Scoring

MACE WALKED through the door to the administrative offices of the Lowell Weavers. The stadium was new, but its weathered brick and iron blended with the turn-of-the-century factory buildings that surrounded the ballpark, reminders of Lowell’s heyday as a textile center. Though the mill buildings now housed upscale housewares stores and trendy boutiques instead of steam-powered looms, the town still held the faded dignity of a bygone era.

Turning back into the locker room area, Mace heard Sammy Albonado before he saw him.

“Just give me another coupla weeks to straighten him out, Rick. Don’t jump the gun on this.”

Mace knocked on the open door. Albonado waved him in, nodding vigorously to the unseen caller on the phone.

“I really think he’s got what it takes, we’ve just got to get him focused.” Mace took a seat, looking around the cramped office with its battered metal desk and file cabinet. An insurance company calendar dangled from the putty-colored wall, next to faded schedules from seasons long gone. Tacked to a beat-up corkboard on the door was that night’s lineup.

Sammy paused to listen, nodding again. “Okay. Have a good one.” He hung up the phone and grinned, sticking out his hand. “Well, glory be, it’s Mace Duvall.”

“In the flesh.” Mace gripped Sammy’s hand.

“You know, I was at that game a couple of years ago where you hit for the cycle. Single, double, triple, and homer in the same game. What a night.” Sammy shook his head in admiration, standing up to shut the door that led into the locker room. “Want a drink? Got Gatorade, Coke, water, you name it.” He dropped back in his chair and rolled back to flip open the door of the mini-refrigerator that sat behind his desk.

“Water?”

“Sure.” Sammy passed Mace a bottle and cracked open a Coke, leaning back until his chair creaked in protest. “I gotta say, I’m happy to see you here. If you can get a tenth of what you know about hitting into these kids’ heads, we’ll be way ahead of the game.” He took a drink, sighing in satisfaction at the first taste. “I can teach ’em fielding, but we really need someone like you to help them understand how to look at the ball.”

Mace twisted the cap off the bottle of water and took a swallow. “Well, I’ll do what I can, but I’m not making any guarantees.” He stared into the clear plastic bottle. What the hell was he doing here? And what was he hoping to accomplish?

Sammy examined him shrewdly, then gave a smile that Mace didn’t trust. “Of course you can’t,” he said jovially, “but you know hitting and that’s what counts. Watch the game tonight and you and I can talk over breakfast tomorrow morning. Practice starts at 1:00 p.m.” The phone rang and Sammy gave it a baleful glare. “Okay, take a look around while I get this. I’ll be out in a minute.”

Mace opened the door to step into the empty locker room. Then he heard a throaty female laugh.

“TIME TO TAPE UP that ankle, Sal.” Becka turned to where Lopes lay on the training table. Trying to be gentle, she pulled off the cold pack. The sight underneath made her wince. Though the swelling wasn’t as bad as it could have been, angry red and purple streaks overlaid a hard-looking knot just over the joint.

Lopes raised himself up on his elbows. “How’s it look?”

Becka lifted his ankle gently, moving it slightly to test range of motion. His breath hissed in. “Hurts, huh?” she asked softly.

“Not too bad,” he managed in a strained voice. “I’ll be okay tomorrow.”

Becka took another look. “I’m thinking you’ll be lucky if you’re actually walking tomorrow. We need to get this X-rayed,” she said decisively and checked her watch.

“I got to get playing tomorrow,” Sal protested. “Duvall’s only here a week.”

“He’s an ex-ballplayer, not a god,” she said impatiently, pulling a tensor bandage from the supply cabinet. “You rest this and let it recover now, or it’ll just keep giving out on you. Even if it’s just fractured, you’re going to need to take it easy for at least several weeks.”

“They’ll put me on the disabled list,” Sal groaned.

“Two weeks or so on the DL isn’t going to ruin your career,” Becka chided him. “It’s not broken, that’s something at least. Let me tape it up and I’ll drive you to the E.R.” With gentle, competent hands she wound the tape around his ankle until the ankle was supported and restrained. “Okay, big guy, sit up and let’s get you on your feet.” She turned to rummage in the supplies closet, digging back toward the rear. “I have some crutches here somewhere that you can use….” She emerged with them just as Lopes tried to slide off the table.

As soon as the injured foot touched the floor, he yelped and lost his balance.

“Dammit, Sal!” Becka dropped the crutches and leaped to catch him. He slumped against her, face screwed up in pain, one arm hooked over her shoulder. The locker room rang with post-practice silence.

