Thrown By Love (13 page)

He didn’t dare look at her. If he did, he might just lay her back on the table and kiss her until he’d sated the beast she’d awakened. And he doubted he’d stop at a kiss. He kept his eyes on her ankle, concentrated on spiraling the bandage around it.

“Ow!” Her foot jerked in his hand. “That’s tender.”

Now he had to look up. She was biting at her lower her lip. He’d kissed those lips and if he wasn’t careful, he’d do things he shouldn’t just to kiss them again.

“Sorry. Just a few more twists.”

Her lips relaxed. Not quite a smile, but she nodded.

He dragged his attention back to her foot. As he rolled the bandage around her instep and ankle, he felt he’d fallen into a mythic undertaking and was crossing one of those mystical bridges, the kind that changed you forever. Once you crossed, you could never go back because when you turned around, the bridge was gone and the land you left was no longer there. Though he might’ve liked to ignore it, his inner voice, the voice that he trusted even when it irritated him—the one that told him when to change up on a hitter or to turn off a road, to take a detour he’d only later discover had kept him from a rock slide or an accident—told him that he’d stepped into this journey when he’d dragged Chloe into the alcove and stolen his first kiss. Women like Chloe should come with caution signs. Now he understood why ogres or dragons guarded the caves of mythic women—a guy needed some warning or at least a moment to pause and think.

He secured the bandage and stood.

She reached a hand to his arm. Her touch sent a charge through him. Damn, it was
way
too late for thinking.

“Thank you. Again.” Her lips trembled and emotion roiled in her eyes. Maybe pain. Maybe the shock of it all. But maybe something else.

“Ice,” he said. He didn’t say
you’re welcome
—she was more than welcome. “I’ll get it.”

Chloe sat on the picnic table, waiting for Scotty to return with the ice bag. She was vaguely aware of the boisterous laughter of families gathered around the other tables.

But she was very aware of the unsettling feelings that had crept into her as Scotty had bandaged her foot. She’d never known that a man’s touch—just a simple, simple touch—could fire such an edgy wanting. That wanting felt dangerous, as if she had little control. But control was something she was very, very good at. Control was her safety net. And that net had just failed her.

“Volleyball’s a dangerous sport.” Charley Kemp chuckled as he sauntered up beside her. “That’s why I stuck to baseball.”

When she was seven, Chloe had seen Charley take a pitch straight to the head in a game against the Yankees. It’d glanced off him, but when he’d slumped in the batter’s box, it had scared the hell out of her. When she’d asked her dad if people died playing baseball, he’d told her not to worry, that Charley would be fine.

Charley took her foot in his hand and turned it this way and that. His fingers tightened, she felt a pop and immediately her ankle hurt less.

“You’ll be sore, but you’ll live,” he said as he straightened. “I’ll get some ice.”

“Scotty’s gone for it already.” She heard the way she said Scotty’s name. She hadn’t been thinking.

Charley stepped back and thrust his hands to his hips. He made a little click with his tongue, a click she’d heard him make many times when a batter had been struck out by a wily pitch or a fielder had lost the ball in the sun.

“Be careful, Chloe. I’ve seen a lot in my years around this game. Some actions cast a bigger shadow than others.”

He might as well have wagged a finger and said, “Don’t go there.”

Chloe was the daughter Charley never had. When she’d fought being sent to Laughton Hall, Charley had been her only ally. Charley’s sons, Evan and Ryan, were like brothers to her. Between raising his sons and managing hundreds of players, Charley knew more about men than anyone she knew, except for Brigitte. And she respected his opinion. Thinking of Brigitte going up against Charley made her smile, but even Brigitte might balk in the face of the emotions Scotty had stirred.

Royce strode up to the table with an exaggerated swagger. “We won.” He swept a showy bow. “Your sacrifice encouraged us play laudably to the finish.”

“Royce, this is Charley.” Charley gave a relieved smile as he shook Royce’s outstretched hand. “Royce is taking on my classes at Stanford while I roust about with the Sabers,” she said in a teasing tone.

A little humor could hide much. Her heart did a little dip when the lines of worry dropped from Charley’s face as he evaluated Royce. Royce was Charley’s idea of perfectly safe territory—educated, well-spoken and
not
a baseball player. Royce had all the right qualities to appeal to a woman. Too bad the guy didn’t light her up in the least; he’d be a perfect match, a match that Charley, and maybe even her father, could’ve approved.

