CHAPTER TWO
Thanks to a clumpy mascara wand and a distinct lack of ability, Micki was late for work the next morning. Normally they didn’t keep specific office hours but today Uncle Yank had insisted on his weekly meeting. With his obnoxious mood, Micki didn’t want to draw attention to herself, especially not when she was dressed so out of character. However, with his vision problems and refusal to discuss the diagnosis of macular degeneration, Micki could only hope he wouldn’t notice the changes she’d made.
She passed by the main desk, planning to head directly for the conference room, but the ringing of the telephone stopped her. Raine, the very new and young receptionist, wasn’t sitting at her desk. Voice mail could take care of the caller but Micki hated to let one of their clients wait for no reason.
She grabbed for the phone. “The Hot Zone, may I help you?”
“This is Damian Fuller. I need to speak to Annabelle.”
The deep, masculine voice reverberated through the telephone lines and Micki shivered, her reaction a jumble of emotions. She didn’t know what affected her more, the rumbling baritone, the sound of his name, or the lingering memory of the degrading feelings she’d experienced in the locker room yesterday.
“Hello?” Damian asked, drawing Micki back to the present. “Is anyone there?”
She cleared her throat. “Sorry. I was distracted. Someone just stopped by the desk,” she lied. “What can I do for you?”
“I already told you I’d like to speak to Annabelle.”
“Oh right.” She heard the annoyance in his voice and she quickly glanced down at the check-in sheet Raine was instructed to keep. “Annabelle isn’t in yet. Can I—” She was about to ask if she could take a message when an idea dawned.
Here was the man who’d prompted her transformation in the first place. Why not start flirting over the telephone? It would be good practice. Her heart rate picked up speed at the prospect.
“I haven’t much time to talk,” Damian said.
Before he could hang up, Micki pulled herself together. “Hold on, Mr. Fuller. I’ll put someone on the line who can help you.”
Micki pushed the hold button, then drew a deep gulp of air. Think sexy, think sultry, she told herself and settled into the oversize chair. She crossed her legs in an ultrafeminine pose and slowly lifted the phone. “The Hot Zone, Micki Jordan speaking. What’s your pleasure this morning?” she asked in the huskiest voice she could muster.
“Micki?” He sounded as if he didn’t quite believe it. “It’s Damian Fuller. I needed to speak to Annabelle about the schedule she’s got lined up for the team this coming weekend.”
“I’m sure it’s nothing a guy like you can’t handle,” Micki said, infusing her breathless words with subtle meaning.
Damian Fuller could nail anything on the field and off. Micki just wished he wanted to nail her.
He coughed into the phone. “I realize Annabelle’s just doing her job and the autism camp’s a yearly thing, but I don’t want her overbooking the team’s PR appearances. We’re in first place going into August. I don’t want the guys to blow it by being too exhausted to play well.”
“Are you sure you aren’t just looking for more time to pursue other off-the-field activities?” Micki cringed as the question toppled off her tongue, especially since both Joe Gordon, the Renegades owner, and Coach Donovan had called with the same request.
He let out a laugh that set her nerve endings tingling. “Let Annabelle know I called, okay?”
“I’ll be sure to convey your concerns when she gets in,” she assured him.
“Thanks, and Micki?”
“Yes?”
“Take care of that cold. You sound really hoarse.”
She hung up, completely mortified, and glanced up.
The clock on the wall caught her attention and she cursed just like the gamblers who’d come to her uncle’s house every Thursday night while she was growing up. Micki scribbled a note for Annabelle, who was late, or Raine just hadn’t checked her in as she was supposed to.
Micki rose and made a mad dash for the conference room. Tripping on her borrowed heels as she turned a corner, she saved herself by hugging the nearest wall. She waved at a startled Gert, the new office manager, a burly-looking woman who’d lasted a full three months so far in comparison to the others, whom Uncle Yank had sent home in tears—men included.
“That’s it. I’m finished waiting. The meeting will come to order.” Micki heard her uncle slam the gavel against the rubber plate, calling the Hot Zone’s second meeting this week to order.
