Throwing Heat: A Diamonds and Dugouts Novel

by Jennifer Seasons

  Usually get-togethers like this happened at his place, and he got to put on his chef’s hat and play grill-master. It was kind of his thing. The last two soirees had been way memorable though, and not in the best way. There’d been more drama than a Greek play. He’d been thinking that he should maybe lay off the party-hosting for a while, so this was great.

  But it was a bummer about the steaks. Considering that grilling meat over an open flame while he nursed a brewskie was the only thing he could do in the kitchen realm with any measure of success, he tended to take his duties seriously. He had the apron and everything to prove it. If it happened to have a crude slogan about cooking his meat on it with a highly inappropriate image, so what? He was the master.

  Climbing the wraparound porch, Peter opened the door and stepped inside. Players and their families milled about the spacious, traditional farmhouse with moving boxes piled high in the corners. He stopped in the entryway, took off his coat, and hung it on the coat rack.

  Mark walked by just then from the half-unpacked living room, carrying a baseball mitt in his hand, and grinned when he spotted Peter. “Welcome to my new pad, man. Give me a few minutes and I’ll take you on the official tour. Paulson is whining about his hands like a girl so I’m gonna run this out to him. I’ll be right back.” He took two steps and stopped, glanced back over his shoulder at Peter. “You brought your Gibson right?”

  Peter just raised a brow and gave him a brother, please look and the catcher laughed good-naturedly. “Yeah, forgot who I was talking to for a second.”

  He actually kept a second guitar in his SUV, just in case. He never knew when the mood was going to strike him and he’d want to fiddle. Which was pretty much any time he wasn’t playing baseball.

  “I want in on the game, so how about we do the tour later and go humiliate Paulson now?” He’d just caught sight of Leslie’s straight blonde hair through the doorway, so it seemed like a real good time to go check out the backyard.

  Someone hollered for Mark and he recognized JP’s voice. “Put a hustle on, Cutter! We’re all waiting.”

  Mark frowned and yelled back, “Tell Paulson to stop being a wussy! I’ll be there in a minute.”

  They made their way through the crowd and Peter tried not to think about just how hard it was and how much effort he was putting into ignoring Leslie. She was everywhere. They went right through the wide archway into the kitchen and she was already in there swapping recipes with Lorelei and Sonny.

  And when he and Mark finally made it into the backyard she was already there, too, her hair slicked back in a low ponytail while she took a swing with the Wiffle bat. He couldn’t help watching the way her hips spun when she swung the plastic yellow bat, and it made him think of the way her hips had ground and rotated on the bar the other night when he’d had his tongue on her. The memory brought him to full painful attention, and he raked a hand through his hair and blew out a breath.

  The woman was going to be the death of him.

  “Hey, Walskie. What do you say to a friendly wager?” inquired Drake as he sauntered up with a toddler about three years old, squealing and laughing while he carried him tucked under his arm like a football.

  “Again!” the little boy demanded excitedly when the big veteran tried to set him on the ground.

  Drake shook his head at their teammate Ken Jenkins’s son and said, “Not until I sort out some important business, little man. Go jump on JP and tell him to give you a ride.” He pointed across the bare late October lawn to where the shortstop was talking shop with Carl and José. Every few minutes he’d look around the yard, and when he spotted Sonny he’d relax and his smile would go content and easy.

  “Okay!” the toddler exclaimed and ran off across the crunchy grass as fast as his chubby legs would take him.

  Peter watched him go with amusement. The little kid ran like a windmill, arms churning for momentum. It was actually kind of cute.

  Turning his gaze from something cute to something ugly, he looked at Drake and smirked, “What’s this friendly wager?”

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw Leslie walk past as the backyard ball game was getting ready to resume. She had her nose in the air and was trying real hard to pretend that she wasn’t eavesdropping. But he knew her way too well by now. He guaranteed she was listening.

  Peter cocked a hip and gave her an once-over from her brown English riding boots and snug jeans that were tucked into them, to her charcoal grey V-neck fitted sweater. The way her clothes showcased her curves had him casually wiping his hands on his jeans. His palms were sweaty.

