Stopping Short: A Hot Baseball Romance

by Mindy Klasky

  “You never stop working, do you?”

  She blinked. “Not till the job is done.”

  “Well, take some time this morning. Go to the spa. Get a pedicure or a massage or something, reward yourself for a job well done.”

  “I don’t have time—”

  “Tell everyone you see that your fiancée treated you to a full day of whatever you wanted, just because he loves you so much. That should elevate my Charisma Index, right?”

  He grinned as he said the words, but they sliced open a wound he couldn’t see. Kevin had sent her to the spa whenever they’d vacationed together. He’d take the day for whatever impossible tasks he’d set for himself—high-altitude runs, or long-distance cycling, hiking to the most difficult black diamond run on the slopes…

  She’d been relaxing in a mud bath while he’d died at Tuckerman. She’d had her hair wrapped in a towel. She’d had cucumbers over her eyes the entire time her husband had tumbled down the slope into the ravine, breaking his bones, crushing his lungs…

  She dove away from the memory.

  “Thank you,” she said with a little more force than necessary, because too much time had passed and Drew was starting to look at her like she was a crazy woman. “That’s exactly what I’ll do.”

  “And tonight your perfect fiancé will take you to dinner. Coral Crest doesn’t have anything compared to the New York restaurants you’re probably used to, but we can find a place to celebrate the Index.”

  “Thank you,” she said again. He was really trying, and she appreciated that.

  She glanced at her watch. Damn! It was later than she thought. She’d have to get dressed in a hurry, or she wouldn’t have time to see Drew off before he headed to the ballpark. The previous afternoon, she’d scoped out a perfect corner by the large swimming pool. She could kiss him goodbye in front of every woman waiting to get her child into the morning Water Wings class. That should keep up their rating in the critical younger-woman quadrant.