Micki yanked off the shoes she’d borrowed from Sophie, determined to make an unnoticed entrance. But if she’d botched her physical transformation as much as she’d messed up flirting with Damian, she wouldn’t have to worry about her uncle realizing she’d done anything different.
She strode into the conference room and slipped quietly into her seat.
“You’re late,” her uncle grumbled without looking up.
“Good morning to you, too,” Micki said and blew him a kiss.
Sophie met her gaze and gave her a thumbs-up sign. Relief swelled inside her and she grinned back.
“Where’s Annabelle?” Micki asked, glancing around. Apparently, Raine hadn’t botched attendance and once again they were one sister short.
“That’s what I’d like to know,” Uncle Yank said. “Ever since she married that no-good, low-down snake Vaughn, she’s become a typical, unpredictable female.”
Micki laughed at his not-so-veiled reference to Lola. “You adore Vaughn, so lay off him or I’ll tell Annabelle you’re at it again,” she said, referring to his past rocky history with Annabelle’s husband.
“Actually, I have a message from Annabelle,” Sophie said. “I was just waiting for Micki to get here so I could tell you both at the same time.”
“What’s wrong?” Micki recognized the serious note in her sister’s voice and her stomach plummeted. Annabelle was just a little over three months pregnant and Micki crossed her fingers that all was well.
“Nothing that can’t be fixed with a little bed rest,” Sophie said quickly. “Annabelle tried to call you this morning, but nobody answered.”
“I must’ve been blow-drying my hair,” Micki muttered.
“Well, apparently, she’s spotting and the doctor wants her off her feet.” Sophie, true to her analytical nature, proceeded to describe the graphic details of Annabelle’s problem in terms of color and amount until Uncle Yank cut her off with the swing of his gavel.
“I don’t want to hear the gory details about female problems.” His skin had turned green. “I just want Annie and her baby to be okay.”
“And they will be,” Micki said, placing her hand over his. “Right, Soph?”
“Right.”
“Speaking of doctors—”
“Next subject,” Uncle Yank said, his tone leaving no room for argument.
Micki sighed. Sophie had been begging him to let her take him for an evaluation with a doctor who was performing a new procedure on patients with macular degeneration. But the big man who put the fear of God in everyone he knew—except his nieces and Lola—was afraid. Not that he’d admitted as much.
“Okay, with Annie out, our biggest problem is now the New York Renegades PR blitz she was scheduled to handle in Tampa this weekend,” Sophie said, tapping her pen against her yellow notepad.
“Well, there’s a simple solution to that problem,” Uncle Yank said, his gaze darting between Micki and Sophie.
Micki wasn’t about to let him hand this assignment over to her. “There sure is a simple solution,” Micki agreed. “Sophie, you head on down to Tampa instead.”
Uncle Yank glanced from Micki to Sophie, seemingly torn as to whom he should push to go to south Florida.
Before he could choose a niece, Sophie shook her head. “Tsk, tsk, Uncle Yank. You can run but you can’t hide and you know I made you a doctor’s appointment next week with that specialist a
nd I intend to be by your side to make sure you keep it.”
Which explained why he would want to get Sophie out of town, Micki thought.
He scowled. “I don’t need another doctor looking into my peepers.” He slammed the gavel hard for emphasis, stunning them both into silence.
At that moment, an electronic voice spoke. “Nine thirty, a.m.” Uncle Yank cursed and pressed a button on his newly purchased watch, designed so that the visually impaired didn’t have to try to decipher small numbers.
“Divine providence?” Sophie asked sweetly.
“I was just testing the thing by wearing it,” he muttered. “It doesn’t mean I need it yet.”
He might be telling the truth. Micki wasn’t sure she understood what her uncle could or could not see, just that there had been some worsening since he was diagnosed a year ago. For all his denials about needing a specialist, he’d gone ahead and begun acclimatizing himself to the accessories and implements made for the visually impaired. It was almost as if he’d resigned himself to the inevitable without a fight, and that was so unlike her feisty uncle, it hurt her heart.
