by V. K. Sykes
Unfortunately for the rookie pitcher, success obviously went to his head and he made the fatal mistake of trying another fastball. Jake recognized the pitch the split-second it left the kid’s hand, tracking the ball as it came straight over the heart of the plate. His reflexes took over and he rotated, whipping his arms through the strike zone. The ball shot off the bat, and the line drive was still rising when it cleared the fence in left field.
Home freaking run.
Jake rounded the bases at a leisurely trot, basking in the cheers from the packed stadium. God, hitting homers never got old.
His three-run blast gave the IronPigs a 5-4 lead that held up through the ninth for the win. The afterglow of a game like that never failed to amaze him, even after all these years. He still heard the cheers from the fans and his teammates long after he’d showered, dressed, and returned to his modest hotel room. As far as he was concerned, tonight’s game should have sealed the deal. If Dembinski didn’t call him now, Jake didn’t know what he could do to convince the general manager he was still in the game.
Two hours later, he finally gave up waiting for his phone to ring and tossed the novel he was trying to read onto his bedside table. Dembinski, the bastard, was obviously ignoring him so he might as well call it a night.
When the hotel phone shrieked in his ear, it yanked him out of a deep sleep. Jake glanced blearily at the clock. Nearly three. A stab of panic shot through him, pulling him upright. Was someone back home in Minnesota sick, or worse? His dad had been struggling with poor health on and off for months.
He lunged for the phone. “Hello?”
“Jake?”
The voice was familiar, and not a family member. “Ralph?”
“Yeah, it’s me,” said Ralph Melillo, the Patriots’ assistant general manager.
Jake relaxed, easing back onto the cheap hotel pillows. “Jesus. You scared the crap out of me.”
“Sorry, but I had no choice. José got hurt tonight in San Diego. Broke his arm diving into the seats for a foul ball. Rotten luck, but kind of a stupid move, if you ask me. Anyway, Dave wants you on a plane first thing in the morning. You’ll join the team here and play right field tomorrow night.”
Jake took a moment to shake the cobwebs out of his sleep-addled brain, just to make sure he’d heard right. Great freaking news, but tinged with regret. José Rodriguez was a friend, and it sounded like the big Venezuelan would be out for months, if not the rest of the season. “I’m happy to come out, Ralph,” he said, “but it sucks about getting the call-up because of José getting banged up.”
“We don’t know yet how long he’ll be out,” Melillo replied in a clipped voice. “I heard the x-rays didn’t look too good, but we won’t know more until after he sees the orthopedic guy tomorrow. Anyway, you have to get an early flight this morning to get here on time, so I’d better let you go. Do you want my assistant to book your ticket? She’s used to getting calls in the middle of the night.”
“No thanks. I can handle it. What hotel are you guys at?”
“Same as always,” Melillo said. “The Omni.”
“Great. See you tomorrow afternoon.”
Jake hung up and headed straight to the shower, adrenaline and excitement coursing through his veins. There was no point in trying to sleep. He’d shower, throw his suitcase together, and jump into his Tahoe for the drive down the turnpike to Philadelphia International. He’d catch the first flight out that morning, and should be in San Diego in time to check in to the hotel and maybe get a bit of rest before having to start his first game for the Patriots in almost twenty long months.
And it was about damn time.
* * *
Jake’s flight to San Diego arrived a few minutes early. He’d hoped to sleep a few hours on the way, but the combination of his adrenaline buzz and the overpowering perfume of his elderly seatmate had made that impossible. Fortunately, by catching the crack-of-dawn flight, it left him some needed down time before he had to get over to Petco Park. After checking-in at the Omni, he was on his way to the elevators when he spotted Robbie Benton heading across the lobby. Jake dropped his bag and grabbed his much smaller teammate in a bear hug.
Robbie whooped a greeting and pounded him on the back. “I heard at breakfast they called you up to replace José. I can’t believe you made it this fast from freakin’ Allentown, though. You buy a private jet? You’re rich enough, you asshole.”
