“Ambulance chaser,” Finn said.
“Muscle head,” Em retorted.
“Enough,” Eddie said. “We’re meant to be having a nice family meal while we’re all together.”
Em and Finn rolled their eyes. “Yes, Dad.” Amelia nearly laughed, torn between pleasure at being with all of them and a sudden wave of homesickness. She missed this. Missed silly family dinners and outings. Missed her mom, too.
Her mom, who wasn’t going to be happy when she found out Amelia was involved with an athlete. Guilt twinged, and she forked up more bacon.
So why couldn’t she just do the smart thing and tell Oliver that she wanted to end it?
Choose her family over a man who was still virtually a stranger.
Because she didn’t want to.
That made her feel even more guilty. She put her fork down, even less hungry than she had been before.
Across the table, Mari was watching her, looking vaguely concerned. Crap. She picked up the fork again. Time to change the subject. Back to a topic Mari would find more interesting.
Like her son. She pointed her fork at Finn. “If I’m so boring, why don’t you tell us something interesting, Mr. Baseball? Something that’s not about the game tonight.”
She expected him to refuse, but instead he leaned back in his chair and smirked at her. “Well, I just signed my first sponsorship deal last night.”
“Holy crap!” Em said. Quickly followed by, “You didn’t show me the contract.”
“Because you’re a criminal lawyer and I have an agent who does that shit for me,” Finn said. “They wanted an answer fast.”
“Who’s they, honey?” Mari asked.
“Long Road Home. They make fitness trackers, GPS watches, that sort of thing. They’re launching a new smart watch system.”
Amelia knew the company; they’d been in the news with their gear for the last twelve months, and Wall Street rumors had them likely to take things public soon. “Impressive.”
“Doing the photo shoot on Wednesday,” Finn said. “Should be fun. The campaign rolls out during the World Series. They’re using a few up-and-coming younger players.”
Made sense. A small company didn’t have the same cash to throw around on promotion as the big players. Getting younger guys who didn’t already earn huge MLB salaries and sponsorship dollars was good business.
“Well, just make sure you don’t party too hard when you win,” Em said, grinning at her brother. “Going to take a lot of beauty sleep to make your ugly face photogenic.”
* * *
He was going to start a movement to get baseball played during the day again. Too many damned night games. He understood the realities of television rights and advertising dollars, but that didn’t make it any easier when he was forced to wait all through Sunday before he could go see Amelia again.
The day had dragged on forever. His impatience had driven him to summon his driver earlier than they’d arranged, and now he’d arrived way too early at Deacon Field. He’d been aiming for a time when there was the least chance of him running into any press. He’d so far steadfastly refused to speak to a single reporter. The Saints had issued a very bland statement about the fact he had been placed on the sixty-day disabled list with a hand injury and that was all the media were getting until he had a better idea what was going on. Some of them had gotten hold of the story that he’d been in a car accident, but with the other driver clearly at fault, there wasn’t much juicy scandal in that side of the story. He wasn’t going to feed the beast by offering himself up. He’d even hired a different car service to bring him today. Some of the paps and the sports media kept tabs on that sort of stuff.
But in timing his entrance, he’d forgotten one thing. Being early enough to miss the press didn’t mean he was early enough to avoid all the other players. Everyone would be inside the stadium already, going through all the pregame rituals. Psyching themselves up.
Or doing their jobs in the case of the staff who did things other than hit balls, making sure all the systems were up and running. Mal’s security team would be doing final checks, combing over the stadium one last time, checking and double-checking. Deacon had gained a reputation for having the highest level of security in the league now, and even though there was bitching each game on social media from idiots who’d had booze or worse confiscated or been refused entry or ejected from the games, the majority of the fans were unfailingly supportive.
As was he. Except right now, when it meant that there were very few places he could go inside Deacon for the next few hours where he didn’t risk someone spotting him. Which would then bring Maggie and probably Lucas and half the team coming to see him.
He’d sent his buddies on the team—hell, even the guys he wasn’t super friendly with—emails before each of the last two games wishing them good luck. And he’d spoken to a few of the guys he was good friends with—Brett Tuckerson, Sam Basara and Hector Moreno—a few times on the phone since he’d gotten home. But he hadn’t let anyone come to see him. He hadn’t wanted to mess with their preparation for the games. Or at least that’s what he’d told himself.
Now he was forced to concede that part of his reluctance might have been not wanting the guys to see him walking with a cane and sporting a hand that looked like he was wearing one of Darth Vader’s cast-off gauntlets.
He didn’t want the pity and the looks. Baseball players were a superstitious bunch. No one wanted to talk about injuries or the possibility of careers ending. And here he was, the carrion crow at the party so to speak. Unavoidable proof that shit happened.
Bad shit.
So no, he didn’t want to go to the locker rooms before the game. Didn’t want to put doubt into their minds. They were still one down. Tonight was make or break. No way was he going to jinx it for them.
Which meant he had to think of a way to get into Deacon and find somewhere to lay low. Until he could go up to the owners’ box and watch the game while he pretended not to watch Amelia. Which was going to be hard. He’d spent far too long thinking about her kisses. About the other things he wanted to do to her.
