“As if I needed any more reason to root for Kilby,” Mayor Trent shot back. The reporters laughed.
“So you agree to Crush’s bet?” someone shouted.
“Absolutely not.” A smile played across her face, her perfectly teased hair glinting in the sun.
The assembled reporters laughed and “oooohed.”
“But I’ll offer up a different bet. If the Catfish win, Crush donates twenty thousand to Save Our Slugs, ten thousand to Paige Taylor’s summer tutoring fund-raiser, and he can take me out to dinner.”
Crush scratched his chin, mulling it over. “And if we lose?”
“You donate twice as much.”
“Done. And I’ll take you out twice.” They were shaking hands before the mayor seemed to realize what was happening. “The bet is on. You’re all witnesses.”
Trevor turned to Dwight. “Does Crush have the hots for the mayor or is this all for show?”
“Got me.” Dwight shrugged. He had his game face on, even though the game didn’t start for two more hours. His meticulous pregame ritual demanded it. The rest of his preparation involved drinking a cup of black coffee exactly one hour before game time and crooning “You Send Me” to his bat.
Trevor’s routine was much simpler. After batting practice, which he kept light, he spent half an hour with his noise cancellation headphones on and his eyes closed. The other players thought he was jamming to some music, but the headphones were just for show. They blocked out the noise from outside so he could clear his mind and do his visualizations. He focused on the ball, on the letters, the red dot that formed a perfect target. He pictured his own swing, smooth and powerful and right. He imagined the satisfying sound the bat would make against the ball. The way it would jump off his bat in a joyful leap for freedom.
He wasn’t just smashing that ball, he was setting it free.
Yeah, crazy thoughts like that came into his head during his visualizations. Like Paige, naked in his bed. For long moments, he lost himself in the bliss of that image. His Paige, luscious and wild, his sexy woman, the one who always had his back.
Then another image snuck into his mind. Dean Wade, with his stupid bolo tie and nasty sneer. Watching him from a field box at the Kilby stadium. Wanting him to fail. Waiting for him to give less than his best.
Unnerved, Trevor ended his visualization early. He skimped on the rest of his routine, barely remembering to mutter a little prayer to the photo of Jackie Robinson stuck to the back of his locker. He wasn’t a particularly religious man, but he didn’t mind asking for a little assist from the greats.
The Catfish were at bat first, and before Trevor even got to the plate, they’d scored two runs. The Omaha pitcher was shaky, and Leiberman singled, stole a base, then cruised home on a homer from Ramirez.
Thank you, Catfish. Trevor relaxed. If the Catfish were going to play like that, even if he sat out the game he wouldn’t cost them anything. The smart thing to do, with the Wades watching so closely, would be to make an out. Everyone would be focused on the fact that the Catfish were winning 2-0. No one would notice if he didn’t contribute much.
His gaze strayed to the section of the stands set aside for the management from the visiting team. Paige sat in the front row, chatting with Marcia Burke. She wore a creamy summer dress with a lacy top and shoulder straps made out of ribbons. A bright blue cowboy hat—Kilby colors—kept the sun off her face and brought out the gorgeous blue of her eyes. He imagined her wearing cowboy boots and no underwear.
Before the game, inspired by Crush’s bet with the mayor, he’d dared Paige to do exactly that.
“Fine, but I want to make sure I’m getting something out of this. If you’ve gotten two hits by the seventh inning, I’ll take my panties off during the seventh inning stretch,” she’d told him with a saucy toss of her head. “And if you win, you can have your way with me.”
“Using sex as bribery?”
“Is that against the Baseball Code of Conduct?”
“Pretty sure the rules and regs don’t mention your undies.”
At any rate, her bribery must have worked, because without thinking twice, he slammed the first pitch into the center field bleachers. The ball flew so fast and far that they probably had to slow-mo it on TV just to see where it went.
As Trevor jogged around the bases he alternated between triumph and dread. A solo home run only counted as one run, after all. Would the Wades see this as a giant middle finger or would they give him the benefit of the doubt? Assume it was part of his strategy?
