Single (Stockton Beavers #1) (13 page)

Wow, Landry's even more frazzled working for the Heimlichs than he was playing for them. But at least now his irritable behavior's starting to make sense. He didn't want Luke on the line because he's been facing a lot of heat for sticking by him, and he wasn't about to let one of his players see him sweat.

"Landry, I get it, and so does Luke. That's why he hired me. To give him the peace of mind he needs so he can go out and play every day."

"Bottom line, Single has to start hittin' the ball the way he did last year," Landry replies. "So if you're able to take some of the pressure off of him at home and keep him focused at the ballpark, then I guess you being there is a good thing."

"Really?" I squeak, and Luke shifts his head to the side, like he's trying to decipher my reaction.

"Yeah, just remember, no funny business, Bobbie Jo," Landry taunts me. "Single's comin' around, but he's not there yet. His confidence is still extremely shaky. So don't go tying the poor guy up in knots with your feminine wiles, all right?"

"Landry, you make me sound like… I'm not even going to say it."

And I'm finally greeted by that big, booming laugh of his. "What kinda big brother would I be if I didn't watch out for my little sis?"

"A
good
big brother," I chide him. "Oh, and…enjoy your date with Ruby."

"It's not a date—"

"Uh-huh… Bye, Landry," I mutter, hanging up on him, bratty kid sister that I am.

But it's clear Luke's still on edge because, before I can even put down the phone, he asks, "What did he say?"

"Well, he's not thrilled about the whole situation, but he'll get over it," I reply as diplomatically as I can. "The big thing is that I was able to avoid the subject. For better or worse, he still has no clue about your mom's Alzheimer's."

In the midst of his excitement, Luke stands, pulling me up with him, and his arms immediately go around my waist. "Thank you, thank you, thank you," he whispers into my hair. "Thank you sooooo much."

He envelops me in a big hug, and I rock back and forth for a bit on my toes. It feels nice and safe, and my knees buckle as I melt into him like there's no other place in the world I'd rather be. It's only when he leans back a little that I'm aware of how tightly I'm gripping his sleeve that I'm actually tugging the collar of his shirt down over his shoulder. Unable to look away, my eyes hungrily follow the path of skin I've exposed on his body, running from his chiseled bicep across his collarbone and up to his neck. My heart tightens when the night-light shines on something I hadn't noticed before—a tiny scar left over from his injury—and all I want to do is run my lips over it, ready and willing to do whatever it takes to make it disappear forever.

Seeing the way I'm eyeing him, he glides his thumb along my cheek and whispers, "Landry's right, you know. I did leave my date and come a runnin' to you."

And I swoon like I've never swooned before. This is crazy. He's not my type. I'm not into short guys, sensitive guys, guys who wear their heart on their sleeve. But being eye to eye with him as we stand here, he sees me and I see him. I don't have to look up. He's not dominating me. We're equals. And I've never felt that with a man before, ever.

He moves in, and I blink, knowing this isn't a good idea. In the end, I'm only going to break his heart. I can't let this happen. I can't…
But, oh
…

I moan against his mouth as he presses his full lips to mine. They're so warm, so tender, I can't get enough of them. Reaching up, I do what I wanted to do and stroke the scar on the side of his neck, and he gasps, opening his mouth to me even more. When I feel his hot breath on my face, I don't hesitate. I deepen the kiss, groaning against him as I taste the sugary sweetness of his tongue, not stopping until my hands are buried in his hair, loving that it's even softer than I thought it'd be.

"Lukey! Where are you? Lukey!"

And just as suddenly as we came together, we break apart.

Pulling his shirt back into place, he gasps for breath, somewhat comically hanging his head. "Good night, Roberta."

I roll back on my heels, my chest heaving. "Not again…"

"But think about it. Isn't that what made this so good? The anticipation?" He smiles at me. "Just wait until next time."

"Oh, yeah?" I smirk back at him. "Who said there's going to be a next time?"

"Your lips."

His reply is so matter-of-fact that I start to giggle, and as he moves down the hall toward his mom's room, I'm rewarded with the low, sexy rumble of his laughter.

