“For now. That was too close for comfort.” She rose unsteadily and adjusted her blouse, struggling to tamp down the desire still thrumming through her veins. “We have to get out of here.”
“What’s the matter?” He joined her standing. “Never made out al fresco before?”
“Not usually, no.”
He made a show of bowing to her, bending low with a flourish of his good wrist. “Then I’m flattered to be the man who persuaded you to change that.”
“One kiss does not a habit break.” She pulled a hair tie out of the pocket of her jean shorts and tamed her lust-mussed locks into a ponytail. “It was a...”
“Don’t you dare say ‘mistake.’” His gaze slipped down to the obvious bulge under the zipper of his Lucky’s. “Whatever the hell that was, it was definitely not a mistake.”
“Fine.” She looked away from his erection, heat creeping up her cheeks, and ambled as fast as her bad leg would take her up the path to the relative safety and privacy of her room. Jace caught up to her after a few steps. “I won’t say it.”
But that didn’t mean it wasn’t true. The man was like her own personal Kryptonite. Powerful, dangerous, hypnotic. She’d have to try all the harder to stay away from him or be rendered completely and utterly helpless to resist his hard-bodied, tatted-up, bad-boy spell.
“GREAT JOB TODAY.” Sara took the barbell from Jace’s hand and replaced it with a towel. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Same bat time, same bat channel.”
He wiped his forehead and slung the towel around his neck. “What the hell. It’s not like I’ve got anything better to do.”
Wasn’t that the truth. He’d thought things were looking up after his cookie swap with Noelle. Sure, the lady protested. But her body hadn’t thought their kiss was a mistake.
Instead, he’d barely seen Noelle since the infamous macaroon incident. No pouty lips. No perky breasts. No...
“Earth to Jace.” Sara snapped her fingers in front of his face. “Scram. My next appointment’s due any minute. You can do a half hour of cardio on the treadmill or the elliptical if you want, but no more than that and not too fast. The idea’s to get your heart rate into the target zone, not keep going until you drop.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He stood and wiped down the utility bench he’d been using with the clean end of his towel. “Who’s up next?”
If the week’s pattern held, it wouldn’t be Noelle. He didn’t have any proof, but he had a strong suspicion she’d been scheduling her training sessions to avoid running into him.
“New kid. High school pitching sensation. Lost his arm to a downed power line.”
“That sucks.” Inadequate, Jace knew, but accurate.
Sara eyed him. “On second thought, maybe you should stick around. He could use a little cheering up. A bona fide sports hero might be just the thing.”
Jace scrunched the towel up in his hand. He’d never been comfortable with the whole hero-worship-role-model thing. Who the hell would want to emulate him? He wasn’t fit to be anyone’s hero. He drank too much, partied too hard. He was just a kid from a broken home on the wrong side of the tracks who’d been lucky enough to make it in the majors. End of story. “Some other time. I’ve got to hit the shower and make some phone calls.”
“I’m holding you to that,” Sara called after his retreating back.
“You do that.” With a wave of his good arm, he pushed through the door and surveyed the hallway. Empty. On the plus side, that meant no sign of Sara’s pitching phenom. On the negative, it meant no sign of Noelle, either.
Oh, well, he thought as he veered left toward his room. You had to take the good with the bad. Such was life.
The second his door latched behind him, he reached for the hem of his shirt. He had it half way up his torso when a flashing light on the nightstand caught his eye.
A message. On the room phone. The only people who even knew he was there were team management, his agent, his dad, Cooper and Reid, not necessarily in that order. Why hadn’t they tried his cell?
Shit. He’d turned it off before his therapy session. Sara’s number one rule. No phones. No interruptions.
He reached into the pocket of his gym shorts.
Nothing.
Double shit.
It must have slipped out during his workout. Hopefully someone had picked it up. He’d have to go back and get it, but not until he found out what was so important someone had tracked him down and left a message on his room phone.
He let his shirt fall and caught a whiff of sweat, reminding him that he’d better shower, too, before rejoining civilization.
But first the phone.
Jace sat down on his bed and hit the flashing button.
“Hey, pal,” his father’s voice greeted him over the speaker. “I tried your cell but it went straight to voice mail.”
Duh.
“Anyway,” his dad continued. “I, uh, need to talk to you. Nothing urgent, really. Just, uh, when you get a chance. Hope the arm’s feeling better. Don’t forget to ice it, and wear your brace even when you’re sleeping.”
The message ended, and Jace hit Delete. He loved his dad. How could he not? The guy had raised him solo when his mom ran off with a better prospect, one sure to make it to the show, not like his journeyman infielder father. But that didn’t mean his dad wasn’t downright annoying sometimes. Especially when it came to his favorite subject: baseball.
He stared at the phone a minute before picking up the handset and dialing his father’s number, bracing himself for the questions to come, questions he didn’t have any definitive answers to.
“Hi, Dad,” Jace said when his father finally answered on the fourth ring. “Sorry I missed your call. I had my cell off during PT.”
“How’s it going?” His dad sounded out of breath, and not for the first time Jace wondered if he shouldn’t be the one getting medical treatment.
“Good. My therapist says I’m ahead of schedule.” Jace crossed the fingers of his good hand behind his back. “How about you? You sound tired.”
“I’m fine. I ran in from the garage when I heard the phone.”
“Working on something special?” Jace leaned back against his pillow, stretched his legs out on the bed and smiled, imagining his father tinkering with an old Crosley radio or vintage Pioneer television. It had been a hobby when his dad played ball, but when his career on the field had ended in Double-A he’d turned it into a viable business, repairing all kinds of small electronics, new and old. If it had wires, Patrick Monroe could fix it.
“A jukebox.” His father’s voice radiated excitement for his new project, even over the phone. “Wurlitzer, mid-1940s.”
“That’s gotta be rare.” To Jace’s knowledge, his father hadn’t worked on one that old before. They’d restored a 1970s Seeburg together when Jace was in high school. “I can’t wait to see it.”
“Well, you’ll have to. I don’t want you rushing home on my account. Listen to your doctors and take your rehab one day at a time. Baseball’s not going anywhere. It’ll still be there when you’re ready to play. And the team needs you at full strength.”
Oh, goodie. Lecture time.
“I know, Dad.