All thoughts of the Wades fled as he rounded third base and arrowed in on Paige, who was on her feet, her glorious hair loose under her cowboy hat, clapping and practically bouncing in her joy. He raised one finger as he passed her, then pumped his fist against his heart.
She twitched her skirts, the little tease.
If the Wades knew what they were up against—the temptation of Paige—they might pack their bags and go home.
To the right of Paige, Crush also wore a huge grin. Beyond him, Nina was also bouncing up and down, yelling something to him between her cupped hands. For the first time in his professional baseball career, he had a cheering section—a real one, not barely dressed groupies, but people who cared about him. What a new and amazing experience. And when he trotted into the dugout, his teammates’ butt pats and low fives added another layer of satisfaction.
He caught the play-by-play from someone’s radio: “Trevor Stark is famous for working the count and never swinging at the first pitch. But that’s why he’s so dangerous, because he keeps pitchers on their toes. You can’t predict what a great hitter will do, and Stark has all the makings of a great.”
Grinning, Trevor slapped hands with T.J. Gates and yelled, “Let’s keep it going” to Dwight, who was stepping into the batter’s box. He paused for a moment, soaking in the cheers, the fellowship, the presence of Paige. This moment has been brought to you by the game of baseball, he thought. That was the way it worked. Long periods of slogging through the season, punctuated by moments of transcendence.
As he sank into his accustomed spot in the dugout, he caught sight of a black cowboy hat across the stadium. Aw fuck. It was Dean Wade, right there in Werner Park, Omaha, Nebraska. He was staring grimly at the field.
All of Trevor’s joy evaporated. Ice surrounded him like a shield. The Wades were here to keep an eye on him. To fuck with him, control him. They held all the cards and they knew it.
Be smart, he told himself. The Wades plus the Wachowskis, you don’t want that combination. Keep your head down. Lay low, the way you have been. You’re used to it.
But no, he wasn’t used to holding himself back on the field. That was different. That was disrespecting the game of baseball. Could he do it?
His inner struggle lasted until his next at bat. The Storm Chasers were a feisty team and by then had squeezed in a few runs, though the Catfish were still up by one. If Trevor struck out, he’d still be batting .500 for the game. He’d get the Wades off his back with no cost to him.
Work the count this time, he told himself. Be smart. Don’t do anything crazy.
When the count was 2-2 and the pitcher was shaking off signs from the catcher, his glance strayed to the box where Paige sat. She perched on the edge of her chair, hands clasped under her chin, as if sending waves of encouragement in his direction.
He tore his gaze away and planted it back where it belonged, on the pitcher. A moment later the ball was hurtling through the air in a tight, perfect spin, the blur of seams coalescing into a clear red dot.
He swung. Made contact with a sound like the ringing of a bell, so clear and pure it echoed through the stadium. The ball ripped off his bat in a straight line toward the farthest reaches of left field. He put his head down and ran for first base, caught the signal from the coach to keep going, and charged toward second. The third base coach was giving him the stop signal, so he cruised into second with a stand-up double. Exhilarated, panting, electricity pouring
through him.
He was a baseball player to his core. For a moment, nothing else mattered.
Baseball had saved him in every possible way. How in the hell could he lay off a sinking fastball that forgot to sink? He was Trevor Stark, baseball player.
He looked over at Paige, grinned and held up two fingers. Brimming with laughter, she covered her face with her hands. Damn, he was looking forward to that seventh inning stretch.
In the meantime, back to business. The base runner on second, with his vantage point behind the pitcher’s mound, had the job of trying to steal signs that the catcher flashed to the pitcher, which happened to be one of Trevor’s specialties. When you were on second, you were essentially behind enemy battle lines. Your job was to gather intel that would help your team. On top of that, you had the opportunity to disrupt, to distract. Trevor saw it as his job to mess with the pitcher’s concentration, make him wonder what the big slugger was up to behind his back. Even a tiny lapse in the pitcher’s focus could give an edge to Dwight, who was at the plate now.