Robbie had always liked to rattle Jake’s chain, ever since they first met in Single A ball. Jake had been a talented but raw nineteen year-old, while Robbie was already in his fourth year in the low minors. While Jake had shot through the Patriots’ minor league system at lightning speed, it had taken Robbie another three years to make it to Philadelphia. When he finally did, though, he became a solid, slick-fielding shortstop who nailed down the starting job for the next five years. Robbie couldn’t hit much more than his weight, but his glove and his speed on the bases had made up for his lack of production at the plate.
Unfortunately, an aging body inevitably made for a slower runner and a weaker fielder, so last season the Patriots had called up a top prospect from the minors to replace Robbie as the starting shortstop. Thrust into the far less glamorous role of utility infielder, backing up at three positions, Robbie had worked hard to stay on as a valuable member of the team. And Jake did everything he could to make sure his pal knew he was still important to the team, even if it was stretching the truth.
Even so, he caught a trace of resentment in Robbie’s feeble joke about the private jet. While Jake had enjoyed star status and big contracts for a number of years, Robbie had toiled for a lot less money. Now, under a new contract, his friend was playing for a bargain-basement salary by major league baseball standards. It sucked, but everyone who played knew the score.
“No, Rob,” he said with a grimace. “I took the no-frills flight in coach, but I did get an organic granola bar for breakfast. You love to travel first class, but you know I don’t give a damn about that kind of thing.” He finished with a grin so Robbie would know he was just yanking his chain back. But the truth was that Jake really didn’t give a shit about most of the perks that came with his life. Never had and hoped he never would.
“Well, excuse me for trying to make a joke,” Robbie retorted. “You’ll never give up that aw-shucks, straight from the Minnesota dairy farm bullshit, will you?”
Robbie enjoyed bringing up Jake’s teen years in Minnesota, where he’d worked for several summers on a dairy farm a few miles outside Mankato, his hometown. With his tall physique, blond hair, fair complexion and big mitts, Jake had to admit he fit the stereotype of the mid-western farmer. But he’d loved those summers on the farm, and he never tried to hide that.
“Rob, I’d love to stand around here all afternoon looking down at the top of your head,” he joked to his pint-sized teammate, “but I’d better go up and get some rest so I can help you losers win tonight.” He slung his duffel bag back over his shoulder and gave his friend an affectionate little punch on the shoulder.
Robbie snorted in derision, although Jake detected some relief in his friend’s expression.
“Right, like we really need you,” Robbie said. “But, okay. Go rest up, and then get your ass across the street in good time. Maybe I’ll see you in the weight room if you get finished with your beauty sleep early.”
“I’ll be there.” Jake strode to the elevators, feeling a brief spike of energy. It was great to be back with the team. And Robbie was the best—a true friend, despite all the ribbing, and the kind of teammate you wanted covering your back. Though Robbie’s talent was slowly slipping away, he still had a big heart and an unflagging determination to win.
After Jake unpacked his bag and took a quick shower, the exhaustion he’d been fending off for hours closed in. Not that he was complaining. He was in San Diego, he was back in the majors, and he was going to be starting in the outfield tonight. Man, it felt so damn good to be back.
* * *
<
br /> An insistent knock pulled him from a deep sleep. Glancing at the digital readout on the clock radio beside the bed, he was shocked to see it was already nearly five o’clock. He groaned.
Dummy. Forgot to ask for a wake up call.
He should have already been at the clubhouse, getting his gear arranged and working out before the scheduled batting practice at five-thirty. Jumping up, he strode to the door and threw it open to find a young man in a Patriots warm-up jacket. Obviously one of the equipment guys had been sent over to find him.
After sending the kid on his way with the message that he’d be right over, Jake hustled to get ready.
“What a way to start your first day back in the bigs, asshole,” he muttered as he laced up his shoes. He grabbed his windbreaker and was out the room, bypassing the elevator to take the stairs six floors down to the street entrance. From there, it was a quick jog to the players’ entrance to the stadium.