Every man I've ever been involved with has made me cry. I lean against the wall and savor the lingering heat of Luke's body on mine. I never thought I'd find one who'd make me laugh. But the question is: with so many things working against us, can I allow myself to believe he really can be mine?

Chapter Twenty

Luke

I plunge my hands into the basin of the sink and splash cold water on my face. Letting it drip from my goatee, I try to cool down a bit. For the past hour, I've had to sit on the couch with Roberta, watching TV with Mom in between us. She's so tantalizingly close, and yet I can't touch her, can't ask her where we stand, because I can't seem to snag any alone time with her.

I shake the water from my face. It's been a week since I kissed her, and every time I try to steal a private moment with her, all these obstacles keep popping up. Either I'm home and she's out, or I'm free and she's busy. The few times we've actually been in the same room together, Mom always seems to be there too. Is life really getting in the way, or is she purposely avoiding me? Either way, I'm going out of my mind. After that kiss, living in the same house is turning out to be a lot harder than I thought it would be. It's killing me knowing when she's in the shower, or worse yet, hearing her roll around in bed while I lie wide awake on the other side of the wall.

Let's be honest. I didn't expect one kiss to change everything, but I never imagined we'd go on just the same as before. And I don't know how to go about moving forward. Don't women usually take care of this kind of stuff? They're the ones who put labels on everything, indicating which boundaries need to be crossed and when. But Roberta's not doing any of that. It's like she's leaving it up to me to define what we are.

"Luke, are you all right in there?"

I grip the sides of the sink, thinking back to when I said those exact same words to her after I inadvertently gave her a cold shower—something I could really use right about now. I have half a mind to open the door and pull her in here with me only to ravage that soft, sweet mouth of hers. That's what a strong, confident man would do.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

But I'm not a strong, confident man. Right now, I feel more like a scared little boy. For one very big reason—David Nichols is pitching against the Beavers this weekend.

"Are you sure?" she asks again.

God, why would she ever be interested in having a wuss like me for a boyfriend? I should be fired up, gunning to put a guy like Nichols in his place—but I'm not.

"I'm sure," I reply.

I hold my breath, but all's quiet. And I'm glad she's gone because where do I even begin to explain what I went through to her? The debilitating pain I suffered at Nichols's hands is seared into my senses. Tipping my head to the side, I finger the scar on my neck, remembering what it felt like to have to gasp for my next breath and not knowing if it was going to come before I blacked out. But I can't exactly stay in the downstairs bathroom all night either. With a frustrated groan, I step out.

And there she is, standing there, waiting for me. "You were in there long enough."

I scramble for a response. "Yeah, I'm not feeling that well. I think I'm just gonna call it a night."

She reaches for my arm. "What's wrong?"

There it is, that electricity. I feel it the second she touches me, and there's no denying the intensity of the feelings I have for her. I take a deep breath and try to keep it together.

"Nothing, just a headache."

I make a move to walk past her, but she doesn't let go of my arm. "Why don't you take something for it?"

Raising my eyes to hers, I give her the faintest hint of a smile. "I don't think aspirin will help."

"You're nervous, aren't you?"

"About what?"

"About this weekend."

I sigh, and she knows she has me.

"Luke, it's okay." Her hand travels up my arm to my shoulder, and my muscles ripple in response. Her hand stops, and I exhale loudly, shuffling my feet. But still, she doesn't say anything, not giving me the least sign of encouragement. I drop my eyes, skimming them over her body, and based on the beautiful blush rising up her neck, I'm certain I'm not the only one who's feeling the heat simmering between us.

I give it a moment, waiting for her to tell me what she wants. But she remains quiet. In fact, she doesn't even move.

"I'm going to bed," I whisper.

And I swear I hear her whimper, but it's so soft, I can't be sure. Oh God, if it was the sweet sound of submission falling from her lips, there's nothing I'd like more than to scoop her up in my arms and carry her upstairs with me. Right now, she's the only thing that can make me forget about Nichols coming to town. All I want to do is drown in those clear, blue eyes of hers. I'm ready to lose myself inside them.

She takes a step back. "Good night, Luke."

And it guts me to hear her take the promise that's been building between us and just walk away.

"Roberta…" I moan.

She starts ambling backward, giving me a weak smile. "It's okay. Get some rest."

