by Pamela Aares
She curled her fingers around the cardboard cuff protecting her mocha and drew it to her lips. She hauled in a breath, straightened her spine and gulped down a hot, sweet sip.
Maybe it really was nothing. Maybe her dad would be all right. Medical hiccups happened to people all the time and they got better.
He’d be fine.
She ran her fingers along the bookshelf, stirring dust mites that danced in lances of sunlight from a high window. Just below the window a sign dangled, a bright blue arrow with the word Cosmology painted across it in yellow letters. She’d be better off browsing that section. Thinking about the universe, its scope and grandeur, always cheered her up.
It wasn’t much of a cosmology section. Baseball was clearly the more popular subject in this bookstore. They had a few of Stephen Hawking’s books, a couple of used copies of Carl Sagan’s Cosmos and a few others she knew well. She set the mocha on a vacant spot on the shelf and pulled out a book by Brian Swimme. The green dragon on the cover made her smile.
“I like that book.”
The honey-smooth voice sent a shock of adrenaline racing in her veins. She heard it in her mind whenever she closed her eyes and remembered a lushly rich kiss shared in a dark alcove. She’d replayed the memory, often with embellishments, more times than she wanted to admit.
When she turned, she half-expected to find no one. But there he was. No man should be allowed to look that handsome; it just wasn’t right.
“You startled me.” It was all she could think to say.
“Didn’t mean to,” Scotty said. “I thought about whistling first.” He smiled that smile, the one that sent riffles of nerves coursing through her. He nodded to the book she clutched to her chest like a safety shield. “And I do like that book. I lost my copy in the move to San Francisco. Maybe the movers have a secret library where lost books are hoarded.”
“If they did, it’d be the size of a stadium.”
The spark of laughter that lit his face made the emerald green of his eyes dance. She loosened her grip and looked down at the book cover. “I hadn’t imagined you’d have an interest in such a poetic account of the universe.” Color rose in her cheeks as she remembered what she had imagined about him.
“I tried my hand at poetry in college. Might’ve kept at it if my fastball hadn’t shaped up.”
She lifted her gaze. The finely made polo shirt he wore did nothing to hide the muscles beneath it. She met his eyes. The smile that lit them was challenging.
“Want to grab a coffee?” He nodded in the direction of the café.
“I have one.” She put the book back in its place and picked up her mocha.
“They have homemade cookies,” he said with a grin. He waved one of the gift cards they’d been given at the gala. “I’ll buy.”
She checked her watch; still had more than an hour to kill. Talking with Scotty might keep her from fretting about her dad.
She ordered one oatmeal cookie to eat in and two to go, and he gave an approving laugh. They settled in at a rickety table in the corner. His knees banged the table as he jockeyed into the tiny seat. It wasn’t built for a six-foot-three pitcher. Evidently bookstore table designers hadn’t pictured alpha males as customers.
“Jeez. Sorry,” he said as he wiped up the apple juice that had sloshed out of his glass and onto the table. He reached toward where the juice had splashed her lap.
“I’ve got it.” She took the napkin from his hand, brushing his fingers as she did. If the merest touch of his fingers sent her nerves spiking, she wasn’t ready for him dabbing at her lap.
“Apple juice is an unusual choice,” she said in an attempt to regain her composure.
“I grew up on a farm.” He leaned back in the chair, stretching about a mile of legs along the side of the table and nearly touching hers. “My grandmother said that apple juice can solve anything.”
“And what might be in need of solving?” The forwardness of her question surprised her. Seeing her dad in the hospital had shaken her more than she’d realized. “I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I didn’t mean to be nosy.”
“My pitching, for one.” He fiddled with the glass. “What brings you up to the city today?” He’d changed the subject, and she was glad. She was in no mood to discuss baseball. “I’d have thought classes were in session.” A glint of mischief flashed in his eyes. “And now I’m the one being nosy.”
She couldn’t tell him. One didn’t go about announcing the health status of baseball owners, even if they were family. In fact, just sitting there with Scotty was rather out of bounds. Would’ve been even if the man hadn’t sent her senses spinning. But he did send them spinning, and that made being there even more forbidden. There weren’t many taboos in baseball, but fraternizing with players was one of them. It didn’t matter that she wasn’t directly involved with the game—her dad was an owner. That was enough.
“I had business to attend to,” she answered in the coolest tone she could muster.
Scotty could take a hint. There were topics they couldn’t discuss. Shouldn’t discuss. Of all the beautiful women in the Bay Area, this was one he shouldn’t be spending time with.
Baseball had its hidden rules as well as the ones that umpires and players and fans understood, unwritten rules and boundaries that weren’t to be ignored or crossed. He’d already learned the hard way that some were picked up in only one classroom: the school of hard knocks. Unwittingly cross a line, and someone would let you know about it, sometimes gleefully celebrating your gaffe, sometimes kindly clueing you in on the sly. The unwritten rules were eventually absorbed by every player, part of the code, part of the moral fabric of the game. Some were tradition and some were plain common sense. Scotty had a few favorites: no stealing bases with a big lead, no standing on the dirt near home plate while a pitcher is warming up, no swinging at the first pitch after back-to-back home runs. And no admiration of long home runs from the batter’s box. That was a rule he probably wouldn’t have to worry about.
