Playing Hard

by Melanie Scott

  Now or never. She took a deep breath. Daniel was just her boss. Not a monster. “I told him, ‘Yes, please.’” She hit the mouse to close down her email, stood, and then nodded at her purse at the desk. “So I really need to get going. Unless there was something urgent you needed?”

  For a moment she thought he was going to say yes. To assert authority, or to mess with her, or because he did actually have something urgent for her to do. But as she held her breath, he stepped back from the door. “Sounds like a good offer. Never wise to pass one of those up.”

  What the hell did that mean? She had no idea and no time to try and figure it out. “I agree,” she said. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning.” There. At least he knew that she wasn’t planning on playing hooky for more than one night. But she wasn’t sure what he thought as she walked past him to leave. She was, however, sure that she could feel the weight of his gaze all the way down the corridor as she headed to reception and Boston.

  * * *

  Oliver watched Amelia staring down at the darkening scenery beneath them and shifted in his seat, trying to ease his ankle. The delighted smile on her face was worth the pain. And the pilot—Deena—was keeping things smooth, which was keeping the discomfort to a minimum. But climbing into the helicopter had been harder than he’d expected. With only one arm to pull himself up and in, he’d had to put more weight than he’d anticipated on his bad ankle. It had hurt. And now it was sending angry twinges up his calf every time the chopper’s movement jostled it too hard. Getting out was likely to be even crappier. But he was going to grit his teeth and bear the pain. And the lecture he was going to get from Lucas if he found out how they’d gotten to Boston. Maybe he should have used a different charter firm.

  But Charles Air was reliable and, thankfully, had had an available chopper at short notice.

  So he was going to the game.

  Going to see if his team could win their way through to the championship series. Without him.

  It was still a hard pill to swallow.

  But swallow it he would. He still had a bone to pick with Castro but for now, he didn’t want to rock the boat. And he definitely didn’t want to upset Amelia. Amelia who was the one good thing to come out of this whole screwed-up situation. Amelia who’d given herself without hesitation last night and made him feel good in a way he wasn’t sure he’d ever felt before.

  Amelia who wasn’t afraid to lay her cards on the table. Or to play all-out once she had.

  Amelia who tasted like heaven.

  He twitched his injured hand irritably. He’d never resented the bandage more than he had last night when he could have been touching her with both hands. Using just one had been a new kind of torture as well as an exercise in logistics. But it had worked. He’d gotten to watch her face as she’d come while he was buried deep inside her.

  Now he was getting to see her smile as he took her to see her baby brother. He was starting to realize that even though she called Finn a de facto little brother, the reality was that the Castros truly were part of her family. That had been clear from the way she’d lit up when they were around. He’d watched them at the two games at Deacon Field, she and Finn’s parents and Finn’s sister, watching the game, cheering wildly as a unit, sharing little reassuring looks and touches during the tense moments.

  If it hadn’t been clear from Amelia’s red hair that she wasn’t related to the three dark-haired Castros—four if you counted Finn—then it would have been easy to conclude that Em was Amelia’s sister rather than her best friend.

  She’d said her dad had left. That her mom had gotten sick. Clearly the Castros had stepped in to fill the gap. But he knew he still didn’t have the full story. She sounded proud of her mom when she talked about her, but there was worry there, too. Things obviously hadn’t been easy.

  Despite that, Amelia’s mom—damn, he needed to find out her name—had clearly done a good job. Amelia had obviously had an excellent education and been bright enough to win scholarships to college, but he wondered how much time with her daughter—and maybe her own health—her mother had had to sacrifice.

  Family issues. He knew about those. His own family was mercifully close—too close sometimes—but he’d watched Maggie and her dad over the years. They’d been a unit, but Tom Jameson had been an overly busy dad. He sometimes wondered if Maggie had developed her love of baseball as a defense mechanism, a little girl’s instinct for how to get some time with Daddy honed to a sharp focus. He didn’t doubt she loved the game now—but would she have been so baseball-crazy if her mom hadn’t died? Or if Tom had remarried while Maggie was young enough to benefit?

