Jennifer Seasons - Throwing Heat

His pale eyes narrowed on her. “That was too easy.”

She shrugged. “I’m turning over a new leaf.”

He raised a brow, giving her thatlook, and her knees went weak. “Oh, really?”

No, not really. “Absolutely. Here, why don’t you turn around and hand me that soap? I can reach your back from outside here.”

Though he still looked dubious, she knew he wouldn’t be able to pass up the chance to have her hands all over his naked skin. And she was right. He fumbled for the soap and held it out to her, eyes still watchful and shrewd. The sinewy muscles in his outstretched arm made her want to purr. But she ignored the urge because she couldn’t believe that he was falling into her trap so easily.

Taking the soap, Leslie motioned for him to turn around, and she had to bite her lip to keep from smiling. He spun around and she caught a glimpse of his hard, incredibly tight ass and heavily muscled thighs. Wow. Just. Seriously. Wow.

It was so much better than she remembered.

Before she was tempted to do something else with Peter entirely, she took a deep breath and said sweetly. “Give me just a minute, darlin’. I have to do something first.”

He mumbled a reply that sounded something like, “Hurry,” and she dashed to the sink. Once there she cranked open the handles making sure the faucet was turned on all the way and then ran from the room.

“Goddammit, Leslie!” His bellow of outrage and curses followed her into the bedroom and she fell on the bed laughing.

She laughed until her stomach hurt, she was crying, and her side ached. It was so worth it though, so completely worth it. Because she’d warned him.

Payback was a bitch.

TWO DAYS LATER Peter stepped onto the pitcher’s mound at Coors Field to the sound of Smash Mouth’s “All Star” pounding through the stadium speakers. It was the first game in the League Championship Series and the Rush were getting ready to take on the Philadelphia Phillies in the bid for that sweet-ass spot in the World Series. He was ready for it. Pumped up and anxious to get the game underway.

He was feeling intense and focused. Seven games—four if they were lucky—were all that separated him from his final blaze of glory. And he wanted it so bad he could taste it. Though his career held a ton of major highlights and he’d had more fun than he’d thought possible, there was still one thing left to do.

Not once in his impressive career had he been to the World Series. The Rush hadn’t won the pennant since before his time in 1973. It seemed like he and his team were in some damn long-standing droughts.

Time had come to end it, Peter thought as Smash Mouth told him to get his game on, go play. Amen to that. It was definitely time. For a lot of things.

Something flashed on the Jumbotron, catching his attention, and Peter glanced into the stadium seats, glad that his eye was behaving today. The crowd made him smile. Rush fans filled Coors Field to over-flowing, green and yellow becoming almost a blur.

Squinting against the sun, he looked up and saw nothing but clear blue sky in the middle of October. Loving that about Colorado, he wound up and pitched one over home plate, loosening his shoulder. Mark wasn’t out yet, so he was throwing to Toby Jackson. The young up-and-coming catcher threw the ball back to him, his grin visible behind his face mask.

After his shoulder was nice and warm, a local celebrity came out and the Rush lined up along the first base line for the National Anthem. Then the state governor trotted out to the applause of the crowd to throw the first pitch. Peter had to hide a smile when the ball went rogue and barely made it over home plate. Pitching was not as easy as it seemed.

Preparing to go throw some strikes, Peter was about to move when a flash of pale blonde hair caught his eye. Turning to find Leslie in the stands sitting next to Lorelei and JP’s woman Sonny and her boy, he was surprised by the breath that hitched in his chest. Sometimes the woman caught him off guard and it was hard to breathe.

She was laughing about something and had her head together with the Charlie’s. It looked a lot like they were telling secrets. As he watched she raised her hand and the boy gave her a high-five, both of them grinning like thieves with a full bounty. He wanted to climb right into the bleachers with them to find out what was making her smile like that so that he could do it too.

He shook his head and tried to ease the tightness in his chest. Why did everything with that woman lead to some sort of bodily dysfunction on his part? It was unnerving.

Drake walked by and clapped Peter hard on the back. “Thanks for doing it fancy the other night. I do love me some rib eye. You ready to rock and roll?”

