Scoring

Mace finished talking to Morelli and moved back. Becka ignored a ridiculous twinge of disappointment, focusing instead on the task of filming the young player. At the next pitch he swung late and the ball thumped into the catcher’s mitt.

Mace stepped back into the frame, slipping on a batting helmet and gloves and taking the bat from Morelli. The polished wood whistled through the air as Mace took a few practice swings to loosen up. When he was satisfied, he stepped into the batting box and raised the bat over his right shoulder, lowering into position with taut precision. His stance spoke of coiled violence. Becka’s pulse began to thrum.

The pitching coach on the mound threw one low and outside. Mace merely adjusted his position and focused more intently. The next pitch came nearer the plate, but Mace just looked at it.

“Come on, Duvall,” the pitching coach called. “You don’t really want to relive all those times you whiffed when you were up against me in Cincinnati, do you?”

“I’ll be whiffing in your dreams, Butler. Those were balls. Get it over the plate and we’ll talk.”

Butler wound up, kicked, and threw a curve ball that barely made it into the strike zone, low and outside.

And Mace exploded into motion.

The curving snap of movement seemed to deliver every bit of power in his entire body to a single point on the bat. Becka swore she could see the ball flatten where it made contact with the wood, before it slammed out of the park on a trajectory headed for New Hampshire.

“Oh man, he crushed it,” someone cried out behind her.

It took her breath away. It was one thing to see Mace standing before her, loose and rangy. It was quite another to see him do what he’d been born to do. The tiny figures that performed athletic feats on television bore no relation to the burst of power that she’d just seen. A little curl of desire twisted through her.

The players surrounded Mace like groupies around a rock star. Becka turned off the camera and lowered it shakily, raking a hand through her hair. She took another glance toward the crowd, and found Mace’s whiskey eyes locked on hers.

“MAN, DO YOU REALIZE that tomorrow is going to be our first day off in twelve freaking days?” Morelli asked hours later, after the team had played and won. He shifted as Becka worked on his shoulder to loosen up the knots. “I’m gonna go out and party tonight and sleep ’til noon.”

Chico Watson sat in the whirlpool bath, trying to soak away a sore hamstring. “Laying around sounds good to me. What are you gonna do, Florence?”

Becka pressed the heels of her hands against a knotted muscle in Morelli’s shoulder. “I don’t want to think about it. It’ll only depress me.”

“What, you going in for a root canal?”

Becka flashed a grin. “Almost as bad. I’m moving tomorrow.”

“Moving? What the hell for?”

“Call me crazy, but something about spending two hours a day driving to work is starting to get to me.”

“Where’s the new place?”

“Just across the river.” She shrugged. “It shouldn’t be too bad. The furniture’s all in. All that’s left is boxes, and I’m getting a cargo van.” She laid a heat pack on Morelli’s shoulder.

Chico stirred. “Why you renting a van? I’ve got a truck. Tell me where to go, I’ll help you out.”

“It’s your day off, Chico. You don’t want to help me move. Trust me, I don’t even want to help me move.”

“Hey, I got nothing better to do. My wife was supposed to come up from New Jersey with my kid but she couldn’t get off work. Helping you move is better than sitting around and feeling sorry for myself. Buy me pizza and beer and you’ve got a deal.”

She looked at him for a minute. “Vegetarian pizza.”

“You ever eat anything that’s not all sprouts and tofu, Florence?”

“I’m supposed to be setting a good example for you. Pepperoni’s full of fat and nitrites.”

“Puts hair on your chest. Tomorrow’s your day off. You can go back to setting a good example when we’re back on the clock.” He folded his arms over his chest. “Pepperoni and beer, or I don’t help you move.”

She eyed him as he stared blandly back, then her face relaxed into a smile. “Pepperoni and beer it is.”

BECKA WIPED down the training tables with alcohol, glancing at the whirlpool to check that the water was draining properly. The noise of the locker room gradually died away as the players finished changing and headed back to the dorms.

Sammy stepped into the training room. “I’m heading out for the night. You all set here?”

“Sure thing, chief.”

“How’s Sal’s ankle looking?”

“We were lucky that it didn’t turn out to be a break. He can start doing some basic stretching and strength exercises in a week, but right now he’s got to stay off it and let it rest.”

“He’s really hot to work with Duvall while he’s here.”

The thought of Mace was like a splinter under her skin. Despite what he’d said earlier, Mace had apparently made no plans to move on yet, which could mean almost anything. She frowned. “I’m sure Sal will get a chance to work with another instructor. If he tries to push this now, he’ll only keep himself sidelined longer.”

“You’re the expert. He’s on the bench until you give the word.”

“Thanks. Have a good night, Sammy.”

He waved and ducked out of the room.

The outside door shut with a rattling clunk and Becka listened to the silence rush in. There was something soothing about being in the clubhouse after everyone had gone home. During the day, it was crowded with bodies and noise, the rising scents of leather and exertion. Now, a quiet peace settled over the rooms. Finally, she could relax. She wasn’t shy about being the lone woman in an organization of men—actually, she kind of liked it—but sometimes it was nice to have a break from all the testosterone. She rolled her head in a circle and rubbed her shoulders, easing the tight muscles of her trapezius.

“I’ll rub yours if you rub mine.”

She caught a breath at the sudden voice, whirling to see Mace standing at the doorway. “Don’t ever sneak up on me like that,” she burst out at him. “You took ten years off my life.”

“Sorry. I thought you knew I was still here.”

“I assumed you’d left like everyone else. I usually have the clubhouse to myself by this time.”

He stepped closer to her. “I guess you’re going to have to get used to sharing, then, aren’t you?”

“What are you doing here? I thought you were quitting.” She refused to back up, even as her pulse began thudding.

“I haven’t decided.” He stared at her a moment. “That batting practice today kind of did a number on my back. I was hoping I could get you to work on it for a little.” He reached out and traced a finger down the side of her neck to her shoulders. “We could trade. I give as good as I get.”

Becka jerked back from his touch. “Don’t tell me that line has actually worked for you in the past, Duvall,” she said, trying for scathing, trying to ignore the shiver of butterflies in her stomach. “I’d expect better from such a big-league player.”

His smile turned wolfish. “Just for the record, I don’t bother using lines. I’ve always favored the direct approach.” His hands dropped down to the buttons on his shirt. “You’re missing out if you don’t want me to rub your neck, though. Guess I’ll just let you work on me.”

Becka gave him a dismissive glance. “Sorry, we’re closed for the day.”

“Not ’til the team’s gone home, you aren’t, and until something changes, I’m a member of the team.”