High Heat (Hard Hitters #1) (15 page)

She shrugged. “You know how my dad is. He has ‘views’ about women in sports.”

“His views are dumb.”

She laughed. “You won’t get any argument from me.”

“What are you going to do about it?”

Her eyes popped open. “Do about it? There isn’t much I can do about it. It’s his team. Someday Paul will run things completely.” Her voice trailed off. The passing of the torch someday was inevitable, but she didn’t like to think about that.

“Will Paul ever really be in charge as long as your dad is alive?”

She didn’t answer that question. She didn’t need to. They both knew the answer already.

“Is that what you want to do? Spend your life waiting for him to pass so that you can finally get to do the kind of work you want to do?”

“That’s awful!” She sat up. “That’s not what I’m doing.”

“Shh, I didn’t mean it that way. I know you love your dad and you don’t
want
him to be gone, but you can’t have the job you want in baseball working for the Thrashers while he’s alive.”

She crossed her legs and stared at the ground. Plucking a blade of grass, she split it with her fingertip. Just like that, Tom had put into words what she’d been trying for so long not to think about.

“I do a great job in PR. My dad realizes that.”

“I’m sure he does.”

“Someday he’ll realize he’s being unfair and give me a chance.” She’d been holding on to that hope for so long, but when she spoke it aloud, it sounded hollow.

“Wrong. His refusal to give you the job you want has nothing to do with your performance, so turning in a great performance won’t accomplish anything. He doesn’t want to give you the job because you’re a woman. Anyone who’s been around you for more than an hour knows you have a lot to offer a club, if he’d let you out of the freaking marketing department.”

She shook her head. She knew her dad better than Tom did. “Someday, my dad will realize his mistake and give me the chance. I grew up here. My grandfather founded this team. Dudleys have been running the team for generations.”

“You’ve been a big fish in a small pond for a long time. Want to try being a goldfish in the ocean instead? You ought to move on. Find a team somewhere that can appreciate what you can do for them.”

He said nothing about them being together. Nothing about them having a future. She knew they didn’t have a future, but it hurt to hear him discuss it so cavalierly. He didn’t seem to care whether she ended up a thousand miles away. Was she the only one who got a catch in her throat whenever she thought about him being called up?

Of course she was. For him, getting called up would be all upside.

“I don’t see the major leagues hiring a lot of women in the front office, much less the coaching staff.”

“No, but other minor league teams are more open-minded than your dad. There are female general managers—female coaches, too.”

“I know that.” For Pete’s sake, did he think she hadn’t noticed? She threw down the shredded blade of grass. Every time a woman was promoted to a job in a minor league team, she wanted to cheer and weep at the same time. Cheer for the pioneering woman’s success, but weep because it wasn’t her. Damn it. Tears pricked behind her eyes. She hated women who cried all the time. She certainly didn’t want to turn into one.

He chuckled. “Hey, don’t get mad at me. I just hate to think of you working here for the rest of your life, doing something you hate, when you could be somewhere else, being a manager or something.”

She shook her head and dredged up a smile. It wouldn’t be like that. Her father would see the light. She knew it. Despite all his flaws, she loved him, and he loved her. He’d raised her and Paul on his own after their mom died. She wouldn’t betray him. Besides, her life had revolved around the Thrashers as long as she’d been alive. She couldn’t imagine another way of life. “You’ve got your own things to worry about. The Sox are going to call you up any day. Worry about that, not about me. I’ll be fine.”

“If you say so.” He reached across to take her hand in his as the clicking of a camera shattered the moment.

They looked up to see a twenty-something guy in a Purdue baseball cap snapping their picture again. “Oh my God. Tom Cord! My buddies are never going to believe this. Can I get your autograph?”

Tom pulled his hand back and nodded. “Sure.” She could tell he wasn’t thrilled at having their moment interrupted, but he took the paper the guy scrounged out of his pocket and signed it anyway.

“Hey, you mind taking a picture of me and him together?” The guy held his cell phone out to Sarah.

“Sure.” She stood and took the camera, snapping a couple of quick pics when the man threw an arm around Tom’s shoulders and beamed.

“Thanks.” The man continued to hover, shaking his hand and asking how his elbow was doing.

“Good.”

“Oh, man. You think you’ll get called up to Chicago next week? Get the hell out of Plainview, man. My sophomore roommate was from there. What a shithole.”

Tom’s smile went tight. “Can I introduce you to Sarah Dudley? She works for the Thrashers. She’s my girlfriend.”

