Sliding Into Home

by Joanne Rock

  Sliding Into Home

  Joanne Rock

  They play the field…but can they play for keeps?

  Rookie Brody Davis has all the right moves. But will they be enough to tempt sexy Naomi back into his bed?

  Shortstop hero Lance Montero must prove to a bad-girl heiress that he's good at everything he does. Very, very good…

  Superstar Javier Velasquez is getting a hot 'n heavy workout with Lisa, the team's trainer. But who's healing whom?

  First baseman Rick Warren is on a winning streak…with the owner's daughter!

  Praise for Joanne Rock

  “Any book by Joanne Rock is guaranteed to be a winner!”

  —CataRomance on She Thinks Her Ex Is Sexy…

  “Joanne Rock writes them hot and scorching.”

  —Fallen Angel Reviews

  “Hot sex, a spooky mystery, an isolated island cut off by a storm, ghosts, danger, and romance—not to mention the perfect ending.”

  —Romantic Times BOOK reviews on Getting Lucky

  “Grabs you by the throat and leaves you breathless.”

  —Romance Junkies on Up Close and Personal

  “For frolicking, sexy fun, Joanne Rock always delivers!”

  —New York Times bestselling author Julie Leto

  “Sensual stories, sexy heroes and sassy heroines—fabulous Joanne Rock delivers keeper-shelf reads!”

  —RITA® Award-winning author Catherine Mann

  Blaze™

  Dear Reader,

  It’s difficult to pinpoint when I first became enamored with sports heroes. From high school football games to college basketball, I always enjoyed whooping it up for the home team. It’s a joy that only grew after marrying a pitcher on my college’s baseball team—a pitcher who went on to be a sports editor for a variety of newspapers around the country. During those years I had the pleasure of learning about sports from the inside out—the human dramas underlying the plays on the field.

  And while my husband was always more interested in the forces that shaped an athlete for greatness, I’ll admit I occasionally speculated on a player’s love life. What can I say? We were each called to our professions for a reason! I hope you will enjoy the inside peek into four players’ romantic journeys during pivotal moments in their careers, in Sliding into Home.

  It’s always a pleasure to hear from readers. You can reach me at joanne@joannerock.com.

  Happy reading!

  Joanne Rock

  Sliding Into Home

  JOANNE ROCK

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Three-time RITA® Award nominee Joanne Rock turned a passion for writing into a career after imaginary characters kept her awake at night, demanding she tell their stories. The author of more than thirty romances in a variety of subgenres, she has been an avid fan of romance since stumbling upon a Silhouette “First Love” novel as a preteen. After moving around the country for her husband’s career, she now calls the gorgeous Adirondack Mountains home—at least until life’s next adventure. Learn more about Joanne and her work by visiting her at joannerock.com or myspace.com/joanne_rock.

  Books by Joanne Rock

  HARLEQUIN BLAZE

  139—DATE WITH A DIVA

  171—SILK CONFESSIONS*

  182—HIS WICKED WAYS*

  240—UP ALL NIGHT

  256—HIDDEN OBSESSION

  305—DON’T LOOK BACK**

  311—JUST ONE LOOK**

  363—A BLAZING LITTLE CHRISTMAS “His for the Holidays”

  381—GETTING LUCKY

  395—UP CLOSE AND PERSONAL

  450—SHE THINKS HER EX IS SEXY…

  457—ALWAYS READY

  HARLEQUIN HISTORICAL

  749—THE BETROTHAL “Highland Handfast”

  758—MY LADY’S FAVOR

  769—THE LAIRD’S LADY

  812—THE KNIGHT’S COURTSHIP

  890—A KNIGHT MOST WICKED

  To my three sons, whose athletic prowess is

  always fun to watch.

  And to Dean, the template for each of them.

  Thank you for your great genes and for

  teaching me all about swinging for the fences.

