Hard and Fast, Page 2

  “Her name is Amanda,” Brad said.

  Tony ignored him. “Why’s he getting the first interview?”

  She smiled, instantly taking a liking to Tony, possibly because of his directness. “I see you’re competitive on and off the field,” she teased. “I’ll make sure you’re next.”

  “Maybe I don’t want to be next,” he said, giving her the puppy dog eyes that only a player could deliver so effectively. “I get tired of being second to Brad.”

  Brad reached into his locker, pulled out a balled-up sock and threw it at Tony. “Shut up, man. What are you now? Twelve years old? Poor baby lost his place in line.”

  Amanda decided to toss a weapon of her own at Tony. “I hear that new pitcher, Rodriquez, has your number.”

  Tony’s expression grew stormy, and he mumbled something in Italian that sounded fairly nasty. He poked at the air the way he did when he was yelling at the umpire, which tended to be far too often, and ended with a clear statement of, “That’s bull.”

  One of the trainers called Tony’s name, ordering him to the back room. Tony eyed Brad, ignoring the summons. “Tell her, man. Tell her it’s crap.” His gaze returned to Amanda. “I’m going to rip the seams off that asshole’s ball. Print that. It’s a quote.”

  “You can tell her when she’s done with me,” Brad said.

  As Tony headed over to the trainer, Brad focused on Amanda. He rested one arm on top of the locker, framing her with his deliciously muscular body. “I need a favor,” he said softly.

  She stared at him and tried to figure out why he affected her so. Maybe it was his mouth. He had a full bottom lip, sensual and enticing. She could imagine how his mouth would feel pressed against her skin. Amanda blinked and resisted the urge to shake her head to rid it of the ridiculous thoughts.

  “Favor?” she asked, a bit hoarsely. Delicately, she cleared her throat. “What would that be?”

  “Before we go on…” He paused, leaning closer, his proximity wrapping her in sultry sensuality. A dart of electricity raced up her arm as his hand left the locker and settled on her elbow. Her entire body reacted, sending shivers along her nerve endings.

  He tilted his head toward hers, his breath warm on her neck as he whispered in her ear, “Promise you’ll quote Tony.” He eased backward to make eye contact. “He’s very sensitive.”

  He might as well have asked her to get naked with him, because the impact of those words, the touch of his fingers against her bare skin and the heat of his body so near were nothing shy of sizzling.

  “Tony is sensitive?” She found that hard to believe. “Mr. Macho?”

  “The tough ones always are,” he said. “Didn’t you know that?”

  Amanda laughed. Again. Suddenly, she realized how easily Brad amused her. And had her forgetting her work. Damn. She stiffened, reality taking hold. Brad could star in her nighttime fantasies, but that was it. Already the Jack Ass competition was questioning her talent and alluding to her being hired to seduce stories out of the players. The last thing she needed was to give those nasty speculations any basis in truth.

  Raising her notepad, Amanda showed Brad what she had written. “Will rip the seams off the asshole’s ball,” she recited Tony’s quote. “I might need to leave off the nasty names he used, though.”

  They shared a smile, the mutual attraction dancing in the air between them, but Amanda forced herself to be sober. She needed to get her interview with him, then move on before the other players slipped away.

  She noticed the necklace around Brad’s neck and a story idea formed. “A lucky charm?” she asked, knowing baseball players were the most superstitious of athletes, though she’d known a few football players who’d give them a run for their money.

  His brow furrowed. “Lucky charm?”

  “The necklace.” She leaned closer, trying to see it again but pulled back to avoid another trip down lust lane. “Is that a Longhorn? As in, the University of Texas mascot?”

  His hand went to the charm. “Yeah,” he said. “My mom gave it to me on the day of my first college game.” His serious expression was replaced by the cocky one he had been wearing. “I did a fine job of warming the bench to celebrate. My butt was downright smoking by the time I finally got a chance to prove myself.”

  What about his father? He hadn’t said his parents had given him the necklace. Interesting…He had such a playboy image, hearing him talk about his mother surprised Amanda. Intrigued—from a strictly journalistic standpoint, of course—she wanted to know more. Fans gobbled up personal info about the players.