  She threw back the sheets and headed into the steamy bathroom, already mapping out how they’d parlay their Sympathy Index success into stellar numbers for Competence and Charisma. It could be done, she knew it. She’d never failed before, not when she set her mind to a project.

  ~~~

  Screw Jessica’s Competence Index. And the horse it rode in on.

  The first bobbled ball wasn’t Drew’s fault. It left the bat with vicious backspin and took a weird bounce on the edge where the grass met the base path. But the official scorer called it an error, so that’s what it was.

  Then Drew missed the line drive at the top of the second inning, but that was because Skip had called for a monster shift—Drew was two full steps to the right of second base when the baseball came screaming past him, never giving him a chance to get his glove up. Another error.

  No one could blame him for getting drilled in the bottom of the second. The pitcher lost control with his fastball. Drew was lucky he had a chance to twist around, to catch the ball on his back. He would have broken a rib if he hadn’t turned. He waved off the trainer after he trotted to first, but he knew he’d be bruised by the end of the game.

  In fact, his back ached like a mother by the time he headed back out to the field. It wasn’t the worst he’d ever been hurt, not by a long shot. But the throbbing pain made him think about those other times, made him remember things he’d spent a lot of time and effort forgetting.

  He tried to stretch, tried to find a comfortable crouch as Philly’s eight-hole hitter struck out, and their pitcher stepped up to the plate. Drew’s muscles were tightening with every breath he took. He got his glove up in time to knock down the pitcher’s line drive, but his back seized up when he bent to scoop it to second. His toss was wild, and they blew an easy double play. Three errors in three innings. A record for him. Shit.

  Skip pinch hit for him in the third.

  Sure, Drew could argue this was all spring training. The team was trying different combinations at the plate, working on different defensive moves, testing the new guys. But the fact was he’d sucked.

  At least Jessica hadn’t been there to watch. For the past two weeks, she’d sat in the section with the other players’ wives, with their girlfriends. She’d balanced on the edge of her seat, clapping when everyone else clapped, cheering for him every time he came to the plate. And just like that, he’d gotten used to having her there. Even if she’d believed in his goddamn Backwards Run, that first night.

  He’d chosen the right day to distract her with the spa, to keep her from seeing how bad he could screw up.

  Now that he was out of the game, he could have gone back to the clubhouse. He could have taken a shower, changed into street clothes, put the goddamn game behind him. But he was a team player. He had to watch to the bitter end. He had to see the scoreboard change, hit after hit after Philadelphia hit. Run after run after goddamn Phillies run.

  In the end, the Rockets lost, eleven-zip. The numbers didn’t mean anything. They didn’t carry over to the real season. But Ordonez didn’t make any errors. And he got three hits, even if the guy never actually made it around to score.

  By the time Drew made it into the locker room, his entire back was throbbing. He winced as the needle spray of the shower set off a row of ball peen hammers beneath his skin. Back at his locker, he set his jaw before he tugged on his shirt, trying not to think about those other times.

  He seriously considered calling Jessica and telling her dinner was off. They could order in room service. Call it a night.

  But he couldn’t do that to her. She’d said it would be impossible to jump up his numbers in two weeks, but she’d done it with a day to spare. He owed her dinner—and a hell of a lot more, because she kept pulling off this bullshit engagement Sartain had thrown them into.

  He ignored the guys in the clubhouse and made his way back to the hotel. Just as she’d promised, Jessica was waiting for him beneath the portico.

  She was more dressed up than he’d seen her since that first day. No jeans or khakis, she was wearing some sort of black pants that fit like they’d been sewn just for her. Her blouse looked like it would slide against his fingers; it was green shot through with gold.

  She smiled as she slipped into the passenger seat, and he caught a whiff of something—shampoo, maybe, or some special soap. She smelled like the jasmine flowers that bloomed at night. He glanced down at her feet as she crossed her legs, and he saw she’d gotten a pedicure—her nails were painted pure red, bright against her sandals. The color shot straight to his groin, and for a moment he forgot all about the miserable day on the field.

  But then she said, “Good game?”

  “No.” Of course that wasn’t the half of it. But he wasn’t going to talk about it, not when they were supposed to be celebrating. He waited for her to buckle up her seatbelt, and then he gunned the car out of the hotel driveway.

  She tried to make small talk as he threaded his way through Coral Crest. It didn’t take him long to get to Banner’s; the seafood house was right on the beach. Despite the February chill, every table on the deck was filled. That was just as well; he wanted to hide inside. He didn’t feel like being on display. He certainly didn’t want to chat with anyone who stopped by, didn’t want to sign autographs, didn’t want to work on boosting his goddamn Charisma Index.

  He didn’t want to do anything but eat some dinner, drink some beer, and get back to the peace and quiet of his own hotel room.

  ~~~

  Dinner was the longest hour and a half of Jessica’s life.

  She tried to ask about Drew’s day while they studied the menus, but he answered with monosyllabic grunts. She tried to tell him about the spa, about how she’d really enjoyed being pampered and cared for, but she could have been talking to a wall. She tried to chat about the weather, about how she still wasn’t used to the chill at night, after the sun went down, after fog rose off the ocean, but he merely raised his hand and ordered another beer, barely remembering to
ask if she wanted a second Ketel One martini. She took the alcohol, because she didn’t have anything else to do.

  By the time the waitress handed them the short dessert menu, Jessica was ready to cash in her chips. Enough small talk. Enough banter. She barely glanced at the choices, just asked for a cup of decaf. Drew ordered a slice of key lime pie with a defiance that made her think of a two-year-old trying to put off his own inevitable bedtime.

  “So,” she said, after she’d sipped from her coffee and he’s stabbed a mammoth bite of light yellow pie. “We should talk about the Competence Index.”

  He swallowed without chewing. “Screw your Competence Index.”

  She felt the blood drain from her face. “Excuse me?”

  “I’m not your goddamn circus pony. You can’t make me dance on command.”

  She consciously told herself to stop fiddling with the spoon their helpful waitress had brought so she could sample Drew’s dessert. “I never meant to imply—”

  “I should have pushed for Rule Five when I had a chance,” he said. “No lying. Better late than never.” He shoved another massive bite of pie into his mouth.

