Authors: Regina Kyle
“First I want to hear about your day.” Her voice snapped him out of his fantasy. Just when it was getting good. Damn shame.
He shook his head to bring him fully back to the present and stretched out on the bed. “Nothing special until I opened my mail a few minutes ago.”
“Oh?” The single word was loaded with uncertainty, which only made him want her more.
“I got some...interesting photos.” He fanned them out on the bed next to him, his fingers itching with the need to touch the real her, not an ink-and-paper facsimile. “You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
“Interesting, huh?” He could almost hear her biting her lip like she did when she was nervous. “Good interesting or bad interesting?”
“Definitely good. Very, very good.”
“I wasn’t sure you’d like them. Ivy said guys are into that kind of stuff but...”
“If I liked them any more I’d have shot my load in my tighty whities.” He massaged his aching dick through his jeans, an idea forming in his one-track mind. “What are you wearing now?”
“Nothing like in the pictures. Baggy shorts. Tank top. A Band-Aid on every toe.”
He smiled. “I can work with that.”
“Did I mention that the shorts have a rip on the butt? And the top’s soaked through with sweat.”
“Even better.”
“Very funny.”
“I’m totally serious. You could be in a burlap sack and I’d be turned on.”
“Maybe I should have worn that for the photo shoot. It would have been cheaper. And more comfortable.”
“Next time.” He unzipped his jeans and lifted his hips to shove them—and his underwear—down far enough to free his throbbing cock. He wrapped his hand around the base and gave it a slow, measured stroke, needing to pace himself. They might be miles apart, but he’d make damned sure they came together. “Right now I want you to do something for me.”
“What?” She sounded breathless, like she knew what he was about to ask.
“Touch yourself.”
“Where?”
“Wherever it feels good.” He stroked himself again, faster this time. “Are you doing it?”
“Yes.”
He could hear rustling and pictured her opening her legs and slipping her free hand under the waistband of her shorts, gliding it over the soft, pale skin of her belly to her sex. “Tell me.”
“I...can’t.”
“It’s just you and me,” he reassured her. “Pretend I’m there with you, like in the pool.” Or the car. Or the shower. Or any of the other creative places they’d managed to get it on.
“I took my shirt off.” Her voice was a husky whisper. “I’m...touching myself through my bra.”
“Lace?” He released his dick only so he could get his pants off entirely. While he was at it, he shucked off his shirt for good measure.
“Satin,” she breathed.
“Are your nipples hard?”
“Yes.”
“Lower,” he growled, gripping his cock again. His thumb found the slit and smeared pre-come down the shaft. “I want to hear you come.”
“What about you?” she asked.
“Don’t worry, Duchess. I’ll be right there with you.”
The only sounds for the next few minutes were their mutual grunts, groans and occasional exclamations of “yes,” “oh, baby” and “so close” as they worked themselves higher and higher. Jace could tell from Noelle’s short, erratic breaths, culminating in a long, high-pitched cry, that she was the first to reach the elusive peak and tumble over. He followed almost immediately after, spraying his chest and abs with his release.
“Was that as good for you as it was for me?” he asked after taking a minute to recover.
“I’m pretty sure.” She ended on a contented sigh.
“Maybe sometime soon we can work it out so we’re in the same room.”
“Or at least the same time zone,” she joked.
His phone beeped to let him know he had another call coming in. He pulled it away from his ear to check the screen. “Shit. It’s my dad. I hate to sort-of-screw and run, but...”
“No worries. Call me later if you get a chance so we can talk instead of...you know.”
“Sure thing.” He chuckled as he ended the call and dialed his father.
If he had it his way, they’d
you know
again later, too.
* * *
J
ACE
WHISTLED
AS
he walked down the long corridor that led to the clubhouse under Southern Pacific stadium, home of the Storm.
His home away from home.
At the end of the hall, he swung open the clubhouse door and stepped inside. The familiar heat and humidity from the combined effect of the steam room, showers and sweat greeted him. A couple of his teammates lounged on overstuffed couches, watching the flat screen TVs suspended from the ceiling. Another sat on a folding chair in front of his locker, swearing softly at a handheld video game. When they heard Jace enter, they shouted out their greetings.