  Paulson caught the direction of his gaze and a chuckle rumbled in his barrel chest. “How’s that new deck coming along?”

  Part of him wanted to protest, wanted to pretend like he didn’t know what the hell the guy was talking about. The other part of him just didn’t even have the fight. He was in way over his head with this thing with Leslie.

  “Fucking mess,” was all he said. Yep, that pretty much summed it up. And wasn’t that always the case with his personal life?

  Drake laughed again and replied, “Sounds fun.” Then he hooked a thumb over his shoulder toward the makeshift diamond and added, “Since you’re hurt and I feel bad for you, we’ll take it easy, brother. Friendly wager is, you bat as a leftie against me and try to make base. Loser wears their shirt like a girl for the rest of the day.” He gestured with his hands to his chest and made a twirling action. “You know, tied in a knot between their tits.”

  Peter smirked. “You just want an excuse to show yours off.”

  Paulson grinned, humor twinkling in his brown eyes. “They’re beauts, ain’t they?” He shoved out his chest, winked like a sailor on shore leave. “You know they make you randy.”

  Right, that’s just how he liked his tits. On a fugly man covered in a brown curly chest rug like Austin Powers. Yeah, baby.

  He shook his head, laughing, and replied, “I’ll take your bet and win, you sexy bitch.”

  Paulson tossed back his head and gave a hoot of appreciation for the movie reference, clapping Peter on his good arm. “Let’s play ball!” he hollered and walked back over to the diamond.

  Pete shook his head, still chuckling softly, and went to join the game. Leslie decided to play, too, of course, and so he got the privilege of pitching to her when she chose the other team. When she stepped up to home plate, Paulson yelled from the side, “Take him down, sweet thing!”

  Peter’s eyebrow shot up when she looked him dead in the eyes and smiled tightly. “My pleasure.”

  So it was like that, eh?

  Peter rolled his left shoulder and tossed her the ball, still pretty decent as a leftie. But since it was a plastic perforated white ball instead of an actual baseball it waffled through the air and then broke suddenly just before crossing home plate. Leslie swung vigorously and missed it by a mile. Point, Peter.

  He waggled his brows at her and grinned smugly. Woop.

  Leslie, nothing. And she was seriously miffed about it too. Her face stretched tight and her eyes went hard. Then she rolled her head from side-to-side and shrugged her shoulders as she muttered something unintelligible under her breath.

  He knew it wasn’t flattering.

  For some reason that struck him as funny. When he laughed out loud she glared at him and declared, “You pitch like a pansy, Kowalskin!”

  A collective gasp came from the crowd of spectators that had gathered outside in the crisp autumn air to watch the backyard game. Somebody, probably Drake, whispered loudly with a finger snap and a barrelful of attitude, “Oh no she didn’t!”

  But she had.

  His brows dropped low over his eyes. So she was feeling that way about things. Okay, fine. Two could play that game. “You bat like a girl, sweet cheeks.” He put the emphasis on bat and sweet cheeks, Philly-style.

  She tossed her sleek ponytail over her shoulder and raised her elbows into position, looked at him all haughty. “Not the same insult, sorry.”

>   Peter threw the second pitch and she swung and missed again. This time he laughed right at her. “Ouch, that must sting.”

  The last pitch she connected with. It came straight back at Peter and he caught it with his left hand. She was so not happy.

  The pretty lady was out.

  LESLIE WATCHED THE game resume from a chair pulled up along the first base line. She was trying hard to ignore how royally miffed she was that Peter had gotten her out. It was just a stupid game.

  She leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms, watching the play continue. Soon Peter was up to bat, and since he was batting left-handed his back was to her. Leslie’s gaze raked over him and her pulse kicked up a notch, annoying her.

  But he looked good. She had to admit that. The man knew how to wear a fitted thermal Henley. It was open at the buttons and pulled up around his forearms, his black leather bracelet visible. His muscles were showed off to perfection. And his backside? So. Nice. As she studied him he flipped his ball cap backward and grinned.

