“I—I’m going through a transition right now. I need...I need to handle it alone.” She stood, then backed away, watching him as if she thought he’d lunge after her.
The last thing he needed right now was a woman with problems, but he also recognized fear when he saw it, and unwillingly decided he’d give just about anything to identify the source and chase it away. How could someone he knew nothing about have become so important, so fast? Why had her well-being superseded everything else in his life? He’d barely been able to concentrate on the textbook he was writing, and his deadline threatened imminently. He couldn’t afford the time his mind had been giving her. “You don’t need friends?” he asked before she could run off.
“I need to be a friend to myself,” she said quietly, turning her head toward a group of people just entering the stadium.
His lawyer’s instincts sprang to attention. A hundred questions crossed his mind. Had she been abused? Had she run away from someone or something? Was she hiding out? How could he help her?
“Without the baseball games, you’re going to disappear from my life,” he said. “That would be a mistake.”
She looked back at him. “Why?”
Jack took three steps toward her, stopping when her shoulders tensed. “There’s a connection between us. Something that made you pick me out of a crowd even though you didn’t know anything about me. The things you yelled to me would have brought some men to their knees. How did you know I wouldn’t fall apart, or strangle you?”
She shrugged, as if she hadn’t spent a minute analyzing it. “Your posture, your smile. I don’t know. You project confidence. The guys on your team gave you a bad time. You laughed it off and kept plugging away.” She tugged the bill of her cap. “Well, I guess I’d better get going. See you Thursday.” She started up the stairs, then suddenly spun around again. “You did really well today.”
“Thanks. You made it easy.” He wanted to follow her, force her to take off the damned sunglasses and cap, look him in the eye—tell him how he could help her. He’d been making a concerted effort in the past year to be more spontaneous, but he’d also discovered that spontaneity sometimes took some planning, a paradoxical idea he’d never uttered aloud to anyone.
He’d have to think about planning something spontaneous for Thursday night.
They were down by four runs in the top of the fifth inning. A base hit and two walks loaded the bases for Ponytail, his third at bat this game. He’d connected with solid singles his first two times at the plate. If his luck held this time, the lead would probably be cut in half.
He didn’t even swing at the first pitch. In fact, he looked frozen in place, the pressure too much to take.
“Thataway, Ponytail. Wait for your pitch,” Mickey yelled.
He dropped the bat, miming comic amazement that she was calling out encouragement. She noted people around her smiling amongst themselves over her lack of nastiness to him, and she heaved a huge internal sigh. For someone who had wanted anonymity, she’d sure earned a reputation in a short time. Since she’d never been content to sit on the sidelines before, she didn’t know why she had expected herself capable of it now.
She watched him scoop up a handful of dirt to absorb the sweat off his palms, then settle in at the plate again.
Crack!
The ball sailed over the shortstop’s head and dropped between the center and left fielders. The stands erupted with cheering; Mickey knew he couldn’t possibly hear her yelling instructions to him as she watched the progress of the ball and the outfielders chasing it. His teammates shouted and motioned for him to keep running.
One runner scored. Two. Three. He rounded third and headed to home. The ball soared in to the cutoff man at second base.
“Slide!” Mickey screamed, cupping her hands into a human megaphone. “Slide!”
Whoosh! Down he went, streaking into home amidst a rooster tail of dirt and dust at the same moment the ball landed with a pop in the catcher’s mitt.
“Safe!” the umpire bellowed.
His teammates mobbed him at the plate where he lay gasping, their voices rumbling with congratulations and surprise at the in-the-park home run. The only thing Jack could hear distinctly was Coach’s voice, an octave higher than the men’s and clearly thrilled at his success.
“All right, Ponytail! You did it! You did it!”
Someone stuck out a helping hand. Jack grasped it and was pulled to his feet. “Which one of you dropped that piano on my back as I got to third?” he asked, doubled over, eliciting laughter from the team as he was swept into their circle of celebration. Finding an unexpected well of energy, he broke out of the group and jogged away from them, toward the stands, toward Coach.
Across the field, past the opponent’s dugout, up the stairs he trotted, until he stood in front of her and could see her delayed reaction to his presence. Lifting a hand to her cap, he spun it around until the bill pointed backward. Gently, he pulled off her sunglasses and passed them to the person beside her. He settled his hands on her shoulders, and he could feel imminent flight within her and see caution in her eyes. Brown eyes, he noted, clear as aged brandy.
“I’ve won a lot of cases in court, Coach, but nothing ever made me feel as good as this. Thanks. I couldn’t have done it without you.” That said, he dipped his head and pressed his lips to hers.
Spontaneous combustion. The words raced through his mind as what he’d planned as a friendly kiss of gratitude exploded into something much more. Stunned, more winded than he’d been after the run around the bases, he pulled back after five seconds on a roller coaster that had reached the top of the first hill instantly and started a swift descent into frenzied madness.
Mickey opened her eyes slowly as Ponytail pulled back; she looked into eyes as startled as her own must be. Knowing this moment was all she would ever have of this man, she grabbed his T-shirt with both fists and held him there.
The familiar odors of sweat, dirt and glove leather assailed her, sending her careening back to adolescence, to a happy and carefree time. For an instant she was transported into the dugout at the spring training camp of the L.A. Seagulls, the major league baseball team her father had managed for the past fourteen years. Comfort, familiarity, homecoming—she felt all this as she twisted his T-shirt in her hands and dragged him back to her.
“You’re welcome,” she murmured. Standing on tiptoe, she looped her arms around his neck and tugged. Amidst catcalls and whistles all around them, she kissed him back, reveling in the arousing taste of his mouth and the solid comfort of his body.
She wandered aimlessly, lost in a storm of feeling that obliterated everything from thought. For two years she’d been dead, worse than dead—lifeless. Now there was just him, and her, and their embrace—life’s most glorious celebration. Then from below her a tiny, high-pitched voice sliced into the maelstrom.
“Mommy, why is that lady kissing my daddy?”
Three
Ice water. Someone had dumped a fifty-five-gallon drum of frigid liquid on her, Mickey thought as she jerked herself out of his arms.
“Shh, Dani,” she heard a woman say.
“But, Mommy—”
Mickey realized it was Stacy who spoke to the child, a little girl dressed in a summer shift like her mother always wore. A little girl with long, silky brown hair like her mother and dark blue eyes like...Ponytail. Her father.
Mickey’s hands flew up to cover her mouth as she realized what it all meant. He was married. Married to Stacy, the only person Mickey had spoken to at the games, the person she’d passed instructions to Ponytail through. They were a family.
And