  Not that it mattered now. He shook himself and looked out the window. He could see the glow of skyscrapers in the distance; they were closing in on Boston itself. Not much longer.

  His stomach rolled suddenly.

  God. What if they won?

  Or what if they lost?

  He didn’t know which would be worse.

  Watching the Saints play the last few days had been hard. But knowing they were out of the running to go any further would be bad, too.

  They’d worked bloody hard all year. Dan Ellis had worked them liked dogs in spring training and hadn’t let up during the season. Oliver had been in the best shape of his life before the accident. Confident that he’d play for years yet.

  Now he wasn’t playing at all. Didn’t know if he would ever play again.

  The wound in his hand ached and itched, which was a combination he could do without. He couldn’t scratch it. Couldn’t risk popping stitches or doing something else that might affect his recovery. He had his first appointment with the hand therapist on Wednesday, and the thought of that made him almost as nervous as the thought of Fenway Park and the game that was about to happen.

  Not that he could do a damn thing about how either event worked out. He could cheer his team tonight and he could do his therapy and everything the doctors told him to do, and everything could still go to hell.

  Amelia had asked him what he wanted to do after baseball. He hadn’t been lying when he’d said he had no idea.

  Ex-players became coaches or scouts or media personalities or invested their money in businesses completely unrelated to sports.

  None of those options sounded appealing.

  Who was he without baseball?

  Judging by the last week, someone who was easily bored. Amelia was saving his sanity, that much he knew.

  He turned back to her.

  “We’re almost there,” he said over the headset. “Have you been to Boston before?”

  “Once,” she said. “I’ve never been to Fenway, though. The timing never worked out this year when you guys were playing there.”

  “It’s a very cool place.” He loved the older parks. Deacon wasn’t in the league of Fenway or Wrigley Field—it had had an ugly refurbishment in the seventies that had taken the charm out of it. It had a past, the Saints had been around a long time, but there was something about stepping onto the field at one of the truly iconic ballparks. A feeling of the history of all the guys who’d stood where he was standing. Hearing the crowd roar and smelling the unique grass-dirt-sweat-hot-dog-people-age smell of baseball. Knowing that you were about to go into battle with your closest friends. All for the love of a bat and a ball.

  Crazy.

  Much like flying here tonight was. Or the way he felt about the woman flying with him. But honestly, if that was crazy, then he was just going to be crazy. And hope it might carry him through.

  Chapter Eleven

  Because they missed the start of the game and because she had no idea where she was going at Fenway Park, she stuck close to Oliver as they made their way through the last of the stragglers arriving at the box that had been assigned to the Saints’ owners and their guests.

  When she reached the outer door, she hesitated.

  “You want to go in alone?’ Oliver said.

  “Is that weird?” she said. “Finn’s parents will
be here.”

  He shrugged. “It’s up to you.”

  “It might be better.”

  “How are you going to explain how you got here?” he asked.

  “I was kind of hoping they’d be too distracted by the game. But I can say I got a last-minute flight. Tell them I was on standby or something so I didn’t want to get their hopes up.”

  “That works,” he said. He glanced around the corridor then bent to kiss her.

  “It won’t work if you keep doing that,” she said somewhat breathlessly when he stopped.

  “Tempting,” he said. “But I believe there’s a ball game on. So you go on and I’ll wait out here a couple of minutes.”

  “Maybe you should go first. After all, it’s your team.”

  “We’ve only missed twenty minutes. And according to the wisdom of Google and ESPN, nothing drastic has happened yet. Go on in. If you can’t find me after the game, get a cab to the heliport. I’ll meet you there.

  “Don’t go without me.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, then opened the door for her.

  She tried to duck into the box discreetly but even as she scanned the crowd from the back of the room, she saw Maggie Winters’s dark head twist toward her, saw her smile a welcome, touch Alex’s arm, and whisper something in his ear before leaving her seat and coming over to say hi.

  “Amelia. Hello,” Maggie said. “Finn didn’t tell me you were coming.”

