“Strike one,” Chase heard the umpire call. Shit, he had been so busy strolling down memory lane he had zoned out and completely missed the pitch, one that spent quality time over the plate. Not good. Not good at all. He’d better get his head back in the game and start getting down to business.

And that business was Brandon Howard. Chase Walker didn’t take kindly to striking out. It’d be over his dead body that it would happen again. With the bases loaded and his current count, odds were he could expect some junk thrown at him in the hope he’d panic and swing. Or a pitch was coming down the pipe that he was going to send screaming out of the stadium. The latter sounded like the better scenario, if he could just get Howard to cooperate.

Once he hit the majors, all the rules had changed. It became all about excess. Women sought him out, his dominance like a beacon. Some wanted to be hurt. It was no longer about the give-and-take of mutual caring, respect, or even fun. Without the emotional attachment, the act often left him feeling hollow and sometimes guilty. After an array of one-night stands, he’d had a nearly yearlong romance with a well-known actress who indulged him occasionally. But her requests were few and far between, and when it was rumored she was having an affair with a costar, he promptly cut the relationship off. He didn’t want to go back to arbitrary women who were vague memories the next day. He began to shy away from the scene altogether as his responsibilities and his stardom grew. But he missed the feel, the sound, the very company of women. He wanted it all, and he knew it was out there. He just had to be patient.

Patient. Like he had to be with Brandon Howard, who was busy shaking off his catcher, something Chase considered a very good indicator that Howard was losing his confidence, at least for the day. Chase set himself up, and Howard began to wind up.

“Strike two!” the umpire shouted, flamboyantly taking a step and pointing his finger to the side.

Chase backed up off the plate and out of the batter’s box. Okay, this was serious. It was time to think of nothing but baseball. He adjusted his gloves while glowering at the catcher.

“Bet he doesn’t have another one of those in him.”

“What’s the matter, Walker?” He heard the snicker from behind the catcher’s mask. “The thought of going 0-fer giving you the willies?”

“Hardly,” he scoffed, digging a small hole in the dirt with the toe of his left cleat before resetting himself. His sight zeroed in on the ball in Howard’s hand. And as if imagining it was all it took to make it happen, Brandon Howard threw a lackluster fastball that landed smack-dab in the middle of the plate. And Chase Walker did what he did best. He swung. The resulting sound of the bat making contact told the rest of the story.

Chase took a few slower steps in the direction of first base until he was sure the ball was making its way into the parking lot and then he picked up his pace. He ran the bases at a decent clip into the awaiting high fives of his three teammates who had already touched home. They ran as a group into the dugout, and Chase tossed his batting helmet back into its slot, followed by his gloves amid all his teammates congratulatory slapping him on the back. He grabbed a paper cup full of water, and after pouring it over his head, took another and sat down next to Troy.

“What time is it?” Chase asked before swallowing the water in one gulp.

Troy squinted at the opposite end of the dugout and the digital clock near the phone to the bullpen. “Two past two. Why?”

Chase crushed the paper cup in his hand and tossed it in the direction of a nearby trash can. He reached for a towel, then held out a fist for Troy to bump.

“I just wanted to know exactly when I’d found the sweet spot for this season.”

The Kings went on to beat the Orioles 8–3. And Chase had his first grand slam of the year.

He gave his interviews when the game was over and headed for the showers.

“Want to grab some dinner?” Troy asked him as Chase finished buttoning his shirt before tucking it into his trousers. Troy was new in town, having been traded in the off-season from Atlanta. His wife had stayed behind in Georgia until they decided what, if anything, to do with their house there. Troy’s and Chase’s lockers were side by side, which provided camaraderie, and Chase often asked Troy to join him after games for whatever he was up for. It was also a way for Chase to keep an eye on Troy, after it became apparent that Troy clearly had a drinking problem, which was only exacerbated by his wife’s reluctance to join him in New York. Chase would never stand in the way of another guy’s party, but he could make sure the man got home in one piece.