Despite how close Micki and Uncle Yank were, Sophie was the sister who understood clinical things best, and the sisters all agreed Sophie could handle him and his specialists.
Still, Micki could definitely stand in for Sophie this once. “If you go to Florida, I’ll make sure he keeps that appointment,” Micki assured her sister.
“I know you would, but I’ve done the research and I’d feel much better hearing everything the doctor had to say.” Not to mention that after all her research, she’d better be able to understand the diagnosis and explain it to the rest of them, Micki thought.
The noose was tightening as she came closer and closer to becoming the chosen one to replace Annabelle in Tampa. Micki’s heart began to pound harder in her chest at the thought of spending up-close-and-personal time with Damian, which would mean facing her inadequacies firsthand.
“I think Peter or Jamie can handle Tampa,” Micki said, referring to the newest publicists who’d recently joined the firm.
Though the Jordan sisters prided themselves on their family-oriented agency, their client list had grown to the point where they’d had no choice but to expand. Regardless, they kept the weekly meetings limited to family only so the partners kept up to date on both the sports and PR aspects of the business. Micki and her sisters held separate meetings with their staff, which was why even as she’d suggested one of the new publicists take over the Florida gig, Micki knew she was just acting out of desperation. There were many reasons why the other publicists couldn’t handle this job.
Sophie shuffled her papers, evening them on one side. “Even if Peter or Jamie could go to Florida, you know Joe Gordon insists one of the partners handle his team’s PR. It’s you or me.”
“I know. I’d just forgotten,” Micki said.
“Conveniently forgotten,” Uncle Yank said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Micki asked.
Her uncle shook his head. “Nothin’ important. You can handle the team, Micki. There’s nothing you can’t handle, remember that.”
If only he knew, Micki thought and sighed in resignation. “When do I have to leave?”
“After you get that painted gook off your face,” her uncle said. “If Sophie hadn’t been sitting next to me I’d have thought that was her running in late.”
So Uncle Yank had noticed. “Why, thank you. I’ll take that as a compliment.” Micki deliberately fluttered her lashes at him.
“Compliment, my…Never mind. Just quit looking like a floozy, else I’ll think you’re taking lessons from Lola.”
He’d noticed Micki’s clothing overhaul, too. Maybe the eye specialist still could help him, Micki thought and met Sophie’s knowing gaze.
And maybe they could get Uncle Yank to make an overture toward the woman he missed so badly. “Speaking of Lola,” Micki began.
He slammed the gavel hard. “Meeting adjourned.”
Micki rolled her eyes. The man could be as stubborn as a mule and she didn’t envy Sophie’s trip to the doctor with him. Still, she’d rather deal with her surly uncle than cope with being around Damian Fuller in hot, steamy Florida. And that was saying a lot.
* * *
Interleague play. The fans loved it, Damian Fuller thought as he crouched in center field and waited for Manny Ramirez, one of the Red Sox’s best hitters, to swing on a three-two pitch. Ramirez cleanly tackled a fastball and it sailed toward center. Damian ran back, back, and jumped high, snagging the ball at the same time he hit the wall. Regaining his footing, he immediately threw to his cutoff man, preventing the runner on base from tagging and running home, but the second he released the ball, a burning pain seared through his left wrist and he grabbed his hand in agony.
An hour later, Damian sat in a hospital room because, as luck was scarce at the moment, the X-ray machine at the stadium had broken. While waiting for the test results, he forced a smile and flirted with Darla, the attractive nurse who lingered in his room. She provided a nice distraction, but he preferred to be alone.
Today wasn’t the first time his wrist had given him trouble. Hell, every body part ached now and then, but it was the first time the burning numbness in his fingertips had lingered. And that couldn’t be a good sign.
“Hungry?” Darla asked, obviously content to hang around and cater to needs he didn’t have.
“Not for food, darlin’.” He shot her a wolfish grin and she blushed a deep red.