  “I wasn’t sure if I could make it,” Amelia said. “Last-minute standby came through. So I thought I’d take my chances up here.”

  “I’m sure we can squeeze you in,” Maggie said. “Mr. and Mrs. Castro are sitting down front. I’m not sure there’s a spare seat next to them at the moment. Maybe during one of the breaks.” She craned her neck, peering around the room. “Ah, look. Perfect. There’s a chair next to Raina and Sara.”

  Before Amelia could protest, Maggie was steering her over to sit with the other two owners’ wives. Sara, whom Amelia had spoken to a couple of times now, smiled at her. And Raina, after Maggie made a soft-voiced introduction, grinned too. She was tiny, but her shock of vivid red hair suggested she wasn’t a shrinking violet. Her lipstick matched her hair. As did the soles of her very nice black boots.

  Louboutins. Damn. Apparently marrying a baseball team owner came with good shoe perks.

  “Welcome to the madhouse,” Raina said when Amelia had seated herself.

  If it was a madhouse, it was a very tense one. Everyone—apart from Sara and Raina—seemed to be gazing down at the field as though sheer force of will could manufacture a win.

  “Don’t call it that,” Sara said. “You’ll scare Amelia off.”

  “Well, it is a madhouse,” Raina protested. “I run a nightclub. I know crazy when I see it. The tension’s so thick in here, you’d need a chain saw to hack through it.”

  “They’re allowed to be nervous. This is a big deal,” Sara said. She turned to Amelia. “She doesn’t like to tell anyone but Raina’s a Yankees fan at heart.”

  “You don’t go for the Saints?” Amelia said.

  Raina shrugged. “Sure, as long as they’re not playing my Yankees. Though I might have to pretend if the Saints win tonight. I’m not sure Mal’s nerves will see the funny side of his wife barracking for the opposition in a championship series.” She nodded at the big dark-haired man who sat next to Alex. “As it is I was tempted to slip Valium into his coffee earlier.”

  Sara giggled. “I found other ways to distract Lucas.”

  The two of them grinned at each other. “At least baseball season is almost over,” Sara said. “Then we get to see them a bit more.”

  Raina rolled her eyes. “You hope.” She leaned into Amelia. “If you think being a Yankees fan is bad, then Sara will shock you. She barely knew a home run from a foul ball when she met Lucas.” She eyed Amelia a moment. “Wait, who’s your team?”

  “Well, the Saints now that Finn is playing for them,” Amelia said loyally.

  “Sure,” Raina said. “But who was it before then?”

  Amelia grimaced apologetically. “I grew up in Chicago.”

  “Oh God,” Raina said. “Tell me you at least have the sense to support the White Sox.”

  “Um, go Cubs?” Amelia managed.

  Raina patted her arm sympathetically. “Ouch. That’s almost as bad as being a Saints fan. No one will hold that against you. Mock you mercilessly, maybe, but not hold it against you.” She grinned again and picked up the glass by her hand. She took a sip then glanced up at the nearest TV screen. “God, I hate watching games from up here.”

  “She’d rather be down on the field with her cheerleaders,” Sara said.

  “Dance troupe,” Raina corrected. “And no, actually I just like being down in the bleachers. But that isn’t the done thing.” She wrinkled her nose. “You lose all the atmosphere up here.”

  “It seems pretty nice to me,” Amelia said as a suit-clad waiter appeared and offered her a tray with a glass of champagne.

  “The booze is better, can’t argue with that.” Raina said. Then she turned and smiled over Amelia’s shoulder. “Oh look. Oliver’s here.”

  “He is?” Sara twisted. “When did he get here?”

  Raina’s green eyes moved back to Amelia’s face. “You can ask him later,” she said. “No reason any of us would know.” One perfectly groomed eyebrow arched slightly at Amelia. She willed herself not to blush.

  Damn it. She and Oliver had been playing it very cool. But had Maggie jumped to a conclusion about them? Worse, had she shared her suspicions with Raina and Sara?