Inside the visiting team’s clubhouse, the Patriots players, coaches, and staff greeted him with handshakes, bear hugs, and a ton of good-natured verbal jabs. He’d always been blessed with the respect of the other players, something he could truly appreciate after his long hiatus. Jake had worked hard to be a team leader in the years before the injury, and he had every intention of doing his best to resume that role. Yeah, it sounded kind of arrogant, but his productive bat and his experienced leadership would be important—possibly critical—to the Patriots’ hopes for a pennant this season. He knew he’d been given a gift—another chance to lead the team to victory—and he had no intention of wasting it on false modesty.
Hanging in his locker was a clean, crisp new uniform with his long-time number, lucky twenty-one. He changed in record time and headed right out onto the field to loosen up before batting practice. After about ten minutes of warm ups, Jake jogged over to the batting cage to wait for his turn. As he leaned on his bat, watching other guys take their cuts, he got a prickling sensation on the back of his neck, like someone was eyeballing him. He was used to that, but this felt different and slightly unnerving.
A moment later he heard a voice as smooth as a shot of the finest single malt calling out from behind him. “Hey, Jake. Got a minute for me?”
Unable to resist those rich amber tones, Jake turned and looked back at the rail behind first base. A woman stood there, a woman so freaking gorgeous the sight of her caught up him up short, as if he had run nose-first into a sheet of Plexiglas.
The eyes got him first—eyes of startling, vivid blue that were made even more striking by her flawless, lightly tanned complexion. Her mouth was pink and full, her smile an intriguing combination of sensuality and, weirdly enough, innocence. She was short, not much more than five-three, but she held herself with a slender, athletic strength that took nothing away from her bombshell looks.
She stood just above the barrier, her knee-high leather boot propped casually up on a concrete step. That pose hiked her short skirt up, affording him an unimpeded view of her shapely legs. Her black stockings emphasized the unconscious sensuality of her stance, and a slow crawl of lust began to build in his muscles. Letting his gaze drift upward to the sweet curve of her hips and her slender waist, he took in the gently swelling breasts outlined in a trim-fitting black jacket.
Finally, he returned to her striking face and those magnetic blue eyes, framed by glossy, short black hair. And what he liked even better was her aura of quiet confidence. No simpering smiles, no overtly flirtatious glances or wriggling her hot body in an effort to attract him. She just waited for him to answer—cool, collected, and totally beautiful.
Oh, yeah, I’ve got a minute for you, sweetheart. No worries.
Jake did his best to look nonchalant as he crossed the dirt path and approached her, but the truth was that he wanted to hustle over like he was trying to stretch a single into a double. As he closed in, the woman’s engaging smile made him break into a grin himself. She held out a small, slender hand for him to shake, and he took it firmly but as gently as he could. But he needn’t have been concerned about crushing her hand. The pressure of her grip surprised him.
“I’m Maddie Leclair,” she said in that amazing voice of hers. “I’ve been covering the Patriots for the Philadelphia Post since the beginning of the year.”
Jake knew who she was as soon as he heard her name. He was not one of those athletes who ignored the sports press. In fact, he liked to read all the coverage he could, from the daily papers to the magazines and the Internet sites. It was just something he’d always done, because he wanted to know what was going on—what people were saying and thinking about the game.
“It’s a pleasure, Maddie.” He slowly released her hand, letting his fingers graze her smooth skin as he pulled back. “I’ve read your stories and columns. But that grainy little black-and-white photo on top of your column doesn’t even much look like you, let alone do you justice.”
What he was really wanted to say was that no picture on earth could possibly capture her luscious magnetism. He’d only just met her and she was exerting a pull stronger than a riptide.
She sighed dramatically, even though her eyes laughed at him. “The only worse shot of me is my passport photo, which should tell you something.” That amazing gaze dropped briefly, giving his body a quick up-and-down. “But your picture in the media guide doesn’t exactly capture your many qualities, either.” Her lips tilted in a knowing smile that shot heat right to his groin.
