Jennifer Seasons - Throwing Heat

What was he going to do without them?

Feeling his morale dropping, Peter turned his gaze to the game just as Paulson connected with a pitch and sent it flying over the outfield wall into the stands. Crap. Looked like he had himself a date later.

The veteran jogged around the bases, taking his sweet time while Rush fans cheered his home run. When he passed in front of the dugout, he pointed at Peter and hollered, “I want fancy, sissy boy!”

JP turned to him. “You realize taking him out for something fancy is only asking for trouble, right?”

Yeah. The last time Paulson wanted highbrow, he’d wound up tanked on Dom Perignon and screwing their server in the coatroom, making her miss the last hour of her shift. There’d been a lot of ticked-off customers wondering what had happened to their checks.

Peter nodded. “I’m steering him clear of the bar.”

Sometimes Drake was like having a toddler around. You took your eyes off him at your own risk.

And that was exactly why Peter loved him.

He owed the veteran and Mark for some really memorable times. The most infamous being the night Peter lost a ten-dollar bet and wound up hungover on cheap beer with a tattoo on his dong.

To this day he didn’t know how he’d managed to go through with it. But he knew he must be some epic kind of jackass to have stamped a tattoo on his dick for all eternity.

Alas, such was the story of his life.

Drake entered the dugout, out of breath and sweaty, then plopped down with a humph next to Peter. “Where we going, brother?”

“Hell if I know,” Peter shrugged. “You’re not gonna get all picky on me are you?”

Mark smirked from down the bench. “The guy’s got expectations, Pete.”

Grinning at that, he pulled off his hat and raked a hand through his damp hair. “Don’t I know it.”

Paulson took offense. “Just because I have standards, don’t make me high maintenance, man.”

Something occurred to him as he looked at the first baseman. “How come you aren’t hitting the town with some tight-bodied little thing later? It’s not like you to be in short supply for company.”

Drake leaned his head against the dugout wall and scratched his unshaven chin. “I’m taking a breather.”

“Did all those spring chicks finally wear you out, old man?” jabbed JP.

“Look who’s suddenly getting big for his britches now that he’s got a woman?” Drake said.

“Yeah, I know. But I don’t blame him. Sonny is seriously foxy.” He looked around Drake to JP. “You lucked out, dude.”

The player flashed a grin. “True that.” Then he stood up and moved to the dugout entrance. It was his turn in the hole. “You should find something real, hoss,” he said behind him to Paulson. “Then maybe you wouldn’t feel the need to take a breather.”

“Pssh,” the veteran waved him off. “I’ll leave the love crap to you boys. It ain’t my thing.”

Something in the tone of his voice sounded off and Peter narrowed his eyes. He knew the smell of bullshit. Mostly because he specialized in it. “So you say now, bro. But you aren’t immune.” His hand waved toward the men sitting on the long dugout bench. “The best of them fall at some point or another.” He ended with a nod toward Cutter.

Drake pegged him with a deep brown stare. “What about you? You haven’t gone down yet.”

An image of Leslie came to mind and he shoved it aside, plastered on a smile. “What can I say? It just isn’t in my cards.”

“Maybe you should get a new deck.”

No thank you. “Yeah, maybe.”

What the hell? Where’d that come from? The words had popped right out of his mouth before he’d even known they were there.

He didn’t want a new deck. Nope. He was happy with the one he had.

So why had he said that?

Leslie popped into his head again. This time she was topless and splayed out over a cream cotton comforter. Her body was willing and supple, but her eyes were filled with shadows as a tear slipped down her cheek.

What the fuck?

Peter shook his head hard enough to make his brain hurt. Why had that memory come back to him now? He didn’t want it there. He wanted new ones to replace the old. That way he wouldn’t have to remember anymore what it had been like to see Leslie Cutter fall apart.

More, he wouldn’t have to remember how it had felt.

“You thinking about that new deck already, bro?” Drake broke into his thoughts.

Peter shook his head and looked at the field just as JP hit a grounder and made it to first base. “Nah.”

Drake laced his fingers behind his head and stared straight ahead. “Yeah, me neither.”

“HEY, LESLIE. CAN you hand me my soda down by your foot?” said her sister-in-law, Lorelei Cutter, as she sat back down in her seat. “Sorry that took forever. The line for the bathroom is outrageous.”

