Drive You Wild: A Love Between the Bases Novel (31 page)

Keep reading for an excerpt from the first book in
USA Today
bestselling author Jennifer Bernard’s Love Between the Bases series,

ALL OF ME

Playing for the Kilby Catfish is hotshot pitcher Caleb Hart’s last chance to salvage his career after a major league meltdown. But the day of his opener with the minor league team, Caleb strikes out with the gorgeous woman who is delivering a petition to run the unruly Catfish out of town. Now, to stay in the lineup, Caleb will need to score big with the feisty brunette he can’t keep out of his thoughts.

After the nasty lies Sadie Merritt’s rich ex-boyfriend spread about her all over town, she’s lucky to have a job at all. She can’t afford to screw it up by falling for the player who is supposed to be helping her change the image of the fun-loving Catfish. But that’s easier said than done when Caleb’s voice alone is enough to make her pulse race. And when he surprises her with a mind-blowing kiss, she knows there’s no turning back.

I
N
C
ALEB
H
ART’S
first start as a Kilby Catfish, he set a minor league record—and not the good kind. By the top of the fourth inning he’d given up seven runs, five homers, three walks, and nearly taken El Paso Chihuahua Steve Hunter’s nose off with a wayward fastball. Sweat was running down his back in rivulets of failure, and under his brand-new cap, with its cartoonish blue catfish logo, his head felt as if it might spontaneously ignite.

He stepped off the mound and swiped his arm across his forehead. Mike Solo, the catcher, called for time, the pitching coach jogged onto the field, and suddenly his new infielders surrounded him. Apparently they thought he needed some support. What he really needed was . . . well, he hadn’t quite figured that out yet.

“You can take this guy,” said the tattooed first baseman, Sonny Barnes. “He can’t hit the changeup for shit.”

Caleb didn’t bother mentioning that he couldn’t
throw
the changeup for shit.

“Just keep ’em down,” said Mitch, the pitching coach, clearly some kind of baseball genius. “And get ’em over the plate.”

“That’s right, you’re overthinking it,” said the fast-talking shortstop, who looked about twelve. “I saw you pitch with the Twins. Over three games you had an ERA of 2.78, average of five strikeouts per game. ’Course, then you had that crazy fourth game. Whatever you do, don’t think about
that game
. Do what you did during the first three. Forget the fourth. Easy peasy.”

Caleb stared at the smaller player, trying to remember the last time he’d heard a baseball player say “easy peasy.” Never, that’s when. And why’d he have to bring up the worst game of his entire life?

Solo, the only guy on the team Caleb had played with before, gave a wolfish grin and a wink. “Yeah, easy peasy, big guy. The natives are getting restless. And since it’s Texas, they’re probably armed.”

Caleb looked at the half-full stands, where the crowd of maybe three thousand diehards was starting to shout catcalls. For a painful moment he remembered the noise level at Target Field in Minneapolis. It was like comparing a 747 jet to a mosquito. But the Twins had traded him to the San Diego Friars, and the Friars had sent him down to their Triple A team in Kilby, and here he was. Blowing it.

The pitching coach headed back to the dugout, with an air of having done all he could. Caleb glared at the remaining players. “What is this, a damn committee meeting?”

The baby shortstop looked offended. “Excuse me for trying to help you resurrect the correct firing of your synapses.”

Caleb looked incredulously at the other Catfish. “Is this kid for real?”

“He was studying brains before he signed on,” explained Mike Solo.

“Not brains. Neurophysiology,” piped up the shortstop as everyone scattered, jogging back to their positions.

Christ
. He’d heard the Catfish were a little . . . odd. So far that seemed to be an understatement.

Caleb settled himself back on the mound, inhaling a deep breath of humid, grass-scented air.
It’s just a baseball game. Pretend you’re back home, when baseball was the only fun thing in life. When you ruled the diamond, any diamond.

Solo called for the fastball, low and away. Good call, since an inside pitch might hurt someone, the way he was pitching, and his changeup wasn’t doing shit today. He went into his windup, lined the seams up just right in his hand, and let fly.

Boom
. Home run number six cracked off the bat with a sound like a detonation. Maybe it was his career blowing up, come to think of it.

Just to torture himself, Caleb swiveled to watch the ball soar high overhead, winging toward the right field bleachers like a bird on speed. Lowering his gaze, he caught the shortstop’s reproachful stare. The Chihuahua batter cruised around the bases. The guy ought to send him a thank-you note, the way he’d served up that pitch with extra biscuits and gravy.