“Well, I appreciate that. I think.” Jake almost had to laugh at his lame reply. He was normally at ease with banter and pretty quick with a response, but little Ms. Leclair was making him feel like a tongue-tied fool.
She moved to lean against the barrier, her posture a little tense. In an instant, her startling blue eyes turned serious. Intent. All business.
“Jake, I know you don’t have much time to talk, so I’ll get straight to the point. I was wondering if you’d be willing to do a feature interview with me tomorrow. I’d like to write an in-depth piece on you for the Sunday edition. You’ve been away for quite a while, and I think the readers would really like that.”
The idea of spending time with Maddie Leclair sounded pretty attractive, even in a professional setting. The little slip of a thing was pulling on Jake’s imagination and hard, which was a hell of a surprise. Like most players, he’d been pursued by beautiful women throughout his baseball career. It was something he’d learned early on to keep in perspective, so his extraordinary response to her didn’t make sense a lot of sense. All he knew was that when he saw her again, he wanted to be alone with her, not in some formal interview under the watchful eye of one of the team’s PR guys.
It was a crazy idea on his part, but it had already taken hold and he couldn’t seem to shake it.
He nodded. “I think I could manage that.”
Just as he was about to suggest some conditions for their meeting, Maddie jumped in. “Great!” She flashed him a blinding grin. “How about tomorrow morning? If that works for you, I’ll get Media Affairs to set it up. Here at the park, as usual.”
That’s what he’d expected to hear, but it was definitely not what he had in mind. He didn’t say anything for a few moments, rapidly formulating a plan.
“Here’s my problem with that, Maddie,” he finally said, frowning a little. “I don’t think you’re going to get the kind of interview you’re looking for if we’re stuck across a table in some formal media room, like we’re a couple of lawyers facing off against each other.” He shook his head slowly, as if pondering. Yeah, he was being manipulative, but he had the feeling it would be well worth it. “It’s one of the reasons I don’t give many interviews, and tend not to say a whole lot. I’m afraid that if we do it the way you said, all you’re likely to get from me is stuff everybody already knows.”
Maddie shot him a quizzical look, edged with a tinge of wariness. “Do you have an alternative in mind?”
You bet.
“Absolutely. This is a little unorthod
ox, for sure, but why don’t we meet for dinner tomorrow evening? That way I can give you all the time you need, and I guarantee you’ll get a much better story that way. I can relax and not worry about some PR guy waiting to jump down my throat.” Jake casually swung his bat, keeping an easy smile in place and knowing he risked putting her off from the get-go. It was obvious from the way her eyes had narrowed and her body tensed that she was surprised, if not shocked, by his unusual proposition.
“Hmm,” she murmured in a suspicious tone. She dropped her arms from the railing and crossed them over her chest, clearly perplexed by his request.
“You don’t have to answer right now,” he said. Actually, he wanted to push her for an answer, but he sensed she would bolt if he did. “You can catch me after the game, or leave a message at the hotel.”
Maddie smiled but didn’t look particularly happy. “I’m not sure taking time will help, Jake. We both know that all formal interviews with players are supposed to be set up by the team and take place in the media room or another approved location. You know what could happen if we violated those rules. Media Affairs hates it when players go rogue. It wouldn’t be smart for either of us to do that, as I’m sure you realize.”
Despite her words, Maddie’s assessing gaze suggested she might actually be mulling over his suggestion. And she hadn’t said no. She’d said it wouldn’t be smart, which he figured was a long way from a flat turndown.
He dropped the bat at his feet and leaned both arms on the barrier. “I admit it’s a bit unorthodox. But the PR flacks don’t have to know, right? We can make it an informal interview,” he said, playing on her words. “And we can pick a totally out-of-the-way restaurant, like somewhere up the coast. We meet, we eat, you ask all the questions you want, and then we go our separate ways back to the hotel. We’re in San Diego, not Philly, so it’s pretty unlikely anybody would recognize you, anyway. Then, if somebody asks where we did the interview, we can say we did it over the phone.”
