struck out the next two Rebels.
Bottom of the ninth, and the Rogues were anxious to bat. To raise the score by at least one run, for the win.
“Your face, dude.” Pax eyed Joe.
“You’re bleeding,” from Sam.
“Kissed by the pole.” His cheek felt raw. Sore. He touched his face. A hint of blood smeared his fingers. No big deal.
“Let’s do this,” Rylan cheered.
“I want this one,” said Joe. “Exhibition or not. Front office tied the score for the Rebels. We need to kick back.”
The players nodded, grinned, and bumped fists. All were in agreement, wired to win.
Triple-A alone took the field. Risk, Kason, and Psycho stood and watched the game from the dugout railing, talking and evaluating every aspect of the play.
Batting order: Brody, Pax, and Joe. They needed to produce.
Brody started the rally. Doubled.
Pax struck out, leaving Brody stranded on second.
Joe walked from the on-deck circle to home plate. The fans were once again on their feet. He cut his gaze over to left field, saw Jensen bouncing, shifting, and anticipating.
Joe held true, found his pitch. A fastball, sliced to left field. He knew the moment he connected that it would fall short of the wall. Jensen was on it, capturing the ball before Joe crossed first base. Shit.
All was not lost. Brody rounded third and was headed home. His run won the game. Nine to eight. Joe jogged back to the dugout. Jensen passed him on the infield dirt, a huge smile on his face. Joe attributed his enthusiasm to having made the final catch, despite the Rebels’ loss.
He dared to look over at Stevie. She and Lori were at the railing above the visitors’ dugout. Stevie was grinning as broadly as Jensen. Visibly proud of him and his success. Joe’s stomach sank. Son of a bitch.
The dugouts emptied, and both teams lined up and shook hands. Joe and Jensen exchanged short nods only. Had Joe shaken his hand, he would have squeezed to break Jensen’s fingers.
The Rogues legends had supported the Rebels. Talent was developed and grown in the minors, and the Rebels had several players who’d be wearing a major league uniform this season or next. Second string.
Risk, Kason, and Psycho spoke to the media, divulging hot Triple-A prospects and promoting the upcoming season. The remainder of the players waved to the crowd, then proceeded to the locker room. Showers and street clothes were in order. Joe eyed his face in the mirror. Cement rash on his cheek and chin. Split lip. He appeared rougher than usual. Couldn’t be helped. The team physician located him on his way out, handing him a prescription tube of antiseptic salve to fight off any infection.
It was late afternoon when he finally emerged from the locker room, and the sun played with the clouds, dodging in and out. There was a light breeze. Both teams gathered in the parking lot, a convention of players. Talking with their bosses, relishing their surprise appearances. The three legends had fueled the fans’ enthusiasm for a game never to be forgotten. The Rogues’ popularity swelled stronger than ever. Joe was damn glad to be a p
art of his team.
Families and fans with full-access passes drifted among the ballplayers. Joe rested a hip against his Jaguar and waited for the stadium to clear. He needed some time to himself in the upper deck. A man alone with his thoughts. His order for a hot dog, French fries, and a beer was placed with a vendor. He’d replay the game in his head. There’d been a lot to take in.
He’d turned to leave when Kason Rhodes shouted to him. “Got a minute, Zoo ? ” he asked. An invitation to join him. Three parking spots separated them. Not enough space with Dean Jensen, Lori, and Stevie in the group. Not a circle Joe wished to join.
His chest tightened. He hesitated, taking a moment to consider his options. He had none. Rhodes had taken a chance on him years ago, back when Joe was wild and unmanageable. Disorderly and disruptive. In some way, his talent outplayed his idiocy off the field. Kason had signed him to the majors. Joe owed the man. Big-time. He sucked it up, crossed over to him. To them.
Kason welcomed him with introductions. “You know Dean,” he said. “He caught your fly ball.”
Dean topped Joe’s shit list.
“His girlfriend, Lori.”
Lori tentatively smiled. Joe liked her, despite her terrible taste in men. One corner of his mouth curved.
