by Beth Bolden
CHAPTER TWO
“I’m sorry, sir, but you can’t put your feet up there.”
Jack Bennett opened the eye closest to the flight attendant and didn’t bother to hide his grimace.
It was her—the same girl who’d already interrupted his nap three times. First, she’d asked if he wanted a refill on his ginger ale. He’d replied, observing that in his experience, drinking more of the beverages the airplanes supplied usually correlated with an above-average need to use the airplane facilities and really, he needed more room than that little cramped closet with its black hole of a toilet. But thank you very much for asking. He’d then promptly shut his eyes again and forgotten all about the conversation until an hour later when she’d tapped on his shoulder again, this time bearing gifts: a pathetic little bag of lightly salted mixed nuts.
The second time around, Jack wasn’t quite as nice. He’d raised an eyebrow at her offering and asked if they didn’t have anything more substantial. This was first class, after all. Blondie had given him an astonished look and disappeared back to the front of the plane, unfortunately pressing the paltry snack into his hands as she’d left. He’d glared at the bulkhead in front of him, and wondered where the hell he was supposed to stash them, because in his mouth wasn’t even a remote possibility. Finally he’d thrown them in his backpack, knowing he’d find them six months later and wonder why on earth he’d ended up with a bag of mixed nuts, looking worse for the wear.
He supposed it could have been worse; they could have been pretzels. He hated pretzels.
The third time, her tap was downright forceful, jerking him out of a perfectly pleasant dream involving him and a baseball field, the grass green and crisp, the sky a flawless blue overhead.
She’d smiled her most charmingly ingratiating smile and had proceeded on a long rambling explanation that culminated in the opinion that his neck looked mighty uncomfortable in the position it was in and wouldn’t he like a pillow to use to position it properly? Jack had stared straight ahead through the entire recital and had only been surprised that she hadn’t offered to support his neck personally.
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
He was sure she was a damn pain in the ass. Jack was remembering all the reasons he didn’t like to fly commercial and they were all exemplified by this annoyingly fussy, fake-looking flight attendant.
When he didn’t answer her question, she fled again, but this time she thankfully took the offending item along with her. Jack didn’t feel much like trying to stuff a cheap airplane pillow into his backpack.
This was now her fourth time bothering him, and Jack had to admit the truth—she’d clearly recognized him and had decided he was a surer bet than any of the other men in first class.
He glanced down to his feet, comfortably propped on the first-class bulkhead.
“I don’t understand.” He didn’t move his feet. When the team flew on their chartered plane, he always sat this way, and had been doing so for years. Today was the very first time anyone had told him it was against the rules.
Because, of course, it wasn’t. Not really.
A wrinkle appeared between the attendants’ dark blonde brows, the expression marring her pale complexion, and for a split second, she paused, clearly flustered. Jack merely gave her a bland stare in return. She was pretty enough, he guessed, if you liked that plastic look in a woman. Him, he liked a little more challenge. If Noah had been awake, he would have been eating all this up. Of course, all that was predicated on Noah being in the aisle seat, which Jack had offered to take when they’d come aboard. He was pretty sure he was never going to be that self sacrificing ever again.
The wrinkle disappeared, and the flight attendant set her chin firmly, leaning farther over into his personal bubble. That settled the question; she was possibly the most persistent flight attendant in the history of flight.
“I don’t think you understand,” she bit back, “but who you are has nothing to do with the rules on this airplane. You still need to remove your feet from the bulkhead.”
He understood perfectly. She was pissed that he hadn’t fallen all over her, and so she was going to hound him just because she could.
“Oh?” Jack raised an eyebrow. “And who am I?”
She ignored the question. “Your celebrity has nothing to do with this conversation.” She pulled back, crossing her arms over her chest, as if it wasn’t his celebrity that had brought about this ridiculous discussion in the first place.
“Of course it doesn’t.”
She had a lot of poise, he had to give her that, but at his response, the wind went right out of her sails.
“It doesn’t. Right.”
“What you don’t understand is that nobody tells me that I can’t do something.’”
That furrow appeared again, and Jack realized then that he was going to have to roll out the heavy artillery because this woman just wasn’t going to give up.
“Can’t doesn’t exist,” he said levelly. “Can’t is the one word in the English language that I won’t recognize as valid. You told me that I can’t put my feet up there. But I could. Very easily, as evidenced by the fact that they’re up there right now.”
She blinked, clearly a little surprised by his well-honed patter. After all, every smart big leaguer had their rehearsed clichés down pat. His were just a little…creative.
“You see, when I was seven years old, little Jimmy’s dad was our little-league coach, and of course, he wanted little Jimmy to play second base, but I wanted to play second base, too. He told me I couldn’t play it because I was too small. But one day, see, little Jimmy took a hit to the head and had to sit out half a game. I took that opportunity and played the best goddamned four innings of little-league second base that anyone had ever seen. Little Jimmy and his dad ate their words after that one. High school, same story. They tried sticking me on the JV team, thinking that if I was out of sight, I’d be out of mind. But you know what happened?”