Hell, the rule about not dating an owner’s daughter was probably written in stone somewhere in mile-high letters. It just hadn’t come up yet.
But the slight tremble in Chloe’s hands as she crumbled an edge off her cookie and lifted it to her lips told him that she felt the energy between them as well as he did.
When he’d kissed her the night of the gala, he’d felt something new. He hadn’t even had words for it, but his body recognized it. Yet once he’d gone home, once he’d thought of all the problems that simply seeing her would cause, he’d sworn not to pursue her or the feeling and resisted his urge to track down her number and ask for a date. But he hadn’t done very well at keeping her out of his dreams.
When he’d first spied her in the aisle of the bookstore, he could’ve walked the other direction, probably should have. But he hadn’t wanted to. The feeling she’d ignited had ripped him open. He’d thought he’d known women, thought he understood them. Thought he knew himself. But meeting Chloe made him realize there was uncharted ground he wanted to explore, aspects of life he craved to know, and she was the key to the kingdom.
“Are today’s students any more focused than when we were in school?” He tried for a neutral tone and saw the lines around her eyes relax. Evidently he’d found safer territory.
“I suppose it helps that I’m teaching elective courses and devoted graduate students—students are there because they choose to be.”
She sipped from her coffee, and he smiled inwardly; the tremble was still there.
She set her coffee on the table and stared at it. She had beautiful eyes, dusky blue like the early evening sky of Nebraska in spring
“I love my students,” she went on, “but I hate the academic stiffness. There’s no sense of community like there is in baseball, no sense of teamwork.”
The light in her eyes dimmed, as though a curtain of caution had closed in the back of them. He imagined for a moment what it would’ve been like to meet her in a different w
orld, on a different stage, in a different game—a game where they played on equal ground. She’d been born into a part of the game he’d never belong to, a world of big money and power. In that world players had the power of their bodies and their performance, but that was as far as it went. Any guy who thought differently was fooling himself.
“It’s a pretty big story to teach in one semester,” he said, attempting to shift to safe ground once again.
He imagined she was pretty well schooled at avoiding uncomfortable conversations; she must face them all the time. But he knew when someone didn’t have their guard up—he’d learned to look for it. If a hitter didn’t have his guard up, Scotty could strike him out every time. For some reason, she wasn’t at the top of her game. Her defensiveness only made him want to delve deeper.
She fingered her cookie. “It’s a pretty big story to teach in a lifetime. I just try to hit the most pivotal moments, try to pique their curiosity, try to shake them awake. It’s fun.”
“I have a theory that baseball and the universe are alike,” he said, testing the waters. It was a pet theory he’d been developing—who better to try it out on?
“You’ve got my attention. Sports analogies could ramp up the cosmology department ratings.”
“You’d do better with a departmental football team,” he teased. “You could call them the Stanford Supernovas.”
She laughed. “You haven’t seen the guys in my department. Or the women. Bocce ball is more their style. Or water ballet. Nothing requiring brute strength.” She sipped at her mocha, her eyes glittering over the top of the cup. “I want to hear your theory.”
“Okay. But remember, you asked.” She had, but he didn’t need any prodding. Inexplicably he wanted to tell her every damn thought in his head. He shook off the urge and focused.
“The playing field’s a great place to start. It’s perfectly designed with the bases exactly ninety feet apart. The distance works seamlessly with the human ability to throw and run. If they’d made it ninety-five feet, no one could steal. If they’d made it eighty-five feet—we’re talking five feet here—even I could steal a base. And it works the same way for the location of the pitcher’s mound. Sixty feet, six inches from the hitter.”
He crumbled a bite off the cookie and popped it in his mouth.
“I need to look up who figured that out,” he said before taking another bite. “But it’s the magic number. You see, just a bit closer or just a bit farther and the game would break down—just like the strong nuclear force or the expansion rate of the universe. Just a tweak in either direction, making one stronger than the other—too strong and the universe would collapse in on itself, too weak and the universe would’ve evaporated—and it wouldn’t have congealed into galaxies and stars. It would’ve dissipated like the fizzle after a fireworks display. The baby would’ve just burned out and floated away.”
“I love it!” She smacked her palms on the table. “You have no idea how long I have tried to find a good analogy for the knife-edge balance of the forces in the universe.”
The enthusiasm in her smile made his gut tighten. This wasn’t forbidden territory, but whatever had just happened between them sparked an unfamiliar feeling. It was a rare person he could talk science with, but he had the unsettling feeling that what he felt had nothing to do with science.
She sipped her mocha and looked at him over the rim of her cup. “I never thought of it before, but baseball’s a great way to introduce time and space. First off, it’s a timeless game, even though it’s all about timing. I mean, according to the rules, a baseball game could go on forever.”
“They’d have to bring in food.” Scotty laughed. “Maybe baseball’s just a little slice of eternity trying to slip into our crazy world.” He watched as her smile transformed into a thoughtful pursing of her lips. What was it about Chloe that made him feel off balance? He waved his coffee cup. “You think they spiked our drinks?”
