Julia London (6 page)

He threw up a hand. “Just keeping it real, here.”

“Well . . . keep
it real someplace else,” she suggested, gesturing vaguely toward someplace
else.

He laughed. “Didn’t have you pegged for a prude.” His gaze flicked the
length of her. “Quite the opposite.”

“I am
not
a prude,” she insisted. “Just because I
don’t appreciate a man I’ve just met picturing me like
that
does not make me a
prude.”

“You’re right. It doesn’t make you a prude; it makes you
uptight.”

“Thanks a lot.”

He grinned. “You’re welcome.”

He was teasing her. Okay. She sat
back, crossed one leg over the other, and started swinging her foot. “So now that you have
enlightened me that you are a whole person, and not just a jock who pictures women he’s
just met naked, maybe you will tell me the real reason you are playing so
poorly.”

That made Parker groan and roll his eyes to the ceiling. “May
I
ask a
question for once?”

“Ask away.”

“Why did you choose me to
hate?”

She didn’t
hate
Parker. She actually kind of liked him in a weird,
distant kind of way. “I don’t hate you,” she scoffed, flicking her wrist at him as if that
was a completely ludicrous suggestion.

“Yes, you do. You trash-talk me
every day. You don’t seem to have a program if you’re not Parker-bashing. And I would like
to know how it ever got to that point.”

“Well, first of all, I trash lots of
sports stars on my show—Wait. That didn’t come out right. What I mean is that I have
sports talk show. I have to talk about the good and the bad to be legitimate, and you just
happen to be spectacularly bad at the moment. But hey, if you started hitting and fielding
and living up to that truckload of dough they paid you, I’d talk about how great you
are.”

He suddenly leaned forward, put his arms on the table, and looked at her
with an intensity that made her suck in her breath a little. “So if I play well, you’ll
ease up on me?”

“Absolutely!”

His eyes narrowed. “Let’s put a little wager on it. We’re
playing the Astros at home tomorrow. If I get a base hit, you ease up a little. If I get
an RBI, you not only
ease
up, you
talk
me up. And if I get a home run, you
go out with me.”

Kelly almost spewed her water all over the table and then laughed out loud.
“Are you nuts? I’m not going out with you!”

“What’s the matter? Afraid I’ll get
a home run?”

“You are
so
not going to hit a home run.”

“Says
who?’

“Says
me.
You haven’t had a decent turn at bat in a
month!”

“Then what’s the problem? Take the bet.” His gaze challenged her, daring her
to do it.

Kelly drummed the table with her fingers while considering it. First of all,
he’d never get a homer, at least not now, not batting like he was. And second of all, it
wouldn’t be the end of the world
if he did, because he really was
cute—and likable in a sort of full-of-himself jockish way. And third . . . She suddenly
leaned forward. “Okay, how about this? Deal on the base hit. Deal on the RBI. But if you
don’t get a hit or an RBI or, let’s be real, a
home run
, then you agree to come
back on my show and let me ask you why.”

His eyes narrowed. So did hers. And
Lucy the waitress chose that moment to drop two chicken Caesar salads on the table. “There
you go, sugar. The cook put extra chicken on your salads.”

“Thank you,
Lucy,” he said, and gave her a smile that probably melted the woman’s underpants right off
her.

“Oh for Pete’s sake,” Kelly muttered and picked up her fork. “That’s the
deal, Tex.”

Parker grinned. “I’m game if you are.”

Kelly put down her fork and stuck
out her hand. Parker took it in his big bear paw, and they shook on it. Only Parker didn’t
let go of her hand right away. He sort of held on to it, that charming little smile of his
curling the corners of his mouth, his eyes roaming her face.

“May I have my
hand, please?” she asked politely. He let go. She wished Lucy would come back and fill her
water glass, because she was feeling a little parched. His smile went even deeper, and she
had the distinct impression that he knew exactly how parched she was.

Kelly cleared
her throat and forked a piece of chicken. “This will be the easiest bet I ever took,” she
said.

“I was thinking the same thing.”

“I can’t wait for the game tomorrow
night. I’m going to listen to every play,” she said, and laughed, imagining him at bat,
swinging for the fences and hitting nothing but air.

“Why listen when you can see it in
person? I’ll leave two tickets for you and Guido.”

Actually, that sounded like a
perfect plan. “Seriously?” she asked.

“Absolutely. It would be my
pleasure.”

Not nearly as much as it would be her pleasure to watch him lose the bet.
And as the conversation turned to pitching, Kelly happily thought of all the one-liners
she would use when he came back on her show.

In the bottom of the seventh, the Houston Astros were leading the Mets two
to one, but the Mets had two guys on base and Parker was up to bat. He’d gotten a base hit
in an earlier inning, and that had boosted his confidence. But he was mildly disappointed
to look up to the seats he’d left for Kelly—choice seats, right behind the dugout—and see
them empty.

Who knew why she hadn’t come? Frankly, it wasn’t a big deal—whatever he did
tonight would be repeated over and over again on ESPN and local news. But he was playing
so well, and he had an excellent feeling about this at bat, because the Astros had Orsen
Harbacker warming up in the bull pen.

Orsen was a relief pitcher Parker knew almost better
than anyone else in the Major Leagues. They’d played against each other in high school,
together in college, and together in the minors and big league. Parker knew Orsen so well,
he knew Orsen liked to throw a sinking fast ball, which most guys in the league couldn’t
hit.

But there wasn’t another ballplayer who’d spent hours letting
Orsen practice throwing sinking fast balls to them, either. Years ago, when Parker and
Orsen had played college ball, the two of them had practiced many afternoons in an empty
ball field.

So when Parker stepped into the batter’s box with two men on, he casually
knocked the dirt from his cleats and lined up. He could see Orsen size him up, could see
him shake off the catcher’s first two signals. Then he threw a curve ball.

