by MJ Compton
“You’re supposed to believe in your team.”
“My bad.” She whacked the chicken with the hammer. “Sue me. Let me warn you. There’s a line.”
“You don’t need to get all hostile on me. Especially since you’re using my kitchen rent-free.”
“I was hired to feed you. I’m cooking for you.” Another piece of chicken underwent suffocation in plastic wrap.
“You’re a caterer. You bring food in.”
“I brought food in. And now I’m cooking it.” She dropped the chicken she’d just pounded the hell out of onto a tray already piled with other pieces of chicken. “Grilled chicken and vegetables. You love it.”
“I told you I wanted steak.”
“Tomorrow.”
“It’s my kitchen. I get to decide the menu.”
Red dropped her hammer and glared at him. “What is your problem? I’m not blocking access to your refrigerator where you keep your beer. And I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to have beer anyway.”
Tag narrowed his eyes. “I want to know why you’ve invaded my kitchen. I never invited you to hang out at my place.”
Red snorted. “What are you worried about? I’ll find out all your secrets? I’ve got news for you. You have no secrets. This apartment has all the personality of a cheap motel room.”
“What do you know about cheap motel rooms?” For some reason, that image bothered him.
“I have a problem at my building right now, and rather than renege on my contract with the Gems, I thought I would use your fabulous kitchen to honor my commitments. Do you have an issue with that?”
Her fierceness surprised him. “You could have asked. Before you moved in knife, hammer, and cake pans.”
“I didn’t think you’d notice.” Red averted her gaze and picked up the wooden hammer again. Started abusing another slab of chicken. Thwack. “I thought you’d be so busy with your physical therapy and feeling sorry for yourself, you’d never notice someone in your kitchen. Heck, I would have bet you didn’t even know you had a kitchen.”
“Beer in the fridge,” he reminded her in a dry tone. He was starting to get an idea. “What kind of problems are you having at your building?”
“Just problems.”
He knew an evasion when he heard one. “Vermin? Plumbing? Roof leaking?” It hadn’t rained in weeks.
“Check, check, check.” Thwack.
“Sounds dire.” He couldn’t keep a glimmer of amusement out of his tone.
Thwack. Thwack. “More dire than you can imagine.”
“Life or death?”
“Life. Mine, anyway.” She bit her lower lip, and he envied her teeth.
“I have a proposition for you.” He was probably going to regret this, but he really didn’t want to watch the game alone a second night. Or a third.
She looked at him, hammer paused midair. “I don’t put out.”
If he’d been drinking something, he would have choked. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly in any kind of shape to show you a good time, much less a great one.”
“Well, that’s a relief.” Thwack!
A relief? He must be losing his touch. Women lined up to get Tagged.
“If you come back here tonight after you’re done in the clubhouse and watch the game, you can use my kitchen.”
“What?” She pulled the plastic wrap from the chicken she’d just mutilated.
“Are you hearing impaired, or do I mumble? I know you watch baseball. You can watch the World Series with me.”
“I don’t watch baseball. I follow the Gems.”
“Newsflash, Red. The Gems are a baseball team.”
She rolled those lagoon-colored eyes. “I need to see how you guys perform and make adjustments to your menus.”
“Never more crucial a time than during the World Series. You can watch the game here just as well as you can watch from…wherever.”
“I have to work. The team isn’t my only customer. I have this enormous Halloween party coming up—”
“I just said you could use my kitchen.”
“I’m already using your kitchen.” Another piece of chicken found itself smothered in plastic and then beaten with her wooden hammer.
“Without my permission,” he reminded her. “Look, I just want someone as invested in the team winning as I am to watch with me. Is it too much to ask?”
“No.” Her voice was low. “I guess I could do that. It’s a fair trade.”
* * * *
At least Skye didn’t have to sneak her equipment into Tag’s empty cupboards. He even put Hans to work helping her unload her van. Fortunately, all those years of moving around the country with her father had given her skills in setting up her workspace in a new kitchen quickly and efficiently.
