Be My Baby Tonight
Read Be My Baby Tonight Online
Authors: Kasey Michaels
Tags: #romance, #love story, #baseball, #babies, #happy ending, #funny romance, #bestselling
Kasey Michaels
Publishing History
Print edition published by Zebra Books
Copyright 2002 by Kathryn A. Seidick
Digital Edition published by Kathryn A. Seidick at
Smashwords 2013
Cover design by Tammy Seidick Design,
www.tammyseidickdesign.com
Digital formatting by
A Thirsty Mind
All rights reserved. No part of this book, except in
the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or
reviews, may be reproduced in any form by any means, including
information storage and retrieval systems, without prior written
permission from the author.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters,
places, and incidents are either products of the author’s
imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual
events, locales, business establishments, or persons, living or
dead, is entirely coincidental.
The scanning, uploading, and distributing of this
book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission
of the copyright owner is illegal and punishable by law. Please
purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not
participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted
materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
To my father, Eddie Charles,— the only man I know
who
can keep tabs on games on two television sets,
monitor a third on the radio,
and do a crossword puzzle,
all at the same time —
who gifted me with his passion for all sports.
I love you, Dad.
Table of
Contents
Michaels
Now Available as Digital Editions:
Kasey’s “Alphabet” Regency Romance Classics
The Tenacious Miss Tamerlane
The Playful Lady Penelope
The Haunted Miss Hampshire
The Belligerent Miss Boynton
The Lurid Lady Lockport
The Rambunctious Lady Royston
The Mischievous Miss Murphy
Moonlight Masquerade
A Difficult Disguise
The Savage Miss Saxon
The Ninth Miss Noddenly
, a novella
The Somerville Farce
The Wagered Miss Winslow
Kasey’s Historical Regencies
A Masquerade in the Moonlight
Indiscreet
Escapade
Kasey’s Contemporary Romances
Can’t Take My Eyes Off Of You
Too Good To Be True
Love To Love You Baby
Be My Baby Tonight
One time I got pulled over at four A.M. I was fined
seventy-five dollars for being intoxicated and
four
hundred for being with the Phillies.
— Bob Uecker
(former Phillies ballplayer)
There comes a time in every man’s life,
and I’ve had plenty of them.
— Casey Stengel
(former Yankees manager)
I think everybody gets caught up in
superstitions.
But I don’t put much stock in them—knock on
wood.
— Jim Deshaies
Minnesota Twins pitcher
The sun shone brightly, with a better than
average breeze blowing out to right, making it a good day at the
plate for a left-handed hitter.
The stands were full for the Sunday afternoon
home game, because it was July, and because the Phillies were
actually still in the race after the All–Star break. Usually, they
were pretty well out of it by late June. Hell, there had been years
when they had been crossed off by the sports columnists before
spring training was over.
If they won today, they would only be two
games out of first.
Phillies catcher Tim “the Tiger” Trehan stood
in the on–deck circle, swinging his weighted bat, watching the
reliever’s windup, as the guy was newly traded from the American
League, and this was the first time the Phillies had seen him pitch
other than a single inning during spring training.
Good move to first, Tim decided as the
pitcher stepped off and sidearmed the ball to the first baseman,
making Dusty Johnson dive back to the bag. What the hell was Dusty
thinking? With one out, a long fly ball would score a run. Nobody
could make the hotshot, base-stealing rookie realize that making
the second out at second was never a good deal for anyone.
Tim smiled as Dusty got up, not bothering to
dust himself off, because what would be the point? Dusty attracted
dirt like a magnet collected iron filings, and had been given the
nickname Dusty only because Charles Shultz had already named one of
his
Peanuts
characters Pigpen.
Tim’s grin widened as his manager, Sam Kizer,
his face beefsteak red, hung on the dugout railing and yelled to
the first-base coach to by damn keep Dusty’s ass glued on first or
he’d—Sam shut up before he said the words Tim was pretty sure he’d
heard before, because the manager had recently begun an anger
management course, at the request of the team owners.
Tim’s head went up as Rich Craig popped to
shallow left, making the second out, and leaving Jeff Kolecki stuck
at third, Dusty still hanging on first. The first-base coach had
probably grabbed Dusty by the uniform belt, to keep him from trying
to tag up and take second. The kid was fast, but nobody was that
fast.
Two out, runners at the corners, and Tim was
up. Bottom of the eighth, down six to five, and the Braves were
sure to bring in their ace closer in the ninth, planning to shut
the door on the Phillies’ comeback that had begun in the sixth,
when they had scored those five runs after Tim’s lead-off
double.
It was time. It was his time. It was what
he’d been born to do, all he’d ever wanted to do.
Tapping his bat on the ground to knock the
doughnut weight free, Tim then stepped to the plate, oblivious to
the yells from the stands, the blowing horns, the waving white
towels, the word
Charge!
flashing on the screen next to the
scoreboard.
“A real bitch having to strap on your gear in
a hurry after making the last out,” Tony Rodriguez, the Atlanta
Braves catcher, said, lifting his mask to grin at Tim.
“Nah, Tone,” Tim said, smiling back at him,
because the two men were friends. “The bitch is standing at the
plate with your jock strap flapping, watching three runs come
across after I land one in the right field bleachers.”
