Called Out

by Jen Doyle

  In the week since, though, he’d only managed to see her at the house in the mornings with Aaron and his crew, and then at the bar, where he was now part of the regular dinner crew. But he had high hopes.

  “Oh, Mr. Oxford—”

  “You can call me Jack,” he said. “It seems like we’re going to be spending some time together in the next few months.”

  She laughed. “Well, Mr. Oxford, I remember what those boys were like when they were kids. That’s fine. You won’t bother me.” It wasn’t “those boys” Jack was talking about, but he’d take it.

  Shutting off the lights and grabbing his bags—after years on the road, he traveled light—Jack left the suite and pulled the door closed behind him. “Is it okay if I come by this afternoon to get the key?”

  Nate had texted him early this morning saying he needed to switch things up and Jack should meet him in the field house, ready to pitch, at 9:15. Jack couldn’t believe his first thought after hearing Nate say words Jack had never expected to hear again had been disappointment at not getting to see Lola this morning rather than, Hot freaking damn, Nate’s ready to play. It had been enough to get him to accept the fact that he was tired of being in Des Moines, though, when everything he wanted was in Inspiration. He’d called Mrs. Lansing right away.

  “Anytime before five,” Mrs. Lansing said. “It’s Bingo night and I do like to get there early to set up my trolls.”

  Jack had no earthly idea what that meant. “By five. No problem.”

  The hotel didn’t give him a hard time about leaving the room several months earlier than expected. Some hard cash, a few signed baseballs and two selfies with the front desk clerks, and he was good to go.

  He’d taken to driving the pickup truck exclusively, having parked his car in Lola’s barn. But since he’d had time on his hands over the last week he’d played around with the engine so it made as good time as the Maserati would have. Better, probably, because he was a lot less likely to be stopped for speeding when he looked like a good ole boy rather than like Jack Oxford, still the most reviled man in baseball.

  Since he was a little early, he drove by the farmhouse hoping to catch Lola for a few minutes, but the only cars in the driveway belonged to Aaron and his guys. Still, he found himself humming—humming—as he came to a stop in front of the field house.

  He grabbed his bag from the back and went inside. Even though he was early, Nate had beaten him there and was over by the bench that served as the visiting team’s dugout.

  When he called out, “Hey, Deacon, you got your gear on yet? I don’t got all day,” Jack assumed it would be Deke coming out from behind the bleachers lining first base.

  He wasn’t ready for it to be Lola, and he definitely wasn’t ready to see her in catcher’s gear, a well-worn mitt on her hand, helmet under her arm.

  Jesus. Fucking. Christ. He’d played with more than a few guys who had rocked a boner for their catcher, but he’d never been one of them. This was not at all okay. How was it possible she looked as hot in that uniform as she did without any clothes on? Could there be maybe one thing about her that didn’t turn him on?

  “What?” she asked, smiling. “Did you think Nate was lying when he said I taught him everything he knew?”

  God help him, but yes.

  Under no circumstances would he say that. “Maybe exaggerating a little.”

  “Only a little,” Nate answered, sitting back on the bench. “It’s been awhile so I was thinking for this first session it would be better for me to watch. I’ll be behind the plate tomorrow.”

  “Okay,” Jack said slowly as he put his bag down on the floor. Not that he was questioning her ability.

  Well, yes, he was questioning her ability.

  Sure, he’d seen her play the other day, and she’d been good. Really good. Dorie and Fitz, too, actually. It had been an entirely new experience for Jack. He’d played catch with Raul behind the garage, and every once in a while at Rice there would be some pickup game. But baseball had been his ticket out from under his father’s thumb; it wasn’t something he did for fun. He played to get the W, get into first place, win whatever division his team was playing in and then the championship. The only time he’d ever played with kids was when he was one. Women? Never.

