Throwing Heat: A Diamonds and Dugouts Novel

by Jennifer Seasons

  Only Drake.

  “Probably not, dude.” At that moment he spotted Leslie in the crowd down along the first base line and his stomach pitched. She was there with the rest of the posse, preferring to be down near the action instead of clear up high in the skybox where some of the other players’ families hung out.

  She, Sonny, and Lorelei had gotten way into the team spirit of things and painted signs cheering the Rush to victory. Even Charlie had gotten into it, his face painted part green, part yellow. Leslie even had something painted on her cheeks, but he couldn’t tell what it was from the distance. Looked like a heart on one cheek and a big R on the other though.

  Seeing her all dolled up for his team made his lungs seize. That woman knew just how to get to him. With a huge release of air, Peter forced his gaze off his favorite cheering section. There would be time with Leslie later.

  Now there was the game.

  Taking to the mound as Smash Mouth sang “All Star” and the crowd went crazy, adrenaline flooded his body and focused his mind. In an instant he was in the zone, ready to take charge and keep the Red Sox from getting on base. Rolling his shoulder, Peter was relieved at how good it felt.

  Mark settled into position, his eyes sharp and intense even from the distance. With a quick glance at his teammates, he saw that they were all the same and grinned to himself. His boys were ready to bring it home.

  A flash caught his attention and he looked over to see Charlie holding up a sign, the world’s biggest grin on his young face. It said “Kowalskin is a Baseball God” and he recognized Leslie’s handwriting. Heat flared in his chest, a hot ball of emotion, and he had to swallow hard against the sudden burn.

  Was there no end to the ways the woman believed in him?

  Pushing the thought aside, he forced his attention to the Red Sox player getting ready to bat and put everything else out of his mind.

  “Play!” yelled the umpire with a finger pointed at Peter.

  For the next few hours the Rush took on the Red Sox, each team scrapping their hearts out for the pennant. Peter fired red-hot pitch after pitch, his shoulder feeling tender but completely manageable and his left eye holding. Everything else was forgotten, reality and life narrowing down to a tiny pinpoint of focus and concentration.

  He forgot about it being his last game and let it all hang out, putting every ounce of effort he had into throwing serious heat.

  When one Red Sox player hit a pop-fly high into the air, Peter dashed off the mound and caught it soundly in his mitt. Then he whipped around, arm already cocked and ready, and rocketed the ball off toward second, intent on outing the Red Sox player stupidly trying to steal base. The second baseman tagged the bag with a foot and lunged forward, reaching with his glove.

  And the player was out.

  By the time the ninth inning rolled around, the game was 5–4 and the Rush were up. Peter’s arm was hurting as he started, but he knew that if he could keep Boston from getting on base then the game would be over and the Rush would take the World Series. No big deal. It was just a little pressure.

  The late October air was chilly and the sky overcast with the promise of snow. Even so, Peter was sweating, beads of it dripping down his temples. The exertion was immense and he could feel himself beginning to slip, could feel his shoulder starting to go.

  But he had to hang in there a few more minutes.

  He yanked off his hat and swiped at the sweat just as John Crispin came up to bat. His former teammate’s brows were pulled down in a scowl. His eyes were intense as he prepared to take on Peter. He stepped into the box, ground his cleats in the dirt, and swung the bat before pulling it into position.

  And all Peter could see was the man who used to date Leslie. The man who had just asked her out on a date. The man trying to move in on his territory.

  Not today.

  Peter wound up and released the first pitch, a brutal fastball, straight down the pipe. He merely grunted when John swung and missed. Damn right.

  Strike one.

  He knew John. Knew his weaknesses. Knew how to play him.

  So did Cutter.

  Mark signaled for a slider and Peter nodded, more than happy to oblige. Pulling his arm back, he ignored the sting and released the ball. John took a step forward and swung high, cursing profusely and earning another strike.

  Strike two.

  Panting with the effort, Peter wound up one more time and went with another slider, knowing it was Crispin’s Achilles’ heel. The big, gruff player took a huge forward step and swung with everything he had. And he connected.

