by Laura Simcox
“His name is Buddy.”
“Buddy? A lot of men in the South are named Buddy. Buddy who?” But as he asked the question, Brett had a horrible thought. “Does he own a chain of stores?”
“Yeah.”
No. Brett shook his head. He didn’t want it to be true, but he had to know if the person who he shared DNA with was a joke. A buffoon. “Furniture stores?” he choked out.
“Yes.”
He swallowed. “Please tell me this is some kind of bad dream. Please tell me Buddy Mambo isn’t my—” He stopped, not willing to say the word “father.”
She nodded. “He’s a good person, Brett.” Then, when Brett wouldn’t answer, she took his hand again. “Will you do me a favor and tell Joe?”
“Tell Joe? You mean Joe Junior? JJ? That Joe?” Brett shook his head. “I thought you were the strongest woman I know, but in the last twenty minutes, you’ve completely shattered that idea. And now you want me to tell my brother for you?” He pointed at his mom. “Coward.”
Margot didn’t answer, so Brett yanked his keys from his pocket, strode to the Jeep, and climbed in. When he started the engine and did a quick U-turn in front of his mom’s miserable house, he wasn’t sure he’d ever come back.
He wasn’t sure of anything anymore.
His past, which he’d already despised, had just turned into a nightmare. And eventually it would come out. But maybe he’d be gone by then. Maybe if he pulled himself together, didn’t think about it, and climbed back into the big league by sheer force of will, he could pretend that it wasn’t true. But wouldn’t that make him just like his mom? A coward, running from the pain in his life. And Joe? What would Joe do when he found out? Brett groaned. His brother proudly carried the name of a man who’d never existed. Millions of fans around the world referred to him as Joe Junior—and it was a lie. Everything was a fucking lie.
The only thing that kept Brett from slamming on the brakes and then slamming his fists into the steering wheel was the thought of Georgia—the thought that she considered him worthy enough to spend time with. But as much as he was drawn to her—drawn to her steadiness and her strength—she could turn out to be the riskiest person in his life. When he was around her, baseball took a backseat, and that wasn’t acceptable. He couldn’t risk his entire future just because she made him feel good, could he?
As his mom’s neighborhood disappeared in the rearview mirror, he shook his head. No. The best thing to do about Georgia was to truly get to know her—find out if he could trust her—but that was dangerous in and of itself since he’d had a crush on her for so long that it was hard to separate fantasy from reality. But he had to try.
She was already suspicious because he refused to talk about his childhood. And now, after his mom’s bombshell, he refused to follow in Margot’s footsteps and make something up. The only thing he could do was give Georgia what she needed for her story and make her think it was what she wanted.
It was a good, good thing that the team was going on the road. It would give him time to untangle everything in his head—separate the good from the huge amount of bad. He’d play hard, play smart, and, when he came back to Memphis, he’d do everything he could to be the winner he was born to be.
Chapter Seven
A FEW DAYS later, after several mornings of on-camera boot camp courtesy of Dave and Simone, Georgia sat in her cubicle and checked her makeup for her next broadcast. But today, she wasn’t going to be sitting behind the news desk for thirty-second segments in which she reported about game-day giveaways and Redbirds trivia. Today she was going to be a field reporter.
And she was scared shitless.
It didn’t help her nerves that Brett hadn’t shown up this morning for his scheduled interview. It helped even less that he hadn’t answered his phone. And of course she’d been prepared. She’d watched footage from several interviews with major league players, and, with Jake’s help, she’d come up with a list of her own questions, tailored for a rising baseball star.
What had Brett given her in return? The man had kissed her mindless, promised to come see her, and then left her hanging. The only logical conclusion was that he’d forgotten all about her during the Redbirds’ stint in Omaha—and that assumption didn’t do anything for her self-esteem.
“Athlete. Bad. Selfish,” she muttered to herself. “No good for you. You know that already,” she continued and eyed the tidy surface of the desk, so tempted to lay her forehead on it and wallow for a few minutes, which would only result in beating herself up over something she couldn’t control. Completely predictable overachiever behavior, right? Yep. That was her. Predictable—which meant boring.
