Drive You Wild: A Love Between the Bases Novel

by Jennifer Bernard

  He stared at them, his face only a few inches away.

  “Hey, Bieberman.” Shakily, Paige peeled herself away from Nina. “Nice play.” Emerging from behind Paige, Nina blinked in complete confusion at the scene around her.

  “What just happened? Who are you?”

  Leiberman blushed. “I’m . . . uh . . . Jim Leiberman and I’m the shortstop for the Catfish. Hi Crush, hi Paige. I was . . . uh . . . looking for the ball.”

  To their left, Crush burst out laughing. “Did you check your glove, boy genius?”

  “Oh.” Leiberman seemed to have trouble pulling his gaze away from Nina’s flushed face. Finally he opened his glove. The ball nestled inside like a pearl. “I got it!” he yelled behind him.

  “Head’s up, Bieberman,” Trevor called. He and the third baseman grabbed him by the legs and lifted him away from the stands. The shortstop held the ball triumphantly into the air, to wild applause and some boos from the El Paso fans.

  As the Catfish players set Leiberman’s feet on the ground, he took one peek back at Nina, who sent him an adorable little wave. Trevor gave Leiberman a cuff on the shoulder. On his way back to the outfield, he shot a look at Paige, one scorching glance that seemed to sink right into her soul.

  On someone’s handheld radio, the announcers were going nuts. “Take that, Baseball’s Hottest Outfield. An infielder makes the play of the game. It’s not a guy who gets a lot of attention, usually. Jim Leiberman is one of those low-profile players who doesn’t necessarily grab the headlines, but holy Catfish. That was some play. Looked like he was body-surfing out there.”

  “Sure did. If he was trying to get Crush Taylor to notice him, he picked an interesting way to do it. Just crash into the seats right in front of him. Was it my imagination, or was he making a little light conversation with some ladies out there?”

  “Well, we are talking about the Catfish, after all. You never know with these guys. They’ve always been on the quirky side, but that could change if Crush is forced to give up the team.”

  “True that. So far, the Catfish seem to be rallying to the cause. Since Crush made his famous vow, they’ve been steadily inching up in the standings. Should be an interesting summer down in Kilby. Up next, we have El Paso third baseman . . .”

  Nina had been listening closely. “Why did you call him Bieberman?”

  “Oh, that’s just a nickname. The team thinks he looks like Justin Bieber. You know ballplayers, they love nicknames.”

  Nina sighed. “Justin Bieber? Oh, he so looks like him. Except better. More muscles, you know?”

  Paige bit her lip to keep from laughing. How could this innocent-seeming girl, with her wide eyes and habit of blurting things out, possibly be related to tough, icy Trevor Stark? Except that as it turned out, “Stark” wasn’t his real last name, and he wasn’t icy at all. Every layer she peeled away revealed something more fascinating.

  “Does Trevor have a nickname?” Nina asked.

  Paige thought hard but couldn’t remember hearing the guys call Trevor anything other than T, occasionally. She turned to Crush. “Dad? Does Trevor have a nickname?”

  “Absolutely. I just can’t say any of ’em in mixed company.” He winked at Nina to take the sting from his words. The girl giggled, then stole another glance in the direction of the shortstop.

  Settling back in her seat, Paige decided she’d played CIA interrogator long enough. Nina was too innocent, too appealing, too vulnerable. She refused to use her as a way to gain information about Trevor. She’d just have to use more old-fashioned methods. The Internet. Conversation. Luring him into bed.

  Sweet Lord, where had that thought come from? Her face burned as if she’d said it out loud. Of course she wouldn’t do anything so underhanded. If she went to bed with Trevor Stark, it would be because . . . oh God, because she wanted to. She couldn’t stop thinking about it. Trevor made her feel sexy and wanted. When he touched her, she forgot everything else. She forgot about common sense, caution, their pact of denial. She forgot that he kept secrets from her. That getting involved with another professional athlete was a terrible idea. That he was trying very hard to keep distance between them.

