Jennifer Seasons - Throwing Heat

Probably.

Drake shoved him in the shoulder, gaining his attention. “Ignore the pretty boy. We got us a game on.”

Knowing that Paulson was right, Peter took one last glance at Leslie in the stands, felt his gut tighten in response, and then forced his mind on to the game, pushing her out. He didn’t want her in there anymore. She was taking up way too much space.

To the thrill of the Rush fans they played “Wild Thing” as he made his way back to the mound. Forcing everything else from his mind, Peter focused on his pitching and the game. He was one of the best in the Major Leagues and tonight he was going to prove it. His shoulder was loose enough and his left eye vision was holding as steady as it could. If something didn’t feel one hundred percent with his arm he shrugged it off. It was fine.

The first Philly batter stepped up to the plate and Mark signaled a play from his position crouching behind home. Reading it, Peter shook his head. He didn’t like that pitch, it played to the batter’s strengths. So Mark signaled again, and this time he accepted it.

Winding up, his knee pulled tight to his chest, he zeroed in on Mark’s glove and let the ball fly. Like a bullet it shot out toward home plate. A small sting flashed briefly in his shoulder as he completed his follow-through.

The Phillies player connected with the ball and sent a line drive barreling back at Peter. It happened so fast he barely had time to register it before the ball was upon him. Shifting in his cleats, he dodged just as it was about to take out his left knee and snagged the white leather with his glove.

Sucker.

Rolling his shoulder, he tugged the brim of his hat, wiped his hand on the thigh of his pants and prepared for another pitch. Cutter shuffled in his pads after the new batter entered the box, signaling for a ball low and outside. Assessing the new player, Peter nodded, gripped the ball in the horseshoe, and sent it flying.

The Phillies batter swung hard and missed the ninety-six-mile-an-hour fastball by inches.

“Strike!” called the umpire with a pump of his fist.

The crowd cheered. Damn right. He owned that plate. Adrenaline pumped through him, his breathing came in rapid bursts.

Peter was high on the game and it felt good. It felt right. It was his life.

Snatching up the bag of resin nearby on the mound, he dusted his hands together and tossed it back down. He tugged his ball cap again and shifted his weight. Then he wound up and fired another fastball straight down the pipe.

“Strike two!”

A grin split his face as the Phillies batter cursed, stepped out of the box, and stomped around. Finally he put a toe back in, dug deep into the dirt with his cleat, and did the same with the second one before pulling the bat into hitting position.

This was the way it was supposed to be. Just Peter and a batter and a strike zone that had his name written all over it. It was a mental battle of wits, calculation, and angles. And he loved it with everything he had. Nothing else in life compared or could make him feel the way playing ball did.

His gaze slid from home plate at that thought right on over to Leslie in the stands and his chest went tight again. That’s right, he thought as he forced a deep breath, nothing compared. He didn’t want it to. Too much commitment.

Peter played. He played ball and he played at life. That was just the way he liked it. No responsibilities. Who wanted them anyway? They were a huge bore.

This thing with Leslie was just physical anyway.

Pushing the thought aside, he wound up and was about to release when his gaze slipped to Leslie once more. Their eyes locked and he felt his body tense. An encouraging smile spread across her gorgeous face, stunning him, and his shoulder seized just as he released the ball.

He heard the pop and searing pain snaked down his arm, making his vision blur. Peter doubled over and grabbed at his shoulder, panic and pain lashing him. Son of a bitch.

His arm was jacked.

EVERYTHING INSIDE LESLIE froze and the smile melted from her face. As she watched, Peter crumpled on the pitcher’s mound. Play stopped and the Rush’s manager came running. She could have sworn the crowd collectively gasped when their beloved ace pitcher tried to move his shoulder and couldn’t.

Shit.

Leslie was up and out of her seat before she’d even decided to stand, her heart pounding and fear turning her stomach to a jumble of knots. “Oh my god, Peter!” was all she said, and she began pushing her way through the seats full of spectators to get to him.

Lorelei grabbed her arm and stopped her. “Leslie, you can’t go out there.”

Swallowing panic, she glanced down at her sister-in-law and replied tersely, “That’s a stupid rule. I’m breaking it.”

The brunette smiled gently. “I know, honey. But look, the medics are already out there. He’s going to be fine.”

Bullshit. Peter didn’t look fine. In fact he looked like he was in some serious pain. His face was pinched tight and he was scowling hot enough to scare the devil.

Charlie piped up from down the row, “Want me to see if I can get down there for you, Leslie? ’Cause I was a batboy. They’d let me in. I could check on him for you.”

His freckled face was full of earnestness and he was swimming in his authentic Rush jersey. It carried JP’s name and number on it and she could tell the boy was super proud of it. “That’s sweet, Charlie.”

She might have let him too, but then the medical team escorted Peter off the field to the sound of the crowd cheering him on. The pitcher was still holding his shoulder, but he let it go briefly to wave and smile to the crowd.

Knowing him, he was only doing it to save face. Because it hurt him like hell, she could see that. And it made her all kinds of upset.

Her mind made up, Leslie plopped back down in her seat with a huff. She’d give him twenty minutes and then she would try to make her way back to him. If she had to she’d use Charlie. Because she had to see him to make sure he was all right.

Kowalskin had had injuries before—many of which she’d witnessed. None of those had ever bothered her like this. For whatever reason this was different. And she really didn’t want to think about why. All she wanted to do was get to him.

