by Mindy Klasky
The nurse shifted his pillow. “You might as well head home for tonight. He’ll probably sleep for several hours. We’ll keep an eye on him, and your private nurse can call you with regular updates.”
“Thanks,” Anna said. “I’ll take a break, but I’ll stick around for the night. I don’t want him to wake up confused.”
“Suit yourself,” the nurse said. “But just remember. You need to keep up your strength if you’re going to help him. That’s why you brought in the extra help in the first place.”
Anna agreed, because it was easier than explaining that she hadn’t brought in the extra help, that the extra help was a peace offering in a battle she’d never wanted to fight. Because she knew that’s what Zach had meant by his thoughtful action.
Even if he wouldn’t answer her phone calls. Even if they were still dug into their trenches over the freaking no-trade clause.
As if to pluck Anna’s guilt strings, Nurse Strondheim chose that moment to return from the cafeteria. Anna and the floor nurse lost no time filling her in on the details. Mrs. Strondheim smiled broadly as she took her seat in the bedside chair.
Anna smoothed the blanket to her own satisfaction before she walked down the hall to the waiting room. Sunshine streamed in the west-facing window, and she was shocked to realize it was only five o’clock. It seemed like it should be the middle of the night, like the entire world should have moved on while Gramps made his astonishing recovery.
She made her first call—to her assistant back at the office. She asked that a sign be put up in the clubhouse, letting everyone know the good news. The players had been wearing teal silicone bracelets all week, reminders of the battle against stroke and related disease. They’d be relieved to know their thoughts and prayers had led to positive results. “Wonderful news,” her assistant said. “Now make sure you get some sleep tonight.”
“I will.”
Her second call was to Gregory Small. “He’s back,” she said. “He’s exhausted, and they haven’t done anything close to a full evaluation, but he knew me, and he knew where he was.”
“Thank God,” the general manager said.
“I want to have good news to share with him, Gregory. This thing with Zach has dragged on long enough. If we can’t get Brock, then let’s figure out another solution.”
He sighed. “Let me look at some other scenarios. Maybe there’s something we haven’t considered yet, a team…” She could picture him shaking his shaved head as he trailed off. “Let me look.”
“I’ll see you in my office at ten tomorrow.”
“All right, Anna. Now make sure you get some sleep tonight.”
“Ten o’clock,” she said. But she was touched by the general manager’s caring.
Her third call was to Emily. Her best friend had been incredible for the past four days—checking in morning, noon, and night, reminding Anna to eat something, anything, always ready with an entertaining story about her senior-citizen clients, listening over and over and over again as Anna tried to find a solution to the situation with Zach.
Emily answered cautiously. “Hey.”
“It’s good news,” Anna said. She filled in her friend, sharing a little of her amazement and relief when she’d seen Gramps’ familiar blue eyes.
“Give me half an hour,” Emily said, “and I’ll be over there.”
“Thanks,” Anna said. “But it isn’t necessary. He’s sleeping now, and the private nurse is with him.”
“Let me bring you dinner at least.”
That would be some vegetarian health-food something-or-other. Anna said, “I’ll go down to the cafeteria.”
“Promise?”
“Of course.”
“Double pinky-dare promise? Because I know that tone of voice.”
Anna laughed. “Double pinky-dare promise. I’ll get something to eat.”
“Fine.” Emily still didn’t sound convinced, but she obviously knew better than to argue. “I’ll stop by at lunch tomorrow.”
“Perfect. And hey. Thanks for all your support these past few days.” Thanks for being here for Gramps. Thanks for listening to me babble about Zach. Anna didn’t elaborate.
“That’s what friends are for,” Emily said. “Now make sure you get some sleep tonight.”
“Why does everyone keep saying that?”
“Not everyone. Just the people who know you.”
Anna had to laugh at that. Her fourth call was to the beat writer for the News & Observer. The paper had played fairly—they’d given her and the team the space they’d needed when everything was up in the air, running only the shortest of updates about Marty Benson’s health. She owed it to them to deliver the full story now.
“That’s right,” she said, after relaying the facts. “But keep my name out of it tonight. You can say a source close to the team.”
The reporter confirmed the attribution, and Anna pushed the button to cut the connection. There were another dozen calls she should make—business partners who’d checked in to express concern, Gramps’ lawyer, his accountant.
But first, she should head back down the hall. Make one quick check, to make sure nothing had changed—even though she was certain Mrs. Strondheim would have come for her if anything had gone wrong. She slipped her phone into her pocket and turned away from the glorious sunshine.
And she blinked hard because she could not believe the sight in front of her light-dazzled eyes: Zach Ormond. His broad shoulders filled the doorway. He wore a dark suit, some color she couldn’t distinguish in the sunbeam, a white shirt open at the neck. The tail of a red and blue tie peeked out of his pocket.
She finally remembered the English language. “What are you doing here?”
“Mrs. Strondheim just filled me in. She told me the good news and said you were down here.”
“No. I mean, what are you doing at the hospital?” She didn’t trust herself to meet his eyes. It was too easy to remember all the other conversations they’d had. All the things they’d said to each other, lying next to each other in her bed, his bed, on her living room couch.