But more alone time's not what I need right now. What I really need is her.

Chapter Twenty-One

Luke

Like Landry told me, all I can do is take it day by day. And after the night I've had, hitting a home run in my first at-bat, I splash through the puddles that are popping up all over the infield, feeling like a kid again. After being away from the game, I've come to appreciate the little things even more. But my teammates aren't too happy about it, even with Landry's opening day lecture still fresh in their minds.

"Isn't it a little late for this?" our hulking behemoth of a shortstop, Rob Reardon, grouses next to me. He's the number one prospect in the organization, 6'5" and 235 pounds of sheer muscle. And apparently, he's not too keen on indulging in a little Beaver Field tradition, the one that requires the position players to help the grounds crew drag the tarp onto the field. So maybe it's up to me to set a good example and do what Dad would've done.

"Yeah, it probably is." I grin up at him. "But it's one of the things I love about being in the minors. You get to pitch in. Feel like you're a part of things."

"You really think this is fun, don't you?" He reaches for a piece of the tarp that's billowing above my head and yanks it down for me to grab on to.

"It's better than having to play nine innings with you," I manage to say with a straight face.

As my double-play partner, Rob bungled an easy out right before the umpires called a rain delay. He couldn't get a good grip on the ball, no doubt because his fingers were as wet as mine. But committing a defensive error wasn't how he was hoping to end the day.

He glances back at me over his shoulder, rain streaming from his cap, down his nose, and off his chin. My bottom lip starts to quiver because he looks like he's bawling his eyes out. When he slips and nearly falls, I crack up, and goofball that Rob is, so does he.

"God, that must've looked ridiculous from the stands," Rob moans. "I hope nobody got that on video."

"Aww, R-squared doesn't want any embarrassing footage of himself out there when he blazes onto the New York scene," Hoff heckles him.

"Some of us know how to laugh at ourselves, Hoff," I'm quick to reply. "You should try it sometime."

It's a group effort as we struggle to unfurl the rain-laden plastic over the field. The monstrosity of a tarp is flapping in the breeze behind us, seemingly alive and refusing to be tamed. My cleats are sinking into the soggy dirt as I struggle to keep up with the pace Rob's setting as he leads us across the diamond.

"Laugh all you want, Single," Hoff counters, breathing hard. "'Cause you sure as heck won't be laughing tomorrow."

"So, what's the plan?" Rob asks, lowering his voice. "Is the first guy to face him gonna toss his bat and charge the mound?"

"Don't be an idiot, kid," Hoff sputters. "If anybody's challenging him, it's gonna be me."

"I don't think so, fellas," I scoff. "I don't need you fighting my battles for me."

Rob glances down. "Well, you're not taking him on yourself, Single. You can just forget about it."

"Although, he would try something stupid like that," Hoff mutters to Rob over my head. "Talk about a Napoleon complex."

"Yeah, well, he didn't hit you. Did he, Hoff?" I glare at him.

The head of the grounds crew is directing the team through the roar of the storm, rhythmically chanting, "Heave ho! Heave ho!" Not that it's going to make much of a difference, the field conditions are already so bad there's no way we'll be resuming this game. Which means the next time we take the field, it'll be tomorrow night against the New York Titans' Triple-A squad, the Clearwater Clash. And I have every intention of handling David Nichols myself. I don't care if I have to play the fool. I don't care if I get fined. Whatever the consequences, I'm ready to do what I have to do.

"Single, I get it. It's personal. But Nichols is insane. You can't just make a run at him. You need a plan," Rob exhorts.

Oh, I have a plan, Rob. You just don't know what it is yet.

"And I bet he's learned a thing or two while he was in prison," Hoff mumbles. "He's only added to his bag of dirty tricks."

"You gotta grab him by the front of the jersey and hold on," Rob advises, demonstrating what he means, strong enough to manage his share of the tarp with one hand. "It'll help you stay upright, so you can keep your balance for as long as possible. Whatever you do, don't let him get you down on the ground."

"'Cause then it'll be over," Hoff concurs.

"Guys, c'mon. Lay off," I groan as I struggle with the heavy, rain-soaked tarp.

"If it turns into a bloodbath, we're not gonna leave you out there for Nichols to pummel you to death," Hoff groans, his face turning red with exertion. "We'll come drag him off you if we have to."

