by Kathy Lyons
“She can’t help you. Just call my assistant. We’ll get you what you need.”
That was a double lie, since Sophia’s assistant was MIA, but the reporter didn’t know that. And that would buy Sophia enough time to come up with a logical excuse why an interview couldn’t happen.
Meanwhile, Gia was busy on her phone, making arrangements. “Field’s busy,” she said to everyone. “But we can do it out front. I’ll get an area cordoned off.” She looked at the reporter. “Thirty minutes?”
“Works for me,” the redhead said.
Sophia released a dramatic sigh. “I guess I can make time.” Then she stomped out the door.
Oh joy.
Chapter Two
Gia
Damn, I was good. I’d managed to pull off a miracle in thirty minutes. Though, technically, it was an illegal miracle, but it was better to beg forgiveness than ask for permission, right?
All publicity events required written permission from the stadium management, but there was no time for that. Besides, it was my first All-Star Game. I could plead ignorance this one time and pray I got away with it.
So I chalked out a wide swath that approximated the space between pitcher and home plate. And then I got representatives from half a dozen media outlets to show up with cameras. This stunt would be a bigger deal than what Connor had suggested, but if I could pull it off, it would get some great press. Assuming, of course, that Connor could actually do it. And that, of course, was a big guess. Catching a baseball behind the back was no easy feat. And I’d be in major trouble if I’d cajoled all the camera guys out here only to have Connor fail.
Connor had come out at the fifteen-minute mark, just as he’d promised. And God, did he look hot. I didn’t know if it was the way the sun turned his brown curls to gold, the pull on his jersey from his broad shoulders, or that he smiled warmly as fans snapped pictures of him. I knew he hated the publicity, but he was a good sport about it, and my libido perked up each time he winked at a starstruck kid.
He’d winked at me just like that on New Year’s Eve. We’d both been drinking, and he’d caught my eye from across the room. It was like he’d reeled me in with that wink, and somehow, I’d ended up right next to him when the final countdown began. Then at midnight, we’d kissed. And what a kiss it had been! It had curled my toes, made my legs quake…and had taken up prime residence in my fantasies ever since. Except then, I’d taken a job with the team, and he’d been hands-off ever since. More’s the pity.
I got jostled from behind, breaking me out of my reverie. Then I saw Rob coming toward us. He wasn’t our pitcher. He played third base now, but he’d pitched in the minors so he would do…assuming he wasn’t too hung over from celebrating his Home Run Derby win. I’d talked him into pitching to Connor. Fortunately, he was sober enough to crack a joke that had both Bobcats smiling. That was a huge plus in my book. When those two hotties laughed, women started panting, myself included.
Be amazing, I whispered to Connor. Because he often was.
“Hey!” Frankie McKenzie said as she jostled her way to my side. She was the redheaded reporter who could get me fired if she started talking about a Bobcat financial crisis. “You said I had an exclusive.”
“You do,” I quipped. “For the interview. The video is for everybody.”
She accepted that with a grimace because she didn’t have a choice. And while she adjusted her camera, I watched as my personal nemesis, Sophia Hart, made the rounds, tottering on her Prada heels and flashing her perky boobs as she handed out her business cards to the people assembled.
“Thanks for coming,” I overheard her say. “I’m Sophia Hart, Connor’s publicist. If you have any questions, please call me. I’ll get you whatever you need.”
Oh. My. God. She was acting as if this had been all her idea, as if she’d managed to scramble this together at the last second. I must have grumbled under my breath because Frankie shot me a commiserating look.
“What’s the deal with her? She’s Connor’s sister, right?”
I wanted to let loose with every rotten thing I’d ever thought about the woman. In truth, Sophia was a good publicist with some brilliant ideas, but for some reason, she absolutely hated me. I don’t know what I ever did to piss her off, but she’d made it a point to make my life miserable every chance she got. Everyone else seemed to think she was great, but all I could see was a greedy woman who did her best to discredit me at every turn. And since she was the experienced publicist and I was the new kid, people tended to listen to her, not me. Which really sucked.
