Jennifer Seasons - Throwing Heat

As soon as he left she dropped her forehead to her desk and muttered after a few minutes, “Somebody shoot me.”

“That good a day, eh, princess?”

And it just got even better. Oh, skippy.

Leslie kept her hands limp at her sides and raised her head slightly, blowing hard at a thick clump of hair that was covering her right eye. “It’s super.”

“Looks like.” Peter crossed his legs and leaned a shoulder into the door frame. “Was that Crispin I spotted leaving just now?” He tipped his head back down the long hallway at the entrance.

Leslie plopped her chin on the desk and muttered again, “In the flesh.”

Because Peter looked way better standing there than he had any right to, and because her heart was doing little back handsprings of joy at the sight of him, she closed her eyes and pretended she was in Ft. Lauderdale on the beach. It was working fairly well too, except that her mind had taken a snapshot of him and it was right behind her eyelids like a Polaroid. He was there in all his glory: messy hair, white Eric Clapton T-shirt, faded jeans, leather bracelet, and scuffed-up Vans. And since it was her imagination and not the real thing, imaginary Leslie ran right on up to him like a scene out of Bridget Jones, wearing only a long trench coat and killer Ferragamos, and they kissed in grand romantic style.

Ugh! Stupid backstabbing imagination.

Snapping her eyes open, Leslie slapped her palms on the desktop and forced her head up, not waiting for Peter’s answer. “Why are you here? Aren’t we not on speaking terms, or have you changed your mind and decided to be an adult about things?” There, go on the offense and get him in retreat so he’ll go away before you do something stupid like blurt out your feelings.

She’d been avoiding looking at him again, but did it now, and it wasn’t so bad. He was only marginally amazing. And the fact that his thick, curly lashes and pale blue eyes made her stomach jittery was super aggravating. What had happened to independent didn’t-want-a-man Leslie?

At least if she was going to be pathetic-in-love Leslie she could still keep her head about her enough to keep her hands off him until after midnight on the thirty-first. That was only a few days away. It wouldn’t be that hard anyway, at the rate they were going. This was the first they’d seen of each other in days.

Peter pushed away from the wall and leaned back into the hallway as she crossed her arms and watched. Then he straightened and held out a plain black duffle bag. “Clothes from your apartment. Jerry called me this morning bitching how you’ve been phone-stalking him about getting a few items.” He dropped it on the floor and gave a low whistle. “Damn, girl. You have some fine looking panties. My personal fave was the black lace thong with the bow from Victoria’s Secret. Nice.” He wiggled his brows suggestively and winked. “They’re in the bag.”

A laugh bubbled in her chest and she swallowed it back. The man was incorrigible. “I’m too happy about you bringing me clothes to lecture you about prying through my things.” She held out her hands and waggled her fingers excitedly. Things were looking up. “Gimme.”

Peter snorted and held the bag down at his side. “How about you come and get it.”

Tempting proposition, that.

Leslie decided to play nice since he had been kind enough to go out of his way when he was in the middle of the World Series. She rose from her chair and crossed to him. “Thank you for bringing this to me.” She held her hand out for the duffle bag. “Out of curiosity, how’d my apartment look? It should be pretty close to finished.”

Peter shrugged his shoulders and made a noncommittal sound. “It looked like your average construction zone.”

She took the bag from him and set it on the arm of the couch. With a yank of the zipper she opened it and let out a sigh of relief. Clothes, sweet clothes.

Peter pointed a finger at the bag. “I know how enamored you are with your girl shoes, so I tossed in a pair.”

Really?

Rifling through the bag full of clothes, she pushed aside a pair of jeans and stopped when she spotted her favorite pair of heels. They were strappy purple suede Michael Kors that made her legs look amazing. Oh, how she’d missed them.

She could have kissed him.

Oh, what the hell? she thought, caught up in the happy moment. She spun and planted an enthusiastic kiss full on his lips.

The pitcher rocked back on his heels and let out a sound of surprise. “Umph!”

She pulled back smiling. “Thanks, Peter. You made my week.”

His gaze was locked on her mouth, suddenly lusty. “For all the effort I put out there getting you clean underwear, girl, that sure was a lackluster show of appreciation.”

Leslie pulled back and arched a brow at him. “Oh really?”