“Strike!”
the ump called, and Parker smiled at Orsen, stepped out of the batter’s box, adjusted his
helmet and his glove, and knocked the dirt off his cleats once more. Just as he was about
to step into the box, he happened to glance up to the seats behind the
dugout.

Damn it if his pulse didn’t leap a little, because there she was, with Guido
beside her. He didn’t how he might have missed her before. She was sitting with her legs
crossed, leaning forward, her arms propped on her knee, watching him intently. She was
wearing a Mets baseball hat, a kick-ass top with spaghetti straps, and what he guessed was
some sort of short skirt—all he knew was that she had some of the shapeliest legs he’d
ever seen.

Shit. Now he had a freakin’ audience, like there wasn’t pressure enough just
from his own bench. He had to ignore those legs, that was all. He had a job to do, and
that job was to get his bat on Orsen’s pitch, no matter what. All he needed was a base hit
to bring in one run and tie the game. Anything more was gravy.

He stepped back
into the box, adjusted his grip on the bat, and glared at his old pal Orsen.

Orsen threw him
a ball, much to the delight of the Mets crowd but much to Parker’s dismay. For once, just
once, he needed the baseball gods to be with him and make Orsen throw his sinker.
Just
this once.

Parker stepped out of the box, went through his ritual of adjusting his
helmet and glove and knocking the dirt from his cleats
before stepping
back into the box again. And even then, he took all the time he needed to get into
position, hoping to shake up Orsen a little.

It didn’t shake up Orsen in the
least. The next pitch he threw was a slider, and Parker was stupid enough to swing at it.
The ump signaled a strike, a groan went up from the crowd, and from the corner of his eye,
Parker saw the club manager shake his head and say something to the batting
coach.

No, goddammit, he was not going down this time. He survived another ball,
and another one after that as Orsen tried to throw another curve ball to make Parker
swing. He had a full count now. He stepped out of the box and angrily knocked the dirt
from his cleats. If Orsen thought he was going to walk him, he had another think coming,
especially with Kelly sitting up there lapping this up like a dog. It felt like everything
was riding on this full count.
Everything.

He adjusted his helmet and glove,
gripped his bat, and stepped into the box, getting in position very quickly this time.
“Come on, buddy,” he muttered through his teeth. “Come on . . . give me what I
want.”

Orsen wound up and uncorked a sinker. And by some divine miracle, Parker got
under it. The ball went sailing high to right field. He dropped the bat, raced toward
first, and rounded it like an old pro as a lusty cry went up from the crowd. The right
fielder had missed it; the ball bounced off the back wall and away from him, and the
go-ahead run was rounding third and headed for home.

As Parker hit second base, the third
base coach signaled him on, and Parker felt a burst of energy like he hadn’t felt since he
was twelve years old. He was flying—his legs were moving under him, eating up great
lengths of ground, his arms pumping like pistons. He did not break stride when he rounded
third, flying over the base without knowing where the ball was. But as he came down the
home stretch, he got the signal to slide and literally hurled
himself
through the air, sailing headfirst into home, his hand outstretched, his fingers reaching
the plate just ahead of the catcher’s tag.

The crowd went absolutely wild as he
jumped up and brushed himself off. The dugout emptied as the entire team rushed out to
high-five him. Parker clapped hands with every teammate who could reach him, and as he
trotted back to the dugout, he looked up.

Miracle of all miracles, Kelly
O’Shay was smiling. The girl was actually
smiling
and gave him a thumbs-up that
made him feel lighter than air.

He grinned through the rest of the game and made a
couple really spectacular catches, if he did say so himself. The Mets won that night,
breaking a two-week losing streak. Afterward, Parker had a few beers with some of the guys
to celebrate but then headed home when they all continued on into the city to do more
celebrating. Not him—he wanted to be up bright and early to hear
Sports Day with Kelly
O’Shay.

The next morning, Parker awoke to the glorious sound of his radio
alarm . . . but then frowned in disappointment when he was awake enough to realize it was
Guido who was doing the talking.

“Full count, the go-ahead run on second, and
bam
right to the warning track! That was
off
the
hook
!”

“It was off the
hook all right,” Kelly agreed in her sexy—and surprisingly genial—voice. “You wouldn’t
think a guy that big could run that fast, but he ran like greased lightning. Guido and I
were there to see it with our own two eyes.”

“We saw it all right,” Guido agreed,
and someone sang “Take Me Out to the Ballgame.”

“I’m telling you, Guido, Parker
Price hit what might have been the most spectacular infield homerun I’ve ever seen. There
is no question that it saved the game.”

“It may have saved the game, but
Kelly, I have to give you
props,” Guido said. “If it wasn’t for your
show, I don’t believe Price would have stepped up to the plate, pardon the
pun.”

Wait just a damn minute . . . Parker stared disbelievingly at the radio.
Guido was going to give
Kelly
credit for his game-winning homerun?

“Oh, Guido,
that’s sweet, but
I
didn’t hit that homerun,” Kelly said.

“Damn straight
you didn’t,” Parker muttered.

“No, no,” Guido responded, determined. “If you hadn’t called
this guy on the carpet for his sucky performance this season, I don’t think he would have
done what he did last night. That’s just one man’s opinion, but I defy someone to prove me
wrong. Before your show, Price was sleep-walking through the season.”

“Well,” Kelly
said airily, “Sometimes, all it takes is a reality check. You know how these high-flying
baseball players are—they’ve got so many managers and handlers that sometimes they don’t
really know how they are playing in Peoria, right? But take a guy like Price, clue him in,
and maybe it sinks in, maybe it doesn’t, but the Mets won last night!” she sang
out.

Parker kicked off the covers and stood up, his fists clenched, staring down
at the radio.