The words burned on my tongue, but I didn’t let them out. Unlike Sophia, I was a professional. And since it was my job to protect my players from bad press, I gritted my teeth and spoke clearly.
“She’s his publicist. That’s all you need to know.”
“But she’s his sister—”
“His family is off-limits. Unless he says it himself. Out loud and on camera.”
“I know but—”
“Frankie!” I said, steel in my tone. “You know the rules.”
She held my gaze for a moment, then blew out a breath. “Can’t blame a girl for trying.”
No, I couldn’t. Then Frankie’s eyes fell on Sophia. “What if I get it from his publicist?”
I had no answer to that. And no faith that Sophia would hold her tongue. But she must have some sense, right? I mean, she’d done a good job at promoting Connor, even when he was still in the minors. If I stayed completely out of her line of sight, she’d probably act like the normal, savvy professional everyone said she was.
Unable to stop whatever was going to happen between Frankie and Sophia, I focused on the guys. They were setting up for some simple pitching practice, only Connor was going to catch those pitches behind his back. I was near Connor’s end, so I could hear his knees crack as he squatted into position. My gaze moved to his face, afraid I’d see him grimace. We all knew that his knees were a constant worry. But he’d put his game face on, his smile frozen, his jaw tight.
Fortunately, Rob was a natural with the press. He kept a steady stream of light trash talk going, entertaining the crowds.
“You’re too old and fat to reach behind your back,” he teased.
“Your diaper’s on too tight, son,” Connor responded. “It’s cutting off the oxygen to your brain.”
“Anyone want to take bets on whether this crippled old geezer can catch a pitch?” Rob called out to the growing crowd.
“There’s no betting in baseball!” I reminded him, shaking my head at his antics.
“How about if I sign any ball he misses, and he signs any he catches?” Rob asked.
That was a great idea. And I had a whole bag of balls and backup pens for just this possibility. Meanwhile, Connor snorted.
“Good thing no one wants your signature.” He grinned at Rob, but there was tension in his shoulders. He was talking a good game, but he was worried. I could see it in the way he tossed the ball back to Rob. His arm movement wasn’t as fluid as when he was in the zone. And then, there was the constant crackle in his knees every time he adjusted his position.
Ouch. I winced every time I heard it.
Wham.
I hadn’t been expecting the pitch just yet. I’d been too busy studying the corded power in Rob’s legs. But the baseball went blistering past me, landing clean and clear in Connor’s glove. In the normal way. Not behind his back. Still, the crowd cheered.
I rushed forward to hand Connor a pen. It was a simple gesture, and I had to step across the chalk line to get to him. But when he looked up at me from his crouch, the sun flashed brilliantly in his mysterious gray eyes.
I got distracted—damn it—and his hand grabbed mine. He was going for the pen, but I’d been looking at his eyes and overreached. Warmed calloused fingers caught mine, and his palm completely engulfed my hand. There was strength in his grip and a rough caress, though I’m sure he didn’t mean it.
Heat exploded in my body, and I k
now my face turned three shades of scarlet. It was stupid and embarrassing, but I couldn’t stop it. Something about the rough texture of his hand on the back of mine set my hormones racing. Or maybe it was because I’d almost gotten lost in those dark eyes of his…
Good God, I was acting like a lovestruck teen.
“Gia?” he said, confusion tightening his features. It was enough to jolt me back to reality and send another flash fire of embarrassment across my face.
“Um, yeah. I, uh, was just bringing you the, um, pen.” Oh. My. God. What was wrong with me?
“You have to let go of it.”
What? Oh shit. Right. I jerked my hand open, and the pen started to fall. He caught it, thank God, but now I was standing there with cameras from every network catching my stammering awkwardness.
