by Linda Morris
“That’s enough for now,” Reedy said. “I don’t want you going all out on your first day back.”
Cord pulled off his cap and wiped sweat from his brow, then replaced the hat. “It’s fine. I feel good. I always throw all out the afternoon before a start. It’s part of my routine.”
“Maybe so, but I think you’d better give it a rest. You haven’t put that arm through game conditions yet.”
Tom shook his head. “I don’t want to mess with my mojo. I have to be consistent. Hard throwing on the day of a start is routine for me. I always do it.”
“But you’re not always recovering from surgery, are you?” Sarah said.
That pulled his gaze to hers in a hurry. His hard stare went straight through her. “I’m recovered from surgery, not recovering. I’m completely back to normal.”
“Maybe so,” she said, although she had her doubts. No one would know if he had completely recovered until he’d pitched in real game conditions, which is what this foray into the minors was all about. No point in arguing that yet, though. “Throwing hard on the day of a start is risky for anyone, even someone who isn’t recovering—I mean recovered,” she said, correcting herself at his scowl, “from major surgery.”
“It’s normal for me.” He looked at her hard. “Who the hell are you, anyway?”
She extended her hand, ignoring the hollow feeling in her chest. Surprise, surprise. He didn’t remember her. “Sarah Dudley, VP of marketing and public relations.”
He shook her hand, his skin rough with calluses and blisters, trademarks of his profession. “Marketing? What the hell are you doing down here?” His face cleared. “Ah, Paul’s sister. That explains it.”
She raised a brow. “Excuse me?”
“Your dad owns the team. Your brother’s team president. No wonder you feel like you can come down here and tell me what do to.”
Reedy sucked in a breath.
“If I think I can tell you what to do, it’s because I can,” she said, keeping her voice level with effort. Never let them see they’ve gotten to you. Rule number two for a woman in baseball. “My department is going to spend money advertising your stint down here. I don’t want you blowing out the ligaments in your elbow again. As VP of public relations, that gives me a stake in whether you actually play while you’re in town.” She made herself look him right in the eye, ignoring the pounding of her heart. She wasn’t another batter he could stare down and fake out into a swing and a miss.
He laughed, blue eyes sparking against his tanned skin. His anger had blown away like clouds in front of a stiff breeze. “Lady, I have about a million reasons for not wanting to blow out my arm again, and your PR budget isn’t one of them. Why don’t you let me worry about my arm and you go worry about the bobbleheads you’re going to give out to the first five hundred fans tonight?”
Heat erupted in her cheeks. Oh, this guy thinks he is so big-time. Several players had found an excuse to wander within earshot. Don’t let the guys get away with disrespecting you. Rule number three for a woman in baseball.
“Look, you’ve spouted off and done what you pleased everywhere you’ve played. You may have some people so buffaloed that they’re afraid of you, but not me.”
“Last I heard, you weren’t part of the coaching staff. Why the hell should I listen to you, anyway?” He glared at her, his blue eyes turning sapphire.
“Not that you listen to them, either, from what I hear.”
His lips quirked, but before he could respond, her father’s voice from behind cut them off.
“What seems to be the problem here?”
Damn. She kept her face impassive, trying not to look like the naughty girl who’d been caught out by the principal. Heart sinking, she turned to see her father, looking cool despite the heat in a crisp white business shirt and dark dress pants. His silver hair glinted in the summer sun and dark aviator glasses shielded his eyes. She didn’t need to see his eyes to know they were hard with anger.
“I come down here to say hello to our newest addition, and I find you yelling at him, Sarah.”
Her gut clenched.
“Tom was throwing a little hot in his practice session,” she said. “He’s got a start tonight. I was concerned.”
“It’s not your place to be concerned, Sarah. You’re the VP of PR. Don’t interfere in coaching decisions. You know I don’t like you on the field during practice anyway.”
“My point is—”
“My point is I don’t want you on the field, Sarah. It’s not part of your duties. What I need you to do is to sell more tickets. We’re down seven percent from this time last year. Please return to your office.”
She pressed her lips together. She couldn’t change her father’s mind on this issue, and continuing to argue would only make him dig in harder. “Yes, Dad.” She nodded to her dad and Reedy, and finally to Tom Cord, whose face she couldn’t read. “I have some things I need to take care of.” And they weren’t bobbleheads, dammit. “Good-bye.”
She returned to the stands and headed for the outer concourse, holding her head high, although she wanted to slink away. Damn her dad. He never gave a thought to shooting her down in front of the rest of the organization. She supposed he had to go out of his way to show that he didn’t give his daughter special treatment, but it still burned. Damn Reedy. If he’d been doing his job, instead of being intimidated by the big-shot superstar, she wouldn’t have had to interfere.