“You really do live up to your reputation as a ladies’ man,” she said, laughing.
What choice did he have? Perception was everything. And in New York especially, the media shaped that perception, helping him reach the fan base that turned out to see the Renegades play. Damian needed them to want to see him play. And they would—as long as they had no idea that age was catching up with him.
His eligible-bachelor status and photographs of him partying with beautiful women cemented the impression that, at thirty-five, Damian Fuller was still going strong. That was a vision Damian needed his teammates and coaches to buy into as well. Throughout his career, the perception had helped him survive record-setting years and major slumps, making him an icon to the fans—untouchable, untradeable, a marquee player in a damn tough market.
Damian lived to play ball. He loved the game, and after devoting his life to his career, the game was all he had. Hell, he knew he was in the twilight of his playing years, but damned if he wouldn’t extend it as long as he was able.
Darla batted dark lashes over her blue eyes. “It’s been fun treating you,” she told him as the team physician strode into the room, chart in hand.
“Life’s too short not to enjoy.” He repeated the mantra he’d lived by all his life, although lately living up to his reputation had become more of a job than playing center field. He wouldn’t admit it to a breathing soul, but Damian was beginning to feel every one of his thirty-five years.
“So, what’s up, doc? I’ll be back swinging tomorrow, right?”
The older man shook his head, but the minute the guy used the term disabled list, Damian tuned out the rest. There was never a good time for the DL, yet he wondered why the hell fate had chosen now to piss on him. Now, when Ricky Carter, the rookie with an attitude, was angling for a chance to prove he could outdo Damian on the field and at bat. It looked like Carter was about to get the opportunity.
Damian walked out of the emergency room and, within minutes, his sister Rhonda pulled up in her Honda minivan. He could have called a car service, but with three sisters and parents within a half hour’s drive, and all of them probably aware of his injury by now, not calling them wasn’t worth the hassle. Besides, he liked how his sisters pampered him.
“Hi, Ronnie,” he said, climbing into the passenger seat. A loud farting sound greeted him and he winced. After reaching beneath him, he pulled a rubber duck from under his ass.
She cringed. “Sorry.
The kids were throwing the baby’s toys around and I forgot to put that one away.”
He laughed. “Anything my nieces do is fine by me.” He shifted and finally got comfortable surrounded by the mess in the car.
Each sister was married. Being the youngest sibling, Ronnie had three girls under the age of ten, all of whom adored their uncle Damian. His other sisters also had girls, continuing the tradition only Damian’s birth had broken. Growing up around females had taught Damian how to treat a lady, and more importantly how to have patience with one, too—the constant questions, the prying into his feelings, the way they invaded his personal space in general.
All of which explained why he never brought the women he took out home with him. Why should he bother? He never dated anyone he could get serious about; he couldn’t risk losing the focus he needed for his career.
“Want to spend the night at my place?” Ronnie asked. “The guest room’s yours if you want it. Dave’ll keep the girls out of your hair,” she said as added incentive.
He shook his head. “Much as I appreciate the offer, I think I’ll just go home.”
“How long are you out for?” she asked, correctly reading the source of his mood.
“Fifteen days. Longer if the tendinitis doesn’t clear up.”
She didn’t turn his way. “Not so bad.”
“Oh really?” He snorted. “It’s July, we’re in first by three and a half games. Atlanta’s breathing down our necks and Carter’s aiming for my position on the field and in the lineup. Now he’s got a solid two weeks to make an impression. You’re right. It’s not so bad.”
“I’m sorry.”
He flexed and unflexed his good hand. “Don’t be. It’s my headache.” Just like his age was his headache, as was the way his body didn’t always cooperate the way it used to.
All he’d done was catch a damn fly ball and he’d overextended his wrist. He supposed there was a lesson to be learned here, but he wasn’t ready to heed it. Damian was convinced he still had a few good years left and he wasn’t about to quit.
“Are you going with the team on your next road trip?” Ronnie asked.
Hot Number (Hot Zone Book 2) Page 3
