Jennifer Seasons - Throwing Heat

“How do you know that?” she interjected, surprised.

“Because he told me.” His hand squeezed her waist. “Let me finish. As added incentive since you want Hotbox, not only will I play for you, but I’ll pony up the cash you need for a down payment.”

Her eyes flew wide. “You would do that?”

He nodded, eyes hot with challenge.

Boo-yah! God, that was exactly the coup she needed to get her feet underneath her again! She could buy the club and put it on the map in one fell swoop. It was a dream come true. But she’d been trying for two years to get him to play at the club. No manner of coaxing, prodding, or begging had worked. For a guy who lived out loud like he did, it was surprising just how against it he really was. So why the sudden change of heart?

Wait a minute.

Her eyes narrowed. “What’s the whole bet? What’s in it for you?”

Peter gently tangled his fingers in her hair and held her head captive. An unholy gleam came into his eyes, and he grinned wickedly and nipped her chin. “You. I bet that I can get you to sleep with me by the end of the last day of the World Series, or I’ll play in your club and give you your down payment.”

Surprise shook her. “Wait. You want a do-over?”

“You bet your ass I do.”

“But it went so badly for you the last time.”

He looked her in the eyes, his blazing like blue fire. “Then you have nothing to worry about, princess. C’mon, scratch this itch with me. Do us both a favor.”

The man knew how to play her, knew what she wanted most. And he was right—she had nothing to worry about. But she had everything to gain. Peter playing in the club would bring the kind of attention she needed to take the business to the next level. And if she could actually buy it with the money she’d earn by keeping her hands to herself? Well, then life would be perfect.

Sure they had a history. And she’d admit it. Yes, they had chemistry. But it’s not like she was in any real trouble of sleeping with him. Right?

Her stomach quivered. “You’re on.”

PETER DUG HIS cleat into the pitcher’s mound and signaled to Mark Cutter, who crouched behind home plate. Winding up for a slider, he pulled back his elbow and zeroed in on the catcher’s mitt. Tension coiled inside him, ready to unwind like an overtightened spring. Blood coursed through his veins, making him feel alive and hyper-focused.

Pitching in the Major Leagues was such a rush. Pure adrenaline all the way.

Peter was all about the rush.

It was his life. From his team’s name to the way he threw himself into everything full throttle, balls blazing. That was just how he was built. And it had given him a life of few regrets.

His only one was currently in the process of getting a do-over.

Leslie had no idea what she was in for. But she would, starting just as soon as he finished this game. With the little plan he’d put in place about her apartment, the next few weeks were stacked in his favor. A sly smile crept over his face at that. He was so going to win this bet.

No matter what it took. Snapping back to the present moment, Peter took a deep breath, blinked hard as his left eye went temporarily fuzzy, and mentally swore.

He blinked again and his vision cleared enough to continue. Relieved, he inhaled deep and let the ball fly. His arm slung forward like a rocket and the ball flew toward home plate, breaking over and down as it confused the New York Mets batter. The player swung and missed the ball as it slipped under his bat by a good six inches.

Cursing a blue streak, the player slammed his bat into the dirt as the umpire pumped a fist and yelled, “Strike!”

Yes.

The batter stomped off, and Peter earned the last out of the inning for his team. The cheering from the crowd only grew with the guy’s agitation. It was one of the best aspects of playing at Coors Field. The fans were involved and rowdy. They were his kind of people.

Tossing them a salute and a grin, Peter loped off the field with the rest of his team toward the dugout as the Jumbotron followed his movement. He glanced up to see himself on the big screen in his green and yellow jersey and white pants, feeling the joy of it all. Even after all these years it was still one helluva thrill.

He was damn sure going to miss it when it was all said and done.

For now he had his fans and his team, and his arm was firing like it had twelve cylinders. And Leslie was sitting in the bleachers along the first base line, gorgeous as always, cheering her boys on with her sister-in-law Lorelei.

Today, that was enough.

Entering the dugout, Peter slapped Drake Paulson’s ass and said, “Show ’em your stuff, killer,” as the first baseman crammed on his batting helmet and grabbed for a bat. He was up in the rotation and ready to slam one home.

“If I hit a homer you got to buy me dinner, brother,” the veteran shot over his shoulder with a lopsided grin, the smile making him look a little less ugly. How the dude got laid as much as he did was beyond Peter’s comprehension. It simply defied the laws of physics.

“Whatever, Snuffy.” The team had taken to calling Drake that lately because the brown afro on his head and thick chest hair made him look like Snuffleupagus from Sesame Street.

The player pointed a finger at him and added gruffly, “I don’t mean Taco Bell’s ninety-nine-cent menu, either. You’re taking me out somewhere real nice like a proper girlfriend.”

Peter pushed up the bill of his hat with a thumb to get some air on his damp skin. “Any other requests? A corsage maybe?”

Drake made a face and tugged at his batting glove. “Shit. This ain’t the prom, Pete. Keep it in context.”

Right.

JP Trudeau bumped into him as Paulson strode toward the batter’s box. “Hey, man.”

The kid looked happier than he’d ever seen him. More relaxed too. Funny how regular sex could do that to a guy. “Things are going well with you and Sonny I take it.”

The shortstop plopped down on the bench next to him, looking mildly surprised. “Yeah, it’s great. Why do you ask?”

On the far side of the bench, Mark Cutter leaned forward in his catcher’s gear and said, “Cuz lately you’ve been smiling like a dog with two dicks.”