  The ball ricocheted right back at Peter, coming hard and fast at his head. He didn’t have time to move. All he had time to do was react. In a flash he raised his mitt to his face.

  And caught the ball, the velocity of it slamming the leather glove back into his collarbone, narrowly missing his chin.

  The force of it stung like a bitch until he heard, “Out!” That one call changed everything, made all the pain disappear in a blink.

  The Rush won the World Series.

  Fans screamed, his team came running, everybody was yelling in celebration. Drake loped over to him and scooped Peter up, spinning him around, hollering, “Yeah, Walskie!” Exhilaration flooded him, took him on a high so glorious that he never wanted to come down.

  He did it. He fucking did it. He won the goddamn World frigging Series.

  He couldn’t believe it.

  Riding the wave, Peter was laughing and smiling when he looked into the stands and saw Leslie. She had her hands to her mouth When she spotted him looking at her she dropped her hands from her mouth and waved, her smile absolutely beaming. And he felt the echo of it inside him wrap warm around his heart.

  It was the greatest moment of his life.

  Chapter Nineteen

  * * *

  HOTBOX WAS HOPPING. The kind of hopping that made it hard to breathe from all the bodies smooshed together in a confined space. And Leslie couldn’t have been happier.

  A blast of music hit her ears like a hammer, the beat thumping and pulsing heavily as her favorite local reggae band Gyration burned up the stage in their Rastafarian zombie costumes. Colored bulbs had been installed, and red beams of light rained down over the throng from the ceiling. Spider webs were strewn all about, from the liquor display behind the bar to the upstairs railing with arachnids of varying shapes and sizes perched and hunting for prey.

  She’d hired some fifth-year theatre majors from the nearby university to dress up as witches and spend the night stirring a big steamy cauldron of dry ice by the front entrance. From where she was standing she could see white smoke crawling along the floor in thin, curling fingers. Every so often one of the drama students would cackle or lunge, teeth snapping at those who entered. They were having a blast, really getting into character. It was pretty creepy.

  And way freaking awesome.

  Even Mario had gotten into the spirit of things and was dressed like a jailbird who’d been dead and decomposing for a few decades. Already imposing in his natural state, there were more than a few faint-of-heart party-goers who had taken one look at him and slipped to the back of the line. They were probably hoping that another stint in the falling snow would get them pumped up for when he scared the shit out of them the second time. It was really quite amusing.

  To top it all off, every once in a while the lights would flicker and stall out and there would be a thundering boom—with just enough time lapsing to get a nice roll of murmurs going. Then they flashed back on again like nothing had happened and it was business as usual, confusing them further. It made her smile every single time.

  The on-air radio deejays set up near the stage were having a really good time. In front of them and to the left was the Rush’s unofficial table. She’d dubbed it that since they always gravitated there.

  The club looked awesome, if she did say so herself.

  Speaking of other stuff that was pretty killer, Leslie thought as she brushed her
palms down the front of her costume, she was doing all right herself. Oh, okay. She looked frigging fantastic.

  Tonight she was a princess; an exposed-shouldered, bosom-enhanced, deep amethyst, embroidered-velvet medieval princess who was ready to take back her crown. And she would, too, in about two hours.

  A shrill scream came from the entrance, drawing Leslie’s attention. A group of college-aged girls dressed like characters from Twilight were huddled together, clinging because Mario had scared the daylights out of them. The looks on their faces had her giggling.

  That giggle turned into a howl of laughter when Drake Paulson stepped through the door. He was in full costume, from the top of his newly green afro head to his grass green feet. Even his lips were green.

  It was the Jolly Green Giant.

  Leslie laughed so hard it brought tears to her eyes. That had to be one of the best costumes she’d ever seen. It put all the Storm Troopers and naughty nurses out on the floor to shame.

  She was dabbing at the corner of her eye with a section of her huge bell sleeve when Peter stepped inside and she nearly jammed her finger into her eye socket. Damn the man. Why did just seeing him have her mouth turning to sawdust?