Instead, she focused on his right hand, opening and closing at his side. She focused on his fingers, flexing as if he desperately wanted to find a way to control everything that was wrong in the world.
The silence was too thick, too confusing. She had to fill it, so she said, “Thank you. Thank you for hiring the nurses.”
“I had to do something.”
“No,” she said. “You didn’t.”
“Fine,” he said, agreeably. “I wanted to do something. For your grandfather. For you.”
* * *
The look of confusion on her face cut him. He’d had days to plan this conversation, and he was still screwing it up. He’d spent hours and hours sitting on the bench, watching the Rockets lose, testing words inside his mind. He’d thought about calling her in the middle of the night, talking to her the way they’d talked when he’d been on the road, those early days, when everything was easy and right.
But he had to see her for what he had to say. Even if they were trapped in a public place. Even if this wasn’t a conversation for a hospital waiting room.
This was where Anna Benson was. So this was where he had to be. It was that simple. That clear.
She was stronger than he was. She was already pushing back against her confusion with another question. “Why aren’t you at the ballpark? First pitch is in half an hour.”
He gestured at his suit, at the uniform that broadcast to the world that he wasn’t getting behind the plate that night. “I’m benched.”
“You still have to report for the game.”
He shrugged. “Or what?” And then he let himself take two steps closer to her. Only two steps—even though he wanted to take more, wanted to fold his arms around her, wanted to kiss that frown from her lips forever. Instead, he forced himself to slow down, to explain. “They can’t fire me,” he said. “I quit.”
“You what?”
So that’s what Anna Benson looked like when she was surprised. He should have known. He’d caught that look on her face once before—but at the time, he’d been distracted by the silk sash of her robe.
“I’m hanging it up,” he said. “Ending my career.”
“You can’t do that,” she responded automatically.
“I already have. There’s a letter waiting on Gregory Small’s desk.”
“He didn’t say anything—”
“He’d already left for the park when I dropped it off.”
“But your contract! You don’t get paid if you quit. You’re walking away from a fortune!”
He smiled and shook his head. “How many times do I have to tell you? It isn’t about the money.” And then he did have to close the distance between them. He couldn’t stop himself. Couldn’t stay away from her for one more second. “Anna, it’s Raleigh I care about. The Rockets. I love you.”
His confession hung in the air between them. He watched her hear the words, start to argue automatically. He saw the moment she truly parsed what he had said, the moment she understood, because her eyes grew wide, and she took a step away.
He caught her right hand between both of his, pulled it close to his chest. Her fingers fluttered like a bird’s wings, and he tightened his grasp. “We can make this work, Anna.”
She shook her head. “The team. Texas. We need to make that trade.”
He wasn’t surprised that she retreated to business. That was who she was. That was what she did. That was when he’d first fallen in love with her, the night Tucker tore up his ankle, when she executed her battle plan like a general. That’s what she’d been doing even now, as he’d lingered outside the waiting room, listening to her sort out phone call after phone call, the consummate businesswoman.
“Epson talked to Texas this afternoon. They’ll take two prospects from your farm team, a pick in next year’s draft, and the balance of my salary, in exchange for Brock.”
“Why would they agree to that?”
He smiled ruefully. “It’s a hell of a lot of money. And those prospects are good. Texas doesn’t need Brock to play first; they’ve got plenty of guys who can cover there. And they can always buy another bat.”
“Not as good as Tyler Brock.”
“Epson made them understand they need someone better suited for their park, a lefty who can take advantage of that short right field.” He could see the gears spinning inside her head, the shrewd business sense measuring, calculating, analyzing everything he said. “Seriously?” he finally asked. “I bring this deal to you, and you want to tear it apart, brick by brick. You’re not even going to respond to the rest of what I said?”
* * *
The rest of what he’d said.
Zach Ormond had said he cared about Raleigh. About the Rockets.
He’d said he loved her.
The thought made her knees turn weak. She’d daydreamed about Zach for fifteen years. She’d scribbled his name inside her school notebooks. She’d watched him from the corner of her grandfather’s office, studied him from the owner’s suite, drunk her fill whenever she thought he couldn’t see, wouldn’t know.
He sank to one knee. His gaze on hers was simple, straightforward. He held her hand lightly, letting her know that she could step away, that she was always, forever, one hundred percent in control. “Anna,” he said. “Will you marry me?”
The hitch in his voice was the only hint of how much he cared about her answer. The hitch in his voice, and the way his shoulders tightened, the way he coiled tightly in his wait for her reply.
She saw the man who had guided the Rockets for the past fifteen seasons, the tireless catcher who had maximized the potential of dozens of young pitchers, who had pushed himself through hundreds of plate appearances, through thousands of games.
She saw the man who had swept her onto the dance floor at the RADD gala, the gentleman who had glided through a perfect waltz, the donor who supported a charity sadly close to her heart.
She saw the man who had met her on the business battlefield head on, the opponent who had reveled in their competition, who had done his level best to tease her into submission, who had crafted a solution more carefully, more successfully than any she had ever imagined.
