Out Of Her League

Copyright © 2008 by Kari Lea Walker

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To get rid of him she blurted, “Well, it was nice to meet you.” Fumbling with her keys in preparation to activate the remote locking system, she gave him an impersonal smile.

“I'll see you into your car, just to make sure you're okay. I wouldn't want anything to happen to you.”

His quiet words sent a spurt of adrenaline through her veins, those disturbingly bleak eyes sliding over her body, making her feel exposed. Shivering in the balmy May evening, she tried to ignore the inner voice whispering warnings in her head. As fast as she could, she lugged the gear over to her truck and loaded it in back. When she finished he was still standing there, expressionless but for the weird glow in his eyes. Was he planning on trying anything? Her pulse jolted. Maybe she should have kept a hold on one of those bats, just in case. She almost dove for the driver's side, scrambled into the cab.

When she looked up he was standing next to her door. Christa barely stifled the gasp that rose in her throat.

“It was nice to meet you, finally,” he said, watching her with that eerily intent gaze. “I'll see you next game.”

Great. Either he wasn't getting her signals of disinterest, or worse, he chose to ignore them.

“Drive carefully,” he added, stepping back from the truck. His mercurial eyes seemed to glitter at her in the darkness. “Most accidents happen at night when you're close to home.”

Her heart leapt. Was he threatening her?

Swallowing the lump of fear trying to lodge in her throat, she pretended she hadn't heard him over the rumble of the engine and sped off. Turning out of the parking lot, she took a last glance in her side mirror and found him standing there, perfectly still, watching her drive away.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Out Of Her League

COPYRIGHT ©

2008 by Kari Lea Walker

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Contact Information: [email protected]

Cover Art by
Kim Mendoza

The Wild Rose Press

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Adams Basin, NY 14410-0706

Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

Publishing History

First Crimson Rose Edition, 2008

Print ISBN 1-60154-310-7

And to Jacquie, for showing me the ropes.

In the middle of the sixth inning, the back of Christa's neck prickled. The subtle, subconscious warning raised the fine hairs on her nape, tightened her muscles. He was out there again, watching her. His eyes followed her even here, in the safety of the dugout, tracking her every move like some predatory animal.

“Hey, Chris— looks like your number one fan is back.”

She glanced up from strapping on her shin guards and looked toward the bleachers. Sure enough, there he was, clean-cut with short, dark-blond hair, of medium build and average height, around thirty or so. He sat in his usual spot right behind home plate, making this his eighth consecutive appearance at her games. At first, she'd thought he might be a scout, but now he just unnerved her. He was always there, focused on her, calling out comments to her. And if her teammates had noticed it too, she wasn't being paranoid.

“I wish he'd take up another hobby,” she muttered, grabbing her mask from the bench.

“Yeah,” said her first baseman, giving a shudder. “That guy's starting to bug the hell out of me.”

“Me too.” Christa headed onto the field, careful not to let her eyes stray toward him. Maybe if she ignored him long enough he would go away. Besides, she had more important things to worry about if she wanted to make the Olympic team. She couldn't afford to let herself be distracted by an obsessed spectator, no matter how uncomfortable he made her. With only one last cut standing between her and her dream, no one was going to take it away from her, least of all him.

She exhaled and cleared her mind, concentrating on the field in front of her until she'd blocked out the buzz of the crowd in the stands.

Focus.

Tugging on her mask, she crouched behind home plate, took the starting pitcher's warm-up pitches and hurled the ball down to second base.

“Looking good, nineteen,” her fan called out, addressing her by her uniform number. She tuned him out and went down into her crouch as the batter set up in the box. It was her job to act as quarterback and call the pitches and the plays. She had to take charge and be the leader, and with national team scouts scrutinizing her performance, every play counted.

Her team retired the side, and in the bottom of the same inning, Christa was the first batter up. She went through the rituals of adjusting her kneepads and batting gloves, settled her helmet firmly on her head and stepped into the box. She focused intently at the release point near the pitcher's hip. Everything else faded into the background as she stood there, planted and ready to face the first pitch.

“You're the best, Christa.”

Him again. Somehow his voice had cut through all her efforts to shut him out. Damn it, she had to—

“Show them, Christa. Show them why you're the best.”

Teeth gritted, she tried to push that voice out of her head and regain her concentration, but it was no good. “Time,” she said to the umpire, holding up one hand.

“Time.” The umpire suspended play. Christa stepped out of the box, jaw still clenched, and took a breath.
Get your head in the game, you idiot. Just shut him out and hit the damn ball
. Once she regrouped, she went into her stance and watched the first pitch come in.

“Strike!” the umpire yelled.

Unperturbed, she took a big cut at the next pitch, narrowly missing it. Now she had only one strike left to play with. She stared out at the pitcher's right hip, expecting either a waste pitch or a changeup.
All right, sweetheart. Hit me with your best shot
.

But the next pitch came in low, too close to the strike zone for her to leave it.

“
You're the best.
”

His shout came just as she began her swing, throwing off her timing and making her miss the ball entirely.

