Scoring

Sammy paused to listen, nodding again. “Okay. Have a good one.” He hung up the phone and grinned, sticking out his hand. “Well, glory be, it’s Mace Duvall.”

“In the flesh.” Mace gripped Sammy’s hand.

“You know, I was at that game a couple of years ago where you hit for the cycle. Single, double, triple, and homer in the same game. What a night.” Sammy shook his head in admiration, standing up to shut the door that led into the locker room. “Want a drink? Got Gatorade, Coke, water, you name it.” He dropped back in his chair and rolled back to flip open the door of the mini-refrigerator that sat behind his desk.

“Water?”

“Sure.” Sammy passed Mace a bottle and cracked open a Coke, leaning back until his chair creaked in protest. “I gotta say, I’m happy to see you here. If you can get a tenth of what you know about hitting into these kids’ heads, we’ll be way ahead of the game.” He took a drink, sighing in satisfaction at the first taste. “I can teach ’em fielding, but we really need someone like you to help them understand how to look at the ball.”

Mace twisted the cap off the bottle of water and took a swallow. “Well, I’ll do what I can, but I’m not making any guarantees.” He stared into the clear plastic bottle. What the hell was he doing here? And what was he hoping to accomplish?

Sammy examined him shrewdly, then gave a smile that Mace didn’t trust. “Of course you can’t,” he said jovially, “but you know hitting and that’s what counts. Watch the game tonight and you and I can talk over breakfast tomorrow morning. Practice starts at 1:00 p.m.” The phone rang and Sammy gave it a baleful glare. “Okay, take a look around while I get this. I’ll be out in a minute.”

Mace opened the door to step into the empty locker room. Then he heard a throaty female laugh.

“TIME TO TAPE UP that ankle, Sal.” Becka turned to where Lopes lay on the training table. Trying to be gentle, she pulled off the cold pack. The sight underneath made her wince. Though the swelling wasn’t as bad as it could have been, angry red and purple streaks overlaid a hard-looking knot just over the joint.

Lopes raised himself up on his elbows. “How’s it look?”

Becka lifted his ankle gently, moving it slightly to test range of motion. His breath hissed in. “Hurts, huh?” she asked softly.

“Not too bad,” he managed in a strained voice. “I’ll be okay tomorrow.”

Becka took another look. “I’m thinking you’ll be lucky if you’re actually walking tomorrow. We need to get this X-rayed,” she said decisively and checked her watch.

“I got to get playing tomorrow,” Sal protested. “Duvall’s only here a week.”

“He’s an ex-ballplayer, not a god,” she said impatiently, pulling a tensor bandage from the supply cabinet. “You rest this and let it recover now, or it’ll just keep giving out on you. Even if it’s just fractured, you’re going to need to take it easy for at least several weeks.”

“They’ll put me on the disabled list,” Sal groaned.

“Two weeks or so on the DL isn’t going to ruin your career,” Becka chided him. “It’s not broken, that’s something at least. Let me tape it up and I’ll drive you to the E.R.” With gentle, competent hands she wound the tape around his ankle until the ankle was supported and restrained. “Okay, big guy, sit up and let’s get you on your feet.” She turned to rummage in the supplies closet, digging back toward the rear. “I have some crutches here somewhere that you can use….” She emerged with them just as Lopes tried to slide off the table.

As soon as the injured foot touched the floor, he yelped and lost his balance.

“Dammit, Sal!” Becka dropped the crutches and leaped to catch him. He slumped against her, face screwed up in pain, one arm hooked over her shoulder. The locker room rang with post-practice silence.

“Okay, let’s get you on the table first.” Becka puffed with exertion as she struggled to hold him. Even for someone in her shape, moving him was a job. “Let’s move back toward the table a bit at a time. Just let me carry your weight when you need to put your bad foot down, and take little steps. Okay?” She took his grunt for assent and moved him slightly, first one step, then two.

It was like the clumsy, shuffling slow dances she’d done in junior high, Becka thought, or maybe like a pair of dancing bears. They made progress, though, until Lopes began laughing. Caught in the ridiculous clinch, Becka couldn’t keep from joining him.

His shoulders shook. “Hey baby, I got some moves for you.”

Becka smothered another giggle. “Stop it or I won’t be able to hold you up,” she ordered as she propped him against the table. She took a breath of relief before leaning in to wrap her arms around him for the final push. Then laughed again.

