Jennifer Seasons - Throwing Heat

The words fell heavy on her ears and she pushed past him hard on her way out of the kitchen. “Get away from me.” Her voice was flat. Whether he’d just said it in retribution or not, it didn’t matter. The words hurt bad.

He let her go. As she walked away he said, “So it’s okay for you to say it, but not me? Why is that, Leslie?”

She spun around, heart weeping, and shouted, “Just leave!” She didn’t wait to see if he listened.

But he damn well better leave Missy.

PETER HAD A pre-op appointment the next day for his eye surgery. Though he didn’t want to see or speak to anybody and was in a foul disposition, he crawled out of bed and took himself to the early morning meeting. The whole time he was there, while he was supposed to be listening to them go over the steps of the procedure, all he could think about was Leslie. The way she’d looked at him when she’d screamed at him to leave. Never before had he seen such emotion come from one single person.

Because of her, he hadn’t slept a wink.

All night he’d tossed and turned, replaying their fight in his mind, wondering if or where he’d gone wrong. And he couldn’t figure it out. She was the one who’d decided to end things.

Christ, love was messy.

It grabbed a hold of a person. Maybe it was better that they’d split. He and Leslie were too independent, too autonomous to let love happen to them. It would kill their sparks. What would the two of them do with something like love?

Parking his FJ Cruiser, he climbed out and went through the garage door into the house. Peter kicked the door closed forcefully behind him. Who the hell was he trying to kid?

The whole ugly frigging truth was that he didn’t want Leslie to be in love with him because he wasn’t worth it. If she loved him he wouldn’t be able to hide his bad side forever and eventually the truth of who he was would eat away at their relationship until nothing remained of something that used to be good.

Until one day she woke up and realized she’d picked the wrong guy.

The house was quiet as a tomb when he entered the kitchen. Leslie wasn’t there anymore. But he could feel her. The woman was everywhere. Wherever he looked, he saw her. She was curled up on the sofa, her tiny furball nestled in her lap. She was standing in his kitchen in a tank top and skimpy panties eating cold leftovers. She was even in his bedroom, staring him down with miserable, wet eyes demanding to know why he hadn’t been able to make love to her.

Leslie had gone from haunting his dreams to haunting his reality. If given a choice, he’d rather it be his dreams. Because in his reality everything in his house smelled like a damn piña colada. Even his stupid towels smelled like coconut.

And it all made him think of her. Made him miss her.

He didn’t want to miss her.

If he missed her then it meant that he cared about her. And caring brought entanglements. Commitments. It meant sticking around somebody for a long, long time—somebody who was going to have expectations, who was going to require things of him. Somebody who was going to see the worst in him.

He didn’t want that somebody to be Leslie.

No, he wanted her to always see the best of him. Peter scrubbed a hand over his scruffy face, suddenly bone tired. What did it matter if she saw his bad side? The life he’d lived had shaped and molded him in a lot of ways. Some good, some not. He damn sure wasn’t perfect. Someday somebody was going to get close enough to see that. Why was he always struggling against the inevitable?

“Probably because you’ve been fighting your whole life and you just don’t fucking know when to stop, idiot.” Sounded about right.

With a sigh, Peter glanced out the French doors to the back patio. It was a gorgeous November day. The sky was clear and the sun was out. Deciding to take in some fresh air, he grabbed a clean gray Rush hoodie from the dryer, put it on, and poured a glass of orange juice.

Peter picked up the glass and as he crossed the kitchen he had a memory flash of Leslie in her flannel pants and sloppy ponytail sitting on the floor while she dangled a string for her kitten, a smile of absolute delight on her gorgeous face. His chest went tight like it was caught in a vice grip. Damn it.

The woman was going to give him a heart attack.

Muttering to himself, Peter pushed through the French doors and stepped out onto the patio. Taking a minute, he surveyed his property—his home. And it struck him that for a guy who claimed to be scared of commitment and responsibility, he sure hadn’t had a problem with either when he’d bought his house.

In fact, it was one of the very few things he relied on as a constant in his life.