“Hey, man.” Reid added his welcome as he came around the corner from the direction of the weight room, his dark hair plastered to his head and a towel draped around his neck. “Good to have you back.”
“Good to be back, even if it’s only to meet with Bucky and the team doc.” Jace looked around the well-appointed clubhouse. It was good to be the king, and players in the majors were treated like a cross between royalty and rock stars, as evidenced by the Storm’s swanky digs. “Where’s your sidekick?”
“You know Coop. He doesn’t show up before noon unless it’s absolutely necessary.” Reid dabbed at his face with the towel. “Any word on when you’ll be able to start working out with the team?”
“I’m hoping that’s what today’s all about.”
“Good luck.” Reid clapped him on the back and headed off for the showers.
Jace took a deep breath and pointed his feet in the other direction, toward the manager’s office. With each step, his heart beat faster and a bead of sweat trickled down his brow, one that had nothing to do with the heat and humidity in the clubhouse and everything to do with the churning emotions he was doing his best to hide. He wiped it away with the back of his hand, only to have another take its place.
He might have put on a brave face for his buddy, but the truth was he was scared shitless. This wasn’t his first time at the UCL rodeo. He wasn’t an expert, but he knew enough to know that his arm wasn’t healing like it should be. Six weeks at Spaulding, almost a month at the outpatient place the team had hooked him up with in Sacramento and his elbow was still way too stiff. Even a casual game of catch—which, yeah, he knew he wasn’t supposed to be doing yet—hurt like hell. God only knew what Sara and his new therapist had written in their reports.
He squared his shoulders and knocked on his manager’s door.
“Come in,” Bucky’s voice called from the other side.
The second Jace opened the door his stomach dropped to his feet. This was trouble. Big trouble. Why else would his agent be there?
“Bucky. Doc. Drew.” Jace nodded to each man in turn.
“Come in,” Bucky repeated, gesturing to the one remaining empty chair in front of his desk. “Have a seat.”
“Thanks, but I’d rather stand.” Jace shoved his hands in his pockets. “I have a feeling this isn’t going to take long.”
Bucky leaned forward, putting his elbows on the desktop. “There’s no easy way to say this.”
“I’m a big boy. I can take it.”
The team doctor, who all the guys called Dr. Doom, tapped a thick folder in his lap. “Unfortunately, your arm’s not where it should be at this point in your rehabilitation.”
“I’ll work harder,” Jace insisted. “Make up lost ground.”
Dr. Doom shook his head. “According to your therapist at Spaulding, you’ve been working plenty hard. That’s not the problem. The problem is this is the second time you’ve injured that ligament. It’s just too damaged. The chances of you making a full recovery are slim.”
“So what are you trying to tell me?” Jace glanced at his agent, who’d been strangely quiet throughout the whole conversation. Drew avoided his gaze and fiddled with his expensive watch. “That I’m done here?”
“I’m sorry, son.” Bucky’s warm, brown eyes said compassion and regret but his firm jaw said the decision had been made and that was that. “The Storm won’t be renewing your contract next year.”
Jace wanted to scream. Instead he balled his hands into fists in his pockets and looked to Drew again. “What about the free agent market?”
His agent crossed an ankle over one knee. “That’s one route we could take. I’ll put out some feelers.”
“Fine.” Jace turned and started for the door. He had to get the hell out of there before he punched something or someone.
“But Jace.” Drew caught up to him, interrupting his flight, and lowered his voice so they others couldn’t hear. “I wouldn’t get your hopes up. I don’t know too many teams willing to take a chance on a high-priced shortstop over the age of thirty with an iffy UCL.”
Jace didn’t bother to respond. What was he supposed to say to that? Deep down, he’d known the score. But hearing it from his agent’s lips was like the final nail in the coffin of his career in Major League Baseball.
His facial expression and body language must have reflected his piss-poor mood, because no one made an attempt to stop him as he stormed through the clubhouse, Drew’s “I’ll call you later” echoing in his ears. Once in his car, he slammed the steering wheel, setting off his horn and making him cringe.