  She chose her next words very carefully. “Did I do something to offend you?”

  “This one’s all on me, sweetheart.”

  He must have seen her surprise at the endearment. “That’s right,” he said. “Rule Three blown to hell. You and your goddamn rules aren’t going to make anything happen if I don’t hold up my end of the bargain.”

  She asked, “What happened out there today?”

  “I was a one-man disaster zone. Three errors, no hits, pulled in the third.”

  “Anyone can have a bad day—”

  “Not me. Not this year. Isn’t that the whole reason you’re here? I can’t afford to have a bad day. I can’t afford to take a single misstep, or I blow my next contract negotiation. Mark Williamson’s out the big bucks, and you and your goddamn firm don’t see the big payday you’re obviously hoping for.”

  “That’s not fair,” she said. “Our strategy is designed to benefit you.”

  “Who’s your client, babycakes?”

  She shifted uncomfortably. “If you disagree with our strategy, we can always discuss some changes.”

  “That’s perfect. You’re always flexible, aren’t you? Come down from New York ready to play the big-time consultant, fine. Sartain sets you up as my fiancée, you make the shift, fine. Boss tells you to figure out how to dump me, and you tell him sure, fine.”

  Crap. He’d heard more of her phone conversation that morning than she thought he had. That was the consequence of living side by side, of not having a spare moment to talk to Chip, to get her work done.

  Drew’s words rankled. But the real problem was that she’d misjudged him. She’d thought that he was happy with their arrangement, that he was every bit a team player as Image Masters worked to cement the best possible position for his next contract negotiation.

  She’d been living with the man for the past two weeks, and this was the first inkling she had that he was upset. She had been too directed to the goal, too attuned to the endpoint.

  She took a deep breath and folded her napkin into careful fourths. Tucking the edge under her saucer, she turned her coffee cup ninety degrees, so the handle was parallel to the edge of the table.

  Then she finally trusted herself to speak.

  “I’m sorry that we’ve misunderstood each other. You obviously had a difficult day, and the last possible thing you must have wanted was to spend more time with me. Why don’t you take some time and finish up your dessert? I’ll see you back at the room.”

  “Come on, Jessica.”

  And that was when she realized she was in too deep. Because her name on his lips, moaned in frustrated misery, pulled something inside her. It made her want to sit beside him. It made her want to slip her arms around his shoulders, to pull him close, to tell him everything was going to be all right.

  She didn’t want to be his image consultant. She wanted to be something different. Something more. Something that terrified the hell out of her.

  She pushed back her chair and picked up her black clutch purse. “Good evening,” she said, and she wanted to kick herself when she heard how badly her voice trembled.

  “Jesus Christ,” he said, wincing as he pushed back from the table.

  “Sit,” she commanded. “I’ll walk back to the hotel.”

  “It’s two and a half miles!”

  “Perfect.”

  But she didn’t think the walk was perfect. She’d been a fool to forget the lesson she’d been force-fed a year ago: Nothing would ever be perfect again.

  Her feet hurt, and she was cold, and she kept thinking about the man she’d left sitting alone at that table. It was only when she was halfway back to the hotel that she remembered she hadn’t kissed Drew that evening, hadn’t re-baited the honeypot for the reporters.

  And there, just like clockwork, was Ross Parker when she got to the lobby. He looked up from his tablet as she rubbed the goosebumps from her arms. “Trouble in paradise?” he asked, crossing to stand by her side.

  She didn’t bother pretending not to understand him. “No trouble. Drew and I had dinner out. He met up with some friends, and I decided to come back while they had another round.”

  “Do you think that’s a good idea?”

  She let her frustration freeze her words. “What exactly are you implying, Mr. Parker?”

  His sharp eyes gleamed. “Just that your fiancé has a bit of a reputation, Ms. Barnes. Before you came down here, he was known for shutting down a bar or too. For escorting a number of young ladies to all the local nightspots.”