Tag left her alone the rest of the afternoon.
Grilled chicken and veggies was a team favorite, so cleanup was a breeze. She arrived at Tag’s place in record time. She let herself in with the key Tag had given her.
“Where have you been? It’s already the third inning.” Tag sounded as petulant as a child as he shouted from the living room.
“Cleaning up. Dropping off the leftovers at the homeless shelter on Montrose.”
Being waylaid by Drake Dixon again and suffering a victory hug from him.
“What?”
“Are you hard of hearing, or do I mumble?”
“I’m distracted by the game. Come on. Javi is at bat.”
Skye had gotten to know most of the team on a superficial level, and she would rank Javier Rodriguez as an arrogant ass. If she were a pitcher in the National League, she would work on her batting skills. Not Rodriguez. He racked up more strikeouts at the plate than he threw from the mound.
“I can’t stand watching him humiliate himself,” Skye said as she headed for the kitchen.
“We have a deal, you and me.”
“Right.” She changed directions.
She could work on deviling Dixon’s eggs tomorrow, which was a travel day. Her only obligation besides feeding Tag was prepping for Halloween.
At least Tag’s TV wasn’t in his bedroom. The screen was huge and mounted on the living room wall. A black leather recliner claimed the best spot. Burgundy leather sofas formed an L to the left of the recliner. A card table, laden with snacks and a small cooler, sat to Tag’s right.
“Why are you eating that crap?” Skye asked. The nutritionist in her was seriously annoyed.
“Shh.” Tag gestured with his beverage at the screen. “It’s what Franz put out for me.”
“It’s more like what you had Franz buy for you.” She knew the large loaded pizza and tub of hot wings hadn’t been in the apartment when she left.
“Sit and watch.”
Half the pizza was gone. Wing bones played a game of Jenga on a paper plate.
“Didn’t I leave enough dinner for you?”
“Franz doesn’t like his vegetables.”
“Where is Franz?”
“I don’t know. He gets paid to watch me, not the other way around. Damn it, Javi. Don’t you know a sinker from a slider?”
“Rodriguez doesn’t know his elbow from a hole in the ground,” Skye said. She started clearing the food off the table.
“Hey! I need to eat.”
“Not this stuff. I’ll fix you something better.”
“The pizza has vegetables on it. There’s red and green peppers, onions, and mushrooms.”
“For Franz?”
Tag grinned. “Busted. He liked the grilled stuff you left so much, he ate it all. Didn’t leave a bite for me.”
“You’re so full of baloney, your eyes ought to be pink,” she said. “Part of healing involves good nutrition. I thought you wanted to report to spring training come February.”
“Mom, it’s the World Series. It’s party time.”
Skye shook her head. She took the pizza to the kitchen and wrapped each slice in foil before refrigerating it.
“You bet
ter not be tossing my pizza!” Tag yelled.
Skye waited until she was in the living room, packing up the wings to respond. “Moderation. I’m saving your junk for the next game.”
Tag snickered. “Is that a come-on, Red? Because I already told you. You’re gonna have to wait to be Tagged.”
Skye’s face heated. “You are such a guy.”
“What else am I supposed to be? A porpoise?”
Skye fled with the wings. She puttered in the kitchen. She was reluctant to be alone with him. He was funny. Fun to be with. Not good for her crush.
“Come on, Red. Pay your rent. It’s the middle of the fourth.”
She returned to the living room with a bowl of green and red grapes. “You’re snacking because you’re nervous,” she said as she handed him the bowl. “Eat these instead.”
He stared at the bowl as if he’d never seen a grape before. “Seriously?”
“They’ll crunch for you. You need to trust me.”
“That’s what Bluto said. He’s a sadist. But you’re cuter.”
“No flirting with the caterer.” Skye plopped on the end of the sofa as far from Tag’s recliner as she could get.
He didn’t say anything until the commercial break between the fourth and fifth innings. “I could go for a beer.”
“You can’t go anywhere. You should be in a rehab facility.”