  Prologue

  “BRODY DAVIS IS AT IT AGAIN, folks.” Big Apple Sports Radio disc jockey Brian Marshall launched into his morning topic without prelude as he sat down at a microphone for the drive time show. “Having little tolerance for punks who disrespect the hallowed game of baseball, the Boston Aces’ catcher body slammed one of the National League’s top players, Chicago Flames’ Javier Velasquez in last night’s action.”

  Brian’s color commentator was still buttering his bagel and hadn’t taken the chair beside him yet, but Brian never needed a lot of help beefing up the sports news. With antics like this to talk about, baseball’s stars made his job easy. He settled deeper into his rolling chair behind the blinking red studio light that told the rest of the world he was “on the air.”

  And on his game. Brian lived for this stuff.

  “Velasquez, who hit his league-leading 32nd homer earlier in the game,” he continued, warming to the subject, “appeared to boast about his titanic blast while digging in for his second at bat. Davis then called for a high heater, which Boston pitcher Dane Kroc delivered under the chin of Velasquez, who dropped his bat and started toward the mound. Only, Davis would have none of it—he ripped off his mask, grabbed Velasquez, and drove him into the turf, an action sure to draw some sort of suspension.”

  Ozzie, his color man, was at the ready by now, his bagel dripping butter on the Styrofoam plate as he wheeled his chair closer to his mike.

  “The kid definitely needs some grooming from the older players.” Ozzie downplayed the story just as Brian had been getting good and revved up. Why did he always have to be Mr. Smooth and Mellow, especially with good dirt like this? “It’s the third time this season Davis will get some unwanted time off—once the commissioner’s office reviews the tapes—and both he and Velasquez are sure to be fined heavily.”

  Last night’s incident was just one of many this year involving some of the game’s most recognized names. And despite the countless replays ESPN was sure to show of Davis’s knuckles digging into Velasquez’s rib cage, this was not a case where any publicity was good publicity.

  But this was the stuff listeners tuned in for.

  “So what do you think, Oz? Is baseball in more trouble than usual? We’ve seen a lot of tabloid-ready escapades from some of the sport’s premier players.”

  Ozzie pressed a button for a track of the seventh inning stretch sound effect to fill some space while he finished chewing, then chimed in.

  “At the end of the day, they can drive a ninety-five-mile-per-hour fastball five hundred feet. Or flash some of the finest leather in the league. That’s what brings the fans out and in my opinion, that’s what will drive the big money contracts at the end of the season.”

  Geez. Could this guy be any more of a buzz kill?

  “We’ll see about that, Oz. But since some of today’s top defensive players are dominating the headlines, I think we need to talk about ‘Gold Gloves’ or ‘Bold Thugs.’ These guys are sure-handed and smooth, rarely dropping the ball on the field, but routinely doing so off it. Listeners, we want to hear what you think.”

  Oz cracked a grin and shook his head. “So who’s on the thug list?”

  While the switchboard started lighting up in response to the topic, Brian reeled off a few of the guys they were highlighting to keep the comments focused.

  “First up is Brody Davis, one of the brawlers in last night’s melee. He was the hope of his franchise last year when the team called him up from the minors. But the moves that dazzled fans in Triple A won’t cut it in the majors if Davis
can’t put a lid on his temper. This is one slugger who might find himself without a contract next spring, even if he manages to capture the fielding recognition his stats deserve.”

  Oz was juggling calls, but he piped up as he put someone on hold.

  “We’ve already got some votes for our tarnished hometown hero, too.” Oz laid in a track of the chant used at the stadium when New York’s big hitter came to the plate. “Lance Montero seems to be making the list, but I have to warn our listeners that I don’t think being popular with the ladies is the same as being a thug.”

  Brian tried not to roll his eyes. He was only too glad to put the New York Scrapers’ veteran shortstop on the list of sports stars with too much fame and money at their fingertips.

  “Montero is practically an institution in the Big Apple, from the South Street Seaport restaurant that bears his name to the guest spots on late-night TV. But Mr. New York could be alienating his fans as he steps out with one famous face after another.”