Someone cleared his throat behind him. He turned to find Duke, the Catfish manager, facing him, hand outstretched. He wanted the ball. Wanted him out of the game. But as much as Caleb hated giving up home runs, he hated giving up the ball more. How could he turn things around if he got yanked from the game?

“I’m just trying to get my rhythm going, Duke,” Caleb said in a low voice.

“And how’s that working out for you?”

Sarcasm. Ouch. “My last pitch had to have been in the upper nineties.”

“Yup. It sure went over the fence fast.” Duke, a barrel-chested former catcher, didn’t sugarcoat things. “I’m taking you out before your ERA looks like a Texas heat wave. Let’s talk after the game.”

A sickening sensation made Caleb’s gut clench. In the minor leagues, being called into the manager’s office was either good news—you were being called up to the
major league team—or bad news of a variety of kinds. Caleb was a hundred percent sure he wasn’t being called up.

“Nothing bad,” Duke assured him. “Just want to talk.”

Caleb nodded, and handed him the ball. It felt like handing over a piece of his heart. He needed the ball, needed to pitch. Because the only chance he had in life was when he had that ball in his hands.

Walking toward the dugout, he caught a “shake it off” from the third baseman, along with a rumble of boos from the stands. His replacement, Dan Farrio, ran onto the field from the bullpen. Farrio was, theoretically, his rival for one of the spots on the Friars pitching staff. But after today that rivalry might be history.

From someone’s radio, he heard the color announcer saying, “We’re checking the history books, but onetime blue-chip prospect Caleb Hart just had possibly the worst first start ever on a Triple A team. He should have been pulled after the second inning, but the Catfish bullpen’s about as ragged as my kid’s blankie. If the Caleb Hart trade was supposed to add some juice to the Friars pitching staff, maybe they should have gone with a shot of the cactus instead. How much you want to bet Crush Taylor’s squeezing the limes already?”

At the mention of the owner of the Catfish, Caleb groaned. No one cared what most minor league owners thought, since the major league front office called all the shots. But Crush Taylor was a legend, a Hall of Fame pitcher who had purchased the Catfish shortly after his retirement. Not to mention that he was Caleb’s childhood idol.

He’d just had a record-setting horrendous start for the team owned by his childhood idol. And he’d been lectured by a shortstop barely out of high school. Could things get any worse?

He reached the dugout and grabbed a drink of water at the cooler. Man, it was hot today. All he wanted to do was hit the showers and get the hell out of this stadium. But since it was his first game, he ought to stick around and support the team. Before he could sink onto the bench, Duke caught his eye and gave him a jerk of the head, releasing him to retire to the clubhouse.

First break he’d gotten all day. He seized the opportunity and stalked out of the dugout. He’d get to know his fellow Catfish sometime when he didn’t want to knock someone’s head off.

As soon as he entered the rabbit’s warren of back corridors that wound through the stadium, his tightly maintained control disappeared. He ripped off his sweat-soaked uniform shirt as if he could ditch the sense of failure along with it.

“Fuck,” he bit out, slamming a fist against the wall. “Get it together, Hart.” He usually kept his emotions under tight wrap, but . . .
damn it
. If he screwed this up, he’d be letting down his sister and brothers, and they’d all been through enough. His entire family was depending on him, and he’d just given up six home runs in about five minutes. His frustration boiled over.

“What the fuck is wrong with you? You can’t afford another fucking fuckup.” Veering around the corner toward the home clubhouse, he nearly tripped over someone standing at the double doors that guarded the entrance.

The someone pushed an elbow into his stomach, making the breath whoosh out of him. It wasn’t a hard blow, probably accidental, but still, not what he normally encountered on his way to the shower.

Struggling to get his breath back—and his composure—he steadied his attacker. A woman, a young one. Though he still hadn’t gotten a good look at her, she felt soft and shapely under his hands.

“Geez, you should watch where you’re going.” Her voice had a drawling, husky cadence; a local girl. She stepped out of his grasp and spun to face him. He received a quick impression of brilliant but wary dark eyes, quicksilver slimness, and a haphazard ponytail. He was six feet five inches, but he didn’t tower over her as much as he did most girls. He guessed she was at least five-ten, with a lanky, slim build, all arms and legs. She held a manila folder filled with papers about to spill out. “You must be one of those crazy Catfish players.”

“What clued you in? The uniform or the overuse of profanity?” He gave her a rueful smile, remembering his exuberant cursing. He should have waited until he was
inside
the clubhouse, but he hadn’t expected to run into anyone. Let alone someone like her.