Connor watched me, his expression blank as he signed the baseball without looking. And then he tossed it over his shoulder into the waiting crowd. There were cries of delight from whoever caught it, as well as a few grumbles from those who’d missed. But I just stood there watching him, mesmerized by his dark eyes. They were like magician’s smoke on a sunlit day.
“Gia?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re standing in the way.”
What? Oh! Right. I swallowed and hustled behind the chalked line, but there were camera people crowding close, and I teetered on my heels. I felt his hand on my thigh, helping to stabilize me. And the heat from that touch made my knees go weak.
This was getting worse and worse.
It took me a second to steady myself. And even longer to walk back down the chalk line enough to find space to slip outside it. All the while, my brain kept screaming at me to shut it down. Shut. It. Down.
No more blushing. No tingles. No waves of heat.
No memory of his blisteringly hot kiss. No impression of his hand large and strong on my thighs. And absolutely, positively, no imagining what it would be to feel that hand nudging my legs apart…
No! No! No!
“Quit flirting,” Rob called from the other end of the chalk mark. “Nobody wants your old man ass.”
“That true, ladies?” Sophia called out from her place on the opposite side. The feminine response was nearly deafening. They wanted him. We all wanted him, myself included.
“You can see him up close and personal, here.” She held up the calendar to the swimsuit shot. I was intimately familiar with that one, having purchased the calendar within seconds of finding it online.
Meanwhile, Rob was winding up. “Okay, old-timer,” he called. “Here comes the real heat.”
And it was hot. The baseball whipped past me at what had to be nearly 100 mph.
Whap.
Dead center, Connor’s glove. Of course. But he’d still caught it in the normal way.
He picked up the pen from where he’d dropped it a minute ago and quickly signed the ball before tossing it over his other shoulder.
“Ready for your close-up fail?” Rob taunted, letting Connor know that this time, he was going to throw it off center. If Connor was going to catch it behind his back, this was the time. I took a deep breath and glanced nervously at the dozen cameras pointed at Connor. He could do it, I told myself, praying it was true.
Meanwhile, Connor straightened slightly and angled himself so that his left shoulder was aimed at Rob. When the pitch came, he’d whip his glove behind his back and catch the ball there. Maybe.
“Ye—”
Whoosh.
A clean miss.
Crap.
Rob crowed. “Told you he couldn’t do it.”
One of the cameramen picked up the ball from where it had nailed his video camera case and tossed it to Rob. Heidi, Rob’s girlfriend and one of the reporters here, handed him a pen. He rapidly signed it, before tossing it into the crowd.
“Ready to try again?”
“Bring it, babyface.”
Rob grinned. He really did have a bit of a babyface, but it worked on him. I crossed my fingers and silently willed the pitch to be slower. Easier. Then I held my breath as Rob wound up and let it fly.
Whoosh.
Connor nearly had it, but it ricocheted off the edge of his glove and went soaring into the crowd.
Double crap.
“Two for me,” Rob laughed.
“I’m just getting started,” Connor growled.
“Well, hurry up. It’s going to be winter before you find your groove.”
Another throw. Another miss.
This was not going well.
“Maybe this will work,” Rob said. Then as a joke, he lobbed a pitch underhand, as if it was a softball. But the throw was also really short.
Connor lurched forward, starting to catch it in front of himself, then remembered at the last second to flip around. Too late. The ball bounced high into the crowd.
“You’re supposed to throw it home,” Connor said. “Not to third base.” I didn’t detect any edge to his voice, certainly nothing the cameras could pick up. But I was worried about the clench of the man’s jaw. What he was trying to do was difficult, and he had cameras catching every move.
“Come on, Connor,” I murmured under my breath. “Please, please, please.”
His sister wasn’t so subtle. “Show them what you can do, Connor,” she called. And then when he missed the next pitch, she held up the calendar. “Who cares if he can catch when he looks like this?”
Um…everybody? They were all here for the All-Star Game. Of course they cared if he could catch. Though, no one was really expecting another behind-the-back miracle in this game like he’d pulled off against the Tigers.