  “Bring it,” he challenged José.

  The young Costa Rican wound up and threw the Wiffle ball. With only his left hand on the bat, Peter pulled it back and released, connecting soundly and sending it flying between first and second base. As soon as he’d hit the ball he started running full-out toward first, holding his right arm steady.

  Drake cursed loudly at first base and went running after the ball, the closest player to it. He pointed and waved at Peter as he darted off the base, looking over his shoulder furtively. “Don’t you cross that base, Walskie!” With another quick glance over his massive shoulder he bent down to retrieve the round plastic, but it was too late.

  With a final long stretch of his powerful legs, Pete crossed first base safely. Running through it, he passed the bases and turned around to the right and jogged back, grinning wickedly. “Show us the goods, Snuffy!”

  Paulson tossed his mitt on the grass with an overly dramatic sigh and shrugged out of his thick, padded flannel shirt. “Cover your eyes, ladies,” he called out, pretending to be all bent out of shape. She knew he was faking by the sparkle in his eyes. “Don’t want all you women gettin’ hot and bothered by what you’re about to see.” He glanced over his shoulder at Peter. “You too, sissy boy. You can’t handle this much sexy.”

  Right. Like that was going to be a problem. As she watched, he took the hem of his T-shirt, pulled it up through the front collar and tied it in a knot, effectively turning the shirt into a bikini top. His thick mat of chest hair sprang out above and below the knot like a Chia Pet.

  He spotted one of Carl’s older daughters with a headband and said with his arm out, hand coaxing. “Gimme your hair thing, girlie.” She dropped it in his hand with a shy smile and he put the thick pink sequined band on, making his curly afro even bigger. Then he puckered his lips at Peter as he strutted back to first base, saying with a good-natured grin, “How do you like me now, bitch?”

  Leslie laughed while the two continued to banter, but pretended that it was Drake—not Peter’s wicked sharp sense of humor—that she found so funny. Sonny and Lorelei walked up to her just then and sat in chairs on each side, sandwiching her in.

  “So what do you think?” Lorelei asked as she gestured to her new place with an excited smile. “Isn’t it great?”

  It really was. Big and homey—and it fit the country girl’s personality to a T. “It’s fabulous, honey.”

  The game came to a stop then when Mark called it on account of the meat being just about ready. Good, because she was starving. And he’d been tormenting her with the tantalizing aroma of barbequed meat since she’d arrived. So now she was going to elbow her way to a big fat piece.

  Darting a glance at Peter, her stomach pitched off-center when she found him staring at her and their eyes locked from across the lawn. His were guarded, but she still saw the sensitivity he was trying to hide, and it made her heart flop over in her chest. Sucking in sharply at the sensation, she quickly looked away. What was she supposed to say to him now that everything felt so awkward and tense between them? They weren’t even speaking to each other. And not that she’d admit it to him, but she missed the talking.

  I want you.

  The words echoed in her ear, making her belly quiver. I choked, Leslie. I fucking choked, okay? She shook her head and broke eye contact.

  What did it all mean?

  A tight, breathless feeling came over her and she thought, a little frantically, whatdid she wantittomean? She shook her head vehemently. Nothing. She wanted it to mean nothing because then there was nothing to face, nothing to risk—nothing to break her heart and leave her devastated.

  Sucking in air, Leslie released a slow breath as she saw Peter stride off toward his Cruiser like a panther, all strength, grace, and prowess. And it gave her butterflies just watching. Turning to Lorelei she said bluntly, trying to take her mind off him, “I want one of your kittens.”

  Sonny shot her a look of sympathy. “They got to you too, didn’t they?”

  She crossed her legs and sighed. “You have no idea.”

  Sonny laughed with appreciation. “Oh, I think I do, since I’m going home with one too.”

  Leslie replied quickly, sitting up a little with concern, “I get the pretty one. The white, fluffy one with the gray spot on its back.” She already had a name. It was Missy. And she was hers.

  Lorelei piped up, “But what if that’s the one I want to keep?”