Shell shock would be a generous term for the blank stare she gave him as he paused.
“Well?” he prompted.
“Obviously not,” she sniffed in annoyance, and he had to give her at least three mental points for the snotty curve of her lip. “You were in high school, I don’t have any idea what happened to you in high school.”
“I hit .458 that year and committed zero errors. Of course, they loved me on the JV team, but when the season started next year, you want to bet they didn’t leave me there. I made the varsity team, where I should have been all along.”
“Let me guess, the same thing happened in college.” The sarcasm dripping off her words gained her another few points. If he was feeling generous, she was just about to break even.
“Oh, no. I was recruited to play at Stanford, and don’t get me wrong, I loved those guys. They finally believed in me. But that wasn’t the end of it. I kept getting told I was still too small. It was like little Jimmy’s goddamn dad all over again. When I went in the third round of the major-league draft and only spent two years in the minors, I signed a ball and sent it off to little Jimmy’s dad. That was a great day.”
The flight attendant’s eyes went all calculating. Jack had a feeling she was mentally pricing out what a signed baseball by Jack Bennett would bring. So he swung for the very edge of the stands.
“See, if I’d listened to people who told me that I couldn’t do this, couldn’t do that, I wouldn’t be sitting here. I’d be back in the sticks, playing pickup ball on the weekends, wishing that I’d grown a pair and done something about my dream. But I didn’t listen to them.”
She gave up the ghost and fled right before he got to the moral of the story. “Great talk,” he murmured at her retreating back and settling back into his seat, and he couldn’t help but sigh contentedly. Peace at last.
“I see you finally managed to ditch your admirer.” Noah Fox, known to baseball fanatics and his friends as Foxy, drawled without even opening his eyes. “Now that was persistence in action. Nobody’s ever stayed long enough to hear the part about little Jimmy’s dad getting the baseball except reporters.”
“And you finally managed to wake your lazy ass up.”
“Not in enough time to save you, though.” Noah stretched out his legs and groaned.
“If you really wanted to save me, you could have switched seats and flirted with her instead.”
“When she seemed so taken with you?” Noah laughed. “I don’t know why you couldn’t. She was cute.”
Jack rolled his eyes. “Cute and as persistent as a kick-me dog on crack. No, thank you. Besides, it wasn’t me she was interested in—it was my money.”
“I wonder if I should go find her and tell her I have more,” Noah said speculatively. And he did have more. Two years ago, he’d been the splashy free-agent signing that the Pioneers had fruitlessly hoped would guarantee them a playoff spot. That the team was still seeking its first post-season bid had nothing to do with Foxy, though.
Mostly, anyway.
“As if you’ve ever had to do that to get a girl’s attention.”
Foxy didn’t say a word, just looked at him for a moment. “You know, I’m not the crazy one here. She was cute and probably not even that mercenary. You could do worse.”
“Yeah, right,” Jack drawled, leaning back and closing his eyes. “Whatever.”
“I’m serious.” Jack glanced up, and to his surprise, Fox had a downright genuine expression on his face.
“Damn, I guess you are. I thought you were only serious during press conferences.”
“Don’t be sarcastic. This whole celibate-monk thing is getting out of hand, man. I’d say you need women in your life, but at this point I’d at least settle for a woman, singular.”
“Just because I don’t go through them like popcorn like you do, doesn’t mean I’m abnormal. I like to stay focused, especially during the season.”
Jack didn’t say it, didn’t even bring up Tabitha’s name, but she hovered between them like a bad stench. For a moment, Foxy appeared like he might challenge him, but then he smirked and suddenly, the charged air dissipated.
“Okay. You’re apathetic during the off-season and completely uninterested during the season. That isn’t much better.”
Jack leaned back in his seat. “You know how I feel. The women we meet are just so…blah. If I met one with some punch, I’d consider being interested.”
“Tabitha had some punch,” Foxy said slowly, and Jack gave him a sharp look. “What?” he repeated. “She did.”
“Oh, she had punch alright. Enough punch to grab you by the balls and refuse to let go.” Jack shook his head. “You should be relieved she’s gone.”
He’d hoped that Foxy had gotten over Tabby during the winter, but when his comment brought only silence, Jack guessed that nothing had really changed.
Bitch, Jack thought with heat. Noah was a good guy, but Tabitha had done a number on him. And Foxy wondered why he personally didn’t get involved in relationships, casual or otherwise. Women messed you up, and he had too much riding on the line to take the risk.
The airport in Sarasota was only a step or two above a pit. Foxy said as much as they walked down the steaming tarmac to the main terminal.
“You would think they would at least have as many Jetways as they do incoming flights,” Noah grumbled as they entered the main terminal and its blessed air conditioning.
“You’re just pissed that Sarasota isn’t Miami.” Personally, Jack liked sleepy Sarasota, but naturally, Foxy wanted available women who weren’t resigned to orthopedic shoes and shuffleboard.
“Well, yeah.”
“You shouldn’t even be thinking about that,” Jack said, trying for a nonchalant tone. He really shouldn’t be lecturing anyone, especially Noah, but Jack had spent the entire off-season trying to get over the way their season had ended, and if Noah didn’t change his ways, history could always repeat itself.