“Okay, how about an easy one?” Rob called.
“Over the plate, please.”
“Which is where, exactly?”
Good question. I hadn’t drawn a plate.
“Gia, give me the chalk.”
I nodded and fumbled in my purse. Chalk was something a good publicist always had on hand. But I took too long and had to rush forward and hold it out. His hand surrounded mine just like before, and I tried triple hard not to react. But there was no denying that rush of tingling excitement that hit me whenever he touched me. I backed up as quickly as I could. By the time I was in my place, Connor had finished drawing an outline of home plate. Instead of it being in front of him, he squatted a little to the right of it, enough that he could easily whip his mitt behind his back and catch the ball.
Or so was the theory.
“Got everything just how you like it, old man?” Rob taunted.
“Hell no. You’re still on the team.”
“I’m the reason the Bobcats look good.”
Trash talk at its cleanest. I had heard what the guys really said to each other, and it was often X-rated. I was pleased that they kept things clean for the camera.
Another throw.
Whap.
It took me a minute to realize he’d caught it. He’d caught it! Behind his back, just like we’d promised the reporters. Halleluiah!
The crowd screamed in delight. And then as if it had been pre-arranged, Rob started rapid firing baseballs at Connor. High balls, curve balls, screwballs, and even a few fastballs.
Whap. Whap. Whap.
Connor caught them all, nearly every one behind his back. He was grinning by the time it was done, and both he and Rob were sweating. I was cheering, just like everyone else in the crowd. This was making the news, for sure. And I would bet my next paycheck that it would go viral on YouTube, with memes of the two of them soon afterward.
“Uh-oh. Looks like someone’s in trouble.” That was Frankie as she elbowed me and jerked her chin over to the right.
I looked and realized that—yup—we’d been busted. Security was coming over, along with a very officious looking guy in a suit, likely one of the scheduling minions. It looked like I was going to catch hell for this unsanctioned display. The stadium liked to keep track of who did what on their property, especially since they usually charged for the privilege. We�
��d have to pay up, but with the coverage we’d just gotten, I was sure it was worth it. Assuming I could keep the heat on me, not the guys.
I quickly stepped inside the chalk marking and nearly got my head taken off. Obviously, Rob wasn’t finished yet. Oops. Pay attention, Gia! Connor missed that one, but since everyone was gasping at my near concussion, no one seemed to notice. I held up my hand.
“Thanks, everyone! Connor’s got to go warm up now. Game starts in three hours. And if you want some Bobcats merchandise, I’ve got some right here.” I pulled out the giveaways I’d brought along, just in case this was a bust. People can forgive a lot after getting a free MLB jersey.
“And you can buy a calendar right here!” Sophia called. “Get your own piece of Connor!”
The guys were busy signing baseballs, too. I’d dropped the bag in the center near my feet, and as the guys stepped forward to grab balls to sign, the fans crowded in.
That meant there was no room for security to get to us without making a big scene. And I knew I hadn’t broken the rules badly enough for them to risk jostling an eager fan. Unfortunately, I couldn’t really go anywhere, either. It was my job to keep anyone from getting too close to the players, so I was stuck doing crowd control.
I hoped that the baseballs would last long enough that Mr. Official would get bored and leave. No such luck. Two seconds after I called “Last balls!” he pushed his way forward and grabbed my elbow.
“Hey—” I protested, but as soon as I was clear of the worst of the crowd, he started yelling at me like a worked-up bulldog.
“Save it. You didn’t. Get. Approval.”
Each word came out as a bark, and I could only blink as the smell of onions on his breath hit me with every explosion of sound.
“I’m so sorry—” No luck. He kept going.
“You’re getting. Fined.”
What?
He ripped off an official-looking paper and whipped it at me. It was the white copy of something done in triplicate. I could see the pink and yellow versions still on his clipboard.
“I don’t understand,” I argued, even though I had a pretty good guess what this was. “I didn’t know I needed to get permission. This just sort of happened. And—”