The way his eyes lit with a sudden naughty gleam had her knees turning to jelly. “Yes, really. If you were truly thankful you’d kiss me again. And this time with a whole lot more oomph.”

A slow smile spread across her face. “I must not be that thankful then, huh?” One big step to the side and she was out of his reach.

Instead of coming after her like she’d half-hoped he would, Peter hooked his thumbs in the front pockets of his jeans and braced his feet apart, relaxed. “What was Crispin after?” The sudden change of topic was surprising.

And it was interesting that he was bringing it up. Leslie cocked her head to the side. Why did he care?

She replied breezily with a delicate shrug of her shoulders. “Oh nothing really, just a date.”

He went very still. “Excuse me?”

Suddenly enjoying herself, she clarified, “He invited me out on a date sometime this week while he’s in town.”

Peter’s eyes went cool. “You said no, right?”

Was that sudden edge she heard in his voice jealousy? Hmm, what if she said . . . “As a matter of fact I told him yes. I’m not dating anyone, so why not?” That last part she’d added just for fun.

A tick started in his jaw and his eyes went from cool to frosty. “Yeah sure, why not?” he ground out tightly.

For a guy who claimed he wasn’t interested in anything to do with her beyond clearing his good name—and certainly not any attachments—he sure seemed agitated by her admission. “My thoughts exactly!” Leslie shot him a bright, overblown grin. “Why not?”

Peter broke eye contact and looked over her shoulder, rolling his head from side-to-side like a boxer. Then his gaze whipped back to her and he swore, “Shit,” and moved with freakish speed, pinning her back against the desk.

His mouth came down hard on hers, his tongue thrusting between her lips in a kiss of straight possession. Leslie couldn’t do more than moan and wrap her arms around his neck. Her brain went into overdrive and short-circuited. God the man could kiss.

Immersed in the feel and taste of him, she murmured a protest when he ripped his lips from hers and stepped out of her arms. His eyes were hard and full of warning.

“That’s why.”

D-DAY HAD ARRIVED.

October thirty-first. Halloween. Last game of the World Series between the Denver Rush and the Boston Red Sox. The Rush were tied with the Red Sox 3-3. This last game would determine the Series winner. And most notably, it was also the last day of a VeryImportant Bet.

Peter couldn’t believe that he was starting as pitcher. It was like the universe had decided to have mercy on him, and the doctors had cleared his shoulder at the last minute. He was on a pretty heavy dose of ibuprofen, but that was it. There was no way he was going to play the last game of his career doped up on pain meds or a steroid shot. Nope.

This was a day he always wanted to remember.

Scanning the crowd of Coors Field, Peter breathed deep and steady despite the pounding of his heart and the swirling mass of emotions. So many feelings were bubbling around inside him: gratitude, anxiety, fear, exhilaration, nervousness, and anticipation. One minute he was flying high, the next he was swimming in an ocean of insecurity as the realization that when he woke up in the morning he would no longer be a professional ballplayer sprung to mind.

Tomorrow, and for the rest of his life, he was just plain old Peter Brian Kowalskin.

But for now, for this one last game, he was Kowalskin, jersey number fifteen, ace pitcher for the Denver Rush. Winner of the Cy Young Award two years running. And he was there to kick some Red Sox ass.

Cranking his hat down, Peter smiled into the stands. The stadium was bursting at the seams with green and yellow Rush fans, the impressive noise level a tribute to the talent and popularity of his team. A hard knot lodged in his throat and he swallowed around it.

God he was going to miss this.

“You all ready for a show?” he asked the crowd quietly, knowing they couldn’t hear him.

“What’s that you said, Walskie?” asked Arthur McMurtry, the team manager, as he came over from the dugout to where Peter was standing.

Squinting against the sun, he tucked his ball mitt under his left armpit and rolled a baseball between his hands, cocking a hip. “I was just thinking about the show our crowd is going to get today.”

Arthur had a wad of chew in his lip. He spit, saying, “It’ll be a good one.” Then his coach of fourteen years cuffed him on the shoulder and said, “Give them hell, Kowalskin. One last time.”

Yeah. He could do that.

The crowd cheered raucously as someone famous he didn’t recognize stepped out to sing the national anthem. After the elaborate rendition was done and the team was back in the dugout, the Denver Broncos’ starting quarterback came onto the field to throw out the first pitch to the great delight of the stadium full of fans.