  But a game among friends, even if it involved Nate Hawkins, was different than a training workout. Jack wouldn’t be throwing at full force, not in this first session, but it wouldn’t be a game of catch, either. Even though he knew logically Nate wouldn’t have her out here if she couldn’t handle it, he turned to Nate, needing an official go-ahead.

  She can take it, was Nate’s unspoken but clear response.

  Well, alrighty, then. He ran his hand through his hair. Above all else, he trusted Nate. So no matter how strange this felt, he smiled as if he wasn’t thrown. “Sounds good.”

  “Great,” Nate said. “Locker room’s behind first base bleachers if you need to change. Otherwise, let me know when you’re ready to go.”

  Half an hour later Jack was on the mound and trying not to think about it being Lola behind that mask. The problem, however, was that he had no choice, unless Nate was going to call the pitches verbally. Unlikely. So Jack was going to have to focus very hard on her hand down between her legs, although that was infinitely better than the thought that had just overcome him: doubt.

  Intense, nearly blinding, doubt.

  Jack picked up a ball from the ground and turned it over in his hand. For the first time in his life, he was uneasy standing on the mound. To say this last year hadn’t been good was an understatement. He had a lot of reasons. He’d never gotten into a rhythm with his new catcher, and, God knew, it wasn’t like the rest of the team had his back after what he’d done to Nate.

  He’d managed to keep his focus, but if he were being entirely honest, it had been a struggle, especially toward the end. Standing here now, he had a moment of wondering. What if he didn’t get it back? What if it wasn’t just what had happened in the off-season with Courtney and Nate, or that Nate had gone on to another team? What if Jack had lost his ability to pitch, period? That the one gift he’d been given, his entire reason for being on this earth, just wasn’t there.

  “Yo, meat!”

  That had always been Nate’s way of telling Jack to trust his body to do what it was meant to do. They’d figured out that bit of shorthand pretty early on after a brutal night on the road and a hotel with very few choices on TV other than a Kevin Costner movie marathon.

  Except that wasn’t Nate’s voice, it was Lola’s, and it calmed him in more ways than one. He got his head under control, his breathing going. He nodded as he got into his stance.

  “All right, buddy,” Nate said, “you remember the drill. She’ll just start calling pitches and you’re going to pitch them. Don’t think, don’t question, just throw.”

  Jack nodded again. It was one of Nate’s favorite ways of mixing things up. It was a bit unconventional and not at all sustainable beyond ten or fifteen pitches. Twenty max. But it was his way to get Jack out of his head and focused on throwing the pitches being called.

  She started with the fastball, which he wasn’t going to throw at even close to his normal speeds. Judging by the fact that she called it for a second time, and then a third and a fourth in rapid enough succession that he had no choice but to go faster, his reluctance seemed to piss her off. So when she called the changeup, he didn’t hold back. And then a curveball, another fastball, and then a screwball. Eighteen pitches in, he was loose, focused, and well into his groove. It wasn’t until Nate called an end to the drill that Jack even remembered it was Lola behind the plate.

  “Now that’s what I’m talking about,” Nate said, clapping. “All right. Time to make history again.”

  And they settled in.

  * * *

  Wow.


  Wow.

  Despite aches in almost every part of her body after forty-five minutes in a crouch—well, every part of her body except for her hand, which was almost entirely numb—Lola could barely keep still. She knew Nate needed to keep Jack’s first full pitching workout on the shorter side, and she had to be at the bar in another couple hours, but, honestly, she could have gone all day. Talk about an adrenaline high. She’d forgotten what it felt like to make her body work like that—had worried that maybe it didn’t still work like that. She’d gotten a hint of it the other day, but it had been nothing like this.

  Two more pitches and Nate called the workout to an end. The pitching portion, at least. “Wash is going to meet us up at the gym in half an hour,” he said to Jack. “And I was thinking about watching some tapes this afternoon.”

