Playing Hard (2 page)

Time to be sensible.

Like the guy she wanted. She sighed and put the empty glass down on the small, high table near her elbow. If she was going to stay, she needed another drink. Though maybe a soda first. Whoever had made the cocktail she’d just finished definitely hadn’t skimped on the alcohol. The buzz of it was warming her veins just a little too well. Not good if she wanted to be sensible, smart Amelia. One soda, one more cocktail, and then one swift getaway.

*   *   *

Maggie Jameson and Raina Easton definitely knew how to throw a party. Oliver Shields took his tequila from the bartender and turned to survey the room, taking in the heaving mass of partying New York Saints players, wives, girlfriends, and whoever else had been invited. The play-offs. The Saints had made the fucking American League Division Series for the first time in God only knew how many years. Of course, he should know, having spent the last fifteen years playing for the Saints, but after his first two tequilas had gone down fast, the statistic, one that most of the time he had to try hard to ignore, refused to come to mind easily.

He was finally going to the play-offs. Halle-fucking-lujah. He had to hand it to Alex Winters. He hadn’t liked the man when Alex had first bought the club with his two best friends, Lucas Angelo and Malachi Coulter—not only because Alex had succeeded in getting Oliver’s onetime girlfriend Maggie Jameson to become Maggie Winters—but the terrible trio knew what they were doing. This was the third season since they’d purchased the Saints from Maggie’s dad, and the team had made the goddamned play-offs.

Which was why every man and woman even remotely connected to the Saints was currently blowing off steam for one night of insane partying before it was back to the grindstone. After tonight it would be tunnel-vision focus and a lot of sweat. Eyes on the prize twenty-four seven if they were going to achieve the next seemingly impossible goal—making it to the League Championship Series and then, if the stars aligned, to the World Series.

Ollie sipped his tequila—one of the other things Raina Easton knew how to do was stock a damned good tequila in her burlesque club—and watched the crowd. Across the room he saw Maggie’s dark head next to Alex’s blond one and found himself smiling. They were good together. They worked. In the way that he and Maggie, as much as he’d never wanted to admit it, never quite had.

Damn, that was way too serious a thought for tonight. Tonight, he’d decided, was for celebrating. He’d been pretty damned dedicated this season. Practically a monk. But even monks needed to give in to temptation occasionally, and this room was just chock-full of temptation, though no one had actually caught his eye yet. Which was why he was still drinking tequila alone at the bar instead of busting a move down on the tiny dance floor with some gorgeous woman. Like Raina was with her fiancé, soon-to-be-husband, Mal Coulter. Raina was a former Broadway dancer, among other things, so she was making Malachi work hard to keep up, but the two of them were grinning at each other like fools. Next to them, Finn Castro was dancing with a short blonde Oliver didn’t recognize.

The sight soured his mood slightly. Castro had been a pain in the butt all season. A smart-ass whenever he thought he could get away with it. Temperamental. Too fond of partying. And always pushing for a chance to step into Oliver’s position. The only thing that had saved him from being traded again was the fact he’d been playing very well. Not good enough to take Oliver’s slot, but Alex had gotten more than his money’s worth. Pity Castro was such a dick. A dick who was just going to have to keep making his peace with life in the outfield. Oliver wasn’t going anywhere.

He drained his tequila, savoring the smooth burn for a minute, then decided that maybe it was time to slow down. He’d driven tonight, not wanting to break training completely. Also, if he did find some temptation to yield to, he preferred to drive them back to his place himself rather than use a driver.

Turning back to the bar, he waved at the skinny bald guy tending it and said, “Club soda,” at the exact same moment a woman slid through the crowd at the bar and ordered the same thing.

She turned to look at him and said, “Snap,” with a smile in big blue eyes almost the exact deep shade of the Saints logo. He found himself smiling back automatically. She had a pretty face, curving lips, and dimples to go with the eyes. Her hair was pulled up into some sort of messy bun arrangement at the back of her head, wisps of it coming loose around her face. In the low lighting of the bar, he couldn’t really tell what color it was … maybe blond, maybe red, maybe something in between.

The bartender slid two glasses across the bar toward them. Ollie nodded at her. “Lady’s choice.”