“You’re no fun. I’ve decided you need to come with me to South Beach for one last epic party weekend before spring training begins.”
Jack hadn’t told Noah that his ideal party weekend before spring training consisted of watching a marathon of Bones and stuffing as much fresh seafood as he could into his face.
“Here. We’re at Carousel 3.” Jack stopped up short by the second-to-last carousel and propped his carry-on suitcase up against a pillar.
“Hey. Check out that girl with Palmer. You think that’s the new reporter?”
Jack glanced over at Noah’s lazy gesture. He spotted Toby’s graying head right away, and the lanky brunette next to him.
“She’s definitely nothing like Tabitha,” Noah observed with a trace of disappointment. Jack, on the other hand, was immensely grateful that from a distance she wasn’t blonde or overly tanned. Both positive steps in the direction of her being nothing like Tabitha King. He was pretty damn sure that the team couldn’t survive another Hurricane Tabby.
“She’s pretty, though,” Jack admitted. And she was. Her skin was extraordinarily fair, even from this distance, and Jack was sure he could see a smattering of freckles on her nose. She brushed the mass of dark, straight hair over her shoulder impatiently, as if she just couldn’t be bothered.
Fox did a double take. “Seriously?”
“Well, yeah. I guess she is,” he said defensively. “She’s supposed to be, isn’t she?”
“I guess. I just can’t believe that you wouldn’t admit that the flight attendant was cute, and yet here you are, salivating over Toby’s new reporter.”
“I’m not salivating.” Jack tried for bored, and settled somewhere north of annoyed.
“Not that I would care if you were. It’s your turn.”
Jack wanted to yell at him that there were no turns, but he stopped himself short. The last thing he wanted to do was fight with Foxy again. He’d promised himself a thousand times in the off-season that he wasn’t going to get involved again. Their friendship was more important to him than being right.
“Wow, she has a lot of luggage.” Jack glanced up at Noah’s words. “I don’t think even Tabitha came to spring training with that many bags.”
Tabitha had been legendary for how many suitcases she’d needed on road trips. If this new reporter was outdoing her predecessor, that did not bode well. Jack tried to observe unobtrusively as she piled up a good six or seven large suitcases next to Toby, and then used what could only have been a list to verify that she’d pulled everything that was hers from the luggage carousel.
“Jesus,” Foxy said. “I don’t think Tabitha ever needed a list before.”
Jack said nothing. He was wishing he’d never thought she was pretty.
“I guess there’s no point in telling her you think she’s attractive.”
Jack couldn’t help but snort at the disappointed edge of Fox’s voice. “Bingo. Oh, look. Our luggage. Perfect timing.” The buzzer on their carousel sounded and it creaked into movement, suitcases spitting out of the chute.
“I wonder if she even likes baseball,” Fox wondered aloud, glancing over one last time at the departing backs of Toby Palmer and the girl.
“I doubt it,” Jack said. “I bet she’s just like Tabby was; Portland’s just a stepping stone to better things.”
CHAPTER THREE
Paradise, my ass, Izzy thought as she surreptitiously brushed a droplet of sweat away from her hairline. It wasn’t even March yet, and already she was about to drop dead from heatstroke. She was standing next to Toby, trying to comprehend the large number of players and stats and potential news items he kept flinging at her. She was pretty sure that his new tactic was intimidating
her into quitting. So far, it hadn’t worked, but she had to give him full points for effort.
She glanced out onto the field, at the players gathered there and thought she might be able to identify one or two by name or position. The rest was hopeless.
“We need to get you in front of a camera, if only to see how little we have to work with,” Toby said, and Izzy swallowed the panic rising inside her. “Maybe an interview we can air during the spring-training coverage.”
A player jogged out of the shaded dugout, and Izzy, who’d spent years around male athletes, actually did a double take.
He was tall with a long and lean build and dark hair, shining mercilessly under the burning sun. A nimbus of light practically radiated around him, and when he glanced her way, grinning, his teeth gleamed so white against the caramel tan of his skin.
She was so dazzled by his ridiculousness that she almost missed the player trotting out behind him, emerging literally from his shadow. Him, she recognized: Jack Bennett. His shorter, stockier build, the nondescript blondish-brown hair, and the goofy smile—all details she remembered from an article she’d read on the plane, detailing years of his prickly, sarcastic, overly confident exterior and the cat-and-mouse games he liked to play with reporters.
Gaining Toby’s respect, even if it was an impossible task, was high on her priority list. She’d already earmarked Jack Bennett as a potential interview subject, with the wildly improbable thought that if she could handle him, she’d convince both Toby and herself that she could do this job.
And she had to be able to succeed at this job. Charlie had emailed her just yesterday, and though he hadn’t come out and said it, she’d easily read between the lines. Mitch had taken away all but one of his ongoing projects. He was bored and mad and he hadn’t even had to vocalize the warning: Mitch was cleaning house big time, and unless she proved herself, she’d be joining Charlie at the golf course.