“You know, in ten years in the majors I can’t say I’ve ever seen physical therapy like that.” The voice was like warm molasses, with just a hint of a drawl. Becka jerked her head up to see Mace Duvall in the doorway, watching them.

Her mind stuttered to a stop.

He was lean and tawny like a jungle cat, with the same sense of coiled energy waiting to spring. The face that had merely been good-looking on television was taut and honed down, almost predatory in person, made more so by the thin scar that ran along his left cheekbone. He looked at her like he wanted to snap her up. In some indefinable sense, he was more present in his body than any man she’d ever seen. The blood thundered in her ears.

Sal, meanwhile, was hyperventilating with excitement. “Oh wow, man, you’re Mace Duvall. It is truly a pleasure to meet you.” Sal’s words snapped Becka out of her daze, and she finished helping him up onto the table. Sal grinned. “Hope you don’t mind if I don’t get up.”

Mace stepped over to shake hands with the young ballplayer, but he never took his eyes off Becka. “What happened?”

“Bad slide. Just a sprain, though. How long you here for?”

“A week.”

“Florence Nightingale here said I’d be back up tomorrow,” Sal said, hooking a thumb at Becka as she leaned over to pick up the crutches.

“I think I said we should go get it X-rayed, Sal.” Becka slapped the crutches into Lopes’ hands.

He ducked his head in embarrassment. “Oh. Well. Yeah,” he mumbled, “but I gotta make a pit stop.”

“Okay,” she said with a glance at Mace. “Then I’ll drive you to the E.R.”

“Right. Gimme five minutes.” He swung out of the room, still grinning. Oddly, the space seemed smaller with just her and Mace, Becka thought, struggling to banish the uneasiness. Maybe it had to do with those mocking eyes. Maybe it had to do with the unexpected edge of desire that suddenly sliced through her.

She struggled to breathe deeply and slow her system down. So she was attracted to him. Big deal. She’d been attracted to plenty of guys in her life. No way was she going to pat his ego and fall at his feet like every other woman he met. This was her territory and her job. She wasn’t about to let some pretty boy make her uncomfortable.

His mouth curved up in a slow smile as though he knew what she was thinking. It brought out the temper in her.

You’re a professional, Becka reminded herself. Act like it. “I take it you’re the infamous Mace Duvall.” She stuck her hand out. “I’m Becka Landon, the infamous trainer.”

“SO WAS THAT your version of bedside manner?” Mace asked, shaking her hand, intrigued to feel her pulse jump unsteadily under his fingers. He’d always been partial to redheads, and this one had the glowing, luminous skin that was a combination of good fortune and complete, utter fitness. Deep, dark red without a hint of orange, her hair feathered down to end just above her shoulders, framing exotic cheekbones and slanted green cat eyes that stared out at him from under a fringe of bangs. Her lush mouth looked soft and sulky.

He didn’t blame the player for trying to grope her or whatever had been going on. She obviously took her own medicine when it came to working out. Even camouflaged in a polo shirt and long walking shorts, her taut, curvy body made him wonder just what kind of things she could get up to in bed.

Becka raised her chin belligerently. “He was hurt, I was doing my job. You have a problem with that?”

He might just have a problem with her, he thought, wondering how those full lips tasted. “Only when it means distracting players in the clubhouse.”

“Oh, get over it,” she said impatiently, turning to jerk the cover off the table. “His foot wouldn’t hold his weight and it was either catch him or scrape him up off the floor.”

Something about the way her eyes snapped at him tempted him to push her a bit, just to see how she’d react. “Happens a lot that way?”

She flushed. “Now you’re being insulting. These kids like to play tough guy when they’re hurt. I was just trying to keep him from making things worse.”

“Looks like you distracted him from his pain just fine.”

Her cat eyes narrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t usually see trainers in a clinch with players.”

She laughed then. “Are you kidding? To these kids I’m like their old Aunt Edna. Sal’s thinking about the games he’s going to miss, not me. His mind doesn’t work that way.”

Just for a heartbeat, his gaze flicked down to the buttons on her polo shirt. “Sugar, every eighteen-year-old’s mind works that way.”

She wanted to be annoyed. She wanted to be offended. She didn’t want to feel this flush of heat. Then she saw amusement flicker in his eyes and irritation rescued her.

