Hard and Fast

by Kathy Lyons

  “Ouch. Not exactly the picture of an all-American family.”

  “I don’t know. There are lots of fucked-up families out there.”

  She nodded. Given that she was a foster kid, she probably knew that better than I did. Then before she could pursue this line of questioning, I turned the tables on her, reaching out and tugging on her index finger.

  “Tell me about your family. You’re living with a sister, right?”

  “I am, and I’ll be happy to talk all about her…later. We’re going to finish this discussion first.”

  I figured she wouldn’t let this go, but I had to give it a shot. My face must have given me away because she burst out laughing.

  “You look like you’re facing a firing squad.”

  “And you look like a determined reporter. A naked one, so that kind of distracts me, but—”

  “I could get dressed.”

  “Oh, no. That would be a terrible idea. I’ll clam up immediately.”

  She chuckled. “You’re not exactly an open book right now.” Then her expression sobered, and she twisted her fingers around mine. “I’m trying to understand, Connor. We’re in bed together. We’ve just had the hottest sex of my life. Don’t make me feel like I did this with a stranger.”

  She wasn’t asking for anything she didn’t deserve. And truthfully, I did trust that she’d keep whatever I told her a secret if I asked her to. But the problem was, I’d been private for so long, I didn’t even know how to start. What secrets did I have?

  “I’m not complicated, Gia. I get up and go to work. I try to improve my skills. In the evening, I hope that Cassie will come by for a visit. End of story.”

  She nodded. “So tell me about other things. How do you feel about your job?”

  “I love it, of course. I get to play baseball. What could be bad about that?”

  She arched her brow. “My grandmother knits.” She looked up. “Not my biological grandmother. I’ve never met her. My foster one. She knits all the time, and she taught me how to do it, too. We’d get together and she’d show me different stitches. We’d look at patterns and plan what we were going to make. And then one day in high school, someone asked me where I’d gotten one of my sweaters. When I told her I’d made it, she wanted one too. She even said she’d pay for it.”

  I tilted my head, trying to picture it. “I can’t see you sitting still long enough to knit.”

  She laughed. “Well, I could, more or less, with Nana’s help. And it was fun to sit and knit while we watched television. If I was really quiet, my parents would forget I was there, so I got to stay up really late.”

  “Sneaky,” I said.

  “Very. Until I had the great idea of making sweaters for money. Suddenly knitting went from being fun to a job. I took orders for six sweaters from my friends. And then I had to make them. It was awful. Suddenly, a dropped stitch was unprofessional. I was selling a product, and it needed to look good. I couldn’t play with the pattern but had to stick to exactly what my friends wanted. It went on and on until I hated the sight of my needles.”

  “Ouch. What did you do?”

  “I took my friends shopping with their own money and told them to pick something. I never confused a hobby with a job again.”

  I could see it. That was a lesson every serious athlete learned early. That shift from amateur to serious sports could kill all the joy in the game. And the work only got harder the higher you got.

  “So will you tell me the truth now?” Gia pressed. “How do you really feel about your job?”

  “Like it’s ending, and I don’t know if I’m happy or sad about that.”

  My words came out quickly before I could think about them. And as I heard them in the air, I winced at the truth of them. Fortunately, she didn’t react, but just sat there, listening. The urge to keep talking nearly buried me. My gaze slid from her face, because I couldn’t watch her when I spoke, and the words just fell out.

  “I’m really scared, right now.”

  “Because of your knees?”

  “Because of everything. I’m only twenty-seven, but my body isn’t going to make it much longer. Not as a catcher. And there are some really talented guys coming up. All it will take is one smart guy with good knees, and I’m out.”

  “That’s not true.” Her belief rang through her words, and I smiled at her naivete.

  “It is true. And the truth is, I feel the pressure all the time. I need to get better. I need to do better. It’s like being crushed in a vise. And you know what the worst thing is?”

  She didn’t speak but squeezed my fingers.