  “Sure,” Jack said, beginning his cooldown stretches. His eyes flicked over to Lola but didn’t linger. In fact, other than the look of surprise when he’d walked in and realized it was her, he’d barely acknowledged her presence. Which was good. It was exactly the reason he was here and, frankly, as irritated as she’d been at him for doubting her, she was well aware he had no clue several of her statewide softball records had stood well into her late twenties. Or that she’d been one of the country’s top prospects for college recruiters her senior year.

  She should actually be pretty proud of the fact that a future Hall of Famer had forgotten she was the woman he’d slept with a few times and instead saw her purely as filling a position. Considering the other day was the first time she’d been on a field since the triplets were born, that was a high honor. And anyway, the whole reason he was here in Inspiration was to do exactly what they’d just done. Everything else up to now had been filler. Not only had she known that going in, she was counting on it. So she wasn’t going to let his lack of acknowledgement affect her mood in the slightest.

  Well, maybe the slightest, but that was all.

  She tucked the helmet under her arm, waiting as Nate came over to her.

  “Not bad, Deacon,” he said, a big smile on his face as he no doubt deliberately called her by her maiden name. “Nice to see you back in uniform.”

  “Nice to be back in uniform.” Or, at least, in her gear. No lie, though. Pulling it out of storage had brought about a tinge of sadness at the memories of the life she’d left behind when she’d transferred from Michigan to Emory after her sophomore year. She’d never regretted her choice to move closer to Dave at Fort Benning; she’d made it proudly and willingly. It was only after Dave died that she’d realized how much of herself she’d put aside in order to be his wife.

  “Want to make it a regular thing?” Nate asked.

  For two seconds, Lola forgot she wasn’t nineteen anymore and that she had four kids, a job and two houses to take care of, not to mention trying to figure out a way to have sex again. Since the night she and Jack had made out on her couch, she’d only managed to carve out two ten-minute blocks of time to spend alone with him. Unfortunately those had been at the bar while she was on break, with Deke far too close for comfort.

  “Thanks,” she said, setting aside the disappointment. “But I don’t think that will work. It’s been fun, though.”

  “Think about it, Lo,” Nate said. “You’re glowing right now. It’s nice to see it.”

  She didn’t deny the glowing part—she could feel the energy happily crashing around inside of her—but she hadn’t realized she had looked sad up until now. It bothered her immensely.

  “Once a week,” he continued. “It’s a standing offer. No commitments necessary. An hour, tops. Just to give me a chance to watch him throw.”

  “I’ll think about it,” she said, tugging at the elastic band and shaking her hair loose.

  When she got to the locker room, she sat on the bench and leaned back, refusing to let the melancholy take over. Maybe there was a way she could get back to this part of her life. But not now. There wasn’t time now.

  With a sigh, she took off the chest protector, and reached down to unbuckle the straps at her knees. There was a sharp knock on the door to the locker room, and she looked up as it opened.

  “Jack,” she said, more than a little surprised. He closed the door behind him, a more serious look on his face than usual. Not Iceman serious, more like a panther stalking its prey.

  She set up a little straighter.

  He didn’t speak, instead, he came close enough to grab her by the hand, pull her to her feet and then crowd her against the wall of lockers. He bent his forehead to hers, his breath ragged. “I’ve never fucked anyone in a baseball uniform. Wanna be my first?”

  Jack had never felt this way after pitching. Like every ounce of blood, sweat and tears had gathered together in one hungry mass vibrating with need. He bent his head so he could get at the base of her neck.

  He had to be inside her.

  Although she didn’t push him away, she also seemed to tense a little as he tugged her shirt out of her pants. “I’m all gross and sweaty,” she said, even as she leaned her head back so he could get to her throat. “I should take a shower first.”

  He sucked at her skin. Licked it. Sucked again, wanting more. “Okay, Lola,” he said, running his hands up underneath her shirt and almost cried at her softness and warmth. “I’ll take a shower with you. Thanks for asking.” He would have closed his hands over her breasts if he could, but that damn sports bra was in the way. He renewed his efforts to deal with the rest of her uniform.