JP laughed and rolled his shoulders. “What can I say, man? It’s good.”

Peter slapped the young player’s shoulder. “Why don’t you give up the deets? This dry spell I’ve been on has turned into one long-ass drought.”

“Would you stop yapping? We’ve got a game on, you knuckleheads,” barked the team manager, Arthur McMurtry. “Sorry, coach,” Peter mumbled.

“Since we’re up by five and it’s the ninth inning, I want you to rest your arm, Kowalskin. That’s why I waved you over here. Caldera’s filling in for you. You’re done.”

Those last few words rung in his ears. The echo lasted for just a moment, but it was enough. It left him feeling hollow, like a foreshadowing of things to come. Which it was, and that scared him. It was hard as shit knowing this was his last season.

Shaking it off, Peter slumped onto the bench and cast a quick glance down the row at his teammates. It was a blast and a privilege playing with them. Of his thirty-four years, he’d spent the last fourteen with the Denver Rush. The players had become his family.

What was he going to do without them?

Feeling his morale dropping, Peter turned his gaze to the game just as Paulson connected with a pitch and sent it flying over the outfield wall into the stands. Crap. Looked like he had himself a date later.

The veteran jogged around the bases, taking his sweet time while Rush fans cheered his home run. When he passed in front of the dugout, he pointed at Peter and hollered, “I want fancy, sissy boy!”

JP turned to him. “You realize taking him out for something fancy is only asking for trouble, right?”

Yeah. The last time Paulson wanted highbrow, he’d wound up tanked on Dom Perignon and screwing their server in the coatroom, making her miss the last hour of her shift. There’d been a lot of ticked-off customers wondering what had happened to their checks.

Peter nodded. “I’m steering him clear of the bar.”

Sometimes Drake was like having a toddler around. You took your eyes off him at your own risk.

And that was exactly why Peter loved him.

He owed the veteran and Mark for some really memorable times. The most infamous being the night Peter lost a ten-dollar bet and wound up hungover on cheap beer with a tattoo on his dong.

To this day he didn’t know how he’d managed to go through with it. But he knew he must be some epic kind of jackass to have stamped a tattoo on his dick for all eternity.

Alas, such was the story of his life.

Drake entered the dugout, out of breath and sweaty, then plopped down with a humph next to Peter. “Where we going, brother?”

“Hell if I know,” Peter shrugged. “You’re not gonna get all picky on me are you?”

Mark smirked from down the bench. “The guy’s got expectations, Pete.”

Grinning at that, he pulled off his hat and raked a hand through his damp hair. “Don’t I know it.”

Paulson took offense. “Just because I have standards, don’t make me high maintenance, man.”

Something occurred to him as he looked at the first baseman. “How come you aren’t hitting the town with some tight-bodied little thing later? It’s not like you to be in short supply for company.”

Drake leaned his head against the dugout wall and scratched his unshaven chin. “I’m taking a breather.”

“Did all those spring chicks finally wear you out, old man?” jabbed JP.

“Look who’s suddenly getting big for his britches now that he’s got a woman?” Drake said.

“Yeah, I know. But I don’t blame him. Sonny is seriously foxy.” He looked around Drake to JP. “You lucked out, dude.”

The player flashed a grin. “True that.” Then he stood up and moved to the dugout entrance. It was his turn in the hole. “You should find something real, hoss,” he said behind him to Paulson. “Then maybe you wouldn’t feel the need to take a breather.”

“Pssh,” the veteran waved him off. “I’ll leave the love crap to you boys. It ain’t my thing.”

Something in the tone of his voice sounded off and Peter narrowed his eyes. He knew the smell of bullshit. Mostly because he specialized in it. “So you say now, bro. But you aren’t immune.” His hand waved toward the men sitting on the long dugout bench. “The best of them fall at some point or another.” He ended with a nod toward Cutter.

Drake pegged him with a deep brown stare. “What about you? You haven’t gone down yet.”

An image of Leslie came to mind and he shoved it aside, plastered on a smile. “What can I say? It just isn’t in my cards.”

“Maybe you should get a new deck.”

No thank you. “Yeah, maybe.”

What the hell? Where’d that come from? The words had popped right out of his mouth before he’d even known they were there.

He didn’t want a new deck. Nope. He was happy with the one he had.

So why had he said that?

Leslie popped into his head again. This time she was topless and splayed out over a cream cotton comforter. Her body was willing and supple, but her eyes were filled with shadows as a tear slipped down her cheek.

What the fuck?

Peter shook his head hard enough to make his brain hurt. Why had that memory come back to him now? He didn’t want it there. He wanted new ones to replace the old. That way he wouldn’t have to remember anymore what it had been like to see Leslie Cutter fall apart.

More, he wouldn’t have to remember how it had felt.

“You thinking about that new deck already, bro?” Drake broke into his thoughts.

Peter shook his head and looked at the field just as JP hit a grounder and made it to first base. “Nah.”

Drake laced his fingers behind his head and stared straight ahead. “Yeah, me neither.”

“HEY, LESLIE. CAN you hand me my soda down by your foot?” said her sister-in-law, Lorelei Cutter, as she sat back down in her seat. “Sorry that took forever. The line for the bathroom is outrageous.”

Leslie glanced at her sister-in-law from behind her Ray-Bans. “Are you feeling okay, hon? You don’t look so hot.” Her normally tawny skin was super pale and she looked worked.

The brunette shook back her long hair and sighed. “I’m not sure, actually. I’m afraid I might be fighting something. My stomach has been off for a few days now.”