That was what Simone had said yesterday after critiquing Georgia’s on-air segment about Rockey the Redbird. “It’s a mascot. A dude in a furry red bird costume. You don’t have to report like it’s breaking news on an earthquake or something,” Then she’d relented a bit. “The writing was good, though. Very tight. Nice job.” Then she’d walked away, her shiny patent leather heels gleaming in the bright studio lights.
Georgia had felt helpless, even though she knew Simone was right. It all came down to being natural—but Georgia’s natural meant intense. It was how she was wired. With a groan, she gave in and lowered her forehead to the desk.
Her phone rang.
“Finally,” she murmured, trying to ignore the surge of excitement in her belly. She grabbed the phone and looked at the screen, expecting to see Brett on the caller ID display. But it was Jake, who apparently had perfect timing—not. Georgia glanced at her watch. She was supposed to be leaving for the ball field in five minutes. But talking to Jake, who’d already taught her a lot about baseball and dealing with players would be a hell of a lot better than sitting here banging her head against the desk. She answered.
“Hey there, Jake.”
“Hi, Georgia. How are you feeling about baseball today?”
“Great,” she said, not able to keep the sarcasm out of her voice.
“Uh-oh. I thought you told me that you’d developed respect for the game.”
“Oh, I have,” she said hastily. “You really opened my eyes, and I appreciate it. The history of the game is especially fascinating. I’m just . . .”
“Did I catch you at a bad time?”
“No,” she lied. After all, she’d taken the call. “But I’m about to go do those live interviews I told you about.” She let out a nervous laugh.
“Yeah, that’s why I’m calling—to offer last-minute advice if you want any.”
“Oh, I’m prepared. Just scared. Thanks for the offer, though.”
He chuckled. “I’m a coach at heart. How’d the interview with Knox go this morning?”
“He didn’t show.” She paused. “Didn’t call.”
Jake sighed. “You can go to the GM and force the issue.”
“What—tell on Brett? I’m pretty sure that would backfire. Plus . . . I don’t know where I stand with him, anyway.”
“Okay,” Jake said slowly. “Rumor has it—and by rumor, I mean YouTube comments and the like—that you’re involved with him.”
“I know. But I don’t know, at the same time.” Georgia closed her eyes. “Everyone at work has been giving me the side-eye whenever Brett’s name is mentioned. My boss keeps asking if I’m dating him, and I’ve denied it.”
“I guess getting romantically involved with your interview subject isn’t too cool?”
“That would be a no,” she muttered.
“Hmm. Kind of like a Secret Service agent falling for his protectee?”
Georgia rolled her eyes. “Okay, Jake—point taken. But you and Carolina were meant for each other.”
“Speaking of, she’s nagging me right now, so I’ve got to go. Listen, Georgia, I know you’ll figure everything out. Just trust yourself.”
“Thanks. And thanks for listening to me bitch. You’re a good guy.”
Jake chuckled. “That’s the rumor. See ya.”
Georgi
a clicked her phone off, but before she could lower her head back to the desk, Joan’s voice interrupted her. “Georgia, you need to leave.”
“I’m just writing something down.” She grabbed a pen. “Just another minute.” She rolled her office chair back and smiled at Joan, who stood in the doorway.
“Write it on the way. Your agents are waiting for you, and this is very important. WHAP has an exclusive on these pregame interviews. It’s you—and only you—covering them.”
“I know.” Georgia slowly got up and shouldered her bag before leaving the cubicle.
“Do you have your press pass?” Joan asked as she marched toward the back door of the news station.
“Yes,” Georgia answered, a bit breathlessly. She smoothed down the front of her not-very-attractive gray WHAP polo shirt. “Shouldn’t we give Brett another few minutes to show up before I head to the ballpark?”
The minute the words left her mouth, she wished them back. Damn. If she wasn’t infatuated with him, why would she have asked that? Joan was probably wondering the same thing, right? Georgia glanced up at her. Sure enough, Joan’s eyebrows were raised.