“Gee, Duvall, are you always such a charmer or did you cook up the sexist routine just for me?”

Oh, belligerence suited her, he thought. She had herself a temper, Miss Becka Landon did, and she wore it well. And if she looked this good in shorts and a polo shirt and mad, he couldn’t help wondering what she looked like in nothing at all. “No offense intended, just a friendly warning. You don’t want to underestimate these boys. Half of them just got out of high school two months ago. Their hormones are still kicking in. Something you think is harmless might have them daydreaming about you when they’re on the field.”

“Oh stop, Duvall, you’re flattering me.”

He stepped closer to her, and her heart jumped in response.

“You don’t want to underestimate me, either,” he said softly, staring at her throat where the pulse beat madly under translucent skin. Flattery didn’t even come close to what he wanted to do with her.

She should haul off and put him in his place, Becka thought, but her mind kept focusing on the flecks of copper in his golden eyes, and the heat she could feel radiating from him. Seconds stretched out, until she heard Sal’s voice as he crutched back toward the training room.

“I’m ready, Florence.”

Becka turned and got her keys and purse. She glanced at Mace.

“Well, this has been fun, Duvall, but I’ve got to run. Guess I’ll see you tonight when the game starts.”

The corners of his mouth curved in a slow grin and his eyes flickered with a heat she felt down to the pit of her stomach. “Funny, I thought it had started already.”

3

EARLY-MORNING SUN SLANTED across Becka as she helped Joe tie the last of her kitchen chairs onto his pickup. The final amalgamation looked a lot like something out of the Beverly Hillbillies, but it all fit, even the bed picked up that morning from her girlfriend Ryan’s house.

“We’re ready to roll,” Joe called, dusting off his hands as he walked over to stand with his wife. “Everybody in.” Blunt-featured and stocky, he seemed to adore Nellie beyond reason. And like Becka’s father, he was endlessly patient. Maybe patient enough to be in a relationship in which his sweetheart always knew best—or at least thought she did.

As for Becka, she’d go down kicking and screaming before she’d let someone control her, particularly a lover, she thought, squeezing next to Nellie in the cab. She wasn’t, however, always as quick to notice if they were so self-absorbed like her ex-boyfriend Scott had been. Having a boyfriend was a relatively small part of her life, all things considered. Except for the sex, of course. Still, no one she knew had died from doing without, she thought, trying not to count how long it had been. The image of Mace Duvall popped into her head and she pushed it away with baffled irritation. One thing was for sure, next time she had a lover, he wasn’t going to be a playboy.

“So how’s the new job going?” Nellie asked, her hand on Joe’s knee. “It’s sort of like what you used to do for Dad’s team, right? I always envied you, running off with Dad to the big games all the time.”

Becka smiled as she thought about all the Saturday evenings she’d spent volunteering for the college basketball team her father coached. And getting up at the crack of dawn even on the weekends. “It wasn’t all fun and games,” she said. “Those weight rooms and locker rooms smell like something died in them.”

“Couldn’t bother you too much if you’re back in one.” Nellie winked at Becka. “So, have you walked in on any of the players in the buff yet?”

“Hey,” Joe protested good-naturedly. “You’re a married woman, you shouldn’t be thinking about guys in the buff.”

“No guys in the buff at all?” Nellie asked coyly, running her fingertips up the inside of his leg.

Joe shifted in his seat. “You’re gonna feel real funny if you make me run off the road,” he said gruffly.

With a delighted giggle, Nellie bussed him on the cheek until a flush bloomed up his neck and across his face.

They were good together, Becka thought suddenly, looking at them. In some indefinable way they’d melded since she’d last seen them. The thought warmed her. Okay, so maybe their type of marriage would send her to the nut-house within five minutes, but the important thing was that it worked for them.

“So, your team any good?” Joe asked, cheeks still stained a faint pink.

“Oh, so-so,” Becka admitted. “These guys aren’t going to be in the majors any time soon. They’re just a step up from high school.”

“Still goofballs?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Becka said protectively. “They’ve got talent, some of them. They’re just still figuring out how it all works. We have lots of instructors coming through to give them hitting clinics and stuff.”

“Anybody famous?” Joe asked, linking his hand with Nellie’s.