Something sparked in her eyes, and her lips quirked. “Well, I guess it must be the profanity, since I don’t see much in the way of a uniform.” She glanced down his torso. He remembered he was bare-chested, having ditched his shirt.

“Yeah, well . . . had to let off a little steam.”

“So that was you cussing up a storm? I thought I was about to get trampled like a barrel of grapes.”

“No trampling, I promise.” From the gleam in her eye, she was probably teasing, but just in case, he took a step back. Again her gaze flicked down his chest, as if she couldn’t help it. “I’m not coming on to you either. Too sweaty. But if you want to hang around until after my shower . . .”

He said that mostly to get a rise out of her, since something told him she’d be fun to get all riled up.

But her face changed, the playful sparkle vanishing. She took a big step back and narrowed her eyes at him. “No, I do not. I want to deliver this message and get on with my day. Can you tell me where to find Mr. Ellington?”

Ellington—that was Duke’s last name. Most baseball guys had a nickname, though not many were named after jazz greats. What did this girl want with Duke?

“He’s busy bossing around baseball players. I guarantee he wouldn’t want to be interrupted.” He folded his arms over his chest. Excellent. Now those lively dark eyes were taking in his forearms as well as his torso. Usually, at this point, a girl would do something to signal her willingness to spend intimate time with the hotshot pitcher who’d gotten half a million dollars for signing with the Twins.

Not this girl. “I can see you want to be difficult, which is exactly what I would expect, given the contents of this document.” She tapped the folder. “Fine. In the interests of moving on with our lives—you to your shower and probably a six-pack and a groupie—why don’t you give me a hint about where Mr. Ellington’s office might be? I’ll wait for him there.”

Holy RBI. This girl could certainly talk. Her face moved as she spoke, her eyes danced; every bit of her seemed alive and in motion. She looked to be in her early twenties and had a sort of student-gypsy vibe about her. Her lips curved in a way that suggested she liked to laugh . . . and talk, and tease. She wore a tight white T-shirt molded to high, pretty breasts, and a flowery skirt that ended just above her knees. And red cowboy boots. Damn. How could he resist red cowboy boots? Those things ought to be banned.

He plucked the folder from her hand. “Got a pen? You seem like the kind of girl who would have a pen.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? And yes. But no. Why?”

“Want to clarify any of that?” He raised an eyebrow
at her, while trying to get a surreptitious peek at the typing on the document inside the folder.
Whereas we, the residents of Kilby County,
it began.

She snatched the folder back. “Yes, I have a pen. No, you can’t write on the petition. And why do you want to?”

He put on a wounded expression. “I was going to draw you a map. These passageways can be superconfusing. It’s completely understandable that you got lost and found yourself at the place where the guys get undressed.” He winked, watching the flush rise in her cheeks. Yes, she was definitely fun to get riled up.

Then her words sank in. “Petition? What petition?” He tried to take the folder back, but she whisked it out of his reach. He barely missed grabbing her breast instead.

Before he could apologize, she stepped back with an exaggerated gasp of outrage. “There you go again. You Catfish really are a menace
to decent society. Just like the petition says.”

“What?”

“That’s right.” She waved the folder. “They say you’re completely out of control.”

Caleb had heard the talk about the Catfish too. They liked to party a little too much, and they indulged in the occasional bar-clearing brawl, but then, they were fun-loving young baseball players, so what could you expect? Anyway, it wasn’t his problem. He intended to put Kilby in his rearview mirror as soon as possible. “I wouldn’t know. Can’t say that I care either.”

“So the stories are true? Did you guys really fill the community pool with rubber catfish? I heard the senior exercise group had quite a scare and had to call the paramedics.”

He snorted.

She shook her head sadly. “Things sure have changed since I came to games as a kid. And to think I thought it was safe here for a nice, civilized girl like me. Next time I’ll make sure to bring a bodyguard.”

A
bodyguard
? Now that was taking it a little too . . . He caught the gleam of mischief she hid under the sweep of her eyelashes. Damn. He’d been right before. She
was
teasing him.

Whether it was the incredible frustration of the last two hours, on top of the preceding frustration of being sent down, then traded—throw in the never-ending worry about his family—whatever the cause, all his emotions boiled over in that moment. In two quick steps he crowded her against the wall—no contact, just heat and sweat and closeness.

He growled in her ear, his lips almost brushing the delicate skin there. “There’s only one way to find out if the stories are true. But you have to want it. Bad. You have to be so hot for it, you come chasing after me and beg for it. Then you have to prove you can handle it. Put that in your petition.”