A gaggle of geese flew overhead squawking and Peter squinted against the sun, following them across the sky. When they were gone he lowered his gaze and scanned his huge backyard. Clarity started to settle over him.

His house was built for a family. It wasn’t meant for someone alone. That’s probably why he threw so many frigging parties. Because his home was meant to be full.

And he’d bought the large five-bedroom house with its private one-acre lot without hesitation. So what did that tell him about his fear of commitment?

It told him that it was bullshit.

His real fear was letting someone in. Letting someone truly get close to him. For so many years he’d hidden behind his smile—the cocky ballplayer with the fast arm. He’d laughed and joked and pulled one outrageous stunt after another. And the whole time no one saw the real Peter—even himself.

He’d made being a professional pitcher his whole identity. He’d let it become his life, while only his music spoke the truth of who he really was. It had worked. It had contented him. But now that the pillar of his self-identity had been stripped away, he didn’t know what to do.

Maybe it was time to find something new to throw his all into.

Yeah, maybe.

Maybe that something new should be Leslie.

Peter drained his glass of orange juice and set it on the patio table next to him. Then he put his hands in the front pouch of his hoodie and stepped onto the grass, enjoying the sunshine on his shoulders. The rays were warm and gentle when he closed his eyes and turned his face toward the sun.

The sound of a door opening behind him had his eyes popping open. He swung his head around to see who it was and came face-to-face with an extremely pissed-off Mark Cutter. “You son of a bitch!”

Uh oh.

The catcher swung a fist and connected hard with Peter’s left eye, dropping him like a stone. Stars exploded behind his eyes as pain radiated from his cheekbone and he landed on his ass in the grass. He shook his head, clearing the daze, and looked up to find Mark standing over him with fisted hands and heaving chest.

“You know.” It wasn’t a question.

The catcher offered him a hand. As soon as Peter was on his feet, Mark clocked him hard again, his fist like granite. “Fuck!” That one connected with his lip, soundly splitting it and whipping his head back.

“That’s for sleeping with my sister, asshole.”

Peter swiped a hand across his split lip as emotions welled up inside him. “She slept with me too, man.”

Mark cocked his arm again, eyes hard like diamonds, and let it fly. Peter was ready this time and dodged the swing. Unwilling to let it go, the catcher dropped low and slammed a shoulder into his solar plexus, taking Peter down hard. For the next few minutes they scrapped, threw elbows, and clipped chins. The only sounds were of them grunting and swearing.

One of Mark’s elbows connected with his jaw, snapping his teeth together and making him wince. “All right, jackass. Enough.” Peter had let the catcher have at him, considering it his brotherly right, but he’d had enough now and rolled away.

He sat up just as the blond-haired ballplayer did too. They were both out of breath and just sat on the grass in silence while they tried to slow their racing hearts. Mark sat staring straight ahead at the giant oak tree by the back fence, a tick working his jaw.

Finally he said very quietly, “My sister acts tough, but she’s not. If you hurt her I’ll bust your jaw.”

Fair enough. “Deal. Although I don’t think you have anything to worry about. She threw me out the last time I was around.”

The catcher slid him a look. “Yeah?”

Peter nodded. “Yep.”

His lips twitched. “Good.”

It hadn’t felt good when she’d done it. “How’d you find out?”

Mark squinted into the sun and pulled at a few blades of grass. “Lorelei told me.”

Figured.

The two of them sat there in silence for another minute. Then Mark exhaled loudly. “Why did you do it, Pete? Couldn’t you have done your sniffing around someone else?”

That was a good question. “No, man. I couldn’t.”

Mark shot him a lethal glare. “Why the fuck not?”

Another good question. “She gets to me, dude.”

The catcher tossed the shredded blades of grass back down and bent his knee, resting his forearm on it. “Are you saying that you have feelings for her?”

There it was, the moment of truth. Did he have feelings for Leslie? “Yeah.” Deep, profound feelings that more than bordered on scary.

“She deserves someone who’ll take good care of her and treat her right.”

Peter swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat. “Yeah.”

Mark stared at him with hard gray eyes. “Is that you?”

He heard what her brother was really asking and it made his stomach squeeze. There was no turning back. Was he ready for this?