Scotty returned with a plastic bag filled with ice. He nodded to Charley and shot a tight-jawed smile at Royce. “I see you’re in better hands than mine.” He handed the ice bag to Charley and wiped his hands down the sides of his jeans. The three men stood unmoving as an awkward silence stretched between them. Scotty raked a hand through his hair. “I should go check on Smokey.”

When Scotty turned away, Chloe smiled at Royce. For Charley’s sake. And to keep from watching Scotty walk across the park.

What was it that made seemingly sane people crave what was forbidden, what was tantalizingly just out of reach?

Chapter Ten

Scotty usually liked New York, though plenty of players didn’t get a charge out of the crowds in the Mets’ stadium. They hated the booing and the hard edge of the fans. But he could tune into the fans’ passion for their home team, could turn it inside him and make it his. They loved baseball and that was what mattered. Competition and team rivalries gave the game its edge, its magic, and Mets fans’ energy added to the heady mix.

The weather was perfect, not hot like it could be for so many games played back East in the summer. He’d pitched six decent innings, except for the run he’d given up in the third. The Mets’ best slugger always seemed to know when Scotty’s slider was going to break. He made a note to ask Alex about him. One good thing about having a hitter for a friend—no, not just a hitter, a master slugger—was that he shared his insights. He knew how an experienced hitter studied a pitcher. Alex’s advice and keen observations were gold to Scotty; the guy was a wizard of the plate and Scotty soaked up his wisdom. Next time he faced the Mets’ big guy, he’d have his number.

But six decent innings wasn’t good enough. His velocity wasn’t there, not how he wanted it. He was paid to be good, but anything less than
really
good wasn’t good enough. Not in his mind.

In the bottom of the seventh he went for the other side of the plate. His heat was there, but not the finish. Kemp pulled him when the Mets brought up their left-handed slugger. He liked Charley and respected the man’s decisions; Charley was a manager whose respect he wanted to earn. But being yanked always stung.

As Scotty walked off the mound, his gaze roved the stadium, scanning faces. He soaked up the vortex of energy funneling down onto the field—a guy could get addicted to the power, the allure, of it. But he’d be a fool if he didn’t remember that baseball was only part of life. Someday he’d walk out of the stadium and it’d be over, just as it had been for hundreds of guys before him. No one knew when that day would come. Could be ten years. If he got beaned or injured, it could be tomorrow. The guys who did best either stayed in the game or had something else that called to them, another dream they could latch onto, pour their heart into, after the show was over.

He walked to the far end of the dugout and grabbed his warm-up jacket. He pulled the sleeve over his pitching arm and stared out at the field. He needed to focus; he needed to get his center back.

Chloe McNalley had rocked him, knocked him sideways and upside down, and as a consequence, everything was off.

He’d thought that time away from her would dissolve the web that kept her constantly in his mind. But it hadn’t. And they’d never had that talk she’d promised when they’d danced that night in the bar—to clear the air, she’d said. Maybe if they did, thoughts of her would stop rattling around in his head. He snorted out a breath, knowing he was only kidding himself. He wanted to do a hell of a lot more than talk. But talking would have to do.

After the game, Scotty skipped the invitation to party with the guys at a bar near their hotel. When he got back to his room, he punched in Chloe’s cell number.

“Hello?” she answered in a friendly, familiar tone. His number was blocked; she hadn’t known it was him.

“It’s Scotty.”

“Oh.”

He didn’t care that her tone changed, couldn’t read it anyway. Sometimes he hated telephones. But unlike his buddies, he sucked at email and was worse at texting. The phone would have to do.

“I think we should have that talk you promised.” He cleared his throat. “Probably best someplace less public than the stadium.” Like his place. He knew she wouldn’t go for that, and it really was a bad idea, no matter how much he’d fantasized about having her under him in his king-sized bed.

The pause grew long, one of those pauses a guy wished would never happen. Had he put her on the spot?

“How about we take in a show at the planetarium?” he said, breaking the uncomfortable silence. “I need to brush up on my constellations.” It wasn’t the best of venues, but they could talk afterward.

“I’d like that,” she said.

And she sounded like she really meant it.

Scotty waited in the arched foyer of the building housing the planetarium. Chloe was late. Maybe he’d told her the wrong time, but he was pretty sure he had it right. He scanned the names of donors carved into the marble wall. The McNalley Family Foundation loomed at the top of the list in big letters.

“I should’ve told you not to buy a ticket,” Chloe said as she came up behind him. “I have a lifetime pass. If I come every day for several lifetimes, it will eventually pay off.”

He flashed the tickets he’d bought as he’d waited. “Consider this my contribution to the cause.”