So even though anxiety had a tight hold around her neck, Leslie forced herself to breathe deeply. He was okay, she told herself. He was Peter Kowalskin, badass professional ballplayer. Of course he was okay.

Sonny turned to Leslie, her eyes the same shade as her son’s. “Peter’s a tough guy, sweetie. He’ll be all right.”

Lorelei spoke up, adding, “Yeah. Remember the time he tried to do a back flip off his diving board and slipped and whacked his head? We all thought he was seriously injured because of the blood, but he was totally fine. Not even a concussion. I bet this is the same thing.”

Right. Okay, the pep talk was working. The panic was receding. “I’m sure y’all are right. I mean, it’s not like he has ever been that careful with his body and he’s made it this far.”

Lorelei reached over and patted her knee reassuringly. “Absolutely. He’s got a reckless streak, hon. I’m sure this isn’t his first shoulder injury.”

But it was the League Championships. What if his shoulder made him miss the World Series? He’d just told her how much he wanted to win it. If the Rush made it and he couldn’t play, he was going to be so angry.

Play resumed on the field, relief pitcher José Caldera filled in for Peter, and the team smoothly earned three outs. It wasn’t the same. Looking out there at Coors Field with all the Rush players moving about normally as they headed into their dugout, Leslie felt something missing. That something was him. Kowalskin was the heart of the team.

What would they do without him?

“Hey Mom, look! JP’s up to bat and I bet he hits one hard enough to make it to second.” Charlie beamed at his mother. It was plain to anyone that he was happy as a clam to have JP in his life and that he was incredibly proud of the Rush’s shortstop.

Leslie rolled her eyes. The boy was in the seat next to her and she leaned over, nudging him in the shoulder. “The guys haven’t gotten you involved in their silly bets now, have they?” She’d seen more idiocy caused by their ten-dollar bets than in all the Jackass movies combined.

Charlie giggled and nudged her back. He was such a happy kid. “Nah. I just think JP’s gonna hit a grounder to the outfield and he’s so fast that he’ll make second base before the Phillies can make the relay.”

Her eyebrows shot up in surprise. For a ten-year-old he sure knew a lot about baseball. “You and JP been talking shop, kid?”

Sonny caught her eye over his blond head and nodded. “All the time.” Then she pulled a face that made Leslie laugh.

Guys and sports. It was hopeless.

The easy chatter had lowered her anxiety level and the knots in her stomach had unwound some while she had talked to Charlie, which was probably for the best. She’d been on the verge of jumping the guardrail and running out onto the field.

Leslie kept up the small talk while anxiety buzzed inside her, making her jumpy. She kept an eagle eye on the clock and when it hit the twenty-minute mark she stood up and excused herself.

“I’ve got to hit the restroom, y’all.” Why she felt the need to keep her true destination a secret, she wasn’t entirely sure. But the thought of admitting that she was going to find Peter because she was worried sick about him made her feel way too vulnerable. It was easier this way.

They all waved her off and she hit the steps, impatience making her hurry. Quickly making her way through the corridors of the clubhouse, she waved to security as they let her pass, the guards long familiar with her relationship to Mark. Soon she came to the training room and stopped short when she saw the door wide open. She could just make out Peter sitting with his back to her on a padded table. Medics surrounded him, asking him questions. When one of them grabbed his shoulder, rotating it gently and he flinched, her stomach went queasy. God, he must be in so much pain.

She was suddenly rooted to the spot. She cried out softly, her hand fisting against her mouth.

His head whipped around and pale blue eyes pegged her with a hard stare. “Why are you here?”

Leslie opened her mouth to speak, but couldn’t around the sudden lump in her throat. Instead she swallowed hard, her eyes beginning to sting. He clearly didn’t want her there, and it hurt. All she wanted was to offer him comfort. And here he was again, rejecting her.

One of the medics stepped in front of Peter and said, “We need to get some x-rays on your shoulder to find out the extent of your injury.”

He nodded, still staring down Leslie with distant eyes. “Fine.”

She finally found her voice and said as she took a step closer bringing her flush with the doorway, “I came to make sure you’re okay.”

His jaw ticked. “I’m fine.”

He didn’t look fine. In fact he looked like he was about to pass out. “Can I do anything?” She had no clue what, but she wanted to do something to help him feel better. Why didn’t he want her there?

Another medic walked over to the door and grabbed the handle. Peter flicked a glance at him before turning back to Leslie. “Yeah, you can go back down and watch the rest of the game. No reason for you to miss out. I’m good.”

He’d mentioned that already. And she wasn’t buying it now any more than she had thirty seconds ago. Why was he so insistent on being alone? It wasn’t a bad thing to have people care about him, damn it. “Peter—,” she started.

He cut her off with an order to the medic holding the door handle. “Shut it,” he said flatly. The blasted man didn’t even spare her a glance.

The door closed on her, leaving her staring at nothing but green metal, and her heart caught somewhere between worry and outrage.

It was so not a good feeling.

THE HOUSE WAS dark and quiet when Leslie arrived home. It had been a hectic night at the club and her feet were ready to weep. All she wanted were her cushy slippers and to check in on Peter, although if he was still in a mood he wouldn’t be happy about it. Though she’d texted him and tried to call after he’d kicked her out; he was either ignoring her or avoiding all calls in general.

Not that she could blame him, really. When she’d called Mark after the fifth time of trying to reach Peter, her brother shared that Peter had dislocated his shoulder. He wasn’t going to need surgery and it wasn’t that serious, but he was out for the rest of the League Championships. Probably the World Series, too, if they made it that far.