“You could get me a beer.”
“It’s not on your plan for this week. You’re taking some pretty potent meds. You should be getting enough of a buzz from them.”
“You are such a spoilsport.”
“I’m not a sport at all. I’m a cook.”
“Yeah, you’re a good cook. Gems have the best pregame meals in the league.”
“Thank you. You still can’t have a beer.”
The Gems had a two-run lead going into the ninth. Skye was familiar enough with the game to know two wins before hitting the road was a good thing.
The game went downhill in the top of the inning. Adam Chrestler came in as the closing pitcher.
Tag started grumbling. “Wes doesn’t know how to work with Chrestler.” Wes was Wesley Dornan, the backup catcher. “You gotta be firm with Chrestler. He thinks nobody can hit his fastball, and that’s a fantasy.”
The first batter hit a grounder to short, but the throw to first wasn’t in time. Seattle had a runner on base.
“Slider,” Tag muttered at the television. “Don’t let Chrestler shake you off.”
The camera zoomed in on Wes’s white-painted fingernails he flashed signs between his splayed thighs.
“Not a fucking sinker!” Tag screamed. “Not to this guy!”
Skye glanced at Tag. He needed to keep his blood pressure down.
The crack of the bat drew her gaze back to the big screen just as Tag blistered her ears with his extensive vocabulary of curses.
“Calm down.” She vaguely heard the announcer say something about a sweet spot and good-bye. The ball sailed over the right field wall and into the stands.
“You saw that! Stupid kid told Chrestler to throw a sinker. Chrestler’s sinker is more hittable than his fastball! And this batter… Didn’t Wes do his homework? Everybody knows Wilson can knock a sinker out of the park.”
“If you don’t chill, I’m going to get Franz and make him tranq you.” She probably had more riding on this game than Tag, but she wasn’t going ballistic.
“I wouldn’t try it,” Tag snapped.
“Pay attention to your game. It looks like we missed the first out.”
Tag started swearing again, ending with, “I need to call that kid and tell him how to do his homework on the hitters.”
“You can’t call him during the game.” She needed to distract him before he popped a blood vessel. “Now tell me what’s going on.”
“We blew a two-run lead.”
Skye narrowed her eyes. “Really? I never would have guessed.”
Tag returned the glare. “Sarcasm isn’t attractive.”
“Good thing I’m not trying to attract you. Now look at the screen, and tell me what’s going on.”
“Tie game. Nobody on base. One out. Guy at the plate used to play for Florida. He’s an inside pitch hitter. Best pitch to nail him is a curveball, but Chrestler doesn’t have one. Not even a bad one.”
“So what is Wes signaling him to do?”
“Are you spying for Seattle?”
Skye rolled her eyes. “Not when the Gems pay me by the home game.”
“If we lose this game—”
“It’s not over until it’s over,” she reminded him. “And there’s no crying in baseball, so suck it up. What’s Wes telling Chrestler to do?”
“Slider. Chrestler’s slider is a thing of beauty. If I could write poetry, I ‘d write a poem to it.”
The Gems got out of the inning with no further damage.
* * * *
Bottom of the ninth, tie game, and Tag wasn’t there to help his team. His absence could very well be the reason the game was tied. If he’d been there to handle Chrestler, they wouldn’t need to go to the bottom of the ninth.
He reached for a peanut. Popped it into his mouth, intent on the screen, forgetting her substitution until he bit down and sweet grape juice flooded his tongue. Stupid woman food.
“What did you do with my nuts?” That came out wrong.
Red ignored him, and he didn’t blame her.
“My mixed nuts. Nuts are healthy.”
“In moderation,” she replied. “Which is a concept I believe you’re unfamiliar with.”
“Moderation didn’t get the Gems to the World Series,” he snapped.
She simply looked at him. Her eyes held an expression he wasn’t familiar with, so he could only guess what it is was. He didn’t like the answer.
No one pitied Tag Gentry.
The commercial break ended. The announcers recapped the bottom of the eighth. Tag knew he had to divert Red’s attention before the moment grew maudlin.