  She heaved a sigh. Trevor had amazing powers of control. But she had unbelievable powers of persistence. Just ask the baseball legend on her left.

  Chapter 13

  TREVOR TOOK NINA to the sushi restaurant he’d chosen for his missed date with Paige and they spent a wonderful evening catching up on the last few months. She’d been working as a dog groomer recently, the latest in a series of no-pressure jobs. Before that she’d been an art school model, a Merry Maids cleaning lady, and a movie theater clerk.

  Her life since that terrible night had been so different from his. After he’d been sentenced to juvenile detention, she’d gone to live with a distant cousin on their mother’s side of the family. She’d had a relatively normal high school experience but no interest in college. After graduation she’d drifted from one short-term job to the next.

  He saw the pattern. She was existing, not living. He thought about Paige and the temptation she represented. Maybe he was doing the same thing. If he was really free, he’d throw her down like a fucking caveman and claim her the way he wanted. Explore every inch of her, body and soul, and pleasure her until she screamed his name and knew nothing but him.

  But getting close to Paige might put her in danger. Seeing Nina too often could put her in danger. Before Nina left, he extracted a firm promise that she wouldn’t show up again without consulting him first.

  “I promise. Also, don’t be mad but I told Paige that Stark wasn’t our real last name,” she confessed anxiously. “I also might have implied that you won’t be heading to the majors anytime soon. But don’t worry, she’s really nice and I trust her. She won’t do anything to hurt you. She said you’re a friend.”

  His heart squeezed in his chest. If he could trust anyone with the story, maybe it would be Paige. But he couldn’t. The more people who knew, the greater the chance it would leak out, like bilge from a broken sewer pipe.

  “I’ll handle Paige, sweetheart. I know it’s tough, but don’t say anything else to anyone.”

  “Normally I don’t, because no one knows you anyway. It just seemed to spill out of me. It’s like my secret-keeping ability is all used up. I don’t want to do this anymore, Trevor.”

  “I know, I know. We just have to wait for the right time and place.” Somewhere and sometime very far from now. “Be strong, Nina. We’ve been through much worse than this.”

  “I know. Okay, Trevor, I’ll keep going as we have been.” She bit her lip, then looked up at him from under her lashes. “I was wondering . . .” She hesitated. “If Bieberman asks about me . . .”

  “I’ll explain that you live in a different state.”

  “Trevor! He seems really nice and I think he’s—”

  “He’s a ballplayer. He’s on the road a lot, obsessed with baseball. You don’t want that.”

  “Maybe I do! You can’t make all the decisions, forever and ever.”

  “That’s true,” he admitted, though it pained him.

  “So you’ll tell me if—”

  “If I change my mind, sure.”

  She swatted him on the arm while he grinned at her. Damn, it felt good to have his little sister around.

  After Nina left, it was as if Paige had never experienced that glimpse into Trevor’s personal life. He barely glanced her way during the next shoot, which took place at a pet shelter, though how he managed to ignore the tension simmering between them, she had no idea. Every time he left the ballpark, girls would flock to him, and he made a show of surrounding himself with them, one on each arm, a few trailing behind, as if he were some kind of pimp in a music video.

  Maybe the attraction was all on her side. Maybe he didn’t feel it—or didn’t want to feel it.

  Fine.

  She needed to focus on other things—anything other than men. Investigating colleges didn’t t
ake up enough of her after-hours time, so she spent all her extra energy on the summer tutoring program the Boys and Girls had set up. It was designed to help kids whose home lives had gotten in the way of their schooling. They’d fallen behind and had no chance of catching up without some extra help. She loved the work because it went beyond tutoring; the kids talked to her. She asked them about their lives, their families. She listened to the sad stories they told. Sometimes a sympathetic listener was all they needed, other times she referred them to trained counselors or support groups. In return she told them about her experiences growing up around baseball and traveling with Hudson’s basketball team in Italy. They loved hearing about her weird life, which made her appreciate it more.