“Strike three!” the umpire called.

She froze in disbelief, then whirled around and stalked back to her dugout, disgusted with herself. Before heading inside, she glanced back at the bleachers with a dark look and found the guy staring right at her, not even trying to be discreet. Worse, he had the gall to wink at her. Oh yeah, the jerk knew exactly what he was doing. What was he— a jealous relative of some player on the cut list, bent on sabotaging her career? Or was he doing it for kicks?

Irritation surged. God, why couldn't she just
ignore
him? There was no excuse for letting him get to her.

Despite her poor plate appearance and the idiot in the stands, Christa and her teammates won the game. After the post-game meeting, they gathered up the equipment and headed off the brightly lit diamond, a half-moon hovering in the midnight blue sky. Past the last set of bleachers in the outfield, she realized she'd left her batting gloves in the dugout and hurried back to grab them, as fast as she could while carrying her catcher's gear and her own equipment bag, plus the team bats. She juggled them to try and find a comfortable position, but it was a heavy load.

“I can take some of that for you,” a male voice said from behind her.

She stiffened, warning bells clanging in her head. He'd never physically approached her before.

“Here,” he offered with a pleasant enough smile. “Let me take something. I'm heading to the parking lot myself.” Up close his eyes were a pale gray, and the bleakness in them made her uneasy. They had a strange, silver gleam to them, like a timber wolf's.

Striving for friendly politeness despite the choice words she had in mind, Christa turned away and shook her head. A glance toward the parking lot showed the last of her teammates already getting into their vehicles. Her black truck was parked against the line of forest on the far side, and she wanted nothing more than to climb into it, lock the doors and get the hell out of there. But he was blocking her way and no one was around to come to her rescue.

She straightened her spine and circled him, evading eye contact. “Oh, thanks anyway, but this'll help keep my shoulders strong.”

“Are you sure?” he persisted. “It's no problem, really. Let me take one bag.”

“No way, then you'll unbalance me.” Despite the urgency tugging at her she hoped her attempt at humor would take any sting out of the rejection. The last thing she wanted was to make him angry. “And besides,” she continued, “it wouldn't be right to make our fans haul our stuff around.”

He shrugged. “I wouldn't mind. I'm Seth, by the way.” He held out his hand, the picture of charm. “I already know your name's Christa,” he added with another smile. It should have been pleasant, but it reminded her of a predator baring its teeth. A chill shivered up her spine.

She couldn't ignore his offered hand without risking insult, so she gripped it for a moment, then snatched hers back to get a better hold on the bags. They were finally nearing the gate to the parking lot, thank God.

To get rid of him she blurted, “Well, it was nice to meet you.” Fumbling with her keys in preparation to activate the remote locking system, she gave him an impersonal smile.

“I'll see you into your car, just to make sure you're okay. I wouldn't want anything to happen to you.”

His quiet words sent a spurt of adrenaline through her veins, those disturbingly bleak eyes sliding over her body, making her feel exposed. Shivering in the balmy May evening, she tried to ignore the inner voice whispering warnings in her head. Until now she'd never noticed how poorly lit the parking lot was, but tonight the ribbon of forest that edged the ballpark transformed into a sinister place of swaying branches and deep shadows where danger might lurk, where a rapist or killer might drag their prey.

Get a grip, Bailey. Stop letting your imagination run away with you
.

As fast as she could, she lugged the gear over to her truck and loaded it in back. When she finished he was still standing there, expressionless but for the weird glow in his eyes. Was he planning on trying anything? Her pulse jolted. Maybe she should have kept a hold on one of those bats, just in case. She almost dove for the driver's side, scrambled into the cab.

When she looked up he was standing next to her door. Christa barely stifled the gasp that rose in her throat. She hadn't even seen him move. Breath freezing in her lungs, she had to force herself not to cringe from him.
Don't let him sense your fear. He'll feed off it
.

Pasting on a friendly smile, she started the ignition, trying to seem unaffected by his nearness. What did she have to do to make him leave her alone? She didn't want to be rude in case it made him angry. There was no telling what he'd do if he were mad, and besides, it wasn't in her to be impolite.
Firm but kind
, she decided, willing herself to stay calm.
I'm not interested, so leave me alone. Just go away
.

“It was nice to meet you, finally,” he said, watching her with that eerily intent gaze. “I'll see you next game.”

Great. Either he wasn't getting her signals of disinterest, or worse, he chose to ignore them.

“Drive carefully,” he added, stepping back from the truck. His mercurial eyes seemed to glitter at her in the darkness. “Most accidents happen at night when you're close to home.”

Her heart leapt. Was he threatening her? Swallowing the lump of fear trying to lodge in her throat, she pretended she hadn't heard him over the rumble of the engine and sped off. Turning out of the parking lot, she took a last glance in her side mirror and found him standing there, perfectly still, watching her drive away.

No way could she go home to her empty house right now, not after that encounter. So she drove to her best friend's place instead. She pulled her truck into the driveway in the neatly kept subdivision and used her spare key to enter the side door.

“Hello? Anyone home?”