  “I want out of the vise as much as I want to keep playing. I love being a catcher. I love playing for the Bobcats, but sometimes the attention makes me want to explode.”

  “The attention?” she asked. “That’s just people watching you do what you do best. They’re rooting for you. They’re fans. Why are they scary?”

  “Because we might not make it to the pennant. Because one bad call on my part, one bad play, or God forbid, one twisted ankle and we’re screwed.”

  She brushed a hand across my face, her touch sweet. “So you don’t make it to the pennant. It happens.”

  “Often.”

  “Yeah. But you thrive on the pressure. I’ve seen you talk in the locker room. It’s like you get this intense focus and everyone picks up their game.”

  I thought about that. Yeah, I guess I knew what she was saying. But it wasn’t the game pressure that bothered me. It was the attention. All those people prying into my life, judging how I did things on sports shows, and lying in wait, just to charge me with an error. I’d already fucked up bad with Cassie, and now I felt like everyone was waiting for me to fail again. Paranoid? Yes, but still realistic.

  “I just want to play. I don’t want the commentary.”

  “Ah.”

  The way she said that word made me tighten with anxiety. It was as if she suddenly understood something—the key to my psyche or whatever—and that made me worry. Then she burst out laughing.

  “What?” I demanded, suddenly defensive.

  “Nothing! I just got it, that’s all. You feel like we’re all judging you. Fair enough. A lot of reporters are. I’d hate that, too.” Then she leaned forward and pressed a kiss to my forehead. “But I’m on your side. I’m trying to help.”

  I knew she was. I knew it in my bones. And that’s why I finally caved. Right there, with her naked in my bed, I finally decided to let her in.

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Okay what?”

  “Okay, I’ll let you interview me for the articles.”

  “Um, great, but that’s not what I was going for here.”

  “I know. That’s why I said yes.” And because everyone wanted it. And because—most important—it would do good things for her position with the Bobcats. Maybe take some of the uncertainty out of her life and job.

  And suddenly she was bouncing closer so that she could kiss me, a quick peck on my lips and cheeks. Then she drew back with a mischievous grin. “I’m not going to look this gift horse in the mouth. In fact, I’m going to hold you to this promise or else.”

  I frowned. “Or else what?”

  “I won’t do this.”

  I don’t know how she did it. We were sitting up facing each other. But a moment later, she had her mouth on my dick, and my worries flew straight out of my brain. My last coherent thought was that if this was my reward for answering a few questions, I could see quite a few interviews in my future.

  Well, that, and one more thing. The eternal litany in my brain.

  She’s not for you.

  Fuck that. Tonight, Gia was mine. But just for tonight.

  Chapter Ten

  Gia

  I loved the timbre of Connor’s voice—deep, resonant, and easily heard over the rumble of other locker room noise. It made people listen to him. And it made me shiver with delight. The Bobcats were getting together a couple of hours before the firs
t game in a series against the Cleveland Indians. The guys had come in restless, and it was Connor’s job to get them focused on the task at hand. It was my job to stand in the shadows and watch him work.

  Connor’s magic was never in what he said. I could lift his words and compare them to thousands of pre-game pep talks. The words would be nearly identical. It was in his voice and his stance. It was the way he looked at everyone on the team—all the way deep into the bench—and made sure every player was on board. Every man quieted to listen to him. And when he was done, they were a unified group with a singular focus. They came in as individuals. Connor made them a team.

  Impressive. Sexy as hell. And guaranteed to make me even wetter than I was now.

  It had been two weeks since our hot night. Or as I called it, my Night of 1000 Orgasms. We had done it every way I could think of and a few I’d never even imagined. I’d maybe gotten an hour of sleep that night, but it had been well worth it.

  I didn’t mind when I didn’t hear from him that next day. We both needed rest. But then he didn’t call that night. Or the next. Yes, I knew that we’d both said one night only, but I was hoping that, since the night had been so spectacular, he would want another. I certainly did.