  The Catfish turned out to be a great resource in her work with the kids. She devised a reward system using tickets to Catfish games and other paraphernalia from the stadium. The players were great role models, especially the more she got to know them as individuals. When she found out that one of her students was mourning the death of his brother, she brought Dwight to a session. Ramirez, who had been born in Mexico, offered to help the Spanish-speaking kids as often as he could. If only she could rope Trevor into her project—but he was determined to keep his work with kids completely private.

  Fine.

  It felt wonderful to do something that helped other people—not just one self-centered basketball player. It all helped her move forward from the divorce. Not forget, but at least move forward. Every day that passed, she felt stronger. She didn’t need Hudson. She didn’t want Trevor. She was . . . fine.

  Then one day, while she was posting her daily Baseball’s Hottest Outfield social media updates, she got a text from Terry that she was needed in the PT room. The thought was so novel that she dropped everything and rushed downstairs. Why would anyone on the team actually need her? Instagram posts didn’t rank anywhere in the hierarchy of human needs.

  As she rounded the corner past the clubhouse, she ran smack into a hard wall of muscle. Her body told her immediately who it was, as if a light switch had turned on inside her. Trevor locked his hands on her hips to steady her, and all her good intentions scattered like dandelion fluff.

  Yes, she still wanted Trevor Stark.

  “Are you okay?”

  She nodded, not trusting her voice. He looked her up and down, checking for injuries. His attention felt like a physical weight, as if he was stroking her instead of studying her. Her nipples tingled, rising hard against her bra.

  He noticed. She saw the very moment when it registered. His eyes darkened, a little muscle in his jaw flickered. Something volcanic lurked behind that implacable, fallen-angel face. It called to her like wild wind tugging at a kite. Her body started to sway toward him, but she fought against the urge.

  A bright voice shattered the moment.

  “Why, Trevor Stark, you bad thing, are you tormenting the owner’s daughter?” Donna McIntyre, the promotions girl, skipped past them. She was engaged to Mike Solo, the Friar reserve catcher who’d just been bumped up from the Catfish. She was carrying an armload of rolled-up posters. One tumbled off the pile, but she nabbed it in midair and used it to bonk Trevor lightly on the head.

  “Ow.” His injured look made Paige smile. She liked Donna, but then everybody did, with her bright smiles and quick comebacks.

  “It’s okay, I can handle Trevor,” she told Donna.

  The redhead readjusted her load, using one knee to keep the posters together. “Don’t let him fool you. He comes off like the big bad wolf, but I happen to know he’s not entirely dangerous. Not entirely harmless either, mind you.”

  “Don’t you have some sort of wacky promotion to plan?” Trevor asked her.

  “Indeed I do. See these posters here? I have three hundred of ’em earmarked for our awesome paying guests tonight, and every single one needs your signature. Baseball’s Most Annoying Outfield, you know.” Donna winked at Paige.

  “No. No way. I don’t have time for that,” Trevor said. “Batting practice is about to start. Get an intern to do it.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Paige rose on tiptoe and murmured in Trevor’s ear. “Sign them or I’ll give Jim Leiberman Nina’s e-mail address.” As she pulled away, her lips brushed against his earlobe. The feel of his flesh made her mouth tingle madly—how crazy was that? It was an earlobe, nothing but skin and cartilage. She must have lost her mind.

  Trevor gave her a slit-eyed glare, then turned back to Donna. “I have an hour before batting practice. An hour, no more.”

  “I’ll take it.” Donna sketched an elaborate bow in Paige’s direction. “Wow, you’re good, Paige. You’re either magic or you have some dirt on our favorite bad boy. Maybe both. Here, have a poster. You’ve earned it.”

  She handed Paige one of the rolled up tubes and dashed off. Paige stuck it in her tote bag. “Wow, a signed T-shirt, now this. Must be my lucky day.” She tried to duck around him, but he blocked her way.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”

  Her breath hitched. Was he going to cash in that rain check? Finally take her on that infamous date that never happened?

  “I know that Nina told you some stuff about us. I’m going to ask you to forget it.”