Finished. Washed up at thirty. What was he supposed to do now? All he knew was the game. He hadn’t gone to college like Reid, didn’t have a career as a rocket scientist to fall back on.
His identity, his whole life was wrapped up in baseball. Had been as long as he could remember. Baseball had kept him and his dad from drowning in depression when his mom left. Had been the glue that bonded them in the years since. And had gotten Jace more booze and babes than he wanted to admit.
He could always coach in the minors. Or move into broadcasting. Worked well for guys like Joe Girardi and Bob Uecker. Problem was neither of those options really appealed to him. Been there, done that as far as the minors were concerned. He didn’t need the stress of dealing with overanxious players on the way up—or the way down. And he’d never felt completely comfortable behind a microphone, even in interviews.
So where did that leave him? Sitting on his ass drinking beer and watching the Home Shopping Network? Life as one of the idle rich? Who
was
he if he wasn’t playing ball?
Jace gave the steering wheel another smack. There were too many questions, too much to process right now. Not when he had to pick up his old man from another Gamblers Anonymous meeting. He was attending two a week now, and volunteering at a local food pantry as part of his plea bargain. Pretty soon, he wouldn’t need Jace breathing down his neck twenty-four seven.
Then Jace would really have nothing to do.
With a groan, he started the car, welcoming the burst of reconstituted air that greeted him when the engine engaged and the much-needed air conditioning kicked on. He was about to throw the gear shift into Reverse when his cell rang. He pulled it out of his pocket and glanced at the name on the screen.
Noelle.
He started to slide his finger across the screen to answer, then hesitated.
What was he going to tell her?
Hey, babe, glad your career’s going so well but mine’s in the crapper. Hope you don’t mind being hooked up with a has-been.
His heart told him she’d stand behind him, that she wasn’t the cut-and-run type like his mom. But his head was singing a different tune. She was used to hobnobbing with high rollers, men at the top of their professions. She didn’t have room in her life for a used up, jobless loser.
Time. That was what he needed. Time to get his fucked up life in order. He had to decide what direction he was headed in before he could figure out where they were going.
Mind made up, he hit Ignore and tossed the phone onto the passenger seat.
17
N
OELLE
CLAIMED
HER
favorite corner table at her favorite upper west side coffee shop. Not that she was drinking coffee. Horrible, nasty stuff that dried out your skin and ate away at your stomach lining. She sipped green tea with lemon and just a hint of honey and pulled her cell phone out of her bag to check the time. Or at least that was what she told herself she was doing. Making sure Holly wasn’t late, not looking for the umpteen-millionth time to see if she’d missed a call or text from Jace.
She hadn’t.
He’d been strangely quiet the past few days. Oh, they’d talked, but only a couple of times, and their conversations had been short and stilted. No laughter, no lighthearted banter, and certainly no more steamy phone sex sessions. His texts had been just as infrequent and brief. The longest came up to a whopping four words: Gotta go. Talk later.
Noelle had made a thousand mental excuses for him. After all, he had a lot going on, what with his dad’s legal problems and his physical therapy. Things would return to normal between them when he got his affairs in order. Wouldn’t they?
But after almost a week of the almost silent treatment, she couldn’t deny it any longer.
Something was rotten in Sacramento.
Noelle dropped her phone back into the abyss of her vermillion Birkin bag and sighed loud enough that the pair of perfectly manicured, chemically preserved society matrons at the next table rolled their eyes at her. Why had she ever agreed to a long-distance relationship? Two busy people, trying to resuscitate their careers and keep the romantic fires burning across ten states. It was doomed to fail before it even started. Which she would have recognized if she hadn’t been so blinded by memories of Jace’s magic fingers. And tongue. And...other parts of his anatomy.
Noelle shook her head like it was an Etch A Sketch and a good jolt would wipe her mind clean of depressing thoughts.
Stop, it, girl. You’re overreacting. You don’t even know for sure that it’s over. Hell, you don’t even know why he’s shutting you out.
And that was part of the problem.
Jace was doing it again, holding back instead of coming right out and telling her what was bothering him. Not letting her help, if she could, or just lend a sympathetic ear if she couldn’t.