“And his cousin Stevie.”
Time was suspended. He’d landed in the Twilight Zone. “Cousin?” No way! He choked on the word. Backstabbed, and he’d never seen it coming. His nemesis and his lover were related, their secret now exposed.
Anger and hurt slammed through his chest. He ran with mad. A joke on him? So it appeared. He didn’t take well to being played. Stevie had known all along how he felt about Dean. Yet she’d hidden the fact that they were related. Had Dean put her up to it? Had he asked Stevie to distract him? She had done a bang-up job of it. Woman to man.
The wedding shoot flashed through his mind.
Pretend or not, he’d been deceived.
He’d married into their family.
Double hell.
Eleven
“What are you doing with my wiener?”
“I brought your hot dog, fries, and beer,” said Stevie.
“Lou passed my food to you?” Joe’s expression was cool, closed.
“I went back inside the stadium, looking for you. I saw the vendor, carrying a brown bag, and figured it was yours. I remembered you telling me the night we had the picnic in left field that you liked alone time after a game. Time to think.”
“Alone, just me. Yet you’re here.”
She’d climbed up to the grandstand seats. Wanting, needing, to talk to him. To explain. However feeble her justification might be. He’d rebuffed her. Which she’d expected. Even understood. Still, she held her ground, here with the man and his nasty scraped face. She sought to reach out, to comfort him, but she knew he’d reject her.
Instead she handed him the bag. Their fingers brushed. Her entire hand tingled. “I don’t plan to stay.”
“Go anytime. You’re breathing heavily. Going down the steps is easier than coming up.”
If her breathing was a little rough, it was due to her concern for him. Her heartbeat raced. Her palms were sweaty. He’d issued no invitation to stay. He sat stiffly in a faded T-shirt with the logo Takes Gutz, jeans with a rip near his groin, and black Adidas athletic shoes. His hair was long and damp from his shower. Heavy five o’clock shadow. She caught a glint from his gold band. He still wore the pretend wedding ring, now on his little finger. That gave her heart hope. Yet there was no eye contact. He focused on the field, waiting for her to leave. She stayed.
“Talk to me, Joe. Please.” Her words were barely audible.
He remained as silent as the empty stadium. He didn’t encourage or deny her. His indifference scared her. No more than a step separated them, but it seemed insurmountable. A sense of loss squeezed her chest. “I’m so very sorry,” she managed.
He side-eyed her. “Sorry for what?” No slack.
He wasn’t making this easy. “For not telling you that Dean is my cousin.”
“Slipped your mind, huh?”
“I’d planned to tell you.” Truth. “No time to explain.”
His gaze darkened, his expression disbelieving. He was ticked. “No time? It would’ve taken seconds. Three short words: ‘Dean’s my cousin.’ You knew how I felt about him. I’ve vented. You didn’t come clean.”
“My mistake. You deserved to know.”
“Truth and trust are important to me.”
“Dean was never meant to be a secret, a skeleton in my closet,” she softly said. “He’s family—we’re close. He’s kind, generous, one of the good guys.”
Joe rolled his eyes. Made a rude sound.
“Dean’s also competitive, same as you. He’d asked Lori and me not to associate with any Rogues during spring training. Long before we came to Barefoot William. It was important to him. Family loyalty. No consorting with the enemy. No conflict of interest. An easy promise. I gave him my word and I kept it . . . until you.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Until me?”
“You made me like you.” Possibly she loved him. “After Kason Rhodes left us in the parking lot, I told Dean I’d been seeing you—”
“Sleeping with me.”
He was a naked memory on her bed. Never to be forgotten. “Dean was disappointed, but not mad. Lori will smooth things over. She gives him perspective.”
“What’s my perspective, Stevie?” His tone was caustically curious.
“That competition makes for better players. You and Dean are more alike than you realize. He reflects your strength and intensity, and he has the same drive to play ball. He wants what you have, Joe. Can you blame him?” No response. “I hope Dean succeeds. Not by replacing you in left field, but by landing somewhere in the majors. He is my cousin, after all.”