  Anger and disappointment left a sour taste. This was why she needed to avoid men. She gave him a little push; he moved about as much as a brick wall. “Trevor, did it ever occur to you that you can trust me? That maybe we could be friends?”

  He went still, staring at her. Enveloping her in his attention. His all-encompassing scrutiny seemed to last forever. Someone opened the door to the clubhouse, releasing a burst of chatter and laughter into the tunnel. So softly that she almost missed it, he muttered under his breath. “Not with the thoughts going through my head right now.”

  He brushed past her, leaving her positively throbbing with curiosity. If only she could tap into those thoughts and see if they were remotely like hers. If they were, the two of them would be burning up the sheets in no time.

  Whew. She fanned herself. Bad idea. Great idea. Who knew anymore?

  She hurried on, toward the head trainer’s realm.

  In the therapy room an odd sight greeted her. Terry, the no-nonsense, nearly six-foot-tall trainer, hovered anxiously next to the even-more-gigantic Sonny Barnes, whose forehead was pressed against the wall, one fist resting loosely overhead, the other gripping something against his chest. He was emitting some very strange, hoarse, moaning sounds that Paige finally recognized as sobs.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Terry answered in quiet tones, as if Sonny couldn’t possibly hear her from two feet away. “He came in for some elbow work and as soon as I touched him, he started making that noise. Freaked me the hell out. Then tears started coming out, and I didn’t know what to do.”

  “Did you ask him what was wrong?”

  “No, I called you. I heard you’re a psychologist. I have no expertise in this shit. Give me an ACL sprain or a postsurgical elbow rehab any day. This,” she shuddered, “is why I work in sports, not at a clinic.”

  “Athletes have emotions too, you know.”

  “Yeah, well, they can keep them to themselves. You got this?” She started backing away. “The players talk to you. They like you.”

  “Wait, I’m no expert. I haven’t even finished my college degree yet. I’m just a part-time volunteer . . .” She trailed off, since she was now talking to Terry’s exhaust fumes.

  She eyed Sonny. He wore his sliders and a T-shirt that said Redneck Delight on the back. She searched her mind for details about him. First baseman, from a ranch somewhere in the South . . . married, right?

  Stepping closer, she put a comforting hand on his back. “You seem a little upset, Sonny. Is there anything you want to talk about?”

  More harsh sobs, then he heaved himself around to face her. His face was sloppy with tears.

  “Oh Sonny, what’s wrong?”

  In answer, he thrust his hand toward her.
It held a thermos decorated with a collage of photos under its hard plastic casing. The photo showed Sonny and a pretty, beaming girl, their faces squished together.

  “She made this for me when we got engaged. Now it’s over, and I have to see her every time I drink my coffee.”

  “Oh no, I’m so sorry. Believe me, I know what that feels like.” If there was ever a life crisis she could relate to, it was this one. “What happened?”

  “She dumped me. Says I’m never home and the guy at the savings and loan started bringing her daisies. She loves daisies. It’s her second favorite flower after dandelions. Ever had dandelion wine? We always said we’d serve it up at our wedding.” He swiped a big hand across his face. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to get soppy.”

  “You go right ahead and get soppy, Sonny. I’d be the last one to tell you not to cry. You should have seen me when my husband left.”

  Suddenly, six feet four inches of first baseman was draped across her shoulder, soaking her T-shirt with tears. She staggered, bracing herself against his weight.

  “You cry as long as you want, Sonny.” Gingerly, she patted his back. He might be huge, but he was probably about her age, away from his family and friends, traveling the Southwest trying to scratch a living out of his love for baseball. He probably just needed some simple human comfort.

  Tears dripped onto her shoulder, sobs racked his huge frame. She murmured comforting things and patted his back. After a few minutes she adjusted her position, worried that she might start to go numb. After another couple minutes, his phone buzzed. He didn’t seem to hear through his sobs.

  Paige thought about all the international phone calls she’d made to her friends after Hudson had dumped her, and how patient they’d been. She could do the same for Sonny, even if she was getting a crick in her neck.