He steered her toward his Escalade. “Don’t worry about Crush.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve got Crush handled.” He and Crush had worked out all the details of the “challenge” and agreed to keep it quiet until the right time came. He clicked the remote key, and the rig answered with a beep. He still hadn’t replaced the sideview mirror. It had sentimental value at this point.
“How? When? What do you mean?”
“Championship game, seventh inning stretch. All will be revealed.”
The Triple A National Championship game took place in a different city every year; this time it was El Paso’s turn. Southwest University Park was jam-packed with fans of the Catfish and their opponents, the Durham Bulls. Even Caleb Hart and Mike Solo had flown in from San Diego for the event. They came by to shake hands with Crush and meet Paige. She was happy to find out that Trevor was going to have such cool—not to mention good-looking—teammates.
Riding the high of Trevor’s incredible performance, the Catfish took command early. By the seventh inning, with the score 10-3, there was little doubt about who would win. Paige celebrated for her father, who would get to keep the team. But mostly she wanted to know why he disappeared at the start of the seventh inning, and what the heck he and Trevor had up their sleeves.
After the stadium had sung the traditional, seventh-inning stretch, “Take Me Out to the Ballgame,” Donna McIntyre skipped onto the warning track near the visitor’s dugout. She had a cordless microphone with her.
“We have a special treat for you today, ladies and gentlemen! As you know, the Kilby Catfish are owned by baseball legend Crush Taylor, but it’s been ten years since anyone got to see him pitch. That’s about to change.”
A gasp went through the crowd.
“That’s right, Crush Taylor has been lured out of retirement in order to pitch to one batter only. He’s been challenged by one of the Catfish players, or maybe he issued the challenge, I’m not completely sure about how that came about. Do one of you guys want to explain it?”
Trevor and Crush stepped forward to join Donna at the mic. In the stands, her heart racing, Paige clenched her fists so hard she dug crescents into her palms. Crush bent toward the mic. “Apparently this young man here, Trevor Stark, isn’t satisfied with making history and hitting eight home runs in one game. He has his eye on something else.”
He paused for a dramatic moment of silence.
“My daughter.”
The crowd roared and stomped their feet. Trevor grinned and turned toward Paige to blow her a kiss. Crimson with embarrassment, she covered her face with her hands.
Crush continued. “Now, my daughter Paige is a strong, smart, kind young woman who can certainly make up her own mind about who she dates. But for my own peace of mind, I wanted to make sure Trevor knows what a prize he’s after. So here’s the challenge. I pitch to him for one at-bat. If I strike him out, he spends another year proving he’s worthy.”
The crowd roared again. Trevor took the mic from Crush. “And if I get a hit, Crush will stay out of it.”
Laughter rippled through the stands. Paige peered over the tips of her fingers as Donna claimed the mic again. “What if you hit a home run, Trevor? Chances are pretty good, right?”
More cheers from the crowd. Crush answered that one. “If Trevor hits a home run off me, I’ll throw them the biggest wedding Texas has ever seen. As long as he can close the deal and get Paige to say yes.” He squeezed Trevor’s shoulder, then left his hand there while camera flashes rained down. Paige drew in a breath. That one gesture, that companionable hand around Trevor’s shoulder, told her that Crush had accepted the man she loved. The sweetness of that moment, after three years of estrangement, nearly melted her heart.
Trevor jogged to home plate, while Crush took his place on the mound. Two baseball greats, one barely at the start of his career, one past the end, facing each other on the field of battle—what a moment.
Yeah . . . baseball was a great game. She could no longer deny it.
Wendy Trent, Crush’s date, whispered in Paige’s ear. “I think your man is blushing. I thought Trevor was known for his icy manner on the field, but he must be a little rattled.”
“I’m going to murder them. Both of them.” She sank down in her seat, hoping that everyone was watching the field and not her.
“I think it’s extremely romantic. You know this is going to make all the papers. You’re going to be the talk of the sports world. Two baseball legends clashing on the field, all for the love of Paige Mattingly Taylor.”
