Jennifer Seasons - Throwing Heat

She tossed her arm over his shoulders and replied, “Sure, kid. Let’s go see if there’s anything good to eat.” Mark had promised to grill up a couple tri-tips and she had a hankering.

He grinned up at her happily. “My mom made her homemade apple pie. It’s world famous.”

Leslie felt her stomach growl and said, “Sounds awesome.”

They had just stepped across the gravel drive to the huge expanse of front lawn when the sound of a vehicle grabbed their attention. They turned around together to look, her arm still slung over the kids’ shoulder and her smile froze on her lips.

Coming down the drive, making its way toward them, was a bright yellow FJ Cruiser. Fantastic. Awesome.

Crap.

Peter had arrived.

PETER STEERED HIS SUV around the bend, enjoying the view until he spotted Leslie on the front lawn. Then his smile of appreciation turned into a frown and his good mood immediately plummeted. Now that he knew that she knew the whole sordid truth, he’d avoided her to the best of his ability, bet be damned.

Humiliation, embarrassment, a slap to his manhood—call it whatever, he didn’t care. He felt unmanned. Like he’d plucked off his balls and just handed them to her with a big dumb frigging smile on his face. Here you go, sweets. Why don’t you just keep those for a while? I don’t need ’em.

What kind of dumb-shit guy couldn’t do the nasty when he had the hottest woman on the planet naked and begging for it underneath him? It still grated. After all these years it grated every frigging bit as much as it did the night the whole damn thing had happened.

She was his fantasy. He just didn’t get it. It should have gone down in the record books as the best night of his life, not the most degrading.

Peter climbed out of his Cruiser just in time to see Leslie turn with Charlie and walk up the front steps into the house. Which was just fine with him. He’d rather not have to talk to her until he’d regained some shred of masculinity back.

Carl Brexler and José Caldera came around the side of the house just then carrying a Wiffle bat and ball. When they spotted Peter, Carl hollered, “Hey, Walskie. You up for a game of Wiffle ball? Mark’s got a diamond set up out back and a bunch of us are playing.”

Sounded fun, like a great way to keep up this whole avoidingLeslie thing he had going.

“I’m in. Just let me take this inside.” He held up the bamboo plant he was carrying. He’d brought it for the new homeowners because it was supposed to bring good luck. “Who’s manning the grill today?”

Usually get-togethers like this happened at his place, and he got to put on his chef’s hat and play grill-master. It was kind of his thing. The last two soirees had been way memorable though, and not in the best way. There’d been more drama than a Greek play. He’d been thinking that he should maybe lay off the party-hosting for a while, so this was great.

But it was a bummer about the steaks. Considering that grilling meat over an open flame while he nursed a brewskie was the only thing he could do in the kitchen realm with any measure of success, he tended to take his duties seriously. He had the apron and everything to prove it. If it happened to have a crude slogan about cooking his meat on it with a highly inappropriate image, so what? He was the master.

Climbing the wraparound porch, Peter opened the door and stepped inside. Players and their families milled about the spacious, traditional farmhouse with moving boxes piled high in the corners. He stopped in the entryway, took off his coat, and hung it on the coat rack.

Mark walked by just then from the half-unpacked living room, carrying a baseball mitt in his hand, and grinned when he spotted Peter. “Welcome to my new pad, man. Give me a few minutes and I’ll take you on the official tour. Paulson is whining about his hands like a girl so I’m gonna run this out to him. I’ll be right back.” He took two steps and stopped, glanced back over his shoulder at Peter. “You brought your Gibson right?”

Peter just raised a brow and gave him a brother, please look and the catcher laughed good-naturedly. “Yeah, forgot who I was talking to for a second.”

He actually kept a second guitar in his SUV, just in case. He never knew when the mood was going to strike him and he’d want to fiddle. Which was pretty much any time he wasn’t playing baseball.

“I want in on the game, so how about we do the tour later and go humiliate Paulson now?” He’d just caught sight of Leslie’s straight blonde hair through the doorway, so it seemed like a real good time to go check out the backyard.

Someone hollered for Mark and he recognized JP’s voice. “Put a hustle on, Cutter! We’re all waiting.”