And then there was his other job. With dread, he looked over at the section where Dean Wade had been sitting. This time, he saw no black cowboy hat. Had Dean left to place that phone call to the Wachowskis? Or would Dean remember what he’d said about letting things play out? This was only the first game. Next game, he’d do what needed to be done.
Suddenly, alone on second base, Trevor felt more exposed than he ever had before.
Chapter 26
THE CATFISH WON Game One with the emphatic score of 10-5. Although Trevor wasn’t the only standout, Paige couldn’t tear her eyes away from him. After the game, he took her to dinner to celebrate. They took a cab on an oddly roundabout route to a quiet, upscale part of town, where they walked along streets steaming from a late evening rain shower. Charcoal clouds paraded overhead, a half-moon playing peekaboo behind them. Trevor seemed lost in thought as he held her hand in his, big and warm as a bear’s paw.
When they passed a darkened side street, he tugged her into it, found a spot sheltered by a parked SUV, and backed her against the outer wall of an antique store. Shielding her with his body, he inched her dress up her thighs. The silky fabric combined with the rough surface of his fingers sent shivers along her nerve endings.
“I was thinking about your bare pussy the entire last two innings,” he murmured against her neck. “Distracted the hell out of me. Did you see me hit into that double play? Good thing the game was already in the bag.”
She spread her hands across the hard muscles of his back. “Hmm, I think that Omaha shortstop robbed you. If that’s your version of distracted, maybe I should never wear underwear to a game again.”
“Now you’re just torturing me.” He bit the tendon of her shoulder lightly. Her nipples hardened into hot little pebbles. His hand reached the crease between her thighs and he dragged a finger along her sex.
She moaned. “Are you trying to return the favor?”
“I just can’t keep my hands off you.” He touched her tenderly, reverently. “Sometimes I step back and think this is all like some kind of dream. Meeting you. Being able to fondle you whenever I want.”
“It must be a dream we’re both having. I never thought I’d feel like this, like I’d die if you didn’t want me.”
“I want you. Never, ever doubt that.” He claimed her entire mound with a firm, possessive grip. Her insides went liquid, heat radiating from each point of contact. “I want to make you come right here in my hand. Right here against this wall.”
Oblivious to anything except how he made her feel, she wrapped one leg around the back of his thigh and pressed her groin against his hand. “Can we?” she whispered. “Could we do that? Because I’ve been turned on ever since you hit that first home run.”
He glanced over his shoulder and adjusted his position. “Watch the street, okay?”
“Okay.” She was already breathless, already close to the edge from the gentle friction he’d been applying in slow, steady strokes. Now he intensified things. A fast, hard rhythm struck sparks that arced through her system. One of his long, knowing fingers went inside and searched out a spot she hadn’t known existed. He pressed against it. Spots danced before her eyes. She kept her gaze fastened on the end of the little side street.
Trevor enveloped her with his heat and his strength, from inside and out. She pushed back, wanting more friction, more contact, more pressure. With a growl, he gave her what she wanted and more, taking command of her body and its myriad sensations.
A car drove past, music blasting. A cat jumped onto the hood of a nearby Honda and began cleaning its paws.
Paige gasped and panted. “I don’t know if I . . .” can come, she was going to say. Too public, too risky. But then Trevor curled his index finger deep inside her, bore down on her clit with his wrist and she was gone.
Sobbing, she climaxed against his hand, the end of the street nothing but a vague blur seen through a haze of ecstasy. She chased that orgasm with something like greed, her mound and his hand in a kind of grinding, push-and-pull dance. Maybe Trevor was driving that orgasm, or maybe she was. It was hard to tell.
With Hudson, she’d always been a little embarrassed by her sexual side—maybe because they’d begun as friends and he was so shy. She never felt that way with Trevor. With him, she could be as nasty as she wanted. She could come all over his hand in a random side street in Omaha and he’d grin and say, Now that was hot.
“What about you?” She asked, still trying to catch her breath, holding tight to his shoulders while he put her dress back to rights.