Well, when you looked at it that way, maybe it was pretty cool. It was certainly better than being known as an NBA player’s rejected wife. But then something else occurred to her. “How do you know my middle name?”
Now it was Wendy’s turn to color. “I . . . might have done a little research.”
Paige swallowed her smile as she watched Crush go into his windup. Maybe Crush had an ulterior motive for this stunt. Maybe he wanted to show Wendy something of the old Crush Taylor, the one who had dominated the American League for so many years.
Trevor took the first pitch for a strike. Paige knew he could have annihilated that pitch. But he didn’t. The next pitch was a ball, which he also let fly past him. He got a piece of the next pitch, fouling it off into the stands. Same for the next two, leading Paige to wonder if he was doing it on purpose. Three fans now held souvenirs from this once-in-a-lifetime event.
The next pitch was just low. Two and two. Paige’s heart fluttered in her throat. If Trevor struck out, he’d feel honor bound to give things another year. But she didn’t want another year. She wanted him now. And tomorrow. And next week.
The next pitch from Crush cruised down the middle of the plate right where Trevor liked to feast on fastballs. The slugger didn’t hesitate. He smashed it long and hard, an emphatic, unquestionable statement of intent. The ball flew like a rocket smack into the middle of the right field stands. Paige let out a wild cheer, then held her breath in shock as Trevor jogged to the section where Paige was sitting about three rows back. Under her astonished gaze, he lowered one knee to the field and spread his arms wide.
“We have the best diamond in the world, right here.” He grinned, his heart shining in his eyes. “Paige, I love you. Will you marry me?”
A din of noise rose up around her. On one side, Nina uttered a little scream of excitement, while on her other side, Wendy put a supportive arm around her. Strangers assisted her over the rows, transported her to the edge of the railing. She leaned over, feeling like Juliet addressing Romeo, hoping she didn’t tumble right over. Breathless, head spinning, she searched for the right words. “Nice hit,” she finally said. “Took your time getting it, though.”
“You know I like to work the count. Besides, your father’s no pushover.” He was so beautiful, kneeling on the field, that she wanted to climb down and fling herself into his arms. In his expression she saw all the contradictions that made Trevor Stark so fascinating. Confidence warring with vulnerability, brashness with caring, ice with fire.
But more than anything else, she saw love, hard won and unshakable. “Yes,” she said simply. “I’ll marry you.” Leaning forward, she lowered her voice to a whisper. “Do you think maybe we could finish this conversation in private?”
His eyes darkened in that way that drove her absolutely wild. “Count on it.”
No one who saw the look on Trevor’s face at that moment—which included a lot of people, since several hundred smartphones were recording it—ever again used the word “icy” to describe him.
From the first moment Trevor Stark set foot in Friars Stadium, he was known for his intensity and drive on the field. In his very first season in the major leagues, he set records, and he continued to do so as the years passed. Paige Mattingly Austin Taylor Stark, MSW, Ph.D., also set a record—for the highest graduation rate among the teenagers she worked with. No one knew about that record, but that didn’t make it a
ny less satisfying. A few people knew about Trevor’s contributions to the Boys and Girls Club, and plenty knew what a devoted father he was to their three sons.
But no one else knew that her husband’s passion on the field paled compared to his passion off the field.
She kept that secret all to herself.
Keep reading for an excerpt from the first book in USA Today bestselling author Jennifer Bernard’s Love Between the Bases series,
ALL OF ME
Playing for the Kilby Catfish is hotshot pitcher Caleb Hart’s last chance to salvage his career after a major league meltdown. But the day of his opener with the minor league team, Caleb strikes out with the gorgeous woman who is delivering a petition to run the unruly Catfish out of town. Now, to stay in the lineup, Caleb will need to score big with the feisty brunette he can’t keep out of his thoughts.
After the nasty lies Sadie Merritt’s rich ex-boyfriend spread about her all over town, she’s lucky to have a job at all. She can’t afford to screw it up by falling for the player who is supposed to be helping her change the image of the fun-loving Catfish. But that’s easier said than done when Caleb’s voice alone is enough to make her pulse race. And when he surprises her with a mind-blowing kiss, she knows there’s no turning back.