It was killing him.
Having to pretend not to know her for a second game was going to make things worse. He wasn’t used to not being able to just go after whatever he wanted. He wanted Amelia. That’s why he’d given her the key.
But no. Better not to think about the key. Or how he may have freaked her out.
Better to figure out how to keep his poker face in place for another six hours or so.
Only the knowledge that her friend was no longer staying with her and that she was all his after the game tonight was making it bearable. But bearable wasn’t the same as fun.
He wanted to kiss her again. Badly. Wanted to touch her. To take her clothes off, and take her into his bed.
He glanced at his watch. Hours to go before any of that was possible. Unless … he had a sudden thought about where he might be able to hide himself away for a few hours. And where, if he played his cards right, he might get a chance to shorten some of that time before he got to be alone with Amelia again.
Chapter Nine
Amelia stepped out of the Castros’ rental car and stared up at the stark walls of Deacon Field. No one would call it the prettiest baseball field in the world. Particularly not with its odd office tower with the slanted roof inset with glass supposed to resemble a saint’s halo. Supposed to. If you squinted. A lot.
It looked innocuous, all that concrete and glass and steel. But inside that stadium a lot of people’s hopes and dreams could be dashed tonight. Including Finn’s.
Yes, there would be another season next year. But that would be little comfort to all the Saints players and fans if they lost this game.
She glanced at Eddie, who’d been unusually quiet on the drive from Staten Island. The fact that he’d agreed to let Amelia drive instead of doing it himself spoke volumes about how nervous he was.
Mari tucked her arm through her husban
d’s. They had seats in the owners’ box again. Amelia hoped that was an indication that the Saints’ owners were pleased with Finn’s performance.
Was it ungrateful to wish she could watch the game from the stands with all the fans rather than sit in that pressure cooker of a room all over again? Because she did. The thought of being in the box again—let alone the thought that Oliver might be there—was ratcheting up her nerves by a factor of about a thousand.
She smoothed her hands down the sides of her coat. Two baseball games in a row was pushing her limit of noncasual Saints’ colors in her wardrobe. With her hair and pale skin, white wasn’t the most flattering of shades, and she usually preferred more slaty hues of blue rather than the Saints’ royal blue. But she’d unearthed a bright-blue skirt she’d bought on a whim during the summer and teamed it with a black blazer and a white top then added jewelry for gold and silver.
As she clicked the fob on the car keys to lock the doors, her phone started to vibrate in the depths of her purse. Nerves turned to a more pleasurable anticipation. There was only one person who could be calling. Em was back in Chicago and Amelia had already banned her from texting until the game started after receiving at least fifty nervous messages from Em since her flight home had landed.
It had to be Oliver. A glance at the screen confirmed her suspicions, but she wasn’t going to talk to him with Mari and Eddie as an audience. She hit the DECLINE button. “Let’s go,” she said to the Castros, and they headed for the stadium entrance. She’d barely walked twenty feet before the vibrations started again. Damn it. He wasn’t going to give up.
“Hey, I think I left my glasses in the car,” she said to the Castros. “You two go on ahead. I’ll catch you up.”
Eddie nodded briskly and set off again, his strides quick, shoulders set, like he was marching into battle. Amelia watched them for a moment then walked back to the car and opened the door in case the Castros looked back. Then she pulled out her phone just as it stopped vibrating.
Damn. Now she’d missed him
Or not.
Are you here yet? popped up in a message on her home screen.
Just arrived.
Where are you?
The guest parking lot.
What about Finn’s parents?
They’ve gone on ahead.
Good. Don’t go to the owners’ box. Go inside and find Door Six.
What’s at Door Six?
Don’t spoil my surprise, Amelia. See you soon.
* * *
She glanced at her watch. They were early. It was only just six thirty. She had time. The Castros wouldn’t miss her immediately. They’d managed to meet a few of the other parents of various players during their time in the box and after the game yesterday. So they’d have people to talk to.
Door Six was easy enough to find. As she approached it, a service door in the wall of the curving corridor opened and Oliver, wearing a cap and dark glasses, stuck his head out.
“In here,” he said, holding out a hand.
She took it and let him pull her through the doorway. Which left her standing in a stark concrete stairwell with another narrow corridor running in either direction.
“Why, Mr. Shields, you take me to all the nicest places,” she said. But she couldn’t help smiling at the sight of him as he took off his sunglasses and tucked them into a pocket of his Saints jacket. He wore dark jeans and a white shirt open at the collar and looked damned delicious despite the fact that his right hand in its splint was still supported by a sling.
“C’mon,” he said. He took her right hand with his left and started down the corridor.
“Where are we going?” she asked after they’d walked for a minute or so.
He just grinned down at her and then pulled open another door. Which opened not onto one of the access corridors that the public used around the stadium but to what looked like an office block foyer. With an elevator in front of them.
Oliver led the way to the elevator and then hit a button for the fourth floor.