“Can’t.” Chase sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose in anticipation of his impending headache. “I’m having dinner with my agent.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Troy replied, understanding everything Chase implied. They shared the unique negotiating style of Alan Shaw, not that Troy got nearly as much attention. Chase would be working 365 days a year if he didn’t keep Shaw reined in. “I hope at least you’re going someplace where the food is good.”

“So do I, but I doubt it, ” Chase said, running his fingers through his full head of still-damp sandy-blond hair before he finished getting dressed. “It’s someplace in Hoboken. One of those chic, trendy places that refuses to serve lunch. I’m totally expecting to need a pizza after they serve me four peas, half a potato, and a leg that belonged to the tiniest chicken on record.”

CHAPTER 3

AMANDA RETURNED TO the Cold Creek just in time for opening. She had gone home, showered again, and redressed. She’d redone her makeup, but hadn’t taken the time to blow-dry her hair again, and the result was curly instead of straight, not the sophisticated look she usually went for, but it would have to do. While at home, she also rechecked the reservation list from her own computer and saw that one of the parties was friends of her parents. After a slightly awkward phone call on her end and the promise of their next meal being on the house, the couple politely gave up their reservation to accommodate the guests Amanda had begun to refer to as “the nuisances.” She didn’t bother telling anyone about the phone call that resulted in the order to roll out the red carpet; her being distracted by it was bad enough. It was probably an actor; they usually came with the general sense the world revolved around them. Maybe it was a politician, though that was unlikely. Her parents were well-connected, and the reservation call would have reflected that. Odds were it wasn’t a musician, which was something to be grateful for, since they tended to bring entourages.

Alan Shaw arrived promptly at six fifty. He was everything Amanda imagined he would be, right down to his overpriced suit, his prematurely receding hairline, and his creepy, flagrant once-over, although he looked younger than she imagined. She didn’t see any sign of a cigar. She seated him at a booth in a quiet back corner, which seemed to meet with his approval. He dismissed her with the order of a Red Bull and vodka while pulling out his smart phone. She was more than happy to remove herself from his proximity, not bothering to tell him she’d send over his server. Amanda went back to the podium to seat another party after a quick stop at the bar to give Eric the drink order. Her smile started feeling forced and unnatural. Fussy customers she could handle; feeling manipulated by obnoxious superiority in her own establishment was nothing new, either. But today was a different story. The timing was awful and only added to the general feeling of malaise that always accompanied the cosmic forces of the world determined to keep her in check. She spent the next ten minutes awaiting the arrival of the man she had spent the better part of the afternoon thinking of as “the king.”

She had no idea just how close to the truth she was.

It started precisely at seven o’clock, with a flurry of activity at the entrance. Patrons waiting for the rest of their parties to arrive and those lingering with their good-byes cleared a path when three exceedingly large figures seemed to fill all the remaining space at the front of the restaurant. Two of the men looked nearly identical. Both were burly and clean-shaven with short hair, matching blue suits, and serious expressions.

The third man was instantly recognizable.

His charisma had entered the room ten seconds before he did, branching out to everyone within its vicinity. And at its nexus was well over six feet of stacked muscle and magnetism presented casually in gray tailored slacks and a teal cashmere sweater. The collar of a button-down shirt peeked politely from beneath the sweater, the ensemble completed with thousand-dollar Louis Vuitton shoes. His movie-star good looks only added to it, from the perfectly mussed wheat blond hair right down to the cleft in his chiseled chin. It was a heady combination and the room began to buzz.

Great Caesar’s Ghost! The Golden Boy is hot and then some. It was Amanda’s automatic response to whenever he was mentioned in any capacity. It was the usual response of Nicki, too. Baseball was a mandatory tradition that started when Amanda was in grammar school. Summer in Jersey just isn’t summer if you don’t catch at least one baseball game. Nicki had had no problem jumping on that bandwagon, and the two of them went once a year, always to a Kings game. There may have even been a whistle or two in his direction from their seats once he hit the roster when they were in attendance. Other variations on the theme were: steamy hot, fig-leaf-wearing-in-the-garden hot, and fry-an-egg-on-his-left-pec hot. Amanda surmised sunglasses would have been a bit over the top, and as he moved away from the men who stood on either side of him, she waited for him to approach.