She saw the man who loved her. She saw the man she loved.
“Yes,” she said, tightening her wrist to pull him to his feet. “Yes, I’ll marry you!”
He crushed her close to his chest, his arms gloriously solid and warm against her back. His lips, though, were gentle on hers, sweet. She was touched by his tenderness, by his care. She smiled as she deepened the kiss herself, as she drove for the connection that bound them together forever. He responded with a vehemence that nearly overwhelmed her, that gave her only the faintest hint of just how much he’d been holding back for her benefit.
It seemed hours later when they finally came up for air. He shifted his hands to her waist, holding her, supporting her, even though she’d never admit how much she needed that stability. She leaned back just enough to look into his eyes.
“There’s only one problem,” she said.
“What’s that?” He was smiling. He already knew she had a solution, whatever the problem was, whatever they needed to face together.
“I’m not about to walk away from the team. Gramps is going to need me in the front office more than ever. His recovery could take months.”
“I’m not asking you to leave the Rockets. I’d never ask you to do that.”
“No,” she said. “I’m asking you to come help me. Take a job in the front office.”
“Doing what?” He sounded amused, but the tightening of his fingers meant he was excited.
“How does Special Advisor sound?”
“Like it doesn’t pay very much.”
She grinned. “A very wise man once told me it isn’t about the money.”
“Sounds like someone you should listen to. Okay. What does a Special Advisor do?”
“Structure deals like the one you and Epson worked out this afternoon. Keep an eye on our prime prospects and work with the coaching staff to maximize their potential. Other duties as assigned.”
He nudged his knee between hers, setting the perfect pressure against her hips. “Other duties?” he asked.
“I’m sure we can work out something.”
He shifted his weight, just enough to let her feel his distinct enthusiasm for her plan. “I’d like to discuss that last option in substantially greater detail, Miss Benson.”
“We can get to work right away, Mr. Ormond. Starting tonight, in fact.”
She couldn’t maintain her stern demeanor as his fingertips found the reservoir of tension at the top of her spine. But that was the best thing about this new business plan. She didn’t have to.
BATTER UP!
Read on, for a sneak peek at the next Diamond Brides romance, Reaching First!
* * *
Tyler Brock’s life had turned into a country music song.
His girlfriend dumped him. His truck broke down. And now he was staring at walking papers from the only job he’d ever loved.
Brandee had called him two nights before, catching him just as he got back to the hotel after a big win against San Francisco. She wasn’t congratulating him on his two-run double in the top of the seventh. Instead, she was bitching again that he hadn’t texted her again at the end of the game. Shit. He’d told her a thousand times that he didn’t text, and that wasn’t going to change, for Brandee or anyone else.
Goodbye girlfriend.
Before the road trip, he’d parked the truck in the airport parking lot. Got back to it on Wednesday night, returning from California. The engine cranked but wouldn’t turn over. He’d taken a cab home and called the dealer the next morning. There was some recall he was supposed to have received. Probably had received, but he hadn’t done anything about it. It would take three days to get the part, and another day to install it.
Goodbye truck.<
br />
But the girl and the truck, they were nothing, compared to the job. Tyler had taken another cab that afternoon, showed up at the ballpark on time for batting practice. He never made it to the field, though. Skip called him into the office and closed the door, all solemn, like someone had died that afternoon. He told Tyler these were the hardest conversations for a manager to have.
Bullshit. The past three weeks had been full of trade talk. Two teams had bid on him, competing with each other, upping the ante back and forth. In pretty short order, Tyler had known he was leaving Texas. He just hadn’t known where he was going.
Well, he didn’t have to hold his breath any more. Raleigh had bought him, fair and square. They were paying a shitload of cash, plus three players. Tyler should be proud he’d commanded so much, but he just felt rejected. He’d lived in Texas all his life. His mother still lived in the house where he’d grown up, still had his Little League trophies in a case by the fireplace. His five brothers all lived within an hour of the stadium.
But Skip pulled him from that night’s game, with a bunch of bullshit lies about how bad he felt doing it. It’d screw everything up, if Tyler injured himself before making it to his new team. He was due on a plane first thing in the morning, heading out to Raleigh and the Rockets and the first trade of his professional career.
Girlfriend. Truck. Job. All gone. And that was why Tyler Brock was sitting in a ridiculous hipster bar just a couple blocks from the stadium, finishing his fourth beer and spoiling for a fight.
He signaled to the bartender for another as a shout went up from the far end of the bar. Tyler glanced at the television screen in time to see JT Moran whiff on what would have been ball four.
“Pussy Moran!” some guy shouted, and all his asshole friends hooted with laughter.
Tyler knew the type—college guys, getting shit-faced on fake IDs and Daddy’s trust funds. Tyler identified the leader immediately—blond, broad shoulders; he’d probably played tennis for his goddamn prep school.
As the camera showed JT stalking back to the dugout, Tennis Dude kept at it. A blind monkey wouldn’t have swung at that pitch. A Girl Scout could have hit it out of the park. The jackass didn’t even realize he couldn’t have it both ways—the same pitch couldn’t have been shit and set up on a T.