He felt the buzz of anticipation and nodded. “You bet your ass.”

Just then JP passed by, his attention in the stands on the strawberry blonde with the sweet smile and big blue eyes. When he came close enough, Peter elbowed him in the rib cage and grinned. “Eyes on the game, dude.”

Like he was one to talk.

The shortstop waved to his girlfriend and her son, love and affection for them written all over his beaming smile. “Don’t judge. If you had what I had, you’d be grinning like a fool too.”

Probably.

Drake shoved him in the shoulder, gaining his attention. “Ignore the pretty boy. We got us a game on.”

Knowing that Paulson was right, Peter took one last glance at Leslie in the stands, felt his gut tighten in response, and then forced his mind on to the game, pushing her out. He didn’t want her in there anymore. She was taking up way too much space.

To the thrill of the Rush fans they played “Wild Thing” as he made his way back to the mound. Forcing everything else from his mind, Peter focused on his pitching and the game. He was one of the best in the Major Leagues and tonight he was going to prove it. His shoulder was loose enough and his left eye vision was holding as steady as it could. If something didn’t feel one hundred percent with his arm he shrugged it off. It was fine.

The first Philly batter stepped up to the plate and Mark signaled a play from his position crouching behind home. Reading it, Peter shook his head. He didn’t like that pitch, it played to the batter’s strengths. So Mark signaled again, and this time he accepted it.

Winding up, his knee pulled tight to his chest, he zeroed in on Mark’s glove and let the ball fly. Like a bullet it shot out toward home plate. A small sting flashed briefly in his shoulder as he completed his follow-through.

The Phillies player connected with the ball and sent a line drive barreling back at Peter. It happened so fast he barely had time to register it before the ball was upon him. Shifting in his cleats, he dodged just as it was about to take out his left knee and snagged the white leather with his glove.

Sucker.

Rolling his shoulder, he tugged the brim of his hat, wiped his hand on the thigh of his pants and prepared for another pitch. Cutter shuffled in his pads after the new batter entered the box, signaling for a ball low and outside. Assessing the new player, Peter nodded, gripped the ball in the horseshoe, and sent it flying.

The Phillies batter swung hard and missed the ninety-six-mile-an-hour fastball by inches.

“Strike!” called the umpire with a pump of his fist.

The crowd cheered. Damn right. He owned that plate. Adrenaline pumped through him, his breathing came in rapid bursts.

Peter was high on the game and it felt good. It felt right. It was his life.

Snatching up the bag of resin nearby on the mound, he dusted his hands together and tossed it back down. He tugged his ball cap again and shifted his weight. Then he wound up and fired another fastball straight down the pipe.

“Strike two!”

A grin split his face as the Phillies batter cursed, stepped out of the box, and stomped around. Finally he put a toe back in, dug deep into the dirt with his cleat, and did the same with the second one before pulling the bat into hitting position.

This was the way it was supposed to be. Just Peter and a batter and a strike zone that had his name written all over it. It was a mental battle of wits, calculation, and angles. And he loved it with everything he had. Nothing else in life compared or could make him feel the way playing ball did.

His gaze slid from home plate at that thought right on over to Leslie in the stands and his chest went tight again. That’s right, he thought as he forced a deep breath, nothing compared. He didn’t want it to. Too much commitment.

Peter played. He played ball and he played at life. That was just the way he liked it. No responsibilities. Who wanted them anyway? They were a huge bore.

This thing with Leslie was just physical anyway.

Pushing the thought aside, he wound up and was about to release when his gaze slipped to Leslie once more. Their eyes locked and he felt his body tense. An encouraging smile spread across her gorgeous face, stunning him, and his shoulder seized just as he released the ball.

He heard the pop and searing pain snaked down his arm, making his vision blur. Peter doubled over and grabbed at his shoulder, panic and pain lashing him. Son of a bitch.

His arm was jacked.

EVERYTHING INSIDE LESLIE froze and the smile melted from her face. As she watched, Peter crumpled on the pitcher’s mound. Play stopped and the Rush’s manager came running. She could have sworn the crowd collectively gasped when their beloved ace pitcher tried to move his shoulder and couldn’t.