Mark frowned and yelled back, “Tell Paulson to stop being a wussy! I’ll be there in a minute.”

They made their way through the crowd and Peter tried not to think about just how hard it was and how much effort he was putting into ignoring Leslie. She was everywhere. They went right through the wide archway into the kitchen and she was already in there swapping recipes with Lorelei and Sonny.

And when he and Mark finally made it into the backyard she was already there, too, her hair slicked back in a low ponytail while she took a swing with the Wiffle bat. He couldn’t help watching the way her hips spun when she swung the plastic yellow bat, and it made him think of the way her hips had ground and rotated on the bar the other night when he’d had his tongue on her. The memory brought him to full painful attention, and he raked a hand through his hair and blew out a breath.

The woman was going to be the death of him.

“Hey, Walskie. What do you say to a friendly wager?” inquired Drake as he sauntered up with a toddler about three years old, squealing and laughing while he carried him tucked under his arm like a football.

“Again!” the little boy demanded excitedly when the big veteran tried to set him on the ground.

Drake shook his head at their teammate Ken Jenkins’s son and said, “Not until I sort out some important business, little man. Go jump on JP and tell him to give you a ride.” He pointed across the bare late October lawn to where the shortstop was talking shop with Carl and José. Every few minutes he’d look around the yard, and when he spotted Sonny he’d relax and his smile would go content and easy.

“Okay!” the toddler exclaimed and ran off across the crunchy grass as fast as his chubby legs would take him.

Peter watched him go with amusement. The little kid ran like a windmill, arms churning for momentum. It was actually kind of cute.

Turning his gaze from something cute to something ugly, he looked at Drake and smirked, “What’s this friendly wager?”

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Leslie walk past as the backyard ball game was getting ready to resume. She had her nose in the air and was trying real hard to pretend that she wasn’t eavesdropping. But he knew her way too well by now. He guaranteed she was listening.

Peter cocked a hip and gave her an once-over from her brown English riding boots and snug jeans that were tucked into them, to her charcoal grey V-neck fitted sweater. The way her clothes showcased her curves had him casually wiping his hands on his jeans. His palms were sweaty.

Paulson caught the direction of his gaze and a chuckle rumbled in his barrel chest. “How’s that new deck coming along?”

Part of him wanted to protest, wanted to pretend like he didn’t know what the hell the guy was talking about. The other part of him just didn’t even have the fight. He was in way over his head with this thing with Leslie.

“Fucking mess,” was all he said. Yep, that pretty much summed it up. And wasn’t that always the case with his personal life?

Drake laughed again and replied, “Sounds fun.” Then he hooked a thumb over his shoulder toward the makeshift diamond and added, “Since you’re hurt and I feel bad for you, we’ll take it easy, brother. Friendly wager is, you bat as a leftie against me and try to make base. Loser wears their shirt like a girl for the rest of the day.” He gestured with his hands to his chest and made a twirling action. “You know, tied in a knot between their tits.”

Peter smirked. “You just want an excuse to show yours off.”

Paulson grinned, humor twinkling in his brown eyes. “They’re beauts, ain’t they?” He shoved out his chest, winked like a sailor on shore leave. “You know they make you randy.”

Right, that’s just how he liked his tits. On a fugly man covered in a brown curly chest rug like Austin Powers. Yeah, baby.

He shook his head, laughing, and replied, “I’ll take your bet and win, you sexy bitch.”

Paulson tossed back his head and gave a hoot of appreciation for the movie reference, clapping Peter on his good arm. “Let’s play ball!” he hollered and walked back over to the diamond.

Pete shook his head, still chuckling softly, and went to join the game. Leslie decided to play, too, of course, and so he got the privilege of pitching to her when she chose the other team. When she stepped up to home plate, Paulson yelled from the side, “Take him down, sweet thing!”

Peter’s eyebrow shot up when she looked him dead in the eyes and smiled tightly. “My pleasure.”

So it was like that, eh?

Peter rolled his left shoulder and tossed her the ball, still pretty decent as a leftie. But since it was a plastic perforated white ball instead of an actual baseball it waffled through the air and then broke suddenly just before crossing home plate. Leslie swung vigorously and missed it by a mile. Point, Peter.