“What could be so bad?” I whispered back.
She shrugged. “Maybe it will be fine.”
What the hell did I just get myself into? Maybe Steve had a good reason to be cagey. If so, why hadn’t he enlightened me, since he’s my boss? “Wait, why am I going into the locker room? Can’t I just get ahold of Jake after he comes out?” If the knots in my stomach were any indication, this wasn’t such a good idea after all.
Her tone went back to normal from the previous whisper. “No, you can’t get ahold of him after. No one can, actually. He’s been doing this disappearing act after games since he arrived here, and that’s part of the reason you’ve been hired. To find out where he goes.”
I scrunched my face together, a little confused. “You think he’s doing something bad,” I said. “He could be doing anything or going anywhere. It could be nothing, harmless…”
From Grace’s expression, and I realized I couldn’t blame her, everyone was thinking the worst. “As I said, we’re not sure. Could be drugs. Or worse.”
I nodded and adjusted my dress. Worse than drugs? I made sure my chignon was still in place, then eyed the door and pretended I wasn’t nervous.
“Well, might as well send me in now then,” I reasoned. And get the horror show over with.
“Send her in, Scotty.” Grace looked over at the security guard, dressed in a black polo and jeans. She gave me a sympathetic smile but didn’t waste any time abandoning me.
“Nice name,” I said. I couldn’t help but let out an awkward laugh, being a self-professed Star Trek nerd. The security guard, however, didn’t find it funny and kept a straight face. “Sorry. Nerves.”
“Most of the guys aren’t so bad,” he said, trying to give me comfort as I approached. It didn’t help much. As he opened the door, he added, “But word to the wise, if you plan on coming down here often, I’d lay off any corny Star Trek jokes if I were you.”
Blushing a little, I ducked inside. Immediately, I heard the buzz of low voices inside the locker room. A couple of newscasters from different networks stood inside with their microphones, talking to players on the team, but as I walked in, every single person turned and looked my way.
I forgot that girls who were almost six feet tall didn’t blend in too well, least of all in a locker room full of sweaty, mostly naked men.
“What are you doing in here, miss?” one of the veteran players asked me. He had a few shades of gray hair and was one of the few men who had apparently already showered, because he was in jeans and had just slipped a white T-shirt over his head. I recognized him as Johnny Ward, the third basemen. He spoke with a slight twang, which brought out my own Tennessee drawl.
“Uh, hi,” I said, nervously. “I need to talk to Jake Napleton. You seen him around anywhere?”
His calm demeanor suddenly turned frat-boyish. “Wooooooweeee! Hey fellas, there is a lady here to talk to The Big Unit!” he hollered.
If it were possible to shrink, I would have done it right then. The way he made fun of me was reminiscent of the way my brothers used to give each other a hard time when one of them brought a girl home for the first time. They thought I was one of Jake’s groupies. I wasn’t sure if I was more mortified or annoyed by his assumption.
“Jakey doesn’t usually bring his girlfriends around here,” Johnny drawled.
“Oh, I’m definitely not Jake’s girlfriend,” I said, as calmly and coolly as possible. “I don’t date players. I work for Mr. Yerac. I’ve been assigned to—”
“Clean up my image,” boomed a voice behind me. I froze. As tall as I was, I still felt like the voice was speaking from several feet above me.
I turned around and saw a soaking wet Jake Napleton standing in the hallway. His brown hair was pushed straight back, and his towel was slung over his shoulder, not around his waist like a normal human being.
Speaking of images, this image was now permanently seared into my brain.
And it definitely didn’t need any cleaning up.
My mouth tried to say a couple of things, but nothing came out. My eyes were too busy staring at the most muscular shoulders and abs I’d ever seen in the flesh. Every one of his eight abdominal muscles was visible, and his abdomen carved inward in a V that made an arrow straight to his—
“Um, hello?” he prompted, raising both eyebrows at me. My gaze immediately shot up to Jake’s. His eyes searched my face as he scratched his scalp.