  “If he came in a chopper, Lucas is going to be upset,” Sara said. “Not the easiest things to climb into with a bad ankle and one hand. He can’t afford another injury.”

  Amelia almost winced, avoiding it only with an effort. She didn’t turn to look at Oliver like Raina and Sara were, pretending instead to be fascinated by the action on the TV screen. Here at the very back of the box, it offered a better view than the glass at the front.

  “I’m sure Oliver can take care of himself,” Raina said, “He’s a smart guy. Knows what he wants.”

  Amelia ignored that comment. Which she was pretty sure was directed at her. Fortunately before Raina could dig any deeper, there was a roar from the crowd and all three of them turned back to see what was happening on the screen. Which showed a Red Sox player scooting around second base and sprinting for third. The camera flashed on Finn’s scowling face for a second before switching to the Saints’ outfield, scrambling for the ball. But by the time they got it together, the Sox batter was home.

  “Fuck,” Raina said savagely. She leaned forward. “C’mon, guys.”

  “Not quite as unconcerned as she pretends,” Sara said. But she, too, had suddenly focused on the game. Amelia looked and saw Eddie and Mari holding hands as they stared out at the field. Mari’s knuckles were white. Amelia pictured Finn’s face—full of fury—again and winced.

  “C’mon, little brother,” she said under her breath. “Do not mess this up.”

  * * *

  By the end of the sixth inning, Oliver was starting to wish that he hadn’t taken such a strong stance against narcotics. Because a painkiller or two might dull the pain of watching this game. The Saints were fighting hard but they were starting to crack. Finn had already fumbled a couple of easy catches, letting Sox players slide to safety under his nose. He wasn’t the only one screwing up, but his mistakes were the hardest to watch. Because it should be Oliver himself out there, stopping those Sox bastards in their tracks not letting them score runs. Helping his team goddamned win.

  His left hand curled into a fist and he forced himself to relax it for what had to be the twentieth time since he’d arrived. Between ignoring Amelia and wishing he could ignore the game itself, he was starting to wish he could drink something stronger than the soda he was sticking to.

  Surely one drink couldn’t hurt? He wasn’t taking anything that shouldn’t be m
ixed with alcohol anymore. Everyone else in the goddamned room had a drink in their hands. Even Amelia, who’d moved from sitting next to Raina and Sara—which had made him distinctly nervous, because every time he’d dared to casually glance in that direction he’d found himself staring into Raina’s amused green eyes.

  Amused Raina never boded well.

  He’d just about decided to grab the next waiter who passed when he noticed Alex and Lucas making their way through the crowd to the back of the box. Mal was two steps behind them.

  All three of them were stony-faced. Alex stopped when he reached Oliver.

  “Problem?” Ollie asked.

  “Can we talk to you outside?”

  “Sure.” Half the people in the room were looking at the four of them with various degrees of concern on their faces. Wondering if there was more bad news about to unfold. Better to take whatever this was outside. He waved the three of them ahead of him and then followed at his slower pace, ankle throbbing.

  When he closed the door to the box and turned to face them, Lucas was looking at him with his doctor face on.

  Damn it. He’d been hoping to avoid Lucas.

  “Ankle bothering you?” Lucas asked.

  “No more than it has been,” Oliver lied.

  “Sara told me you chartered a chopper. Not your smartest choice for transportation right now.”

  Damn. Ratted out. He should have figured Sara would tell Lucas. But he’d assumed she was safe in Boston already when he’d made his last-minute booking and wouldn’t find out until after the game. “I think you have bigger things to worry about just now than my injuries.”

  Lucas scowled. “If you weren’t injured then you’d be out there and I might have less to worry about.”

  Oliver bristled. “Thanks for the reminder. Can I remind you that I’m not actually the one who screwed up my hand? That it’s actually the guy who’s down there on the field currently forgetting how to catch a damned baseball at first base who caused all this?”

  Alex held up a hand. “I think the Hummer driver also had something to do with it.”

  “I was only in the path of the fucking Hummer driver because of Castro.” Oliver stopped. Paused. Took a breath. “Sorry.”