I turn my head to glower at him. "Gee, thanks, but that's not gonna happen. I guarantee it."

Rob reclaims the tarp with both hands, and even though Hoff and I are way too proud to admit it, I think we both breathe a sigh of relief. The kid's as strong as an ox. We make it across first base, completely covering the infield, and the fans sitting in the seats with their ponchos and umbrellas start cheering and whistling their approval, some with their phones aimed right at us.

Giving them a big wave, I bump Hoff's arm. "See, old man. Wasn't that fun?"

He reluctantly raises his hand to acknowledge them. "Oh, a blast."

When a deafening crack of thunder booms overhead, Rob eyes the sky warily. "Okay, the Beavers' star player needs to get off the field, pronto."

"You mean me?" I rib him as we run alongside each other, leaving Hoff and his creaky catcher's knees in the dust.

I'm just about to overtake Rob's lumbering strides when I'm forced to pull up after he smacks the brim of my cap down over my eyes, blinding me.

He chuckles as he sprints by. "Don't worry. We have your back, Single. Nothing's gonna happen to you.
Not this time
."

I lift my head and kick the dirt with my foot. When I found out David Nichols was back in Triple-A, the last thing I wanted was for it to become a distraction. Being injured taught me a lesson in humility. I'm not the hitter I was before I got hurt; that much is certain. At .195, my batting average sounds more like an interstate number than a respectable baseball stat. And I refuse to be the weak link who holds the team back. David Nichols isn't going to hurt anyone else on the Beavers, not if I can help it.

I throw a hasty glance at section 110, and my stomach turns over when I don't see Mom anywhere.
Relax, idiot
. Roberta probably just moved her out of the rain somewhere. I wanted to get them tickets for tomorrow night's game against the Clash. With the threat of Nichols looming before me, I wanted them here with me for moral support. But Roberta talked me into letting them come tonight instead, insisting that she couldn't bear to watch me face Nichols again. And the thought of causing her any more distress strengthens my resolve for what I'm about to do.

I sit on the top step of the dugout and stare out at the tarp, and the idea taking shape in my mind is the one way I can solve this without any more violence. Dad was well-known for clowning around, juggling balls during warmups, racing Bucky Beaver in between innings. He was all about having fun and creating an atmosphere that's enjoyable for the fans. And right now, there are a lot of grumpy faces in the stands, thanks to yet another rainout.

That's not going to help Landry when it comes to doubling last year's attendance. And now I'm about to hijack tomorrow night's highly anticipated matchup, but maybe if something positive comes out of it, it'll appease his anger at me somewhat.

"Looking mighty fine, ninety-nine."

And there's Roberta, holding an umbrella over Mom's head and smiling at me from the row above the dugout.

"Ladies." I tip my cap at them. "The clouds just seem to open up around here whenever you two are in the house."

"Rain, rain, go away," Mom chants to herself. "Come again another day."

"That may be so, but it doesn't explain what the heck you're doing." Roberta raises an eyebrow at me as I kick off my cleats and proceed to remove my stirrups and socks.

"Landry wants to keep the fans happy, right?" I look up at her, a grin tugging at my lips. "Well, then someone has to give them a reason to be."

"What do you mean?" she demands as I push the pants of my uniform up and over my knees.

I stand, rubbing my hands together. "Baby, it's time to slip 'n slide."

Just when she realizes what I'm about to do, I run out of the dugout in my bare feet, taking heart when the guys on the field start cheering me on. They're so loud that the fans who are left pick up on it. Feeding off their energy, I jump over the pitcher's mound and belly flop across the slippery surface of the tarp. With water splashing up all around me, I spread my arms and legs and glide all the way to home plate. When I come to a complete stop, I prop myself up on my knees and wipe my face on the front of my uniform, raising a fist to the crowd. And they go crazy, a huge grin on each and every one of their faces.

And it feels good to make people smile, even though this isn't the kind of star player Landry's after. That's Rob—not me, not anymore. The torch has been passed. Now I'm just the guy coming off one of the most horrific injuries in baseball history. And with David Nichols's impending return to Beaver Field, that's something I don't want to be known for, just like Dad was so much more than Mr. Beaver.