When the doors slid open, they stepped out onto a seemingly deserted floor.
“Where are we?” she asked again.
“Saints’ headquarters,” he said. “Which is currently deserted because everyone is either downstairs with the team or up in the box or doing their jobs around the stadium. Which means we can have a couple of minutes in private.”
He opened a door in the hallway and tugged her through again. Into some sort of office. One that didn’t look like anyone was currently using it. The desk was bare apart from a computer monitor that wasn’t plugged in.
Oliver limped over, turned, and rested his weight on the desk, slipping off the glasses and cap. His hair, freed from the hat, curled around his face and he pushed it back impatiently as he hit her with a smile that made her knees weaken. “Why don’t you come over here and say hello, Amelia?” He slipped his right hand out of the sling while he beckoned her with his left.
That was definitely an invitation she couldn’t refuse. No matter who might be waiting for her upstairs. She went to him, let him pull her close.
For a moment they just looked at each other. She could see her reflection in his pupils, a tiny version of herself, her cheeks pink, her chest rising and falling. “Hello,” she managed.
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” he said. “But if you’re freaking out about the key, can we ignore that fact for a minute or two so I can kiss you?”
Her mouth curved upward. “I think I’m on board with that plan.”
“Good,” he said fervently and leaned in to kiss her.
She thought she’d be prepared for it this time. For the blinding rush of having his mouth on hers. But once again it took her by surprise.
The way the feel of his lips on hers made her breathless in seconds, made her clutch his shoulders and open her mouth to him. Made her step closer, wanting to be as near to him as she could be, given where they were and the chance they could still be interrupted. Oliver’s mouth opened and she met the demands of his kiss without hesitating. He tasted like all the good things she’d never known she wanted.
A taste she wasn’t sure she could get enough of.
His good hand slid down her back, cupped her butt, and pulled her closer still so that they were chest-to-chest. She wanted more of his touch. The weight of his hand burned into her through her skirt, but it wasn’t enough. Her nipples were aching and she pressed closer to him, rubbing herself against him.
Oliver groaned against her mouth. “Are you trying to kill me?”
“Kill you, no,” she said. “Lead you astray, maybe.”
That made him laugh and he pulled his head back. Then he leaned forward so they were resting forehead-to-forehead. Both of them were breathing too fast.
“As much as I would love to let you have your wicked way with me, and as much as I can’t believe I’m saying this again, I think we need to stop. Again.”
He was right. She knew he was right.
She hated that he was right.
“I thought baseball players were all meant to be easy,” she muttered, stepping away from him. If they had to stop, then she couldn’t be touching him anymore. Because touching him and not going a hell of a lot further than kisses would kill her. She straightened.
“Believe me, this is purely a timing issue. Not a lack-of-enthusiasm issue.” His head tilted as he put his hand back in the sling, still breathing deeply. “You do believe me, don’t you?” He stood. She could see he was hard even through the denim.
She grinned and nodded at his groin. “There is evidence in your favor.”
He looked down ruefully. “Trust me, right now, this doesn’t feel like it’s working in my favor.”
“Hmmm.” She tried not to laugh. Her lady parts were all protesting the abrupt stop to all that good kissing pretty loudly. It was nice to know she wasn’t suffering alone. “I think perhaps how that particular part of your anatomy feels isn’t the safest topic of conversation right now.
” She let her gaze travel down again, let her grin widen.
He groaned again. “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. But I didn’t want to wait any longer to see you.”
“No, it was a good idea. I’m in favor of your ideas. But like you said, our timing sucks. So, I’d better go. The Castros are going to think I’ve been kidnapped by rabid Red Sox fans or something.”
“And the key?”
She froze. Damn. She’d forgotten about the key. “You said I shouldn’t freak out about the key.” It was safe in the inner pocket of her purse, where she’d been sure she could feel it glowing at her all day, like a little miniature radioactive puzzle to be solved. Or about to blow her life up.
He nodded. “No freaking out. I just thought, with this”—he held up his hand—“that it might be just as easy for you to be able to let yourself in.”
It made sense. But it still her made her nervous. “Can I ask you something?”
“Yes?”
“How many other girls have you given a key to?”
“None,” he said.
And now the nerves were back. With reinforcements. “You’ve never lived with someone?”
He shook his head.
That she hadn’t expected. “Never had a serious enough relationship to want someone to have a key?” She’d never lived with anybody, but Oliver was older than her. Not to mention hot, rich, and kind of sweet. How was it he hadn’t ever gotten that serious with any one?
“There have been a couple of girls over the years. But somehow we never quite go to that point. I’m on the road so much, it always seemed easier to turn up on their doorsteps when I was home. Or get them to come see me wherever I was.” He was watching her, expression wary. “How about you?”
“Me?” She shook her head. “No. There was a guy for a few years in college. But no, I’ve never lived with anyone.”
“If it freaks you out, you can give it back,” he said.
“Do you want me to give it back?”
He shook his head. “Not unless you want to. Like I said, it’s practical. My hand is going to be out of action for a while.”
Playing Hard Page 13