  He wasn’t even dressed up. Oh no, Peter Kowalskin was too cool for a costume. He dressed like his normal self in a white Pearl Jam T-shirt, faded jeans, leather jacket, and Vans. Just like any other day.

  But it wasn’t just any other day and they both knew it when he stopped in front of her, his incredible blue eyes glinting with a whole lot of naughty. “Happy Halloween, princess. Nice costume.”

  Leslie slid him a look through her lashes, enjoying the banked heat she could see simmering in his. “Sonny and I found it at a consignment store in Boulder. You like it?” She knew he did. It was written all over his rugged face.

  His gaze flicked over her, from the golden crown woven into her hair to her purple suede Michael Kors heels on her feet. Those weren’t so historically accurate, but they were her magic-makers. Every time she wore them something fabulous happened. And, well, they just so happened to match her dress. How about that?

  And if he didn’t stop staring at her she was going to start squirming. Not the fun kind, either. “Congratulations on your win today,” she said, hoping to diffuse the tension between them.

  Peter hooked his thumbs in the front pocket of his jeans and tipped his chin, smiling when Carl Brexler hollered to him before he turned his attention back to her and answered, “Thanks. It felt good. Still feels good,” he finished with a laugh and a satisfied smile.

  “How’s the shoulder?” she inquired as they made their way toward the table with the rest of the Rush players. There was a thick crowd when they neared the table, and Peter slid his hand to rest on her lower back, guiding her through the crush. The heat of his large palm bore into her and had a different kind of heat flaring in her belly. He had no idea how capable and strong his hands were, how completely they possessed when they touched.

  It was intoxicating.

  They reached the long table just as one of the waitresses, Megan, set down a tray full of shot glasses and a bottle of their finest whiskey. “Congrats on your win, guys,” she said with a wide smile and melted back into the crowd. It looked like the boys were having a good time toasting their success. That was the second bottle already.

  Leslie opened her mouth to say something when Peter’s hand slipped from her lower back down to her ass and between her legs. Through the sumptuous fabric his fingers caressed her intimately, his body blocking anyone from seeing.

  Her panties were damp in a heartbeat.

  Lust slammed into her hard, scrambling her brain and blurring her vision. Suddenly she was feeling nervous, a lot less certain. And suddenly she had a very real concern about making it until midnight.

  She threw a slightly panicked look at the wall clock. Ten forty-five. After all, it was still so very far, far away.

  Applause erupted suddenly in the large nightclub and echoed off the brick walls, putting a halt to their little intrigue. She felt Peter melt away with relief. A reprieve, thank God. It gave her a few minutes to get her hormones in order.

  The radio deejays were holding court near the stage, perfectly distracting her as they announced the night’s costume contest winner. It was Lorelei, the rodeo queen.

  Mark burst out laughing and pushed her toward the deejay table. “Way to go, Fonda Peters!” He was laughing so hard Leslie was afraid he might strain something.

  His wife tried to scowl but couldn’t hold it together. She started laughing, too, as she sashayed like a model to retrieve her Blues Traveler tickets. Once she took them she spun around and gave a playful curtsy.

  “Thank you!” Then she scrambled back over to the Rush’s table, giggling, and shared a secret smile with Mark. Which made it official—Leslie really didn’t want to know what that was all about.

  When the brunette stopped next to her, Leslie suggested, “You know, Mark’s not much of a John Popper fan, but I know someone who is. You should think about taking her instead because she’d properly appreciate the event.”

  Lorelei arched a brow, green eyes dancing. “Really now? And just who might that be?”

  “Hey! Nuh-uh, Leslie. Don’t you go trying to muscle your way in on my date.” Mark draped a muscular arm over his wife’s shoulder and pulled her into his side. “Go get your own.”

  Leslie shot him a look, brow raised, and attempted to distract herself by teasing him. “That’s what I was trying to do before you butted your big crooked nose into things, Scooter.” She used his childhood nickname, amused when his nostrils flared.

  Lorelei’s head whipped around to her husband. “Scooter?”

