Scoring

Sammy shifted in his seat. Seconds passed by. “What?” he burst out pugnaciously.

“Your wife called. Reminded me your last cholesterol test was 290.”

“She what?” he yelped. “Oh, come on, it was a little high, but give me a break. The woman gives me porridge for breakfast. Porridge.” Sammy gave a pained look, whether over the idea of the cereal or over actually opening his eyes, Mace couldn’t tell. “Now she’s cutting me off at my favorite diner? I should never have brought her here.”

“So you’re telling me that after the doctor’s warnings and all the worrying your poor wife is doing, you’d rather order the heart attack special than eat what’s good for you?” Bernice folded her arms over her chest and gave him a disapproving stare.

Tinny honky-tonk music played on the mini-jukebox a few tables down. Gradually, Sammy’s belligerent look faded into sheepishness. “No.” He cleared his throat. “I’ll just have orange juice, toast, and uh,” he flinched at Bernice’s stare. “Oatmeal.”

Bernice kept a straight face. “There’s hope for you yet, Sammy Albonado.” She patted him sympathetically and turned to Mace. “How about for you?”

“Three eggs, scrambled with cheese, bacon, toast and orange juice,” Mace rattled off, enjoying Sammy’s anguished look. “Don’t worry, Sammy, I’ll let you smell it.”

“You’re lucky I don’t run you out of town, Duvall,” Sammy muttered, glowering as Bernice walked away with his order. “Woman’s worse than the drill sergeant I had in the army. I oughtta start going to Denny’s. That’d show her.” He added creamer and three packets of sugar to his coffee cup and stirred until the spoon clanked against the porcelain.

“So whatdja think about the game last night?” he asked. “We hammered that Brooklyn team.”

Mace watched him drink and tried not to wince. “I think you’ve got some talent here. They’re rough, though.” He took a swallow of his black coffee, strong and unsweetened, just as he liked it. “They need a lot of work.” And he was the last guy in a position to give it to them. It was a damn-fool idea, one that he’d decided the night before to give up. All he had to do now was figure out how to break the news to Sammy, who was nodding wisely at him.

“Settling ’em down is what A ball is for. Half the time, they’re just here to grow up enough that they can focus on the game.” Sammy stirred his coffee again. “I figure you can be a good influence on them. Steady ’em down, especially Morelli.”

He wasn’t a stable pony, Mace thought, glancing out the window. He felt a surge of annoyance toward Stan, and then at himself for agreeing to be in this spot. He was damned if he’d take a job just because someone in the organization pulled strings for him. The thing to do was quit and go back to Florida, leave the spot for someone who wanted it. He’d do some fishing, surf a little, maybe play a little golf.

And go back to going quietly mad in his sprawling beach house by the sea.

He tuned back in to Sammy, who was still talking.

“I don’t know, Sammy, I’ve been thinking about this and I just don’t know. These kids need to be taught by—”

“By a champ, and here’s what I’ve got planned,” Sammy said. “We work on batting practice and go to fielding.”

“Sammy, that’s great, but I’m not the guy—”

“I know you’re not here for the fielding drills this time, but I figure it doesn’t hurt to overlap assignments.”

Mace looked Sammy in the eye; Sammy looked back. Mace gave up. When he’d been a player, Sammy had been famous for his single-minded focus on the game. Obviously, he’d gotten it in his head that Mace was the right man for the job and wasn’t about to take a hint. Mace prided himself on dealing straight with people, but he also knew when it was time to throw in the towel. Maybe it would be easier to just write a resignation letter and do it that way.

“All the game reports and player files are in the top drawer of my cabinet.” Sammy stopped to sip his coffee. “Ask Becka for a look at their training records if you want.”

“Where’d you find that one, anyway?” Mace asked idly, as the memory of green eyes and luminous skin vaulted into his mind. He’d been out with plenty of beautiful women in his time, but something about Becka Landon lingered in his imagination.

Maybe he was being too hasty about this quitting thing.

“Where’d I find who, Becka?” Sammy asked as Bernice set their breakfasts on the table. “The Boston College trainer recommended her. Our guy came down with carpal tunnel so we had to find a sub at the start of the season. She’s top-notch.”

Mace gave him a skeptical look before digging into his eggs. “How is she with the players?”

Sammy stared at Mace’s plate with starving orphan eyes. “I’ll give you five bucks if you slip me a slice of bacon,” he offered. When Mace just looked at him, Sammy sighed and began slathering jelly on a piece of dry toast. “They call her Attila behind her back, and Florence Nightingale to her face, if that gives you a clue. She’s a demon in the weight room. These boys are in better condition this year than any team I’ve ever had before.” He bit into the toast.

“They’re probably pushing themselves to impress her.”