“So Kason revealed.”
Her heart sank. She was losing him. She had one last hope. “You can stay mad, hold a grudge, and I wouldn’t blame you. Not in the least. You’re justified. You can sit up here alone and enjoy your food or”—she drew the word out, daring him—“meet me at Unleashed for makeup sex.” She’d never had makeup sex before. Now seemed the perfect time. With this man.
“So the shrink’s telling me that sex can make it all better.”
“That’s my analysis. At least it’s a start.” She sighed. “If I could do it all over again, I would’ve told you about Dean between your kissing cupcake frosting off my lips and your taking off my panties.”
She swore one corner of his mouth curved up. Ever so slightly.
She left him then. Didn’t look back.
It was what it was. Unleashed or not.
* * *
How had Joe beaten her home? He hadn’t passed her on the main streets. Perhaps he’d taken the back roads. He’d parked his Jaguar next to the Unleashed van. She stopped behind the Sprinter, climbed from her Mazda Miata. When she entered the building through the side door and walked to the hallway, she found Joe and Turbo seated on the staircase.
“Turbo looks sad,” she noted. Joe, unreadable.
“My boy lost his girl,” he told her. “Dean apparently picked up Etta right after the exhibition game. Turbo’s lonely.”
“Treats might help. He likes turkey jerky. My aunt recently bought a fresh bag.”
“Whatever it takes to get him back to his old self. Etta’s changed him.”
“Love can do that.”
“Love takes it out of a guy.”
“Not when the woman gives love back.”
He descended the steps, and they proceeded to the kitchen. A note from her aunt on the table indicated that she and George had gone out for a drive. Turbo had the run of the house. Stevie canvassed the cupboards, located the treats in one, high on a top shelf. A bit difficult to reach. She stretched on tiptoe. Almost there . . .
Joe came up behind her. Not beside her. A full-body press. She closed her eyes, absorbed his heat and strength. Felt his erection
at the small of her back. He was fully armed. She held her breath when he snagged the bag, then rubbed against her, slow to back off.
Turbo heard the rustle of snacks and charged them. He sniffed the bag, nearly inhaled it. Joe gave him two pieces. One he scarfed with barely a chew. With the second, he took his time. Joe sealed and returned the bag to the shelf. Turbo lay down, one eye on the cupboard.
“More later, big guy,” Joe told his dog.
The rottie wagged his tail.
Joe turned to Stevie, arms crossed over his chest, his stance wide. Hard-faced, hard-bodied, hard-on. His “So . . . ?” had a dark undertone.
“Make up with me.”
He made her wait. Seconds of silence stretched to a minute. “Forgive and forget?”
“Our situation could be worse,” she dared. “Dean could be your cousin.”
The corners of his eyes tightened. His mouth flattened against his teeth. “Not funny, Stewie.”
“I’m laughing, Joey.”
“You’re asking for it, babe.”
“Give it to me,” she risked.
He took one giant step toward her, and she took off running. Down the hallway, up the stairs, to her bedroom. The doorknob stuck, and she twisted it hard. Too late. She heard his footsteps, heavy, stalking, behind her. On her. All over her. A man demanding more than her apology.
The landing closed around them. He pulled her back against him. There was nothing slow or sensual in his move. He had his way with her. Not rough, but deliberate. Tauntingly sexual. Makeup, make out, he made her. A rush to orgasm. Her orgasm.
He grasped the round neck of her T-shirt and stretched it wide, kissing her nape, biting her shoulder. He felt her up, then down. He snuck under the hem, fanned her ribs with his fingers, and seduced her breasts. Lengthy caressing and a pinch to her nipples. Heat flicked, arrowed low, when his fingers stole beneath the waistband on her skinny jeans. No unsnapping, no unzipping. She sucked in her stomach. His hand scored her mound, parting her sex. Her arousal dampened his fingertips. He slid two fingers inside her. Drew them out, then delved deeper. His thumb rubbed her most sensitive spot. She responded, all hot need and urgency. Passion pounded in her bones, in her heart, and deep between her thighs.