“In your dreams, Trehan,” Rodriguez said with
a laugh, pulling down the mask once more as he folded himself into
his crouch behind the plate.
Tim went into his usual ritual, born in
Little League, and never varied. He put out the barrel of the bat,
ready to draw an imaginary line across the center of the plate.
Except he wasn’t holding a bat.
He was holding a crutch. And his left leg was
in a metal brace from ankle to thigh.
“Time!” he called out, stepping out of the
batter’s box as he wiped at his eyes. He looked at his bat. It was
a bat again. No brace on his leg.
But his right arm was in a cast, just the way
it had been last September.
What the hell?
He went back over to the on-deck circle,
grabbed the pine tar rag, made a business out of rubbing down his
bat before returning to the batter’s box.
Okay, the bat was still a bat. And the cast
was gone.
This was good. This was very good.
Tim took two quick half swings before cocking
the bat over his left shoulder, another ritual, then looked to the
pitcher’s mound.
And there stood Jim Harris, leaning forward,
his gaze locked on the catcher’s, shaking off a pitch.
Thing was, Jim was wearing a wedding
gown.
White one. With a big skirt and a veil and
everything. His mitt was gone, and he was holding a bouquet of
white roses.
“Time!” Tim called again, holding up his arm
as he stepped out once more.
“Hey,” Rodriguez said, standing up. “You
thinking Jimbo’s going to get too old to pitch, waiting on
you?”
“Funny, Tony,” Tim said, blinking. “I’ve got
something in my eye.” He looked out at the mound, and there was
Harris, in his uniform again. “I’m okay now.”
“Play ball,” the umpire said, pushing up at
his chest protector as he hunched behind Rodriguez.
Tim took two more quick half swings, cocked
the hat, then trained his gaze on Harris. He figured a curve ball,
high and tight, for the first pitch. And he was ready for it.
What he wasn’t ready for was the baby—a
grinning, giggling, arm-waving baby
—that came winging
through the air, released by Harris, and heading straight for the
plate.
“
No!”
Tim yelled, Jackknifing to a
sitting position in his bed, his eyes still closed, his arms stuck
out in front of him to catch the baby. “No!”
“Tim? Tim! Hey, Timmy-boy, wake up. Come on,
wake up now.”
Tim opened his eyes as Dusty Johnson shook
him by the shoulder. He blinked in the light Dusty had turned on
between the two beds, looked at the rookie standing there in his
BVD’s and Superman shirt, his bright red hair standing on end like
a rooster’s.
Dropping his head into his hands, trying to
control his breathing, Tim said succinctly, “Shit.”
“The dream again?” Dusty asked, heading for
the hotel room’s small refrigerator and pulling out a bottle of
grape juice. “Man, and you’re supposed to be some sorta calmin’
influence on me? That’s the third time this week.”
Tim stacked his pillows behind him and sat
back. “Put a sock in it, Dusty,” he said, glancing at the clock. It
was five in the morning, and he was sharing a hotel room in
Pittsburgh with a guy who wore Superman T-shirts. And drank grape
juice, for crying out loud.
Damn Sam and his psychology classes, which
had ended with the veterans rooming with the rookies on the road.
Rich Craig wouldn’t even mention a bad dream. Hell, he’d have slept
right through it, and had done so for most of last season.
Or had he?
“Dusty, toss me a can of Coke, okay?” he
said, quickly popping the top when he caught it. “Rich ever talk to
you about... you know? My dreams?”
Dusty shook his head as he returned to his
own bed, sat down cross-legged, and chugged half his Yoohoo. “Naw.
Just said you get antsy once in a while, that’s all. He figured I
could handle it.”
“And can you? Handle it, that is?”
“Sure,” Dusty said, finishing off his drink.
“I’m used to gettin’ up early. Do the milkin’, you know? You okay
now?”
Tim rubbed a hand across his forehead,
realized that his breathing had returned to normal. “Yeah, I am.
Thanks.”
“No problem. Which one was it? The crutch
again? The weddin’ gown? I like that one. Pay down real cash money,
I would, to see Jimmy Harris in a weddin’ dress. Don’t think I’d
like to see a baby come wingin’ at me, though. Does the baby say
anythin’? You know? What does the baby say? Da-Da? Or
maybe—
duck!”
Tim put down his Coke, pressed both hands
against his temples. “It was all three of them. First time that
ever happened. It’s getting worse, a lot worse. I thought it would
get better, but it just keeps getting
worse.”
“Oh, man, that sucks, don’t it? All of them?
You know, maybe you oughta talk to the skipper. He’s doin’ all that
psychology stuff now. Maybe he’d know why you keep havin’ these
dreams.”
Tim snorted. “Sam? You want me to talk to
Sam? Cripes, Dusty, the man thinks anger control means throwing
only one bat out onto the field and not his usual half dozen.
Besides, nobody’s getting me on a couch.”
Dusty nodded. “Because you know why you’re
havin’ the dreams, right?”
“Right,” Tim said, wide awake, knowing he
wouldn’t sleep for the rest of the night. And, since it must be
close to milking time somewhere in Dusty’s internal dock, if the
kid wanted to talk, they would talk.