The Hot Corner (9 page)

“I was born ready, Red. Gonna bring me luck today?”

I wished I could. “I thought it was all about skill.”

“It is, but a little luck never hurt, did it?” He was having a fine time teasing me.

“Just how would you like me to bring you luck?” I licked my lips and watched his hands squeeze the fence.

“Well, I seem to remember you used to . . .”

“Don’t even go there, Reynolds.” I used to do a lot of things.

“Fine, I guess I’ll have to do it alone.” His lower lip poked out in a pout that made the girls behind me swoon. I was feeling territorial, so I leaned forward and brushed my lips over his cheek. The sexy stubble tickled, and he smelled like soap and grass. I had to fight the urge to kiss my way down to his mouth. It would be easy to do.

Instead, I pulled away. “There’s your luck.”

His wide green eyes studied me. “You’re still full of surprises, Red.”

Yeah, I even surprised myself. I wasn’t supposed to be kissing him, even if it was only on the cheek. Couldn’t take it back now, though. “It would suck for the story if you lost your first game of the season.”

He chuckled. “Is that so? Well, then, by all means, kiss me again for the sake of the story. But make it count this time.”

“Don’t push it, asshole.”

“Can’t blame a guy for trying.” He tipped his hat. “Red. Ladies. Enjoy the game.” And he was off to take his swings.

“Oh my God, he told us to enjoy the game! He noticed us!”

“Yeah, but she’s obviously his girlfriend.”

“She’s so lucky.”

Lucky? Girlfriend? Brad didn’t have girlfriends, not anymore. But I didn’t feel the need to correct them either. They were entirely too young to be fantasizing about Brad Reynolds.

But no, they rhapsodized about him for the entire batting practice and even through the national anthem, admiring his butt as he stood with his team and held his hand over his heart. I couldn’t blame them, because it was a prime ass. Where had that ass been when we’d dated? He hadn’t been nearly as defined back then.

The game started, and the seats around me filled in and drowned out the girls’ conversation. Good. I wanted to concentrate on the atmosphere. When Brad jogged over to third base, people cheered. He took off his hat and waved it before putting it back on and getting to business.

The Dodgers brought out the big gun. Adam Stuart was on the mound. He was easily their best pitcher, and he’d been runner-up for the Cy Young last year. Between him and Brad and DJ Carter—the new outfielder they’d acquired from the Red Sox—the team had high expectations. When Adam struck out the first batter with three straight pitches, it was easy to see why.

After the Mets’ second batter lifted a shallow pop out to right field, their best hitter stepped to the plate. Mark Wagner consistently batted over three hundred with a hundred RBIs and around thirty homers. He smoked the first pitch down the third-base line, and Brad dove and caught it before it went into the outfield. The crowd went wild as he got up grinning. He tossed the ball to me and I managed to catch it. “Luck,” he mouthed, and I laughed. I tucked the ball into my bag and took out my notepad to jot down my thoughts so far.

He moves with the same catlike grace he had in college. Few players could have snagged that ball and kept it from being at least a double, but he did it with what looked like no effort at all. “Hands” is the perfect nickname for him, in more ways than one.

There’s an arrogance in his play I don’t recognize from before. In college, when he made a play like that, he wouldn’t have worn the “look at me” smirk he had on just now. He likes standing out, being the superstar. I’m interested to see what his teammates think about his sportsmanship. I can’t imagine he’s a “me” player, but he definitely enjoys the attention. Then again, maybe part of this show is for me. Time will tell, and I’ll see what his everyday demeanor is soon enough.

The noise level in the stadium elevated, and I looked up to see Brad taking his position in the batter’s box. He cocked his bat and swiveled his hips and I wished I could see his face, though I knew exactly what it would look like. That hadn’t changed. He focused in on the pitcher with complete concentration, his eyes narrowed, his muscles bunched and poised to strike.