“Obviously, you owe me.” His wolfish grin made her stomach tighten. “And you will pay up. At the time and place of my choosing. And you won’t be able to say no because you owe me. Deal?”
Oh yes, that was a deal she could definitely sign on for. “Nothing that would ruin my good-girl reputation, right?”
“Honey, if you’re going to be with me, you might have to let that reputation go.”
“Oh no, I don’t. Everyone knows you’re the bad boy and I’m the do-gooder.” She flashed him a mischievous grin. “No one needs to know the truth, do they?”
“What’s the truth?” He adjusted his pants over his erection.
“That you’re a good guy, and I’m a lot naughtier than I look.”
“Yeah you are.” He gave her a little spank on the ass, and even that felt good, his big hand burning through her thin dress. God, was there anything she wouldn’t enjoy with this man? Could she possibly be any happier than right at this moment, hand in hand with this intense and magnificent ballplayer?
He drew her close to his side as they strolled back onto the main street. He scanned both directions thoroughly before guiding her to the right. The way he held her felt more than possessive; it felt protective, as if he was shielding her from some danger.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Actually, there is something. Paige, I want you to be careful. With all this media attention, I’m a little nervous. I—” He broke off. “Just be careful. And please keep an eye on Nina. It means a lot to see you both in the stands when we’re playing. I know you’re safe when I can look over and see for myself.”
She swung his hand between them. “You’re so silly. Where else would we be? Of course we’ll be at the games. I’ll be staring at you the entire time, and Nina . . . well, she might be looking Leiberman’s way now and then.”
A cloud gathered on the finely molded planes of his face, moonlight glittering in his narrowed eyes. “Bieberman.”
“Oh stop. She’s been pretty lonely. And she’s afraid you’re still angry with her.”
“I’m not angry. I understand why she came to you and Crush. I even understand why she didn’t warn me first.”
“She knew you’d stop her.”
“I’m starting to think there’s no way to stop her from anything. Leiberman better watch out.” A wry smile twisted one corner of his mouth. “I won’t get in he
r way, though. She’s a big girl. When I was her age, I was playing in Mexico, living on rice and beans. I knew two words of Spanish, ‘safe’ and ‘out.’ Nina deserves to have more of a life than she’s had so far. I won’t hold her back anymore. It might be even harder than going to juvie, but I’ll support her, whatever she chooses.”
She lifted their clasped hands to her lips and kissed his middle knuckle. Trevor was such a strong, caring person. And no one else had any clue about his true nature—except Nina. And maybe Crush, now that Nina had revealed the truth. A lot of Kilby kids knew too. Everyone else bought into the legend of Trevor Stark.
Well, she wasn’t going to tell anyone. She’d tuck it into her heart and savor her secret knowledge.
She gave his knuckle a gentle nibble. “By the way, I have a surprise for you.”
“You got rid of all your underwear, for good?” His hopeful tone made her burst out laughing.
“You want all of it to go? Even my red lace teddy?”
“Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”
“No, you need to stay alive until tomorrow’s game. That’s when you’ll get your surprise.” She refused to say anything more, no matter how much he nuzzled her neck and whispered hot threats about bending her over his knee.
Game Two was advertised as a pitcher’s duel, with the two best ERAs from each team facing off. Trevor got dressed for the game without a fixed plan, but in the back of his mind a ticker tape of warnings ran on repeat. Be smart. Remember what’s most important. We’re only up one game, it would be reasonable for them to win the next one. Let’s do this thing. It’s not too late.
But then came time for the ceremonial first pitch, something Trevor rarely paid attention to.
“Here to throw out the first pitch of Game Two of the Pacific League championships, please welcome the legendary Grizz Walker!”
Trevor’s head shot up, and there was Grizz, making his way onto the field with the assistance of a cane.
The announcer went on. “Former catcher in the Negro Leagues, one of the great scouts of all time, and longtime volunteer baseball coach, he’s one of the legends of the sport. Give him a big hand!”
Drive You Wild: A Love Between the Bases Novel Page 26
