Scoring

“Looks like you distracted him from his pain just fine.”

Her cat eyes narrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t usually see trainers in a clinch with players.”

She laughed then. “Are you kidding? To these kids I’m like their old Aunt Edna. Sal’s thinking about the games he’s going to miss, not me. His mind doesn’t work that way.”

Just for a heartbeat, his gaze flicked down to the buttons on her polo shirt. “Sugar, every eighteen-year-old’s mind works that way.”

She wanted to be annoyed. She wanted to be offended. She didn’t want to feel this flush of heat. Then she saw amusement flicker in his eyes and irritation rescued her.

“Gee, Duvall, are you always such a charmer or did you cook up the sexist routine just for me?”

Oh, belligerence suited her, he thought. She had herself a temper, Miss Becka Landon did, and she wore it well. And if she looked this good in shorts and a polo shirt and mad, he couldn’t help wondering what she looked like in nothing at all. “No offense intended, just a friendly warning. You don’t want to underestimate these boys. Half of them just got out of high school two months ago. Their hormones are still kicking in. Something you think is harmless might have them daydreaming about you when they’re on the field.”

“Oh stop, Duvall, you’re flattering me.”

He stepped closer to her, and her heart jumped in response.

“You don’t want to underestimate me, either,” he said softly, staring at her throat where the pulse beat madly under translucent skin. Flattery didn’t even come close to what he wanted to do with her.

She should haul off and put him in his place, Becka thought, but her mind kept focusing on the flecks of copper in his golden eyes, and the heat she could feel radiating from him. Seconds stretched out, until she heard Sal’s voice as he crutched back toward the training room.

“I’m ready, Florence.”

Becka turned and got her keys and purse. She glanced at Mace.

“Well, this has been fun, Duvall, but I’ve got to run. Guess I’ll see you tonight when the game starts.”

The corners of his mouth curved in a slow grin and his eyes flickered with a heat she felt down to the pit of her stomach. “Funny, I thought it had started already.”

3

EARLY-MORNING SUN SLANTED across Becka as she helped Joe tie the last of her kitchen chairs onto his pickup. The final amalgamation looked a lot like something out of the Beverly Hillbillies, but it all fit, even the bed picked up that morning from her girlfriend Ryan’s house.

“We’re ready to roll,” Joe called, dusting off his hands as he walked over to stand with his wife. “Everybody in.” Blunt-featured and stocky, he seemed to adore Nellie beyond reason. And like Becka’s father, he was endlessly patient. Maybe patient enough to be in a relationship in which his sweetheart always knew best—or at least thought she did.

As for Becka, she’d go down kicking and screaming before she’d let someone control her, particularly a lover, she thought, squeezing next to Nellie in the cab. She wasn’t, however, always as quick to notice if they were so self-absorbed like her ex-boyfriend Scott had been. Having a boyfriend was a relatively small part of her life, all things considered. Except for the sex, of course. Still, no one she knew had died from doing without, she thought, trying not to count how long it had been. The image of Mace Duvall popped into her head and she pushed it away with baffled irritation. One thing was for sure, next time she had a lover, he wasn’t going to be a playboy.

“So how’s the new job going?” Nellie asked, her hand on Joe’s knee. “It’s sort of like what you used to do for Dad’s team, right? I always envied you, running off with Dad to the big games all the time.”

Becka smiled as she thought about all the Saturday evenings she’d spent volunteering for the college basketball team her father coached. And getting up at the crack of dawn even on the weekends. “It wasn’t all fun and games,” she said. “Those weight rooms and locker rooms smell like something died in them.”

“Couldn’t bother you too much if you’re back in one.” Nellie winked at Becka. “So, have you walked in on any of the players in the buff yet?”

“Hey,” Joe protested good-naturedly. “You’re a married woman, you shouldn’t be thinking about guys in the buff.”

“No guys in the buff at all?” Nellie asked coyly, running her fingertips up the inside of his leg.

Joe shifted in his seat. “You’re gonna feel real funny if you make me run off the road,” he said gruffly.

With a delighted giggle, Nellie bussed him on the cheek until a flush bloomed up his neck and across his face.

They were good together, Becka thought suddenly, looking at them. In some indefinable way they’d melded since she’d last seen them. The thought warmed her. Okay, so maybe their type of marriage would send her to the nut-house within five minutes, but the important thing was that it worked for them.

“So, your team any good?” Joe asked, cheeks still stained a faint pink.

“Oh, so-so,” Becka admitted. “These guys aren’t going to be in the majors any time soon. They’re just a step up from high school.”

“Still goofballs?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Becka said protectively. “They’ve got talent, some of them. They’re just still figuring out how it all works. We have lots of instructors coming through to give them hitting clinics and stuff.”

“Anybody famous?” Joe asked, linking his hand with Nellie’s.

“We’ve got a big name in now. Mace Duvall, used to play shortstop for the Braves.”

Joe whistled. “Hey, I saw him play in the World Series on TV a couple of times. Guy swings a hell of a bat.”

“You think that’s big, you should see his ego.”

“It ain’t ego if you can back it up,” Joe said thoughtfully. “I read an article on his training routine one time. That’s one guy who works his butt off. And that was in the off-season. I’d hate to see what he does when he’s playing.”

Becka hesitated a beat. “He doesn’t anymore. He got hurt. That’s why he’s here instructing.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s right.” Joe drove for a moment. “Boy, what a drag.”

“What happened?” Nellie asked.

“Car accident.”

“That’s so sad.”

The tug of sympathy Becka felt caught her by surprise. It was sad, she realized, both for the sport, which had lost one of its superstars, and Duvall himself, who had so nearly lost everything. However much he might annoy her, a huge part of his life had been snatched from him, she thought slowly. What did a person do after that? What else could possibly come close?

HE LIKED MORNINGS best. Perhaps it came from growing up on the farm, getting up before dawn to feed the stock. Perhaps it came from his early playing years, when the morning was the only time he had to himself. Maybe it was purely constitutional. In any case, he had always woken up chirping with the birds.

Mace leaned an arm on the cracked red vinyl seat of the diner booth, looking across the Formica tabletop to where Sammy Albonado sat hunched over his coffee cup. It was hard to be sure, but he thought that Sammy’s eyes had actually opened a fraction now that the caffeine was hitting.

Some people were morning people and some people weren’t.

The waitress sauntered up to refill their mugs. “You’re a goddess, Bernice,” Sammy said without looking up.

“Don’t mention it.” She set down the pot and pulled out her order pad. “What’ll it be, boys?” she asked, pen poised.

“Three eggs over easy, fried ham, and a bagel,” Sammy ordered.

Bernice didn’t write, she just stared at him.