  “Although he’s hardly the first ballplayer to date a movie star, you know?” Oz chimed in, taking a predictable long view of the situation.

  Brian made a mental note to talk to the guy after today’s show. Damn it, they needed to pump up the news with flair and personality, not dull it down to stats and strategy.

  “While the public doesn’t begrudge a star his entourage,” Brian continued, pleased to see every line in the studio was already blinking with a call. “Mr. Montero might be pushing the envelope with the long string of women when he’s developing a charitable foundation to benefit kids. For all we know, he’s setting up a trust fund of sorts for offspring he hasn’t publicly acknowledged. Don’t these guys know that perks like the All-Star Game and the Gold Glove are popularity contests as much as talent?”

  “And it looks like there are a couple of calls for Javier Velasquez—”

  “Don’t get me started!” Brian couldn’t believe the talent this kid was pissing away. “The guy has the slugging stats and third-base prowess to be a superstar if he didn’t spend his free time riding a motorcycle without a helmet and cliff diving around the globe. We all heard there was talk of negotiating a clause into his contract to ensure he stayed healthy, but Velasquez’s agent made that disappear. If this guy doesn’t rein in his habits, he’s another one who’ll end up seeing his contract bought out next spring.”

  “So we’ve got the fighter, the player, the thrill seeker…at least you’ve got something besides the steroid scandal to rail about, right, Brian?” Oz chuckled to himself, but Brian was not amused.

  They’d nearly come to blows on more than one morning show when he was in the thick of a good tirade about irresponsibility among the players, and Oz trotted out some crap about the major league cashing in on the new wealth of power hitters and—by turning a blind eye to drug use for years—implying a sort of consent to steroids. Who cared about that? Listeners wanted to talk about the players, not front office people. That stuff was one giant snooze fest.

  “How about Mr. Bottom Line, the Atlanta Rebels’ Rick Warren?”

  “This guy could not play any harder,” Oz pointed out, pressing a button that filled the airwaves with the sound of a bat cracking against a ball. “The most overlooked utility player in baseball is up for free agency at the end of the year and I’ve gotta say I’m rooting for him to land with a team who can make a run at the playoffs.”

  Surprise, surprise. If baseball had cheerleaders, Oz would be the first one on board.

  “This guy’s moved around the MLB so often his baseball card collection reads like a travelogue. But after years of showing up ready to play no matter who held his contract, Warren’s getting vocal about wanting to be with a club that could give him a shot at the World Series, one of the few destinations he’s missed in a long career. He’s not winning popularity points by bouncing around so much, is he, Oz?”

  Oz mouthed a few choice words, but kept his public commentary to a minimum. “Okay, we’re ready for our first caller. Joe, from Queens.”

  Oz forwarded the caller straight to the air. As he turned off his mic, he muttered something about baseball being a sport and not a gossip column. But so what? If he had a problem, he’d signed on the wrong show. Brian would be thrilled to see Oz get the boot for his downbeat commentary. For now, however, they settled into their morning routine and continued debating if the boys of summer would hold it together long enough to make the most out of their careers.

  FIRED UP

  1

  Three weeks later

  “HAVE YOU BEEN WATCHING the news?”

  Feeling like a suspect caught in the act, Naomi Benoit clutched the telephone tighter in one hand as she muted the volume on the television with the other.

  “Not since the six o’clock update,” she lied to her best friend, forcing her restless feet into her cottage’s small kitchen to make a cup of tea. A wicked rainstorm battered the northeast tonight, seemingly centered on Naomi’s coastal New Hampshire hometown. Some tea would help ward off the storm’s chill and—maybe—help chase off the stupid, misplaced worries tonight’s news had stirred up. “And actually, I’ve got a ton of papers to grade before school tomorrow—”

  “Do you believe Brody told the ump to, ah, screw off?”

  Shayla had been her best bud since Naomi punched Mugsy Simpson on the playground for lifting Shayla’s skirt on a dare. Surely they’d been friends long enough for Shayla to know better than to bring up him?