I mentally shook off the fact that I had just been caught staring like a drunken frat bro checking out a woman across the bar. I made a note to myself to give the next guy that I caught staring at my cleavage a free pass, because keeping my eyes above Jake’s abs was a supreme challenge.
Must. Stay. Professional. Do not look below the belly button. Keep eye contact.
“Mr. Napleton, my name is Andrea Diggers,” I started, letting my business self take over. “While I realize our meeting in the locker room is slightly unorthodox, my PR consulting firm has been hired by Mr. Yerac to work specifically with you on your social media presence. He also wanted me to get on with introductions today.”
“I know. Mr. Yerac already sent me a text about it.”
The various conversations in the locker room had noticeably died down. I could feel the eyes of the other players on me as I kept a professional, polite smile on my face, just enough to make him comfortable, but not so much that he would think I meant anything but business.
Jake smirked harder and ran his hand through his thick hair. I tried not to stare at the tattoos—which appeared to be mirror images—or at his muscled arms. He then decided to stretch those arms right in front of me, contorting them and flexing what seemed like every muscle in his tanned body. I swallowed hard.
“You know, Mrs. Diggers, I—”
“Miss.”
A devilish grin slowly spread across his face. “Miss Diggers, you seem like a nice little lady. Yes, it’s true that I am sometimes a little hard to get a hold of after games. I have a long list of things I like to do, and I always make sure I take care of business after hours.” He paused, watching my face to see how I’d reacted to the not-so-subtle innuendos. “You know what I mean?”
Yeah, I did, but I tried not to react and kept the tension out of my voice, face, and body. It had been a long time since I’d been in the presence of big league ball players, and I had been just a little girl then, when my dad played for the Kansas City Robins. Now I couldn’t tell if he was flirting with me or just plain screwing with me. Someone like Jake knew how to intimidate, and if I let him win this round, I would lose all credibility with him.
“Actually, no. I don’t know what you mean. You just said a lot of words that really don’t mean a lot,” I said, very nicely. Jake’s eyes narrowed at my polite tone. “I think we all know that you’ve really got a small job to do outside of throwing the ball, and that’s staying healthy and keeping out of trouble. The second of those items appears to be an issue for you. You’re just lucky it hasn’t affected your performance yet.”
A few cough-laughs erupted in the room, but Jake didn’t miss a beat. “Well, on that fun note, why don’t you just go ahead and call me Jake, since it sounds like I’m stuck with you,” he said, his expression unreadable. “Excuse me.” He proceeded to walk toward his locker, ignoring our verbal back and forth, and essentially dismissing me.
I followed Jake to his locker. Still naked. Keep your eyes on the back of his head. Don’t look down at his muscular legs, tight ass, and other body parts. Don’t. Okay, you just did. Wow.
Wow.
Now, I was standing behind Jake, watching him dress as he stood in front of his locker. Mercifully, he put on some white boxer briefs so I wouldn’t be tempted to look down. Or at least I’d be less tempted.
“Miss Diggers,” he said with a sigh, still facing away from me. “I—”
“Call me Andrea. Maybe I should have—”
He whirled around and stared at me, his jaw open. “Holy shit. Andrea Diggers. Dig
gs.”
I resisted groaning at my old softball nickname, but my heart also began to pound in my chest, knowing that the most attractive man in the universe apparently knew who I was.
“That’s me,” I said, then quickly moved on. “Anyway, as I was saying—”
Jake cut me off. “I can’t believe I didn’t notice it when you walked in. Tennessee State, right? Yeah. Now I remember. My sister Eva played softball at San Diego State, and she said you were one of the toughest hitters she had to face.”
I thought for a second. I knew all the top female softball athletes from the other top teams, but there was no one with the last name Napleton in the group. I only knew one “Eva” based on what he’d said.
“Your sister is Eva Ramirez? But you don’t have the same last name,” I said, baiting him to fill in the blank.