  Mark leveled a warning glare at Leslie over Lorelei’s head. “It’s nothing.”

  He didn’t scare her. It was the opposite, actually. Mark was bigger, but she fought mean. “He earned that prestigious nickname when he was fourteen and we were on a family camping trip. He used some plants to wipe with—”

  “Shut it, Leslie,” Mark interjected, voice ripe with embarrassment.

  And she just continued, ignoring his threats, “—and found out the hard way what poison ivy looked like. I caught him scooting across the tent trying to scratch his itchy butt at one in the morning like a dog. It was super funny.” She gestured dramatically. “Hence, Scooter.”

  The way her brother cringed was priceless. Lorelei started laughing, and he shook his head, muttering, “Calamine lotion is a joke.”

  A heavy green arm settled over Leslie’s shoulder and she glanced at the enormous hand holding a beer. Paulson was one large man. “What’s so funny over here?” he said around a slight belch.

  Apparently the Jolly Green Giant was inebriated.

  “Reminiscing about Mark’s brilliant youth.” Her brother narrowed his gray eyes and she smiled innocently.

  “We telling stories?” the gruff player inquired and leaned into Leslie. The weight of him almost took her down.

  Before she could launch into any more, Mark diverted the veteran’s attention and together they went over to the college students in costume so that Drake could have a turn stirring the bubbling cauldron. The guy was happy like a three-year-old with a sucker.

  Lorelei cleared her throat loudly. “So, you going to confess?”

  “About what?” Of course she knew what, but denial had a way of making liars and avoiders of everyone.

  The mom-to-be took a sip of her cranberry juice and ice and said casually, “Oh, nothing much. Just about how you’re totally crazy for Peter.”

  Her mouth dropped open and she was about to speak when Lorelei cut her off. “Don’t even pretend, hon.”

  Leslie’s stomach flopped. Awesome. “Who else knows?”

  “If you’re referring to Mark, he doesn’t know anything.”

  Thank God. She really wasn’t up for dealing with an angry overprotective brother at the moment. Stealing a glance around the busy nightclub, she let out a breath. �
�Good. There’s nothing for him to know anyway.”

  Her companion snorted. “You’re such a bad liar.”

  No she wasn’t. She was great. In fact, she lied convincingly to herself all the time. “Look, there’s not much to tell. Peter and I just have a stupid bet going.”

  Lorelei put a hand on her arm and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “It looks like a whole lot more than that, honey. I’ve never seen Kowalskin so amped up.”

  A part of her thrilled at that, the part that was stupid in love with him. And that was all of her. “It’s nothing. Really. No need to tell anybody.” And by anybody she meant Mark.

  “How can I not say anything, Leslie?” The brunette looked torn. “You’re his sister. The only family he’s close with. And Peter’s his best friend. If you two are sniffing around each other then he’s going to want to know.”

  “Uh-uh. You can’t say anything. Sister-in-law confidentiality.”

  Big sigh. “Leslie.”

  A hard brick wall rose up inside her, closing her off. She wasn’t ready to admit to anything. “It’s just a bet, Lorelei. Just a stupid bet.”

  The brunette eyed her skeptically. “You swear?”

  Leslie looked her dead in the eye. “Yes. It doesn’t mean anything.”

  See? She was too a good liar.

  PETER LET OUT a low laugh when he stepped close behind Leslie sometime later and placed his palm against her hip. Then he slid his hand over her ass and watched her shiver. He was still riding high from the Rush’s win and feeling good. Really good. Not that he’d ever wanted his career to end, but since it had to, going out this way had been just about everything he could ask for. Yeah, things were great. Everything was working out exactly as it should. And, by the way, the princess in front of him was shaking in those ridiculously sexy shoes, he knew that there was something else that was going to work itself out very soon too.

  He wanted Leslie. Christ, he wanted that woman like he wanted oxygen. It was fundamental and basic, at the core of who he was. There would be no performance anxiety tonight. No choking. Peter was determined to win the bet and make this a perfect night. One for the record books.