Jennifer Seasons - Throwing Heat

Suddenly uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation, Leslie retorted, “Why, are you having problems again?”

Peter took a step forward and she took one in retreat. It effectively pushed her up against the center island. “That was an anomaly, Leslie, and you know it.”

His body was so close she could feel the heat coming off his thighs. It reached out and caressed the skin of her bare ones. “I don’t know anything of the sort.”

He reached out a hand and cupped her chin. His blue eyes were piercing. “You do know that we have chemistry; that there’s this thing that’s lingering between us. I know you like to pretend it doesn’t exist, but facts are facts. It’s been amusing, but it’s run its course and I’m ready to get it out of my system.”

The warmth of his hand was almost scalding. “Just what do you suggest then?” she asked, pretending that she wasn’t standing in her underwear holding a box of cold leftovers. With Peter it was best to never back down or show any weakness. He’d exploit it if you did. “Nice hair, by the way.” It was extra messy tonight, the short black strands a tangled, wavy mess.

“I fell asleep on the flight, but don’t change the subject.” He pushed closer into her until his energy washed over her.

Heat flared low in her belly and went straight to her groin. Damn her body for reacting to him. “What do you want?”

Her gut told her she already knew.

Leaning in, Peter nipped the skin just below her ear, making her shiver, and whispered, “I propose a bet.”

There’s a shocker. The man was full of them. “Why would I agree to one?” She sounded breathless. She wasn’t supposed to sound breathless. He’d rejected her. Didn’t her body remember? Her pride sure as hell did. Why was it betraying her?

Firm lips nibbled her earlobe and she went wet. Damn it. “Because I have something you want.” What could that possibly be?

“What’s that?” Now she didn’t just sound breathless. Her voice was quivering some too. Stop it, body.

The hand on her chin slipped down to caress her shoulder gently before it slid further down to the indentation of her waist. “You get me. Performing with my guitar at your club after the season is over. You can do as much PR about it as you want. And since I know you want to buy the club from Mark but don’t have the money—”

“How do you know that?” she interjected, surprised.

“Because he told me.” His hand squeezed her waist. “Let me finish. As added incentive since you want Hotbox, not only will I play for you, but I’ll pony up the cash you need for a down payment.”

Her eyes flew wide. “You would do that?”

He nodded, eyes hot with challenge.

Boo-yah! God, that was exactly the coup she needed to get her feet underneath her again! She could buy the club and put it on the map in one fell swoop. It was a dream come true. But she’d been trying for two years to get him to play at the club. No manner of coaxing, prodding, or begging had worked. For a guy who lived out loud like he did, it was surprising just how against it he really was. So why the sudden change of heart?

Wait a minute.

Her eyes narrowed. “What’s the whole bet? What’s in it for you?”

Peter gently tangled his fingers in her hair and held her head captive. An unholy gleam came into his eyes, and he grinned wickedly and nipped her chin. “You. I bet that I can get you to sleep with me by the end of the last day of the World Series, or I’ll play in your club and give you your down payment.”

Surprise shook her. “Wait. You want a do-over?”

“You bet your ass I do.”

“But it went so badly for you the last time.”

He looked her in the eyes, his blazing like blue fire. “Then you have nothing to worry about, princess. C’mon, scratch this itch with me. Do us both a favor.”

The man knew how to play her, knew what she wanted most. And he was right—she had nothing to worry about. But she had everything to gain. Peter playing in the club would bring the kind of attention she needed to take the business to the next level. And if she could actually buy it with the money she’d earn by keeping her hands to herself? Well, then life would be perfect.

Sure they had a history. And she’d admit it. Yes, they had chemistry. But it’s not like she was in any real trouble of sleeping with him. Right?

Her stomach quivered. “You’re on.”

PETER DUG HIS cleat into the pitcher’s mound and signaled to Mark Cutter, who crouched behind home plate. Winding up for a slider, he pulled back his elbow and zeroed in on the catcher’s mitt. Tension coiled inside him, ready to unwind like an overtightened spring. Blood coursed through his veins, making him feel alive and hyper-focused.

Pitching in the Major Leagues was such a rush. Pure adrenaline all the way.

Peter was all about the rush.