  With a laugh, she pushed his hands away and then took off the uniform top herself. The sports bra was a lot less irritating when he could see the cleavage it presented. When he could run his tongue over the parts where her hardened nipples jutted out. He unhooked it and pushed it over her breasts, then buried his head between them.

  “Jack,” she gasped, whipping the bra the rest of the way off. “Oh, God.” Now she was pulling off his shirt, raking her nails up his arms as she went.

  “Wait,” she said, as he undid the snaps of her pants. “My shin pads. I need to take them off.”

  He did manage to pull far enough away to be able to look her in the eye. “They stay on.” There was something about the way they encased her legs, the power they protected and contained. He’d loved her body before, but having her take his pitches—take everything he’d thrown at her and keep demanding more... Holy fuck it had unleashed something deep down inside of him that he couldn’t quite name. He bent down again, focusing his efforts on tasting every millimeter of her collarbo—

  Her hands closed over his cheeks and she yanked his head up, grabbing him like she owned him. Her breath came in big huffs of air. But she managed to concisely convey, “I can’t take my pants off if my shin pads are on.”

  That was the thing though. He didn’t need them all the way off. “I know.” Slowly and deliberately he pushed her pants and panties down. When they were too tight to go any further, he stopped and looked down, his lungs going tight at the sight of her creamy white skin framing the patch of dark hair. He closed his hands around her hips, running his thumbs up the insides of her thighs and drawing a moan that trailed off into a whimper as the muscles in her legs began to shake.

  Her head thunked back against the locker. “Oh, Jesus. Please do that again.”

  “Sorry,” he said, almost as if he truly were. He had very little time, and watching her come apart under his fingers would end this before he was ready.

  From a back pocket he pulled out a condom. He’d known he’d need it the second he saw her in her uniform, and he’d grabbed it out of his bag as soon as he’d finished stretching. Thank fucking Christ he’d stowed them there because if he’d had to wait to have her, he might have literally gone out of his mind. He opened it as she pushed his pants down to his thighs and then wrapped her hands around him.

  His knees nearly buckled. He moved her han
ds away so he could put the condom on. This time he was taking the lead. He braced one hand on the locker behind her, put the other in her hair and tugged her head back, not to expose her throat but instead to have her where he could devour her.

  A strangled moan escaped her lips just as he closed his mouth over them. He nearly came as he entered her, her inner walls closing around his throbbing cock as greedily as her hand and tongue would. She was almost impossibly tight, her legs practically bound together at the thighs. He pushed in farther, groaning at the way her body tightened around him, sending ripples of sensation through him. Rooted inside, he stayed as still as he could stand.

  Clutching at his arms, she threw her head back. “You’re... Oh, God,” she moaned. “Move, damn it.”

  “Not yet.” If he moved, he was going to come, and he wasn’t ready for that yet. He wasn’t ready to let her go.

  Bending his head down, he ran his tongue first over her upper lip and then over her lower one. He smiled as her tongue darted to meet his, but he pulled back before she could. Being inside her and not moving was agony, especially as he watched her inch closer and closer to madness.

  “Jack,” she growled.

  He pushed in a little further, steeling himself against the sensation rushing up his spine and the desperate urge to pound into her, especially as her fingernails sank into his skin. Flicking his thumb over her nipple and eliciting another groan from her, he said, “Just a little worried you might bite again. Gotta protect my interests.”

  Outwardly, he was in control. He knew that. He was working very hard at keeping that mask fully in place. But inside he was about to come undone. He’d never experienced anything like this. He’d never had anyone who could take every part of him, with whom he could fully let go. Hell, he’d never had so much of this...this need...building up inside him. He was feeling everything. The rush of blood was a roar of sound, his heart was a throbbing beat underneath it. Every muscle he had was coiled, waiting to release. His nerve endings pulsed in anticipation.