Most of all, damn Tom Cord. Not for throwing hot, and not for arguing with her. What really ticked her off was that he hadn’t had an inkling who she was until she told him.
*
The old man droned on with an apology for his daughter’s behavior, but Tom was focused on watching Sarah Dudley ascend the stairs, the funniest feeling chewing at his gut. If he had to name to it, he’d call it guilt. God knows why. She’d butted in where she shouldn’t have, and her dad, who also happened to be her boss, had taken her to the woodshed for it.
And Tom had stood by and let the old man pick her apart.
The little scene between father and daughter made it clear he’d been wrong. Sarah Dudley wasn’t the spoiled pet of an indulgent father.
“She’s a frustrated baseballer. Should have been born a boy.” Walter Dudley sighed.
Tom couldn’t imagine it. Sarah might be working in a man’s game, but she was a no-doubt-about-it woman. Long dark hair hung in a shiny fall, held out of her deep brown eyes with a simple clip, and she had luscious lips that seemed to have no problem putting a man in his place, even if he had earned eighteen million last year. She had a slim figure, not too curvy on top, but as she’d walked away, he’d seen a nice ass he’d had to remind himself not to ogle as her dad watched.
After she’d introduced herself, he’d vaguely remembered her. Paul had brought him home for Christmas vacation one year. She’d been an awestruck, skinny tomboy who’d grilled him about baseball.
My, how things have changed.
“No need to apologize.” He shook off his guilt and grinned. “Lots of people have tried to straighten me out over the years, and I haven’t listened yet.” Why fix what wasn’t broke?
Walter didn’t share his humor. “Maybe, but my daughter shouldn’t be one of them. She’s in PR for a reason. Baseball is a man’s business. She wouldn’t even be in PR, except she and her brother hounded me so much, I couldn’t say no.”
Tom said nothing. He didn’t like the way the owner talked to his daughter in front of the team, or about her behind her back, but that wasn’t his business. In his years in the major leagues, he’d learned to stay out of ownership fights. Besides, he’d had plenty of trouble with his own dad. He wasn’t getting involved in anybody else’s family quarrel.
“You play your game the way you always have, son, and let me know if my daughter gives you any trouble, okay?”
He nodded. “No problem. I’d better head for the showers anyway. I’ve got a comeback to get ready for.”
Wal
ter Dudley grinned. “You’ll be back in game seven of a World Series before you know it, son.”
“Thank you, sir.” And he did know it. He’d blown out a ligament in his elbow in the seventh and deciding game of the World Series two seasons ago while pitching for the Marlins. The Marlins had lost the Series and, in the off-season, as he recovered from surgery, slashed their payroll by cutting loose highly paid veteran players.
His contract had come up for renewal while he was out, and they’d declined. “You’re thirty-one. Who knows if you’ll ever be the pitcher you were before the surgery?” his agent had explained with a shrug.
He knew, and in a couple of months, everyone would know. Tom Cord was coming back.
The White Sox had snapped him up, willing to take a chance on a bargain at only five mil a year.
He nodded to the kid who’d been catching for him and headed for the clubhouse. Time to shower, rest a little, and get his mind right before the game tonight. The clubhouse was small and dark and reeked of sweat—a far cry from the spacious, airy lounges in the big leagues—but he didn’t care.
He’d be in Plainview for two, three games max before he proved to everybody that he was better than ever. He’d worked his ass off in rehab in the year and a half since the surgery. He was ready to go. This stint in the minors, on the White Sox minor-league affiliate, checked a box. He would do what he had to do to prove he was ready to get back to the bigs.
For months, he’d been telling everybody who would listen, and a lot of people who wouldn’t, that he was ready to roll. Finally the team doctors had agreed and approved him for this rehab assignment in Hicksville, USA. He had to do it, but that didn’t mean he had to be happy about it, and he’d be damned if he’d listen to what some paper-shuffler from the front office had to say, even if he did feel bad for her.
He stretched out his throwing arm and worked it in a circle. He had been throwing pretty hot, and his arm was tight. It wasn’t sore, though, not really. No sorer than usual after a warm-up. He didn’t think.
Everything was going to be fine.
Linda Morris is a writer of contemporary romance, including Melting the Millionaire’s Heart, The Mason Dixon Line, and Nice Work If You Can Get It. She writes stories with heart and heat, along with a joke or two thrown in. Her years of Cubs fandom prove she has a soft spot for a lost cause.
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