“We’ve got a big name in now. Mace Duvall, used to play shortstop for the Braves.”

Joe whistled. “Hey, I saw him play in the World Series on TV a couple of times. Guy swings a hell of a bat.”

“You think that’s big, you should see his ego.”

“It ain’t ego if you can back it up,” Joe said thoughtfully. “I read an article on his training routine one time. That’s one guy who works his butt off. And that was in the off-season. I’d hate to see what he does when he’s playing.”

Becka hesitated a beat. “He doesn’t anymore. He got hurt. That’s why he’s here instructing.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s right.” Joe drove for a moment. “Boy, what a drag.”

“What happened?” Nellie asked.

“Car accident.”

“That’s so sad.”

The tug of sympathy Becka felt caught her by surprise. It was sad, she realized, both for the sport, which had lost one of its superstars, and Duvall himself, who had so nearly lost everything. However much he might annoy her, a huge part of his life had been snatched from him, she thought slowly. What did a person do after that? What else could possibly come close?

HE LIKED MORNINGS best. Perhaps it came from growing up on the farm, getting up before dawn to feed the stock. Perhaps it came from his early playing years, when the morning was the only time he had to himself. Maybe it was purely constitutional. In any case, he had always woken up chirping with the birds.

Mace leaned an arm on the cracked red vinyl seat of the diner booth, looking across the Formica tabletop to where Sammy Albonado sat hunched over his coffee cup. It was hard to be sure, but he thought that Sammy’s eyes had actually opened a fraction now that the caffeine was hitting.

Some people were morning people and some people weren’t.

The waitress sauntered up to refill their mugs. “You’re a goddess, Bernice,” Sammy said without looking up.

“Don’t mention it.” She set down the pot and pulled out her order pad. “What’ll it be, boys?” she asked, pen poised.

“Three eggs over easy, fried ham, and a bagel,” Sammy ordered.

Bernice didn’t write, she just stared at him.

Sammy shifted in his seat. Seconds passed by. “What?” he burst out pugnaciously.

“Your wife called. Reminded me your last cholesterol test was 290.”

“She what?” he yelped. “Oh, come on, it was a little high, but give me a break. The woman gives me porridge for breakfast. Porridge.” Sammy gave a pained look, whether over the idea of the cereal or over actually opening his eyes, Mace couldn’t tell. “Now she’s cutting me off at my favorite diner? I should never have brought her here.”

“So you’re telling me that after the doctor’s warnings and all the worrying your poor wife is doing, you’d rather order the heart attack special than eat what’s good for you?” Bernice folded her arms over her chest and gave him a disapproving stare.

Tinny honky-tonk music played on the mini-jukebox a few tables down. Gradually, Sammy’s belligerent look faded into sheepishness. “No.” He cleared his throat. “I’ll just have orange juice, toast, and uh,” he flinched at Bernice’s stare. “Oatmeal.”

Bernice kept a straight face. “There’s hope for you yet, Sammy Albonado.” She patted him sympathetically and turned to Mace. “How about for you?”

“Three eggs, scrambled with cheese, bacon, toast and orange juice,” Mace rattled off, enjoying Sammy’s anguished look. “Don’t worry, Sammy, I’ll let you smell it.”

“You’re lucky I don’t run you out of town, Duvall,” Sammy muttered, glowering as Bernice walked away with his order. “Woman’s worse than the drill sergeant I had in the army. I oughtta start going to Denny’s. That’d show her.” He added creamer and three packets of sugar to his coffee cup and stirred until the spoon clanked against the porcelain.

“So whatdja think about the game last night?” he asked. “We hammered that Brooklyn team.”

Mace watched him drink and tried not to wince. “I think you’ve got some talent here. They’re rough, though.” He took a swallow of his black coffee, strong and unsweetened, just as he liked it. “They need a lot of work.” And he was the last guy in a position to give it to them. It was a damn-fool idea, one that he’d decided the night before to give up. All he had to do now was figure out how to break the news to Sammy, who was nodding wisely at him.

“Settling ’em down is what A ball is for. Half the time, they’re just here to grow up enough that they can focus on the game.” Sammy stirred his coffee again. “I figure you can be a good influence on them. Steady ’em down, especially Morelli.”