Sarah’s eyes nearly boggled at the description, but she smiled politely as the man apologized.

“Sorry, man! I didn’t know you were the old man’s daughter or nothing. Man, nobody’s going to believe this.” When neither Tom nor Sarah responded, his smile dimmed a bit. “Guess I’d better get going.” He bumbled away, leaving an awkward silence in his wake.

“Girlfriend?”

“Yeah, well, he was pissing me off, the way he was talking.”

“You’re coming to Plainview’s defense. Could it be starting to grow on you?”

“No, but some of its leading citizens might be.” He caught her hand and pressed a kiss to the back of it. He started throwing the remains of the meal back into the picnic basket. “Come on, I think it’s time for phase two of our date.”

“Phase two?”

“Where I take you back to your apartment and make love to you until you can’t see straight.” The rough timbre of his voice sent an electric charge through her middle.

“Oh.” Her voice came out breathless. Nothing could make her forget her troubles faster than the prospect of a night in bed with Tom. “I think I like phase two.”

“I thought you would.”

“Pitching biomechanics.”

Sarah typed the phrase into her search engine and looked at the top result: US Institute of Sports Medicine. The name rang a bell. They’d worked with some of the biggest names in the game to fine-tune their throwing motions, increase velocity, and safeguard them from injury.

Her conversation with Tom the other night had gotten her thinking. He was clearly worried about the possibility of injury, despite the reckless attitude he put on.

Her eyes flickered up from her screen to make sure she was alone. Ridiculous. Did she expect Tom to be sneaking up on her in her office, looking over her shoulder? No doubt he was at the gym or going for a run.

She wasn’t ready for him to know about her project yet. She had to gather information first, and then maybe she could frame it in some way that wouldn’t put his back up instantly. Pulling up the institute’s site, she scanned the home page, reading the testimonials of many of the athletes they’d worked with. J. P. Dunwoody bragged his fastball had gained five miles an hour after working with the institute. Barton McNabb had always been plagued by nagging shoulder injuries, but since they’d fine-tuned his motions two years ago, he hadn’t missed a game due to injury. The general manager of the Astros, one of the few execs to embrace the new science of biomechanics, swore that working with the Institute had added years of longevity to some of their starters.

This was
exactly
what Tom needed. Experts who could work with him to protect him from injury, all the while helping him throw even better and harder than ever. If he refined his motions, she wouldn’t have to worry so much that each throw could be his last. No matter what happened between them as lovers, she knew that if he didn’t change, she’d worry for the rest of his career.

Now she just had to convince him.

Excitement building, she typed Tom’s name into the website’s search box. She skimmed the article that came up, a frown growing as she read. It was written by one of the institute’s pitching biomechanics experts, and it cited Tom as one of the worst mechanical pitchers in the game. There was a link to a video interview with the expert, a Dr. Latimer, a middle-aged man with thinning dark hair wearing a red polo shirt with the institute’s logo on it.

Her stomach fluttering, she clicked on the video. Dr. Latimer spoke about the resistance that many major leaguers had toward trying something new. She was about to click the video off when the interviewer asked about Tom’s injury. “I wasn’t surprised at all to see him go down with a torn UCL. The only shock is that it didn’t happen sooner.” An ache grew in her chest. The man was only saying what she already knew, but dammit.

The interviewer spoke from off camera. “But he’s looking better than ever. What do you say to those who think he should be judged by results?”

“He probably is doing well. For now. I don’t doubt his work ethic or his heart. Everybody knows Tom Cord has the fire in his belly for this game, but how long will it last? If you go back to the same suspect throwing motions that got you into trouble in the first place, it’s only a matter of time before you’re injured again. The recovery rates from a second Tommy John surgery are not good.”

Her stomach knotted. That was true. She could scarcely think of a pitcher who’d returned to be an effective pitcher after a second Tommy John surgery.

“Here’s a guy at the top of his game,” said the interviewer. “How does he get to the big leagues and have such a high level of success, and not improve his mechanics?”

“Most players and coaches are not hardwired to care whether what they’re doing will affect them five years from now,” Latimer answered. “One of his former coaches told me that he got a sick feeling in his gut every time Tom Cord took the mound, but he wasn’t going to be the one to mess with success.”

She’d heard enough. She clicked the video off, feeling queasy.