“Thanks,” she said and leaned forward to take the nearest glass. Her dress was sleek and black and finished north of her knees, showing off a very nice pair of legs and equally sleek black high heels, but it wasn’t the usual plunging, painted-on thing that girls who came to trawl Saints parties for talent wore. Who was she exactly?

He reached for the other glass, using the movement as an excuse to move slightly closer. “So, what has you hitting the hard stuff tonight?”

She stirred the soda with the straw. There were no rings on the slim fingers. “I could ask you the same question.”

He started to say
I’m in training
, then stopped. For once he didn’t feel like being Oliver Shields, first baseman. And his mystery companion hadn’t shown any sign of recognizing who he was. “What if I said I’m on duty?”

Her eyebrows arched slightly. “On duty? Are you security? One of the guys’ bodyguards?”

She didn’t know who he was. This could be fun. “I could tell you but then I’d have to kill you. And that would just cause problems.” He hit her with a smile. “Now I’ve told you, your turn.”

“Me? I’m an economist at Pullman Waters,” she said. “Wanna hear about the outlook for Southeast Asian currencies in the next few months?”

He nearly choked on his soda, and she burst into laughter. Deep throaty laughter that sank into his gut and spread outward and downward. Damn. His vague curiosity about her kicked itself up to
very interested
.

“Sounds fascinating.” He didn’t really know what an economist did but he was willing to find out.

“Really?” Amusement lurked in her eyes.

“’Round here the conversation revolves around baseball, so it’s something new.”

She laughed again, and his body reacted in the same way to the sound. He curled his fingers a little tighter around the glass.

“You get points for not falling asleep immediately,” she said, smiling.

“I find it hard to believe that anyone could fall asleep on you.”

She tilted her head but her smile didn’t fade. And there was a glow of mischief in those big eyes he liked. “If you’re going to flirt with me, you should tell me your name,” she said.

Damn. He didn’t feel like giving up his anonymity just yet. “Ladies first.”

“Oh no, you started this, you go first.”

There was a sudden loud cheer from the direction of the dance floor. He turned to see one of Raina’s performers balancing on Sam Basara’s shoulders. The kid—who was shaping up into a very nice pitcher—was grinning like all his Christmases had arrived at once as the girl on his shoulders did a pretty good bump and grind given her position.

“Interesting,” said his mystery woman from beside him.

He turned back to her. “These guys get a little crazy when there’s something to celebrate.”

“Oh?” She closed her lips around the straw and sipped, and he suddenly found his attention riveted by the deep pink of her mouth. He leaned slightly forward, and a hint of her perfume—something heady and rich—reached him. His gut tightened again, and his attention zeroed in on her.

Who was this girl?

“Not too crazy,” he said. Though right now he felt like getting a lot crazy. If crazy involved her.

“Everyone has to blow off steam sometime,” she said. “So what are you celebrating?” Her eyes were laughing again.

She had to be teasing him. “You don’t know? Did you crash the party or something?”

“I’m here with a friend.”

A friend. That could mean a lot of things. A flash of disappointment hit. Of course she was here with someone. But she definitely wasn’t dating any of the guys on the team. He knew all their wives and girlfriends. There were a few guys who were single. Like him. But none of them had mentioned bringing a date. Maybe she was here with a girlfriend?

“A friend—” he started to say then stopped as Finn Castro muscled his way up next to them and grinned at the mystery woman. Oliver felt his jaw tighten, a sensation far less pleasant than his reaction to her.

“Milly. There you are. I was looking for you.” Finn turned his focus to Oliver, and his smile died. “This guy bugging you?”

She shook her head. “No, we were just talking while I got my drink.” She looked from Finn to Oliver and back again, the pleasure in her eyes fading a little.

Oliver smiled at her and then narrowed his eyes at Finn, trying not to let his annoyance show on his face. Castro. Of course, she had to be here with Castro. Because life apparently had it in for him. “Finn,” he said, trying to sound polite.

“Shields,” Finn replied, and beside him Milly’s eyes widened slightly, her expression turning wary as she glanced at Oliver. Oliver felt his gut tighten, wondering just what shit Finn had been talking about him. Plenty, he was sure. Their relationship hadn’t improved any since that first incident in the locker room, and Castro didn’t bother to hide it. He was barely polite to Oliver at work, so Oliver couldn’t imagine Finn had anything good to say about him away from it.

Finn jerked his head toward the dance floor. “Come on, Milly, let’s dance.”