She gave a tiny shrug and wrinkled her nose. “Anyone listening to our jabbering might think so.”
She glanced at the clock on the wall and leaped up, sending the table teetering. Scotty grabbed it and steadied it before it could fall.
“I have to go—I lost track of the time.” She smoothed her skirt down her legs. She had legs like an athlete, toned and long and lean. He stopped himself from imagining those legs gripped in ecstasy around his hips.
“If you’re in town for a few days, maybe we could go for a walk,” he said in the most casual tone he could muster. “You’re about the only person I can talk stars with.” He meant it, but also knew it was the only lure he could throw. Despite his vow not to pursue her, he’d do just about anything to see her again.
She looked unsure, maybe frazzled and worried, but interested too.
“How about Monday morning?” When she didn’t answer, he added, “Just a walk?”
When she said yes and told him her cell number, he ignored the warning in his gut and punched the number into his phone. She grabbed the bag with the other two cookies and rushed out of the bookstore. Wherever she was headed, she was in a mighty hurry.
Chapter Four
On Monday, Scotty stood at the top of the cliff overlooking the beach and checked his watch. It was the third time he’d looked in fifteen minutes. Chloe was late. Or maybe she’d changed her mind since they’d exchanged text messages the day before to arrange a meeting place and time. That he was breaking his usual routine on a day he was scheduled to pitch gnawed at him, but his desire to see her won out.
He tapped his finger along the metal rail of the overlook. To distract himself, he counted the wooden stairs leading to the beach. Twenty-six. Beyond the wide crescent of pebbled beach, the sea stretched out, a vast blanket of blue spreading to the horizon. He’d loved growing up in Nebraska but since he’d moved out to the coast, he knew he’d never move back. He’d fallen in love with the ocean.
In his peripheral vision, he saw a kid walk toward him, holding out a piece of paper. He signed the autograph for the boy and answered a couple of predictable questions. Apparently satisfied with the answers, the kid ran off toward the souvenir shop and was scooped up by a man Scotty was sure was his dad.
A silver Jetta pulled up and Chloe stepped out. He muttered a brief prayer to the timing gods. Neither of them needed to be reminded of their roles in the game, not if they were going to enjoy their walk. And he had every intention of doing just that.
“There was a parade on California Street,” Chloe said. “California Street! There are never parades on California Street.”
He shrugged. “I’ve only been in San Francisco long enough to know where to get something to eat at midnight. Don’t know much about parade routes.” When she smiled, he couldn’t help adding, “It looks like never is living up to its reputation for promoting exceptions.”
As he studied her, he saw the lines of strain around her eyes. Something was eating at her. He resisted the temptation to scoop her up and offer to make it all better. He probably couldn’t anyway, but it shocked him that he had the urge.
“Sorry I’m late.” She fidgeted with the hem of her sweater. “I hate to be late.”
“No worries—the pelicans that flew by ten minutes ago promised to make a pass back this way. You haven’t missed anything.”
If anyone were to ask him what they talked about as they walked along the beach, he might’ve been able to give a general report. But his attention wasn’t on words, though the conversation was animated and easy. He soaked in everything about her as if he’d been starved of sight for a lifetime—the way the sun gleamed in her hair, the way her hips swayed as she walked, the curves of her, the strength of her. They navigated the rocks at the far end of the beach, and she hopped along them with an agility he could only hope to master. But what captivated him most was her laugh. If the gentlest summer breeze had a sound, he was sure it would sound like Chloe’s laugh. He was definitely hovering near high-risk territory—he was pretty sure he’d do almost
anything to make her laugh.
After they talked and walked and laughed through the world’s problems, rejecting the idea that starting over on a distant planet was the world’s best option, they walked back toward the stairs that led to the street. Thirty yards from them, he saw a brown form huddled near a pile of seaweed. Then he saw it move.
He stopped Chloe by grasping her arm. He hadn’t dared touch her down at the beach, except to help her over a slippery rock, hadn’t trusted himself not to back her up against the cliff and taste her once again.
“I’m going to check that out. I think it’s a dog.”
“More likely a seal.” She fished in her purse and pulled out her cellphone. “We can call Jackie Brandon’s center. They rescue stranded seals.”
He felt her eyes on him as he approached the shivering brown shape. It wasn’t a seal. It was a very hungry, very frightened dog. Its coat was mottled and patchy, and its eyes had the vacant stare of hunger, a hunger that had taken too much of a toll for too long for the dog to seek out food. Scotty’d seen dogs abandoned like this on roadsides in Nebraska; it seemed odd to see them near the beach. His mother had once threatened to kick him out of the house when he’d brought home a third hungry dog in a single month, but he was an adult now, and this dog needed help.
“Easy, boy.” He reached out his hand and let the animal sniff. The dog had a wonderful face, looked to be part kelpie and part pit bull or terrier. Scotty’s anger rose. There were animal shelters, plenty of them; letting a dog suffer like this was cruel. The dog had no collar; Scotty hadn’t expected one. The animal licked his hand, and Scotty was a goner. Just like that, he or she was going home with him.