Sammy chewed thoughtfully, then shook his head and swallowed. “Nah. At first, maybe, but every time one of them tries to hit on her, she gives them the brush-off. I saw her once, acted like a third-grade teacher would at one of her kids feeding her a line. Didn’t even bother to get on her high horse. She just laughed. Cooled him right down.”

It would take a lot more than a simple brush-off to cool him down if he made a pass at her, Mace decided, remembering the unsteady feel of her pulse under his fingers. “You’re not concerned with having her in the clubhouse? Breaking the players’ concentration?”

Sammy shrugged. “We’re only two games out of second place. They’re playing hard and they’re improving. What more do you want?”

A certain curvy redhead wrapped around him naked, Mace thought before he could block it. It had been a long time since a woman had climbed into his head like Becka had. A slow grin stole over his face as he remembered her provocative pout. Maybe he’d drop by and see if he could worm loose her phone number before he left. For years he’d been tagged with a rep for scoring with women. Maybe it was time that he actually earned it.

Starting with the delectable Ms. Landon.

BECKA SAT at her desk in the training room, updating player records, absently wrapping a twist of red hair around her finger.

“Got a minute?”

She recognized the slow drawl even before she glanced up to see Mace leaning against the doorway to the locker room. The quick frisson of excitement that whisked through her had her scowling. It had only been a few months since she’d unloaded her cheating bum of a boyfriend. The last thing she needed was to get caught up in more trouble on two legs, and Mace Duvall definitely qualified as trouble. Okay, maybe she’d felt bad about his situation earlier that morning, but too much sympathy could be a dangerous thing. Be too sympathetic to a jungle cat and you might just wind up being a snack, she reflected.

“What do you want?” she asked briefly. “I’m working.”

“Looks like my timing’s perfect,” he said easily. “Sammy said you could review the training records with me.”

She ignored a flutter somewhere in the vicinity of her solar plexus. Sports trainers weren’t supposed to have flutters on the job. “I’ll need time to finish this report first.”

“That’s fine,” he said equably, not moving.

Trust him not to take a hint, she thought. “Batting practice isn’t for two hours. Why don’t you go back into your office and I’ll come get you when I’m done.” He’d kept his distance during the game the night before, but time and time again she’d looked up to find his eyes on her. Time and time again she’d found him on her mind. Okay, if she were honest, she’d thought about him before she’d even seen him. His presence just made it worse. Hoping that sheer rudeness would drive him away, Becka bent her head back to her reports dismissively and tried to ignore the figure in the doorway.

Out in the locker room, the vacuum cleaner of the custodial staff whirred. On the other side of the wall, in his office, Sammy argued with what was probably the stadium manager over letting an Elvis impersonator do a pregame show from the pitcher’s mound. Life in the minor leagues went on.

Mace smiled to himself and pushed away from the doorway to walk toward Becka. Her head jerked up like a deer scenting a predator, her eyes wide and startled. He caught a hint of her fragrance and leaned in close to her to get a better whiff. Like sunkissed wildflowers, he thought. “I’ll just grab a seat,” he murmured into her ear. “I don’t mind waiting when I want something.” Enjoying her reaction, he moved past her to retrieve a chair from the back of the room.

Sitting across from her, Mace watched her pore over the reports, trying to understand why she fascinated him, trying to understand why he’d woken in the night thinking of her. He’d escorted internationally acclaimed beauties, women who worked at their mystique as though it were a career. How was it that tomboyish Becka Landon crept into his dreams?

It wasn’t as though she’d given him the come-on, he thought as he leaned back in the chair. Maybe she had a mouth that a man found hard to ignore, but she’d made it clear that she was no fan of his. So why was he getting hung up on her? He wasn’t a glutton for punishment. A woman said no to him, that was that.

But Becka’s body seemed to say yes. Despite herself, she responded to him. Perhaps therein lay the fascination. Mace studied the coppery spill of hair that trailed across her cheek as she worked. An energy hummed around her, a glow of vitality that radiated from her skin, taut warm hide stretched over perfectly toned muscles. He had the sudden urge to touch her, to see if he could feel that energy, like some kind of magic force field.

Becka was digging for a paper clip in the tray of odds and ends that sat at the base of her desk lamp when she glanced up at him and her hand froze. For a long instant, he stared into the cool green of her eyes, trying to divine just what it was about her that had its hooks in him. On impulse, he reached out to take her hand, just as she pulled a paper clip out of the tray and bent back to her paperwork. She fumbled as she clipped a sheet into the file. Minutes passed while she stared at the papers without writing or turning a page.

Finally, she put down her pen with a snap. “Fine. What do you want to know?”

“Are you sure you’re done?”

“You know I’m not done. Let’s just get this over with.”

“Are you sure?”

“Take advantage of my generous mood, Duvall,” she advised him. “It may not last.”