  The only ex-boyfriend to ever drag a piece of Naomi’s heart along with him when he left. The controversial baseball star Brody Davis.

  “Of course he told the ump to go scratch himself.” Naomi pulled a shiny red teapot from the cupboard and switched on the burner under her kettle. “Did you see that pitch he called strike three?”

  Not that it was any of her concern. How pathetic was it that she would defend a guy who’d ended their relationship via phone while he’d been on the road for a game? He’d never apologized. Never explained. He’d just gotten swept up into baseball and the majors and endorsements for Nike. All of which apparently ranked higher than his hometown girlfriend on his personal radar.

  Still, her gaze strayed to ESPN’s replay of today’s home plate shouting match in spite of herself.

  “It looked low to me.” Shayla sighed on the other end of the phone. “But why can’t he ever walk away? Doesn’t he realize they’ll never renew his contract, let alone consider him for the Gold Glove he deserves? I keep thinking Brody will get past the big outbursts one of these days, but—”

  “Did I mention I had papers to grade?” Naomi’s heart shouldn’t twist over a conversation about an afternoon Boston Aces game at the home field just two hours south of them. She and Shay had been fans of the team since the sixth grade when Boston traded some upstart pitching prospect for Lyle Daringer, the hottest slugger on the planet at that time. But with Brody a fixture on the Aces’roster this year, Naomi found she couldn’t dish about the games quite as much as in the old days.

  Although, in her defense, she’d dated with a vengeance after the breakup to oust Brody from her heart. She thought she’d done a damn good job of it, too, until her most recent ex-boyfriend suggested she was only interested in baseball because she carried a torch for her first love.

  As if.

  “Can you hear the subtle nuances of my cold silence on this end of the phone?” Shayla asked, remaining quiet for all of two seconds to illustrate her point. “Who am I going to talk baseball with if you find something else to do every time Brody’s name comes up?”

  Naomi’s cat, Zora, twined around her legs and meowed, recognizing Naomi’s proximity to the cat treat cabinet. She pulled out the container like any well-trained pet owner and sprinkled a snack in Zora’s bowl.

  “You can hear Mike and Tony battle it out on Pardon the Interruption if you want some insights. At least they won’t write off his beef the way that snarky DJ on Big Apple Sports Radio will. Because while Brody might be the
type to dump his girlfriend in the most tacky manner possible, he sure as heck wouldn’t argue a strike call without damn good reason.” She could respect the guy’s prowess on the diamond without carrying a freaking torch for him.

  And frankly, as a die-hard Aces fan, Naomi hated the flap Brody’s antics had caused in baseball circles, taking focus off the game and putting it on his…colorful character. She didn’t know what was up with him, but he was having a hell of a rookie year. The stats were amazing, but he seemed to touch off controversy at every other game.

  “One last question,” Shayla pushed, stretching Naomi’s patience as the kettle began to whistle. “Do you think they’ll try to trade him for this?”

  The hiss of steam blared through the kitchen, almost drowning out the roll of pounding thunder. Naomi tugged her sweater tighter around her and lifted the pot to fill her teacup. As the whistling ceased, she realized the pounding wasn’t thunder.

  Bam, bam, bam!

  It was a knock at her door.

  “Someone’s here. I’ll see you in school tomorrow, okay?” Setting down the phone and the kettle, she hurried to the front door, wondering who would brave the storm. Zora kept pace, planting her furry cat body wherever she was about to step, nearly tripping her twice before she reached the door.

  She pulled it open to see the same face that had filled her TV screen in highlight reels ever since the one o’clock game in Boston.

  Dripping rain and testosterone, hometown hero Brody Davis stood on her porch step.

  “TEN MINUTES.” BRODY FIGURED he’d better start small in his requests if he wanted to gain admittance to Naomi’s house after a year of silence. A year of knowing he’d thrown away the best shot he’d ever had at real happiness. “That’s all I’m asking. Can I talk to you for ten minutes?”