But apparently the fans aren't done with me yet when another huge roar goes up from the crowd. I look up and quickly realize they're not cheering for me, not anymore. Instead, their attention is focused on whatever's going on behind me. I turn just in time to see Roberta come barreling toward me, her wet T-shirt clinging to her body, her mass of ringlets bouncing around her shoulders as she copies my dive, stretching out and completing a perfect slide.

She's laughing hysterically when she rolls over onto her back and squints up at the sky, the rain hitting her in the face full-on. I bend down to shield her as much as I can, looking into her eyes. "Roberta, what in the world did you do that for?"

Her eyes twinkle up at me. "Why did you?"

She has me there, but there's no time to discuss it. The security guards are starting to approach us, and she shouldn't be out here with me. Technically, she's not allowed. I wave them off, shouting, "It's okay. She's with me. She's my—"

And I can't believe I almost say…
girlfriend
.

She stares up at me, her chest rising and falling. "I'm you're what?" she asks coyly.

I need to stop while I'm ahead and leave it right there. We kissed. That's it. We never talked about it. I don't know what she's thinking, and I'm too afraid to find out.

I offer her my hand to help her up. "You're my…lifeboat."

"Wow, Luke. How poetic."

She wraps her fingers around mine, nearly pulling me down on top of her as I lose my footing. Dropping to my knees, one of my hands lands alongside her hip, while the one that's clasped tightly in hers comes to rest on her stomach. My heart is beating hard and fast. I can't breathe. With raindrops collecting on her skin, her hair, all over her body—I've never seen anyone look as beautiful as she does right now.

The crowd is hooting and hollering as they watch us, and my neck prickles in embarrassment. They expect me to kiss her. I know they do. But I don't want an audience. If we ever get around to picking up where we left off, it's going to be for us, not for them.

I brace myself, using the muscles in my legs this time so she can't get the upper hand on me, as I bring her to her feet. She clings to my bicep, and I keep it together somewhat until her other hand slides down my chest. I stare at her, wanting so much to touch her like she's touching me. But she backs away to wring out the ends of her hair.

Shot down, I look away, and the thought that's usually always at the forefront of my mind comes rushing to the surface. "Oh my God! Where's Mom?"

Roberta places her hand lightly in the center of my back. "Luke, I wouldn't have come out here if your friend Danny hadn't come over to say hello. She's fine."

I take a deep breath to steady myself. "Okay, why
did
you come out here? You still haven't given me an answer."

We head toward the dugout, and she crosses her arms in front of her, suddenly conscious of just how thin her T-shirt really is. "C'mon, Luke. You're just trying to get in trouble so you won't have to play in the series against the Clash. Am I right?"

I remove my cap and scratch the back of my head. "No…"

"Oh, really?" she confronts me. "Luke, it's okay to be scared, but you're not some joke, so don't act like one."

I cringe inwardly at her assessment, knowing that she's dead-on, but I don't feel like admitting that to her. "You sound like a psychiatrist," I groan.

"Well, I'm not, but I do know what it's like to be scared to death of someone."

What? Just who is she afraid of? She's not afraid of anybody. She's fearless. I want to question her more, but I can't, not with Danny standing right there.

"I feel so left out." He pouts from underneath Mom's umbrella.

"Yeah, right. You're the only one who's still dry," I rib him. "Since you wouldn't even come out to help with the tarp."

"Hey, man." He shrugs, lifting the umbrella and causing Mom to grab his wrist and bring it right back down. "You know as a pitcher I don't have to do it. I gotta save my arm. All I need is to blow it out doing something stupid like that."

"Did you get hit too?" Mom asks, glancing up at him.

"Nah, Ma. He's just being a prima donna."

"He did, didn't he?" she continues. "He hit my Lukey. He hit her too."

She points at Roberta, and for the first time since I've known her, she looks downright terrified. "No…no, he didn't."

"Yes, he did." Mom stomps her foot. "He did… He did… He did!"

Contradicting Mom only ever seems to rile her up. Roberta knows that. So why'd she choose to do it now, when we're in public, no less?

"I think it's time to go," I mutter, casting a furtive glance around, hoping that nobody's watching her.