The first pitch was high and inside for ball one. Brad leaned back and the crowd groaned and yelled at the pitcher. The second was low but over the plate, and Brad fouled it back. The third pitch was low but inside for ball two. Two and one, a hitter’s count, and Brad knew it. The next pitch was right down the center of the plate, and the resounding crack as bat hit ball had the crowd gasping. My pen cap cut into my hand I gripped it so hard as I watched the ball sail into the outfield. It was close, so close, but instead of going over, it hit just below the top of the fence. It bounced right over the center fielder’s head, and Brad slid into third just before the ball landed in the third baseman’s glove. He stood up, and I swear he was grinning at me as the crowd roared for his triple.

The cleanup batter, Mike Hager, came up next, and the pitcher walked him rather than risk giving up a two-run homer. Mike had a tendency either to hit a home run or strike out and not much in between, so they played it safe. It didn’t work, anyway, because Lance Green squeaked a single between first and short to bring Brad home and give the Dodgers a 1-0 lead.

The inning ended when Doug Freeman popped out to first, and the damage was limited to one run with two runners left. I picked up my pen again as the players took their positions.

His swing hasn’t changed, but then, why change it when it’s worked so well for him? Some batters have huge swings that look almost like they’re batting with a golf club, but Brad’s swing is compact, without any unnecessary motions. He puts all his weight on his right foot and the left fires forward with his momentum. He just missed out on a home run, but he was satisfied with the triple, especially since he scored in the end.

The Mets got a run in the second, on an error by the second baseman who threw the ball way over Brad’s head. I could see the anger and irritation on his face as he chased the ball down and threw it into home. At least he got to finish the inning by fielding a grounder in short left field and still managing to throw the runner out at first. He didn’t grin this time. He just trotted into the dugout and out of view.

He’s competitive. Maybe more so now than before, though I won’t know until later in the season. He’s always held himself to impossibly high standards, but it looks like he might hold his teammates to the same now. And that makes sense, as they’re all paid big bucks to be the best of the best. I’ll feel out his teammates on that.

Brad’s second at-bat was less successful than the first. He grounded out to short, and from the look on his face and the way his lips were moving, I could guess he was berating himself for swinging on the first pitch. It was the first game of the season and he was no doubt excited and probably pressing a bit. Mike Hager, though, gave the lead back to the Dodgers with a solo shot that sailed over the left field fence.

The next inning, Brad showed his incredible range by snagging a ball about halfway between short and third, doing a pirouette and getting a force-out at second. It was no wonder they called him Hands. His smile returned, and he flipped another ball to me on his way back into the dugout after the catcher threw out a would-be stealer and Brad applied the tag just before his foot hit the bag.

It brought back memories, and I started jotting notes again.

He’d always get a baseball to me during college games. When I was sitting too far away for him to throw, he’d have an usher deliver it. Often with a little note that said “I love you” or “You look beautiful” or “My jersey is sexy on you.” Today’s balls don’t have anything written on them, but they’re sure getting me an awful lot of attention. The guys next to me are giving me the side-eye, and I can hear the moaning from the teenagers over how romantic it all is. If they only knew.

Brad was up again, and this time I held my breath because the bases were loaded with two out. He lived for moments like this, but they always made me nervous. The first pitch was outside for a ball—so far outside the catcher had to lean all the way over to catch it before it went flying past him into the fence.

The second pitch was high and in the strike zone, but Brad let it go by. He preferred lower pitches. The third was too far inside, and the count was 2-1. The relief pitcher threw the next one right in the center of the plate, and Brad swung and missed. 2-2 count. I gritted my teeth and willed him to get a hit as the pitcher fired the ball in the exact same spot.

And that’s where he made his mistake, because Brad wouldn’t miss the same pitch twice. He didn’t. The bat connected, and I didn’t even have to watch the ball sail over the fence. I could tell by the sound it made when it left the bat. My eyes were on Brad as he trotted around the base, a huge grin on his face, looking very much like the boy I used to watch at Florida State.