Jake’s body stiffened as he pulled out clothes from his locker. For a fleeting moment, I thought I saw some vulnerability beneath the veneer of his arrogant grin. “Long story. Anyway… She told me about you. I follow you on Twitter.” He grinned in my direction, his face animated as he continued talking. “That was a hell of a College World Series you played this summer. I really thought you would pull it out.”
I wasn’t sure if there was a real joke in what Jake had just said, but nonetheless, I laughed awkwardly to cover up my nervousness. My heart palpitated like a jackhammer. Did Jake Napleton just say that he followed me on Twitter?
Unfortunately, now was not the time to get caught up in a girlish daydream. Steve’s warning rang in my ear.
“Thanks, I appreciate that,” I said, snapping myself out of the daydream as much as I could while still being forced to look at Jake’s chest muscles. I had to stay focused. “Mr. Yerac wants me to meet with you this afternoon. I was thinking we could just meet in one of the front offices upstairs. If you’ll answer a few questions for me, I can get to work on showing the media the real Jake Napleton. Shouldn’t take more than a few minutes.”
Jake didn’t answer. His expression was icy. He put jeans and a T-shirt on, which was equal parts disappointing and relieving.
“Can’t meet in the offices upstairs today. I’m busy this afternoon. But I can meet up later tonight if you want. Want to do dinner?”
Jake sat down to tie his shoes but kept looking up at me, waiting for a response. I almost rolled my eyes at his innuendo, even though this was essentially a schoolgirl fantasy come true. I decided I should probably keep it to myself that I used to have a Jake Napleton Rookie of the Year poster in my college dorm room.
But this wasn’t fantasy. This was real life.
“As tempting as that offer is, Jake, I really think we should keep things professional and meet in the office. Do you have even five or ten minutes to spare?”
Jake finished tying his shoes and stood up. I was in flats—I was always trying to make sure I didn’t intimidate anyone with heels that would launch my height into Amazon woman territory—and Jake was a healthy six inches taller than me. Everything about the man was big.
“Are you implying that if we had dinner together, I wouldn’t keep it strictly professional?”
Crap. Did I jump to a conclusion I shouldn’t have?
“Uh, no, I just mean it’s Saturday night, and, uh…”
Jake leaned toward me, still adjusting his shirt. His mouth was inches from my ear as he whispered, “Because you’d be exactly right.”
I froze, staring at him with what must have been a very dumb expression. He smiled back with that cocky grin of his, and I tingled all over. The most attractive man in baseball was hitting on me. I had no idea how to react, so I changed the subject.
I kept my tone stern as I said, “So what are you doing right now that you can’t take a few minutes and do a quick professional meeting?”
“No time right now, sorry,” he said, giving me a non-answer. “But are you sure you don’t want to meet up and talk about this informally over a drink later?”
“Like a date?” I blurted out, and as soon as I had said the words, I regretted them.
“Do you want it to be a date?” Jake winked.
“Like I said, we need to keep things professional.” But my voice shook a little, and he was getting under my skin. I cleared my throat. “Well?”
“Professional. Right.” He glanced at his watch. “I gotta go, Diggs. I’m late.”
“Late for what? Where are you going?” I asked again.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said, and my blood boiled. I hate that phrase.
“I’m very worried about it,” I snapped back. “Everyone’s worried about it, Jake.”
He grabbed his phone and wallet from his locker, turned toward me once more, and gave my body a complete head to toe. He took a step like he was about to leave, then looked over his shoulder at me.
“Meeting you in person, I finally see how you got all those stolen bases in college,” he said, and turned toward me so he that was within a foot of my radius. He leaned into me again and whispered low so none of the other players could hear him. “Those nice, long Tennessee legs of yours.”
I should have moved, should have said something back to him, should have done anything.
But the fact of the matter was that I froze like a deer in headlights, and the hairs on my neck stood on end while Jake walked past me. The other players glanced at me, knowing smiles on their faces, but I was too stunned to care.
Had I just been told by my biggest crush, and the sexiest man alive, that I had nice legs?