“Hey, Red. How about a kiss for luck?”
She shocked the shit out of him when she scooted off the couch and planted one on him. Not his forehead. Not his cheek. His mouth. The press of her lips against his shot a bolt of heat directly to his groin.
“Now watch the game.” She’d already returned to the couch. Out of reach.
Right. The game.
But it was difficult to focus when he had a boner that felt like the size of Chrestler’s bat. And nothing ever distracted him from the game. Ever.
Chrestler was up and down on three pitches. The top of the order was next.
The first baseman’s postseason hitting streak continued with a line drive to center, which put the winning run on first base.
Tag tried to sit forward, but the bundle on his leg didn’t allow for much movement. The shortstop sent a sac fly to center, advancing the runner to second.
Tubby Maldonado came to the plate. He was a big guy. If he could get his weight behind the bat, he was capable of knocking the ball to the moon. He also had a knack for swinging at bad pitches. His grin flashed white against his deeply tanned face. It was not a pleasant grin. Tag had seen him practice it in the mirror.
But Tubby was on. He waited out a curve ball that was nowhere near the outside edge of the plate. And a second one. The next curve ball was so inside it could have trimmed inches off Tubby’s gut had he not jumped out of the batter’s box.
The next ball sailed over the center of the base until Tubby’s bat collided with it. The crack was different on TV than live, but Tag recognized the sound: sweet spot against cowhide.
Tag started to leap from his chair. His roar of victory turned to a yelp of pain.
“Are you okay?” Red was at his side immediately. “Do you need me to call Franz?”
Tag blinked back the wetness the unexpected jostle had put in his eyes. “Gimme another kiss,” he replied. He grasped her arms and pulled her into his lap. “You kissed me for luck, and it worked. Now
kiss me to make it better.”
He didn’t give her a chance to reply.
Her lips were as tender as new spring grass in right field. And she tasted sweet—sweeter than the stupid grapes she’d substituted for his nuts. The shock of pain in his leg when he’d moved wrong was nothing compared to the jolt of lust aimed straight at his dick as his tongue parted Red’s lips. Her bottom was pliable too, unlike Terra’s or any of the other women with whom he usually fucked. And surprisingly, he liked soft.
Red pushed at his shoulders.
Whoa.
He relaxed his grip. She catapulted off his lap. Her face was pale. Her lagoon eyes were wide and stormy. Her mouth was wet from his. Her lips were pink and puffy.
“We won.” His voice was hoarse. “How about a high five?”
Red turned her back and left the room.
If he had two good legs, he never would have let her get away with ignoring him. If he had two good legs, maybe she’d be under him, naked and accepting him in her body as a celebration of the two-game lead the Gems had before going on the road.
If he had two good legs, he wouldn’t even be stuck in his apartment with her. He’d be in the clubhouse, celebrating with his team.
He clicked off the TV.
* * * *
Skye pulled out her largest mixing bowl and started measuring dry ingredients into it. Her brain was numb. Unlike the rest of her body, which was still vibrating from Tag’s touch. The first kiss had been devastating enough, but that second kiss, the one in his lap…
She gulped in air and tried to focus on her cake recipe. Baking usually soothed her. But her hands shook. Her stomach knotted. Her backside was branded with the imprint of Tag Gentry’s erection.
She dropped her spoon and gripped the edge of the marble counter while the kitchen spun around her.
Okay. The Gems had won their game. Winning meant everything to guys like Tag, whose livelihood depended on winning. He was just excited because his team needed to put away only two more games to be world champions. She just happened to be there.
Because he wanted her there. Her presence was his price for letting her use his kitchen. “Watch the game with me.” And she’d agreed. But not to being mauled afterward.
Even if she liked it. A little. Because of her minor crush. But she had more respect for herself than that. She was handy. Franz probably wasn’t a very good kisser, and he’d been quite vocal about not giving a damn about the outcome of the baseball game, whereas she cared about the outcome.