Leslie glanced at her sister-in-law from behind her Ray-Bans. “Are you feeling okay, hon? You don’t look so hot.” Her normally tawny skin was super pale and she looked worked.

The brunette shook back her long hair and sighed. “I’m not sure, actually. I’m afraid I might be fighting something. My stomach has been off for a few days now.”

Leslie handed her the soda, all concern. “You think it’s the flu?” Seemed to her the wrong time of the season for it, but who knew? Stranger things had happened.

Lorelei shook her head. “I don’t think so. I’m not feeling achy and I don’t have a headache. It’s just my stomach.”

Huh. Maybe it was a virus. “How’s Mark been feeling?” she asked and scanned the field, looking for her brother. She found him on deck and about to bat. As she watched he strode up to the plate and prepared for the pitch.

Glancing back at Lorelei, Leslie found her staring at Mark with a silly grin on her face. “He’s been fine,” she said, her eyes glued on her husband. “Healthy as a horse.”

Thinking that her soda looked pretty darn good, Leslie nabbed it from her and stole a sip. “Thanks, love. I was parched,” she said as she handed it back.

“If I didn’t adore you so much I’d clock you for swiping my sugary caffeinated beverage.”

Leslie grinned at her, knowing the woman didn’t mean a word of her threat. “Wow. Somebody’s feeling a wee bit bitchy today too.”

Lorelei blew out a breath and slouched in her stadium seat, propping a foot on the empty one in front of her. “I know it. And I feel terrible about it too, but it just won’t stop. It’s like I have PMS on steroids.”

Leslie could relate. She was a monster every month for about a week. “No worries.”

Someone walking behind them whacked her on the back of the head. “I’m sorry!” the person exclaimed.

Whipping around in her seat, Leslie came up against a teenage girl holding a small mountain of hot dogs who was trying to make her way down the aisle. “It’s all right, hon.”

The girl smiled gratefully. “Thanks.”

Turning back around as the scent of ball field dogs hit her nose, Leslie tugged down her faded black Jack Johnson T-shirt and felt her mouth water. She sighed and looked at Lorelei. “Now I need a hot dog, damn it.”

Her sister-in-law laughed and said around her soda straw, “Normally I’d join you with a burger, but I believe I’ll abstain this time.”

Leslie froze. What? Since when did Lorelei ever turn down greasy salty goodness?

Spinning in her seat until she was face-to-face with the brunette, she lowered her Ray-Bans and looked her over thoroughly. The early October sun was at an angle in the sky that made her squint against the glare. “You don’t want anything to eat?”

Lorelei shook her head, her green eyes confused. “It’s weird, isn’t it?”

She nodded.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I mean, I never turn down food. Especially not a cheeseburger.”

Leslie looked her dead in the eye. “You’ve never been pregnant before, either.”

Lorelei jolted and bobbled her cup of soda. “I’m not . . . I mean . . . I can’t be . . . he’s been so busy . . . we aren’t even trying yet!” she ended almost desperately, her face white and her eyes huge.

“That’s the funny thing about sex. You don’t even have to try.” She should know. She hadn’t been trying at seventeen, either.

Lorelei stared at her, eyes all shimmery. “You think I could be?”

Leslie snagged the soda again and took a good long slurp, staring at her hard. It was written all over her pasty face.

“Yup.”

LESLIE SET THE tray of drinks on the table and laughed at the sight that greeted her. About a dozen Rush players gathered around two tables shoved together, the men in various stages of intoxication. They’d come into Hotbox after the game to celebrate their victory against the Mets.

They did that once in a while. It boosted attendance every time they did, which was just one more reason why Peter playing in the club would be such a big deal. The famous Rush pitcher got attention.

Live music pumped through the state-of-the-art sound system as a local indie band rocked the house with their African-influenced breezy folk music. When they’d first come into the bar looking for a place to play and she’d heard their sound it had been a done deal. They were like Rusted Root and Jack Johnson combined and it was freaking awesome. It made her feel good to give the little guys some exposure too.

“Hey, sis, where’s my wife?” Mark had to nearly shout to be heard over the music. “I thought she was with you?”

Leslie handed outfielder Carl Brexler a nitro-tap microbrew and winked at him when he thanked her. “She’s passed out on the couch in my office.”