“We’re on a tight timetable, Georgia. Just reschedule the interview.”
“I’d planned to write it up later today so that it can air tomorrow.” Shut. Up. Georgia! “I mean—”
Joan let out an exasperated sigh. “No. We need to promo the hell out of that for at least three days ahead of time. Besides, you can’t miss today’s spot. You know we ran teasers for those yesterday on the noon, five, and ten broadcasts.”
“I’m well aware. My upcoming, very routine pregame interviews of ball players were widely publicized,” Georgia couldn’t help commenting.
“Don’t think I can’t read between the lines, Georgia,” Joan said dryly. “You have to look at things from a business perspective. If WHAP didn’t leverage your fame, we would look like fools, especially during sweeps.”
Sweeps. Ugh. Georgia was so sick of hearing about the almighty sweeps. It was on the tip of her tongue to point out that she was the only one who was going to look like a fool, thrown to the wolves, doing live, off-the-cuff coverage before she’d been trained properly, but she kept her mouth shut.
It wasn’t her job to make judgment calls—at least not until she got to the ballpark. The minute she was handed the microphone, though, it would be on—Fulton style. Overachiever style. If she couldn’t be amazing in front of the camera, she’d at least have the satisfaction of being herself. The only problem was—she hadn’t completely been herself since the day she’d met Brett.
“Okay, Joan. I’ll be looking forward to your critique when I get back.”
Not really.
“Good luck.” Joan gave a sharp nod to Courtney, who was waiting near the door. Courtney nodded back but not as severely. In fact, she looked almost giddy, wearing a Redbirds cap and a huge grin.
“Ready to get your baseball on?”
“Sure.” With a tight smile, Georgia walked with her agent toward the SUV. When she was sure Joan was out of earshot, she let out a long-suffering sigh. “I’m about to freak out.”
Courtney laughed. “Need I remind you that a lot of women would give their big toe to be in your shoes?”
“What—most women would enjoy being exploited?”
“No, girl. Interviewing those sexy baseball players.” Courtney did a little dance. “All I can say is that today, I love my job.”
Georgia gave her a light shove. “I know, I know. The sexy factor is a perk, but I’m really nervous. This is going to be a lot different from reading copy from a teleprompter about T-shirt cannons, pillow fight night, and jumbo cup day.”
“Hey, I can’t wait for jumbo cup day, and besides, you’ve been reading copy like a champ for five days straight. Those stories were fun! Just be yourself.”
Georgia raised an eyebrow. “Be myself? So . . . you must be assuming that I’ll be giving the players a dissertation on the history of minor league baseball in the South?”
“Could you?”
“Of course.”
“Will you?” Courtney gave her a dubious look.
“Wait and see.”
With a loud laugh, Courtney opened the back door and ushered Georgia in. “You’ll be fine. And Ernie will be right behind you, blending in with the players.”
For Georgia’s safety, the interviews were going to be held in the clubhouse instead of on the field. She was grateful for the intimate setting, and Courtney was right—the little fluff pieces she’d reported had been fun to write, a lot more fun than she’d anticipated. Maybe she would knock it out of the park today. Ha.
Plus, in about fifteen minutes she’d see Brett.
Despite the fact that she was mad at him, a smile crept across her face. She wasn’t mad at how handsome he was. His handsomeness wasn’t at fault. Her reaction to it was. And that was the root of the problem, wasn’t it? Yes. Partly. The rest of her problem lay with his amazing personality. She’d expected him to be as dull as a box of hair, and he wasn’t.
He was sharp, witty, sweet—and when he called her sugar in that deep voice of his, it was all she could do not to sigh out loud. And his kisses? She couldn’t think about those right now because she needed to not be hyperventilating when she walked through the door of the clubhouse. But he hadn’t shown up for her. There was no changing that fact.
Her stomach was in knots when the SUV pulled up to the stadium, and, after she was whisked inside, followed by an entourage of agents and camera crew, Georgia had to take several deep breaths. Courtney appeared at her elbow. “Hit it and don’t quit it,” she advised.
“You’re sure you’re talking about baseball?” Georgia asked.