  No such luck. Sure, I caught him staring at me all the time. Mostly because I was staring at him. But he never acted on it. And though he sat down for the interview I needed, nothing ever went beyond professionalism. And I was nearly screaming from the frustration that caused.

  I wanted to be with him. I wanted to jump him. And I wanted both in the worst possible way. If he’d given me the sign, I would have joined him in the bathroom before the game. But, of course, he didn’t. He’d said as much that night, and he was a man of his word.

  So I headed back to my office and the complicated task of goosing our media coverage before the game. I’d just launched an awesome pizza promotion based on Connor’s hitting this game—discounts for a base hit, dollars off for a home run. I was running through my Twitter feed when I rounded the corner to my office. The light was on and the door open. It was pretty rare for someone to visit me before a game, so I hurried over, then stopped dead when I saw who it was.

  Sophia Hart stood beside my desk, seeming to inspect the Bobcat poster on the wall. But I didn’t trust it…or her. She looked too casual there, and too studied in the way she turned as if caught by surprise.

  “Gia,” she said with a tight-lipped smile.

  “Sophia,” I answered in my most chipper tone. “What a surprise to see you here.” She was Connor’s sister, and so I was prepared to give her a chance to be nice.

  She arched a perfectly trimmed brow in my direction. “It’s a Bobcat game, and my brother is the catcher.”

  I nodded. “Of course—”

  “Where else would I be?”

  The salon? NY Fashion Week? A myriad of possibilities stomped through my brain, but I didn’t say them. Instead, I stepped firmly around her, doing my best to dislodge her from the tiny space behind my desk. “How can I help you?”

  “I wanted you to explain the publicity you have lined up for Connor.”

  Really? She’d never been interested before. Still, I’d be a fool not to cooperate with her. I could use her help in adding some pull to whatever publicity I generated. Fortunately, I had something already written up that I’d sent to Connor’s agent just that morning. A couple taps on the keyboard and my printer spat out the full scope of what I’d arranged. It was pretty impressive, even if I did say so myself.

  I handed her the sheet as I explained what I had done. My first article on Connor had landed on a dozen blogs and been mentioned on both TV and radio. With the Bobcats’ number of wins, every local media outlet was hungry for news.

  “My article has been really well received,” I said. “But my national exposure isn’t what I’d like. Do you have any pull with—?”

  Her voice suddenly raised as she interrupted me. “This all looks lovely. I’m pleased with how well you’ve implemented everything.”

  I blinked. “Um, thank you. I tried to contact your assistant, but he said he doesn’t work for you anymore.”

  She stood up and headed for my door. “Yes. Stupid man. Couldn’t get anything right.”

  “If I could get your new assistant’s—?”

  “Joe! I’m over here!” she called.

  What? There was only one Joe here, and his name was Joe DeLuce, the team owner. Damn it, how had she known? I pushed up from my seat in time to hear Joe’s heavy tread coming down the hall toward us.

  “Hello, Joe!” Sophia said as she embraced the man and gave him a flirty kiss right on the mouth. He took her attention the way many older men do—with a grin and a salacious eyebrow wiggle.

  “Always a pleasure, Sophia,” Joe said, his gaze dropping to her ample cleavage. I might have blamed him, but Sophia seemed to be able to do something to make her breasts bounce. Hell, I was looking, and I didn’t have the Y chromosome.

  “I was just going over the publicity plans for Connor. I have to say I’m pleasantly surprised by the way your girl here has implemented my ideas.”

  It took me a moment to process what she’d said. It had been buried in the compliment, and Joe was already grinning at me in his paternal way. “Yes, yes,” he was saying. “We love Gia. She’s always on the go for us.”

  But my mind was still reeling about what Sophia had said—that the ideas were hers. “Thank you, Joe. And of course I value Ms. Hart’s input, but the ideas—”

  “It doesn’t matter whose ideas they were, darling.” She tsked at me and patted Joe’s arm. “The young are always so hungry, aren’t they? Desperate for recognition. Well, Gia, as I said, you have done an amazing job following through on the things we discussed.”