  She thought about the lies she could tell. Despite their engagement, she and Drew had an open relationship; they were each welcome to date other people. She and Drew were playing an elaborate game, building up his reputation as a bad boy, enhancing his roguish charm in hopes of landing him a Hollywood role. She and Drew were undercover agents, both employed by MI-6 on a deadly mission that required she take immediate action against the nosy columnist.

  Yeah. Right.

  She allowed herself to take a shuddering breath, to let her fatigue and frustration slump her shoulders. Her gaze skittered away from the journalist’s steady observation. She said, “Of course I know his reputation. I also know that he’s a good man. I wouldn’t have agreed to marry him otherwise.”

  “About that engagement. I notice you don’t wear a ring.”

  That one she had an answer for. “The setting broke the day before I flew down here. I left it with my jeweler because I didn’t want to lose the stone.”

  “Up in New York?”

  “On 47th Street.” She’d walked the Diamond District often enough. It was only a few blocks from the Image Masters office.

  “I only ask because I talked to a friend at the Times. They didn’t run an announcement of your engagement.”

  “Really, Mr. Parker? You and I both know they only list a couple of hundred engagements a year.” Again, Image Masters came to her rescue. In four and a half years, she’d used the postings to bolster a few clients’ reputations. “Drew and I aren’t the country club types, and neither of us went to an exclusive university. We’re hardly the typical subjects for a Times engagement announcement. Try again.”

  He pounced. “Have you set a date for the wedding?”

  Keep it simple. If they didn’t have a date, he couldn’t follow up on a venue, on photographers and caterers and a band. “Not yet. It will be after the regular season ends, of course.”

  “Things can get tricky, timing-wise, if Marshall goes for a Caribbean League.”

  What the hell is that? It sounded as made up as Drew’s Backwards Run. “As I said, we haven’t set a date.”

  The hotel door opened, and a blast of damp air ushered in a knot of players. Jessica hoped Drew wasn’t with them—it was too soon for him to come back after meeting up with his imaginary friends.

 
She was in luck. No Drew. She tamped down her illogical disappointment.

  “Is there anything else, Mr. Parker? I was heading up to my room.”

  “I was going to ask you about that. I talked to one of the clerks at the front desk, and she said you had a room reserved in your own name before you came down here. That seems an odd way to plan a reunion with your fiancé.”

  If she ever found out which clerk had ratted her out, she’d get the girl fired. For now, though, she narrowed her eyes to angry slits. “How quickly everyone forgets a scandal! Three weeks ago, your newspaper was telling the world my fiancé was a cheater and a statutory rapist. I came down here with the intention to get the facts, to reconcile anything that needed to be reconciled. I reserved that room in case I needed a little private space. I’m sure your source told you I never slept in that room.”

  He nodded amiably, conceding the point.

  “Any further questions, Mr. Parker? Or may I go upstairs now?”

  He bent a little at the waist, offering a mock bow as he gestured toward the elevator. “Have a good evening.”

  She didn’t bother to say, “Good night.” But the instant the elevator door closed behind her, she had her phone out. It took three texts, but she got all the facts out to Drew. Even if Parker waited for him till last call, her fiancé would know about her ring, their wedding date, and her phantom extra room. Under the circumstances, it was the best she could do.

  ~~~

  The maid was rolling her cart out of the service elevator as Drew slipped his keycard into the hotel lock. He’d taken off his shoes in the hallway, hoping to keep from waking Jessica. He’d undone the buttons on his shirt so he could tug it off in silence.

  Better yet, he’d sleep in it. He probably couldn’t get a T-shirt on without grunting. Not with the bruise across his back, the pressure like a giant thumb pressing down against his spine. She hadn’t seen his scars yet, and he definitely didn’t feel like going into them now.

  He should have drunk more. A lot more. Hell. There wasn’t enough beer in Florida to make that ache go away. And he’d just have to get up to piss, if he was stupid enough to try. And that would mean moving his back… again.