IN CALEB HART’S first start as a Kilby Catfish, he set a minor league record—and not the good kind. By the top of the fourth inning he’d given up seven runs, five homers, three walks, and nearly taken El Paso Chihuahua Steve Hunter’s nose off with a wayward fastball. Sweat was running down his back in rivulets of failure, and under his brand-new cap, with its cartoonish blue catfish logo, his head felt as if it might spontaneously ignite.
He stepped off the mound and swiped his arm across his forehead. Mike Solo, the catcher, called for time, the pitching coach jogged onto the field, and suddenly his new infielders surrounded him. Apparently they thought he needed some support. What he really needed was . . . well, he hadn’t quite figured that out yet.
“You can take this guy,” said the tattooed first baseman, Sonny Barnes. “He can’t hit the changeup for shit.”
Caleb didn’t bother mentioning that he couldn’t throw the changeup for shit.
“Just keep ’em down,” said Mitch, the pitching coach, clearly some kind of baseball genius. “And get ’em over the plate.”
“That’s right, you’re overthinking it,” said the fast-talking shortstop, who looked about twelve. “I saw you pitch with the Twins. Over three games you had an ERA of 2.78, average of five strikeouts per game. ’Course, then you had that crazy fourth game. Whatever you do, don’t think about that game. Do what you did during the first three. Forget the fourth. Easy peasy.”
Caleb stared at the smaller player, trying to remember the last time he’d heard a baseball player say “easy peasy.” Never, that’s when. And why’d he have to bring up the worst game of his entire life?
Solo, the only guy on the team Caleb had played with before, gave a wolfish grin and a wink. “Yeah, easy peasy, big guy. The natives are getting restless. And since it’s Texas, they’re probably armed.”
Caleb looked at the half-full stands, where the crowd of maybe three thousand diehards was starting to shout catcalls. For a painful moment he remembered the noise level at Target Field in Minneapolis. It was like comparing a 747 jet to a mosquito. But the Twins had traded him to the San Diego Friars, and the Friars had sent him down to their Triple A team in Kilby, and here he was. Blowing it.
The pitching coach headed back to the dugout, with an air of having done all he could. Caleb glared at the remaining players. “What is this, a damn committee meeting?”
The baby shortstop looked offended. “Excuse me for trying to help you resurrect the correct firing of your synapses.”
Caleb looked incredulously at the other Catfish. “Is this kid for real?”
“He was studying brains before he signed on,” explained Mike Solo.
“Not brains. Neurophysiology,” piped up the shortstop as everyone scattered, jogging back to their positions.
Christ. He’d heard the Catfish were a little . . . odd. So far that seemed to be an understatement.
Caleb settled himself back on the mound, inhaling a deep breath of humid, grass-scented air. It’s just a baseball game. Pretend you’re back home, when baseball was the only fun thing in life. When you ruled the diamond, any diamond.
Solo called for the fastball, low and away. Good call, since an inside pitch might hurt someone, the way he was pitching, and his changeup wasn’t doing shit today. He went into his windup, lined the seams up just right in his hand, and let fly.
Boom. Home run number six cracked off the bat with a sound like a detonation. Maybe it was his career blowing up, come to think of it.
Just to torture himself, Caleb swiveled to watch the ball soar high overhead, winging toward the right field bleachers like a bird on speed. Lowering his gaze, he caught the shortstop’s reproachful stare. The Chihuahua batter cruised around the bases. The guy ought to send him a thank-you note, the way he’d served up that pitch with extra biscuits and gravy.
Someone cleared his throat behind him. He turned to find Duke, the Catfish manager, facing him, hand outstretched. He wanted the ball. Wanted him out of the game. But as much as Caleb hated giving up home runs, he hated giving up the ball more. How could he turn things around if he got yanked from the game?
“I’m just trying to get my rhythm going, Duke,” Caleb said in a low voice.