“Don’t get my imagination started,” Courtney replied. She smiled, but a second later, her trained gaze was assessing the concrete hallway, and she was completely in security mode. Adjusting her earpiece, she gestured Georgia forward. “They’re ready for you, Cherry Blossom.”
Reaching into her bag for her own slightly different earpiece, Georgia fastened it on and listened to the last of the morning broadcast as she walked. Simone and Dave spoke in smooth, clipped tones about power outages caused by the recent heat wave. By the time they were finished and had gone to commercial, Courtney was pulling open the outer door of the clubhouse. The sound inside, which had been a dull roar, came to a halt as Georgia walked in.
“Hi, guys,” she said.
“Hi, Georgia,” the team answered in unison. Already in uniform, they stood in a group in the middle of the room. Booker stepped forward. “I’m first.”
She smiled at him. “Sure. Just give my crew a minute to get situated.”
“Oh, right.” Booker stepped back and ran a hand through his hair. He glanced behind him, and Georgia followed his gaze. Brett sat near the back of the room on a bench between a set of lockers. He looked up briefly and then away. All the same, a thrill shot through her middle, even as she cursed herself for it. He ought to be walking straight over to explain why he’d ditched her this morning, not playing it cool.
When the station producer’s voice spoke in her ear again, though, she snapped to attention. Now was not the time to dwell on hurt feelings. She looked at Wagner, her camera operator, who gave her an encouraging smile. The field producer held up an index finger. One minute. Oh God. One minute until she had to wing it. Well—not wing it completely—she did have a list of questions in her hand, but she couldn’t control the answers she was going to get. And she couldn’t control the guys, who had gone back to chatting. Loudly.
“Booker?” She motioned him forward. “You’ve done this many times, right?”
He gave her a shit-eating grin. “Course. Just follow my lead.”
Follow his lead? “Uh . . .” She glanced at Wagner with wide eyes and pointed to the players. “Are they going to be quiet?”
To her dismay, the scrawny man just shrugged. “Talk over them if you have to,” he suggested. Lovely. She turned to Booker.
“I’m going to be asking you some questions.”
“I know.” He slouched against the wall. The field producer signaled thirty seconds. Georgia’s stomach fluttered again. Booker needed to pay attention, for God’s sake.
“You ready?” she asked him.
“Uh-huh.” He straightened up, but, with only fifteen seconds to go, he put his fingers between his lips and gave a sharp whistle. When the room went quiet again, he grinned at his teammates. “Hey, dumbasses!” What do you call a baseball player with four balls?” The guys stared at him in anticipation.
“What?” Juan asked.
“Hell if I know, but he’s happy just to be able to walk.” Booker turned his grin on Georgia, and the room erupted in laughter.
After a beat, she gave in and chuckled, envisioning a wide-eyed guy duck-walking from home plate to first base. It was stupid. Juvenile. And totally hilarious. Her giggles turned into a belly laugh just as the calm voice in her ear announced, “We’re live.”
Oh shit. Georgia turned to the camera and cleared her throat. “Good afternoon, Memphis. This is Georgia Fulton reporting lively—err—live from the lively Redbirds clubhouse. I hope you’re ready to hear about baseball because I’m ready for a great discussion with these guys today.”
As she paused to take a breath, she caught movement out of the corner of her eye and glanced over to find Brett three feet away, staring at her. He gave her a wink.
Anxiety shot straight through her. “First on my list is veteran pitcher Booker Graham. Booker, what’s your opinion about the strain travel takes on the family life of ball players?” She held the microphone out.
Booker’s eyes widened. “Uh . . . it’s not great, I guess?”
“Could you elaborate?”
“Nope. I’m not married.” He gave a thumbs-up to the camera, and the players laughed again. Georgia laughed along with them because she had to, but the sound coming out of her mouth was an unnatural, robotic staccato. Not good.
“Thanks, Booker,” she said quickly. “Next we’ll talk to Drew Pennington. Drew, could you tell me about the pressure of being the youngest player on arguably one of the most valuable triple-A clubs in the United States?”