His teammates waited for him at home plate and surrounded him in a group hug as they celebrated. It was 6-1 now, and things were looking good with Oliver Suarez, one of the best relievers in the game, coming in for the ninth inning. He walked the first batter but the second grounded to first, advancing the runner to second base. The third batter hit a grounder to Brad, who eyed the guy on second before firing to first to get the out. The next batter struck out, and the game was over.

As arranged before the game, I waited in my seat until a team official came to escort me down into the locker room. I’d been in locker rooms before, but I was never prepared for how loud they were. And no matter how plush, they always smelled like sweaty men. Not that I was averse to it.

“Put on some clothes, we’ve got a lady here,” one of the players called out when I entered the room. He smiled as he exited in a hurry.

I can’t say I minded the sight as I ventured farther into the room. Everybody had
some
clothes on, but not
all
their clothes. Several bare-chested players didn’t seem at all bothered by my presence. All righty then. I was mostly keeping it professional until Brad walked into the room wearing a pair of shorts and nothing else. Dear God.

I’d seen him naked countless times. We’d practically lived together for a year, for crying out loud, yet I was struck dumb at the sight of that tanned, muscular chest. Oh yeah, he’d bulked up in all the right ways. His arms were more defined, and his abs . . . I had no words for those. Was there such thing as a twenty-four pack?

“Looks like you’re still my good luck charm,” he said when I reached him. I wasn’t quite capable of speaking, so I just nodded. “Did you enjoy the game?”

I really wanted to touch him. I should have worn heels and pretended to trip again.

“Paging Red.”

“What?”

He laughed. “Did you like the game?”

“Oh, yeah.” I shook my head, trying to focus again. “I haven’t been to one in a long time.” Not since the last time I’d seen him play, but I wasn’t about to tell him that. “You were great.”

“Well, I pressed on the second at-bat, but other than that, it wasn’t a bad day.”

I wasn’t sure whether to be sad or relieved when he put on a T-shirt, but I admit I watched the way his muscles rippled as he pulled it down over his torso. “Do you always focus on the negative?” I asked when his head emerged. His hair was all mussed and I itched to play with it.

“No. I focus on what I need to do to get better. I’ll never be perfect, but I’d damn well like to get as close as I can.”

That was good. I took out my pad and jotted it down.

“So this is the girl you were giving your balls to!”

I looked up at the smiling face of Lance Green, right fielder. He had short, spiky brown hair, twinkling brown eyes, and a smile that made me smile back.

“Better watch out, every man gives them to me eventually.”

Brad made some sort of strangled sound next to me, but Lance laughed. “I’d be happy to give you—”

“Finish that sentence and I’ll end you,” Brad warned, and Lance laughed harder.

“He’s possessive,” Lance said, shaking his head. “Wants to keep his writer all to himself. He’s just afraid I’ll tell you what a terrible wingman he is.”

“Is that so? Sounds like fun! I’m Dani.” I sat on the bench and patted the seat next to me.

“It’s nice to meet you, Dani. I’m Lance,” he said, sitting down.

Brad slammed his locker shut. “I’m going to go talk to Tom for a few. Meet me here?”

“Sure.” I shrugged and turned back to Lance. “How is he a terrible wingman?”

He held his hand over his heart. “There we were, at the hotel bar in Philly after a game we choked away last October, and I see her. The girl of my dreams.” He pretended to wipe a tear from his eye, and I giggled.

“Let me guess, was she a blonde?”

“How did you know?” He raised his eyebrows.

“Lucky guess. What happened?”

“Well, I’m the shy type, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.” I laughed again, and he sighed. “Why does nobody believe me about that? Anyway, before I could work up the nerve to talk to her, she and Brad are walking out of the bar together. I’ve never gotten over it.”

“It doesn’t sound like he was your wingman, then.”