She had to talk to Tom. Maybe she was butting in where she wasn’t wanted, but she cared too much about him to let him go without even trying to fight for whatever this thing between them was. She didn’t know how it had happened, or whether her feelings were returned. Who was she kidding? They weren’t. The realization made her head bow, but she couldn’t let him go back to Chicago without at least telling him about the institute.

It was in Arizona. She jotted down the contact information to give him later. No one would want to monkey with mechanics midyear, but maybe she could talk him into a visit in the off-season.

They wouldn’t be together in the off-season, though. He’d be settling into his new life in Chicago, working out, and she’d be back here in Plainview. With luck, she’d have convinced her father to let her take on an operations role. Without luck, she’d be prepping marketing plans for next year—and wondering if she could give online dating a try.

Tom wouldn’t have to resort to online dating. Women would be all over him as soon as he arrived in Chicago.

She let her eyes close briefly. She’d known what she was getting into when she’d gotten involved with him, so why worry about that now? She’d gone to bed with him on emotion. Desire. Need. Old-fashioned lust. Loneliness. Not to mention an incredible welling of gratitude toward him for taking her side.

She hadn’t gone to bed with him because he was relationship material. Or, God forbid, husband material.

She snorted. The word “husband” didn’t belong in the same sentence with Tom’s name.

She checked the clock. Two more hours until she could head home. She’d promised to make Tom dinner tonight after the game, which she’d skipped in favor of getting some things done around the office. Tom wasn’t starting, and Tracy could take care of anything that came up.

“I’m only an average cook,” she’d warned him this morning before they’d parted on her front porch with a kiss. Actually, “average” might be generous.

“Let me make it worth your while, then. Cook me dinner, and I’ll repay you with sexual favors.” She’d been wearing only a thin nightie in the crisp morning air, but with Tom’s strong arms around her, she’d been toasty warm. And happy. Happier than she’d been in a long time.

Having no intention of passing up on sexual favors from Tom, she stopped at the IGA for a roasting chicken and some potatoes, onions, and carrots to throw on the side. She’d looked up a recipe online and it didn’t look hard. After she’d softened him up with a home-cooked meal, she’d spring the discussion of the institute on him.

How would he react?

Probably with stubbornness, at first, but she flattered herself that he was coming to trust her. When he saw that she was trying to help him and truly had his best interests at heart, he’d get over it. She knew he would.

***

“Oh my God. That was incredible.” Tom leaned back in his seat, grinning. “Sexy as hell, and she cooks too. You are my kind of woman.”

“It was no big deal.” She tried not to read too much into his words. She’d seen a slide show of his kind of woman, and she didn’t think cooking skills had been high on his must-have list. Then again, she scarcely fit into that slide show in any respect. She was some kind of weird anomaly—a challenge because she didn’t chase after him like his other girlfriends had.

What would keep him around when the challenge passed? Nothing, which was why she’d been trying to avoid thinking of the future.

Tom helped her clear the table and dried the dishes while she washed up. He did a half-assed job and it was obvious he rarely stepped in the kitchen except to get a beer out of the fridge, but he meant well and it warmed her heart. He could have played the big-shot card and skipped out on helping, but he hadn’t. Did Tiger Woods do the dishes when he had a date? Doubtful.

Tom talked about some plans he had for his new house in Chicago, but Sarah only half listened, wondering instead how to ease him into the topic of the institute.

“How’s the elbow feeling?” she said, and could have bitten her tongue when he fell into a startled silence. She concentrated on rinsing a saucepan.

“Fine.” The monosyllable didn’t encourage any further communication.

“Is it still twinging anymore?”

“No.”

She frowned at his terseness.

“You sure everything’s okay?”

“Yeah.” His face gave nothing away, but the stiff set of his shoulders made her suspicious.

“I was reading about this place in Arizona, the US Institute of Sports Medicine. Heard of it?”

“No. Should I have?” His tone was a challenge. “I’ve already got a doc. He did the surgery on my elbow.”

“Yeah, these guys aren’t surgeons. Well, some of them might be, but not the ones I wanted to talk to you about.” This was even harder than she’d expected. He wasn’t giving an inch. “They’re biomechanics experts. They’ve worked with a lot of pitchers to refine their motions and prolong their careers. It’s not all about injury, either,” she hastened to add when his face darkened. “J. P. Dunwoody said he gained five miles an hour on his fastball.”

“Please.” Tom scoffed. “J. P. Dunwoody was a bush leaguer who couldn’t find the strike zone with both hands and a flashlight most nights. I’m sure a pitch doctor could do nothing for him but improve him. I don’t need to gain five miles on my fastball. I already throw 102.”