It was his life. From his team’s name to the way he threw himself into everything full throttle, balls blazing. That was just how he was built. And it had given him a life of few regrets.

His only one was currently in the process of getting a do-over.

Leslie had no idea what she was in for. But she would, starting just as soon as he finished this game. With the little plan he’d put in place about her apartment, the next few weeks were stacked in his favor. A sly smile crept over his face at that. He was so going to win this bet.

No matter what it took. Snapping back to the present moment, Peter took a deep breath, blinked hard as his left eye went temporarily fuzzy, and mentally swore.

He blinked again and his vision cleared enough to continue. Relieved, he inhaled deep and let the ball fly. His arm slung forward like a rocket and the ball flew toward home plate, breaking over and down as it confused the New York Mets batter. The player swung and missed the ball as it slipped under his bat by a good six inches.

Cursing a blue streak, the player slammed his bat into the dirt as the umpire pumped a fist and yelled, “Strike!”

Yes.

The batter stomped off, and Peter earned the last out of the inning for his team. The cheering from the crowd only grew with the guy’s agitation. It was one of the best aspects of playing at Coors Field. The fans were involved and rowdy. They were his kind of people.

Tossing them a salute and a grin, Peter loped off the field with the rest of his team toward the dugout as the Jumbotron followed his movement. He glanced up to see himself on the big screen in his green and yellow jersey and white pants, feeling the joy of it all. Even after all these years it was still one helluva thrill.

He was damn sure going to miss it when it was all said and done.

For now he had his fans and his team, and his arm was firing like it had twelve cylinders. And Leslie was sitting in the bleachers along the first base line, gorgeous as always, cheering her boys on with her sister-in-law Lorelei.

Today, that was enough.

Entering the dugout, Peter slapped Drake Paulson’s ass and said, “Show ’em your stuff, killer,” as the first baseman crammed on his batting helmet and grabbed for a bat. He was up in the rotation and ready to slam one home.

“If I hit a homer you got to buy me dinner, brother,” the veteran shot over his shoulder with a lopsided grin, the smile making him look a little less ugly. How the dude got laid as much as he did was beyond Peter’s comprehension. It simply defied the laws of physics.

“Whatever, Snuffy.” The team had taken to calling Drake that lately because the brown afro on his head and thick chest hair made him look like Snuffleupagus from Sesame Street.

The player pointed a finger at him and added gruffly, “I don’t mean Taco Bell’s ninety-nine-cent menu, either. You’re taking me out somewhere real nice like a proper girlfriend.”

Peter pushed up the bill of his hat with a thumb to get some air on his damp skin. “Any other requests? A corsage maybe?”

Drake made a face and tugged at his batting glove. “Shit. This ain’t the prom, Pete. Keep it in context.”

Right.

JP Trudeau bumped into him as Paulson strode toward the batter’s box. “Hey, man.”

The kid looked happier than he’d ever seen him. More relaxed too. Funny how regular sex could do that to a guy. “Things are going well with you and Sonny I take it.”

The shortstop plopped down on the bench next to him, looking mildly surprised. “Yeah, it’s great. Why do you ask?”

On the far side of the bench, Mark Cutter leaned forward in his catcher’s gear and said, “Cuz lately you’ve been smiling like a dog with two dicks.”

JP laughed and rolled his shoulders. “What can I say, man? It’s good.”

Peter slapped the young player’s shoulder. “Why don’t you give up the deets? This dry spell I’ve been on has turned into one long-ass drought.”

“Would you stop yapping? We’ve got a game on, you knuckleheads,” barked the team manager, Arthur McMurtry. “Sorry, coach,” Peter mumbled.

“Since we’re up by five and it’s the ninth inning, I want you to rest your arm, Kowalskin. That’s why I waved you over here. Caldera’s filling in for you. You’re done.”

Those last few words rung in his ears. The echo lasted for just a moment, but it was enough. It left him feeling hollow, like a foreshadowing of things to come. Which it was, and that scared him. It was hard as shit knowing this was his last season.

Shaking it off, Peter slumped onto the bench and cast a quick glance down the row at his teammates. It was a blast and a privilege playing with them. Of his thirty-four years, he’d spent the last fourteen with the Denver Rush. The players had become his family.