Milly—what that was short for?—held up her glass. “I haven’t finished my drink.” Her expression was still wary as she looked between the two of them.

“You can finish it with me.”

“Finn, you’re being rude.” Her expression turned exasperated. Her tone wasn’t
annoyed girlfriend
, more
sisterly irritation
. Interesting. Oliver felt a flash of hope that she might actually stay and talk to him.

“I’m just looking out for you,” Finn retorted. “Shields here likes to sleep around. He’s not the kind of guy you want to get involved with.”

Oliver stiffened. “Excuse me?”

Beside him, Milly said, “We were just talking. Besides, I’m a big girl, Finn. I’ve been choosing my own dates for a long time now.”

Finn scowled. “Yeah, well, don’t pick Shields. He has a different girl every week.”

Oliver bit back the urge to tell Finn exactly where he could shove his bullshit. That wasn’t going to help the situation or impress Milly if she was really a friend of Castro’s. Besides which, Finn was clearly on his way to drunk. Glassy-eyed and looking for trouble. And he was full of just enough youthful arrogance and stupidity to pick a fight. Which was the last thing anybody needed.

“I believe that’s a case of the pot calling the kettle black,” Milly said. She glanced up at Ollie, her expression somewhat assessing, and she focused on Finn again. “What happened to the blonde?”

“I came to find you. You said you’d dance with me.”

She studied him for a long moment. Sighed. “Okay, I’ll dance with you. But how about we get you a cup of coffee first?”

Damn it, she was going to go with Castro. Time to step back from the plate. “Good idea,” Ollie said. He smiled at Milly. “It was nice to meet you, Milly the economist.”

And then he turned and walked away.

*   *   *

Amelia watched Finn dancing with the same short blonde he’d been flirting with earlier and tried not to think about Oliver Shields. Or give in to the desire to smack Finn for ruining things. She’d managed to pour one cup of coffee into him and they’d danced for a song or two but then the blonde had returned bearing beer and Finn had abandoned Amelia in about five seconds flat.

Leaving her with nothing better to do except think about Oliver. She knew about Oliver Shields—damn it, she should have recognized him and refused the drink. Finn had told her plenty about the guy. How he did his best to keep Finn from getting any time at first base and how he was tight with the Saints’ owners and was using his position to make sure Finn didn’t get the credit he deserved. Amelia had taken most of this with a grain of salt—she’d known Finn long enough to know he liked getting his own way and tended to have zero tolerance for anyone who stood between him and a goal. Oliver wasn’t the only Saints player whom Finn had talked about in a less-than-positive way, but he seemed to be the one Finn really had a beef with.

Which was a pity, because the one thing Finn never mentioned about Oliver was that the man was stupidly hot. Night-dark eyes, tanned skin, and a wicked smile in a tall, lean body. Broad-shouldered, dark-haired, and smoky-voiced. Damn. Pretty much all the things she liked in a guy.

The universe was taunting her. Because hot or not, the man was a baseball player. And apparently Finn’s worst rival. Maybe it was just as well Finn had interrupted them. A few more minutes of Oliver Shields flirting at her and she was fairly sure she might have thrown common sense to the wind and thrown herself at him. Which would have been all kinds of awkward once she’d found out who he was.

But luckily Finn had come along and been Finn.

Which he was all too good at. She sighed. She loved Finn like the brother she didn’t have, but being Team Finn was hard work sometimes. She could hardly resign from the job, but maybe she needed to ease back a little. Finn was an adult. He was going to have to figure out how to be one. Which included getting along with his teammates.

She glanced back across the bar but couldn’t spot Oliver. And couldn’t help the pang of regret that he hadn’t been someone else.

Oliver Shields was mighty pretty. And mighty appealing. Even if he wasn’t Mr. Right, it had been too long since the last Mr. Wrong. A man as gorgeous as Oliver would make a pretty good Mr. Wrong.

But now she’d never know. The last thing Amelia wanted to do was cause a problem between Finn and one of his teammates. If Finn couldn’t make it work at the Saints then he could be in trouble. The kind of trouble that had led to the Cubs trading him at the end of his first season with them. The kind of trouble that Finn had gotten into on and off over the years. A little too much partying to blow off steam at times. Though to date he’d been lucky and managed to avoid any serious consequences. Up until he’d been traded, anyway.