“But for how long?”

He didn’t answer right away, wiping a plate over and over again with his towel until it gleamed. “I only need one more year. One more year to get that World Series ring. You said yourself the Sox are having a good year.”

Oh, she could throttle him. How could he think like that?

“Tom, there are a million things outside of your control. What if you get to the Series and the other pitchers suck it up? Or your offense has a bad night and doesn’t get you any runs? It’s not all up to you, Tom.” Surely he knew that. Where did this insane obstinacy come from?

“That’s rich. You were giving me a rah-rah speech the other night at the vineyard, now you’re all about managing expectations?” He threw down the towel and stuck the plate into the rack with a clatter. “I thought you believed in me.”

She gaped. “I do believe in you! But it’s not all about you, Tom. Besides, winning a World Series isn’t the only thing there is.”

“I’ve sacrificed a hell of a lot to get that ring. I had it, right
there
,” he said, stretching out his palm, “and it was taken away. I won’t lose it again. Screwing with my mechanics in this late stage of my career is too risky. I can’t do it.” He leaned forward and braced his hands on the counter’s edge. “Dammit. Why the hell did it have to happen then? I felt that pop in the fourth inning, and I knew it was over.”

“Fifth inning. You left the game in the fifth,” she explained at his look. “I was watching.”

He didn’t answer, but just stood there, looking at her. Waiting. Watching. Slowly, the truth dawned.

“Wait a minute, you tore it in the fourth inning? And you kept throwing with a torn UCL for another inning?” His silence damned him. “You could have ended your career! Are you nuts?” Her voice rose to a screech.

“I had the lead.” He didn’t meet her eye. “Our other pitchers had been struggling. I knew they couldn’t hold a lead. It was only a small tear at first. I thought I could pitch through it.” He pounded the counter, and the sound made her jump.

“You decided to keep throwing with a torn ligament, making it worse and risking permanent damage.” She had no words. She pulled her hands out of the soapy water and dried them off on a nearby towel. She leaned against the sink. Her voice fell to just above a whisper. “I know you want to win, but Tom, that’s self-destructive.”

Dear God. How much pain he must have been in. She’d been watching the game on TV that night, unable to turn away from the sight of her teenage crush on the biggest stage in baseball, on the verge of achieving what he’d dreamed of for years. She’d never suspected an injury until his manager had pulled him in the fifth.

“A World Series ring is the only thing that’s ever mattered to me. Baseball is the only thing I’m good at. I can’t quit without that ring. I won’t.”

She put one hand on his shoulder. “It’s not the only important thing in life.” What about love? What about her? She wouldn’t ask. Her pride wouldn’t let her. What if he laughed? She couldn’t stand it if he did. “You are so much more than winning.”

“Let me ask you this. You watch football, right?” The question, so out of the blue, threw her for a minute.

“Sometimes, sure.”

“What’s the first thing that comes to mind when I mention Dan Marino?”

She swallowed, determined to choose her words carefully. “He’s one of the greatest quarterbacks of all time, hands down.”

“What else?”

She knew what he was driving at, what every sports fan knew about Dan Marino. “And he never won the Super Bowl.”

“Twenty years after he retired, every time you see him mentioned in the media, he’s called the greatest quarterback to never have won the Big Game. I don’t want to be that guy, Sarah. I don’t want to be the laughingstock.”

“Tom, you’re cutting your career short. If you went to this institute, worked with them, let them tweak your form, you could probably play years longer. That’s more chances to win a World Series!”

“
If
I could ever return to top form, which is doubtful. Sarah, you know a pitcher’s throwing motion is like a golfer’s swing. We work for years to find one that works, and then we don’t mess with success. You can’t argue that I’ve had success.”

“But I worry about you.” Her voice cracked, and just like that, all the emotion she’d been working to hold back came pouring out. “I know you don’t care about what I think. I know I’ll never see you again once you get called up, but dammit, I can’t help it. I can’t stand to watch you do this to yourself. I tense up every time you go out to the mound, and every time you wince or rub your elbow, it’s like my heart goes into my throat.”

“Sarah, don’t say that. Don’t say it doesn’t matter if you care. It does matter.
You
matter. But this is one thing I can’t change.” He took on an almost pleading tone.

She swallowed, trying to give herself a moment to steady her voice. “Can’t, or won’t?”