By the time I turned toward the exit, he was gone. And my first attempt at handling Jake Napleton…was a complete disaster.
3
I didn’t need an image consultant. Even if that consultant came in the attractive shape of Andrea Diggers. Her dress had been one of those shapeless conservative ones that don’t usually do a thing for me, but with her height and a hint of a tight body underneath, her dark brown hair and blue eyes that seemed to pop against her lightly tanned skin, I wasn’t going to lie—I was intrigued. She was also one of those women with looks and a brain, who didn’t rely on her superficial assets to get by. She didn’t wear much makeup, and she didn’t need it.
My sister Eva had mentioned having to face off against Andrea in the College World Series. She was tenacious on the field, which made her all the more attractive to me. On the way out of the locker room, I had pulled up an image of her playing on Twitter, and I’d nearly turned to steel in my car just staring at her curves in her sexy softball pants.
But then I remembered what she did for a living, and I was annoyed all over again.
I didn’t need a goddamned image consultant. My image was fine. Was all that shit the media spun about me remotely true? Sure, some of it—although parts were total lies or exaggerations to create sensationalized clickbait. I didn’t have the time or energy to constantly fight it just so I could look like a Boy Scout twenty-four seven.
Besides, the things that were true were harmless. I wasn’t breaking laws or doing anything truly bad. Yeah, I played the game hard, but who ever said I had to be polite about it? I drank. I partied. I hooked up with girls. I did things every single guy in America did. I wasn’t going to apologize or over-explain something that was quite simple. If someone posted a picture of me, what the hell was I going to do, rip their phones from their hands? If someone cried foul over a few meaningless pictures, it was their problem, not mine.
Still, I didn’t like being blindsided with this image-consultant bullshit. So I ignored the fact that Mr. Yerac, a few of my coaches, and even my agent had all been harping on me lately—and now Andrea.
I shoved all that noise aside because right now, that world didn’t exist. Just some neighborhood baseball.
“Home, Tate, throw home! Home!”
The little guy launched the ball as hard as he could from right field. For being eight years old, his arm really wasn’t bad. No eight-year-old could throw it all the way home from the outfield. But he at least threw it
in a straight line.
“Jackson! You’re in the spot for the cut off! Come on, you gotta get there!” I shouted.
I made a conscious effort to soften my yell. These aren’t big leaguers you’re playing with, Jake. Take it easy.
Ever since I can remember, I’ve been a hothead. On the mound in the big leagues, it’s a great tool for intimidation. When I was coaching kids, though, I would just be a heartless, insensitive asshole if I kept up my inflammatory attitude.
Tate threw the ball to Jackson, who turned around and threw it ten feet off from his target at home base. The runner from the other team came around the bases and scored, ending the game. The little guys began to jog in from the field.
At least, I thought that was the game winner. We hadn’t really been keeping perfect score, and I had arrived late to the game since I’d played my own game today for the Jaguars. That was another thing I loved about watching these kids play. They were so damn good at playing for fun and with passion. It was never about winning. It was about sunshine, hanging with good friends, and pretending for a little while that they didn’t live in a shitty neighborhood.
The lights from the field had turned on now that it was hitting evening, but it didn’t really help much since half the bulbs were out. I swiped at my face, grimy and sweaty again, but none of that mattered for the twenty grinning faces in the dugout or on the field. Their black-and-white pinstriped uniforms were dusty, but they wore them with pride.
“Okay boys, that’s a wrap,” I shouted, clapping my hands then drawing the boys together. “Shake hands now.”
They formed a line and slapped hands with the other team, then headed to the dugout to pick up their things. A few odd parents in the stands stood up from their places in the bleachers.
This particular patch of the South Side of Chicago was, sadly, a place where a lot of kids grew up fatherless. Motherless. Parentless. Having come from a very broken home in Blue Island myself, I could relate to how bleak some of these kids’ lives were. Even if they had a shitty home life for the rest of the week, they were damn well going to enjoy those two hours they spent playing baseball with our team on Saturday.
Ten Night Stand Page 22