  “But we didn’t discuss…” My voice trailed away. Well, of course we had discussed them. Or, at least, I’d kept her apprised of what I was doing for Connor because she was his publicist. That was professional courtesy. “I mean, these were my ideas. And I wrote the article—”

  “Goodness, dear, such pettiness is not becoming. Joe, I hear that you had my favorite dessert ordered into the box for me. You are so sweet.”

  I knew for a fact that Joe didn’t handle the catering in the owner’s box, but that didn’t stop him from patting her hand. “Those mini pecan pies are my favorite.”

  “Mine, too. Let’s go check them out before they’re gone. And on the way, we can talk about how I can boost your social media numbers. Really get the younger generation talking about the Bobcats like never before. I’m plugged in like you can’t imagine…”

  Off they went, with Sophia being charming, and Joe chuckling as if he was her fond uncle. And all the while, I stood there, shocked that I’d just let her get away with claiming all my publicity ideas as her own. I mean, I’d stood up for myself. But she’d just rolled right over me, and Joe had been looking at her chest, so who knew if he’d been listening to either one of us.

  But what the hell? Damn it, I wanted to stomp after them and scream that she was taking credit for my ideas. But that would be inappropriate. The last thing I needed was to suddenly become shrewish over every little thing.

  Except this wasn’t little. Not to me. And clearly not to Sophia… Because she’d just freaking stolen my grand success.

  I stepped after them, trailing behind like a lost puppy. I was close enough to hear her pitch her own publicity company, then add that everyone had a copy of Connor’s calendar—even me. That told me she’d been poking through my desk drawers, the bitch, but I couldn’t interrupt to say it. Then they were through the doors and into the stadium, moving toward the owner’s box where I wasn’t invited.

  It didn’t matter. I had plenty of work to handle, anyway. Reporters always tried to get extra information from me before a game, any secret insight into the team’s mood. I used the conversations to make sure we got in our talking points. It was the dance of publicity, and I wasn’t doing it standing here and fuming.
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  Except I was.

  That was how Connor found me. I heard his voice say my name a split second before he touched my arm. My name, “Gia,” spoken in that deep rumble of his, made all my emotions surge to the fore.

  Hunger for him, need for comfort, and fury at his bitch of a sister, not to mention the injustice of having Joe listen to her…it all crashed over me so that when he touched my arm, I started to crumple. Tears welled in my eyes, and my fists pulled tight to my mouth so I wouldn’t start sobbing. I turned away from him, toward the wall, but he slipped around me to look at my face.

  “Gia! What happened?” The alarm in his voice was both gratifying and soothing. At least he cared enough to be upset.

  But then I had a problem. I couldn’t tell him how much I despised his sister. The man was stupidly protective of his family. So I swallowed my tears and tried to smooth my makeup. It didn’t work. My fingers came away dark with mascara—the cheap stuff didn’t work for shit. I probably looked like a raccoon.

  And there was Connor, his eyes growing more alarmed by the second.

  “It’s nothing,” I said. “Something stupid.” I took a breath and started walking back to my office. He came with me, his hand cupping my elbow, and I was too weak to push him away. I liked his steady presence, even though this was absolutely not something he should do before a game.

  We made it my office, and I grabbed a tissue from my desk while he shut the door. I made quick work of cleaning up my face. It wasn’t perfect, but I wasn’t doing any on-camera work today. Then I steeled my spine and turned to face Connor.

  I had a tiny speech in my brain—about how this wasn’t important, that he had to focus on his job and I’d do mine, etc., etc. But then I saw him standing there, his back to the door. His arms were folded across his chest and his muscular biceps were bulging beneath his uniform. Hot, hot, hot. But even better was the firm jut of his chin and the flat, determined expression on his face.

  He wanted to know what had happened, and his entire stance told me he wasn’t leaving until he knew every detail. That concern touched me deeply. He hadn’t even said a word, but Connor rarely did. He just let his entire body speak for him. And what his body said was that he cared that I’d been hurt.