  She brushed her off. “The kitten and I have a connection, lady. We’re like this.” She held up a hand to show her tightly crossed fingers. “She told me she wants to come live with me, so you’ve been stripped of any voting right.” Leslie was more than a little embarrassed by just how excited and happy she was by the prospect of snuggling up with a warm body in bed at night, of having some company. It was so unlike her.

  The brunette’s lips twitched and her green eyes glittered with amusement. “Then by all means,” she said graciously. “Who am I to stand in the way of true love?”

  That made Leslie smile until she heard the sound of a guitar playing through the open back door of the house. And when a cocky, rough male voice started singing along with the melody, in perfect pitch and way, way sexy timbre, she scowled. Without a doubt he was doing it just to tick her off. That was so like Peter.

  Standing, Leslie glanced at the women and said with forced casualness, “Deal on the kittens?”

  Sonny nodded and tossed her mass of wavy red-gold hair over her shoulders. “Deal. Charlie wants the male tabby anyway.”

  She looked at Lorelei, who just shrugged her shoulders and replied, “I’m good with whatever.”

  “Cool.” That was all she said, but inside she was giddy. The ten-year-old girl in her who had begged for a kitten mercilessly and never got one because her mom had allergies was jumping up and down squealing, “Yay, kitty!”

  Together the women walked back inside, the smell of homemade cooking permeating the big country kitchen. Containers and pans crammed the counters full; the ballplayers and their families brought food potluck style. There were baked beans, salads, Sonny’s homemade pie that did in fact look legendary, and a ton of other stuff. And it all smelled so good that it made her mouth water.

  Logan, Lorelei’s bull-rider brother, was in the kitchen with his sweet baby girl Michelle helping her to fill a small plate, his head tucked down next to hers while they shared a bite of melon. He’d taken his cowboy hat off but sported a crease all around his dark head from where it had been, and he smiled at his daughter happily.

  Leslie crossed her arms and melted into the wall, taking a moment to appreciate the scene. All these people had come out to her brother’s new place to show their support because they loved him like family. They took care of each other.

  She was thankful he had that and that she got to be a part of it. Their own family wasn’t even a fraction that close, not since her parents had divorced six years ago and were no longer speaking.

 
Suddenly feeling introspective, Leslie pushed away from the wall and went around the back way to get to the big, cozy living room. When she got there, Peter was sitting on a corner of the raised stone fireplace surrounded by people eating. He had his guitar in hand, picking out the G. Love tune “Rainbow” for their entertainment. Hat still on backward and head down, he was grooving to the music while he sang along with the sloppy blues.

  To get to the only open seat, Leslie had to walk in front of him and when she did he changed up chords and slipped into G. Love’s “Booty Call,” gaining a chuckle from the crowd. Her leg froze mid-stride and she rounded on him slowly, like a player in slo-mo instant replay. Oh no he isn’t. In front of everyone no less.

  “And neither one of us wants to give love a try,” he sang around a smartass grin and tossed her a wink, provoking her. “But then we got drunk and fooled around and had a booty call.”

  Ugh!

  Why did he keep referring to that night like that? It was so much more than that. And if he wasn’t such a stubborn jerk, he’d be able to admit it.

  She took a step and her stride hitched, making her trip on the toe of her boot, almost going down flat on her face. Catching herself, she heard him chuckle under his breath and sing, the dirty rat, “Everybody wants a booty call!”

  She shot daggers at him with her eyes and tugged her sweater down with a snap. His blue eyes danced with a naughty humor that ticked her off. Damn the man. Her mouth opened to say something snarky to him just as he changed up chords again and melted back into “Rainbow” like he was innocent as a lamb and had never done such a juvenile thing to begin with.

  Whatever.

  With a dismissive flip of her ponytail, Leslie was just about to take her seat when a bellow came from the kitchen and Mark came running, carrying Lorelei like she was a bride on her wedding night. Everybody stopped what they were doing to stare at them. His eyes were wide and dazed and he braced his legs apart, tossed his head back and shouted, “We’re having a baby!”