“Okay, let’s get you on the table first.” Becka puffed with exertion as she struggled to hold him. Even for someone in her shape, moving him was a job. “Let’s move back toward the table a bit at a time. Just let me carry your weight when you need to put your bad foot down, and take little steps. Okay?” She took his grunt for assent and moved him slightly, first one step, then two.

It was like the clumsy, shuffling slow dances she’d done in junior high, Becka thought, or maybe like a pair of dancing bears. They made progress, though, until Lopes began laughing. Caught in the ridiculous clinch, Becka couldn’t keep from joining him.

His shoulders shook. “Hey baby, I got some moves for you.”

Becka smothered another giggle. “Stop it or I won’t be able to hold you up,” she ordered as she propped him against the table. She took a breath of relief before leaning in to wrap her arms around him for the final push. Then laughed again.

“You know, in ten years in the majors I can’t say I’ve ever seen physical therapy like that.” The voice was like warm molasses, with just a hint of a drawl. Becka jerked her head up to see Mace Duvall in the doorway, watching them.

Her mind stuttered to a stop.

He was lean and tawny like a jungle cat, with the same sense of coiled energy waiting to spring. The face that had merely been good-looking on television was taut and honed down, almost predatory in person, made more so by the thin scar that ran along his left cheekbone. He looked at her like he wanted to snap her up. In some indefinable sense, he was more present in his body than any man she’d ever seen. The blood thundered in her ears.

Sal, meanwhile, was hyperventilating with excitement. “Oh wow, man, you’re Mace Duvall. It is truly a pleasure to meet you.” Sal’s words snapped Becka out of her daze, and she finished helping him up onto the table. Sal grinned. “Hope you don’t mind if I don’t get up.”

Mace stepped over to shake hands with the young ballplayer, but he never took his eyes off Becka. “What happened?”

“Bad slide. Just a sprain, though. How long you here for?”

“A week.”

“Florence Nightingale here said I’d be back up tomorrow,” Sal said, hooking a thumb at Becka as she leaned over to pick up the crutches.

“I think I said we should go get it X-rayed, Sal.” Becka slapped the crutches into Lopes’ hands.

He ducked his head in embarrassment. “Oh. Well. Yeah,” he mumbled, “but I gotta make a pit stop.”

“Okay,” she said with a glance at Mace. “Then I’ll drive you to the E.R.”

“Right. Gimme five minutes.” He swung out of the room, still grinning. Oddly, the space seemed smaller with just her and Mace, Becka thought, struggling to banish the uneasiness. Maybe it had to do with those mocking eyes. Maybe it had to do with the unexpected edge of desire that suddenly sliced through her.

She struggled to breathe deeply and slow her system down. So she was attracted to him. Big deal. She’d been attracted to plenty of guys in her life. No way was she going to pat his ego and fall at his feet like every other woman he met. This was her territory and her job. She wasn’t about to let some pretty boy make her uncomfortable.

His mouth curved up in a slow smile as though he knew what she was thinking. It brought out the temper in her.

You’re a professional, Becka reminded herself. Act like it. “I take it you’re the infamous Mace Duvall.” She stuck her hand out. “I’m Becka Landon, the infamous trainer.”

“SO WAS THAT your version of bedside manner?” Mace asked, shaking her hand, intrigued to feel her pulse jump unsteadily under his fingers. He’d always been partial to redheads, and this one had the glowing, luminous skin that was a combination of good fortune and complete, utter fitness. Deep, dark red without a hint of orange, her hair feathered down to end just above her shoulders, framing exotic cheekbones and slanted green cat eyes that stared out at him from under a fringe of bangs. Her lush mouth looked soft and sulky.

He didn’t blame the player for trying to grope her or whatever had been going on. She obviously took her own medicine when it came to working out. Even camouflaged in a polo shirt and long walking shorts, her taut, curvy body made him wonder just what kind of things she could get up to in bed.

Becka raised her chin belligerently. “He was hurt, I was doing my job. You have a problem with that?”

He might just have a problem with her, he thought, wondering how those full lips tasted. “Only when it means distracting players in the clubhouse.”

“Oh, get over it,” she said impatiently, turning to jerk the cover off the table. “His foot wouldn’t hold his weight and it was either catch him or scrape him up off the floor.”

Something about the way her eyes snapped at him tempted him to push her a bit, just to see how she’d react. “Happens a lot that way?”

She flushed. “Now you’re being insulting. These kids like to play tough guy when they’re hurt. I was just trying to keep him from making things worse.”