He wasn’t a stable pony, Mace thought, glancing out the window. He felt a surge of annoyance toward Stan, and then at himself for agreeing to be in this spot. He was damned if he’d take a job just because someone in the organization pulled strings for him. The thing to do was quit and go back to Florida, leave the spot for someone who wanted it. He’d do some fishing, surf a little, maybe play a little golf.

And go back to going quietly mad in his sprawling beach house by the sea.

He tuned back in to Sammy, who was still talking.

“I don’t know, Sammy, I’ve been thinking about this and I just don’t know. These kids need to be taught by—”

“By a champ, and here’s what I’ve got planned,” Sammy said. “We work on batting practice and go to fielding.”

“Sammy, that’s great, but I’m not the guy—”

“I know you’re not here for the fielding drills this time, but I figure it doesn’t hurt to overlap assignments.”

Mace looked Sammy in the eye; Sammy looked back. Mace gave up. When he’d been a player, Sammy had been famous for his single-minded focus on the game. Obviously, he’d gotten it in his head that Mace was the right man for the job and wasn’t about to take a hint. Mace prided himself on dealing straight with people, but he also knew when it was time to throw in the towel. Maybe it would be easier to just write a resignation letter and do it that way.

“All the game reports and player files are in the top drawer of my cabinet.” Sammy stopped to sip his coffee. “Ask Becka for a look at their training records if you want.”

“Where’d you find that one, anyway?” Mace asked idly, as the memory of green eyes and luminous skin vaulted into his mind. He’d been out with plenty of beautiful women in his time, but something about Becka Landon lingered in his imagination.

Maybe he was being too hasty about this quitting thing.

“Where’d I find who, Becka?” Sammy asked as Bernice set their breakfasts on the table. “The Boston College trainer recommended her. Our guy came down with carpal tunnel so we had to find a sub at the start of the season. She’s top-notch.”

Mace gave him a skeptical look before digging into his eggs. “How is she with the players?”

Sammy stared at Mace’s plate with starving orphan eyes. “I’ll give you five bucks if you slip me a slice of bacon,” he offered. When Mace just looked at him, Sammy sighed and began slathering jelly on a piece of dry toast. “They call her Attila behind her back, and Florence Nightingale to her face, if that gives you a clue. She’s a demon in the weight room. These boys are in better condition this year than any team I’ve ever had before.” He bit into the toast.

“They’re probably pushing themselves to impress her.”

Sammy chewed thoughtfully, then shook his head and swallowed. “Nah. At first, maybe, but every time one of them tries to hit on her, she gives them the brush-off. I saw her once, acted like a third-grade teacher would at one of her kids feeding her a line. Didn’t even bother to get on her high horse. She just laughed. Cooled him right down.”

It would take a lot more than a simple brush-off to cool him down if he made a pass at her, Mace decided, remembering the unsteady feel of her pulse under his fingers. “You’re not concerned with having her in the clubhouse? Breaking the players’ concentration?”

Sammy shrugged. “We’re only two games out of second place. They’re playing hard and they’re improving. What more do you want?”

A certain curvy redhead wrapped around him naked, Mace thought before he could block it. It had been a long time since a woman had climbed into his head like Becka had. A slow grin stole over his face as he remembered her provocative pout. Maybe he’d drop by and see if he could worm loose her phone number before he left. For years he’d been tagged with a rep for scoring with women. Maybe it was time that he actually earned it.

Starting with the delectable Ms. Landon.

BECKA SAT at her desk in the training room, updating player records, absently wrapping a twist of red hair around her finger.

“Got a minute?”

She recognized the slow drawl even before she glanced up to see Mace leaning against the doorway to the locker room. The quick frisson of excitement that whisked through her had her scowling. It had only been a few months since she’d unloaded her cheating bum of a boyfriend. The last thing she needed was to get caught up in more trouble on two legs, and Mace Duvall definitely qualified as trouble. Okay, maybe she’d felt bad about his situation earlier that morning, but too much sympathy could be a dangerous thing. Be too sympathetic to a jungle cat and you might just wind up being a snack, she reflected.

“What do you want?” she asked briefly. “I’m working.”

“Looks like my timing’s perfect,” he said easily. “Sammy said you could review the training records with me.”

She ignored a flutter somewhere in the vicinity of her solar plexus. Sports trainers weren’t supposed to have flutters on the job. “I’ll need time to finish this report first.”

“That’s fine,” he said equably, not moving.