“And how’s that working out for you?”
Sarcasm. Ouch. “My last pitch had to have been in the upper nineties.”
“Yup. It sure went over the fence fast.” Duke, a barrel-chested former catcher, didn’t sugarcoat things. “I’m taking you out before your ERA looks like a Texas heat wave. Let’s talk after the game.”
A sickening sensation made Caleb’s gut clench. In the minor leagues, being called into the manager’s office was either good news—you were being called up to the major league team—or bad news of a variety of kinds. Caleb was a hundred percent sure he wasn’t being called up.
“Nothing bad,” Duke assured him. “Just want to talk.”
Caleb nodded, and handed him the ball. It felt like handing over a piece of his heart. He needed the ball, needed to pitch. Because the only chance he had in life was when he had that ball in his hands.
Walking toward the dugout, he caught a “shake it off” from the third baseman, along with a rumble of boos from the stands. His replacement, Dan Farrio, ran onto the field from the bullpen. Farrio was, theoretically, his rival for one of the spots on the Friars pitching staff. But after today that rivalry might be history.
From someone’s radio, he heard the color announcer saying, “We’re checking the history books, but onetime blue-chip prospect Caleb Hart just had possibly the worst first start ever on a Triple A team. He should have been pulled after the second inning, but the Catfish bullpen’s about as ragged as my kid’s blankie. If the Caleb Hart trade was supposed to add some juice to the Friars pitching staff, maybe they should have gone with a shot of the cactus instead. How much you want to bet Crush Taylor’s squeezing the limes already?”
At the mention of the owner of the Catfish, Caleb groaned. No one cared what most minor league owners thought, since the major league front office called all the shots. But Crush Taylor was a legend, a Hall of Fame pitcher who had purchased the Catfish shortly after his retirement. Not to mention that he was Caleb’s childhood idol.
He’d just had a record-setting horrendous start for the team owned by his childhood idol. And he’d been lectured by a shortstop barely out of high school. Could things get any worse?
He reached the dugout and grabbed a drink of water at the cooler. Man, it was hot today. All he wanted to do was hit the showers and get the hell out of this stadium. But since it was his first game, he ought to stick around and support the team. Before he could sink onto the bench, Duke caught his eye and gave him a jerk of the head, rel
easing him to retire to the clubhouse.
First break he’d gotten all day. He seized the opportunity and stalked out of the dugout. He’d get to know his fellow Catfish sometime when he didn’t want to knock someone’s head off.
As soon as he entered the rabbit’s warren of back corridors that wound through the stadium, his tightly maintained control disappeared. He ripped off his sweat-soaked uniform shirt as if he could ditch the sense of failure along with it.
“Fuck,” he bit out, slamming a fist against the wall. “Get it together, Hart.” He usually kept his emotions under tight wrap, but . . . damn it. If he screwed this up, he’d be letting down his sister and brothers, and they’d all been through enough. His entire family was depending on him, and he’d just given up six home runs in about five minutes. His frustration boiled over.
“What the fuck is wrong with you? You can’t afford another fucking fuckup.” Veering around the corner toward the home clubhouse, he nearly tripped over someone standing at the double doors that guarded the entrance.
The someone pushed an elbow into his stomach, making the breath whoosh out of him. It wasn’t a hard blow, probably accidental, but still, not what he normally encountered on his way to the shower.
Struggling to get his breath back—and his composure—he steadied his attacker. A woman, a young one. Though he still hadn’t gotten a good look at her, she felt soft and shapely under his hands.
“Geez, you should watch where you’re going.” Her voice had a drawling, husky cadence; a local girl. She stepped out of his grasp and spun to face him. He received a quick impression of brilliant but wary dark eyes, quicksilver slimness, and a haphazard ponytail. He was six feet five inches, but he didn’t tower over her as much as he did most girls. He guessed she was at least five-ten, with a lanky, slim build, all arms and legs. She held a manila folder filled with papers about to spill out. “You must be one of those crazy Catfish players.”
Drive You Wild: A Love Between the Bases Novel Page 31