  “You’ve done more than prove yourself since.” She didn’t mean her words as a compliment. They were simply a fact. During his twelve years in the majors, he’d become a near legend. Amanda didn’t give him time to respond, her mind racing ahead with her story idea. “Have you worn the necklace all this time?”

  He reached up and touched the charm again. “Every single day.”

  “So is it lucky?” Amanda asked. “Kind of like Michael Jordan’s college shorts he wore beneath his game shorts?”

  He shook his head and shut the locker, leaning against it as he crossed his arms in front of his nice, broad chest. “Oh, no,” he said. “Don’t go making me superstitious. You want superstitious, you want our center fielder.”

  Her mind scanned the roster she’d studied so intently before her job interview. “You mean Riley Walker?”

  “Very impressive,” Brad said. “I like a girl who does her homework.”

  She gave him a warning look, refusing to get pulled back into his flirtation. “Tell me about Riley.”

  He ran a hand over his stubble-darkened jaw. “He rubs some kind of oil on his glove before every game. One night he couldn’t find it, and he had the entire team emptying their lockers searching for the damn stuff. It was pure craziness.”

  “What kind of oil? Like a leather lubricant?”

  Brad shook his head. “Honestly, I don’t know what the hell it is. Some peppermint-scented stuff. A Gypsy chick he dated in college fed him some junk about it creating a shield against bad omens. He really thinks he can’t play without it.”

  Amanda could imagine the frayed tempers that must have been flying around the night of the missing magic oil. “Aren’t you afraid I’ll print this and make Riley mad?”

  “I’m hoping you will.” Brad grinned. “Bastard owes me two hundred bucks.”

  “I see,” Amanda said, leaning against the closed locker beside his, wondering if the outstanding debt meant Riley had a gambling problem. “Surely, he has the money.”

  “Oh, he has the money,” he said. “He just doesn’t want to pay up.”

  Amanda accepted that answer…for now. Still, she scribbled a note about Riley. Couldn’t hurt to see what his history looked like. She then needled Brad for a quote on the next week’s game.

  “Can you pitch a third shutout in a row?” she asked. “That would be your first.”

  “Only game day will answer that question, but I feel good. My arm is healthy. The team is strong.” He lowered his voice. “Have drinks with me after the game, and I’ll give you an exclusive.”

  Drinks. An exclusive. A hot kiss. Sounded good to her.

  What didn’t sound good, however, was risking her reputation. As good as he no doubt was, Brad Rogers was not worth compromising a career that had scarcely begun. Besides, there was his comment on his arm being healthy. It wasn’t. She’d recognized the little signs of injury while he was on the field. The way he flexed his fingers. The way he discreetly rotated his shoulder. He had a weakness and he was hiding it. Why?

  Sticking the pencil behind her ear, she managed to smile. “A tempting offer, but no.” With true regret, she added, “I can’t, and you know it.”

  His eyes narrowed on her face, his expression guarded but intense. “Too bad. Would have been fun.”

  “Yeah,” she said, “but some things just can’t be.”

  She paused, debating what to say to him, even
as she told herself to walk away. But the truth was, his secret injury bothered her because she’d done the same thing. She’d pretended her knee was okay to pursue a shot at swimming in the Olympics. That choice had cost her her career.

  Amanda waited until one of the players passed, then made sure her voice was low. “Ice that arm.”

  His eyes flashed with surprise. Surprise that told her she was right. When he said nothing, Amanda didn’t know what to do. She started to leave, not sure she should have said anything.

  His hand snaked out and shackled her wrist. She rotated to face him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said through gritted teeth.

  She shrugged, not wanting to make him any tenser than he already was. “My father is an NFL team doctor and my sister is—”

  “My arm is fine,” he insisted, an edge to his tone this time.

  “Okay,” she said, but added in a whisper, “Ice it, Brad.” She thought of all the things she’d heard her father say to players. The sooner he got his muscles nice and cold, the better. “Don’t wait.” Realizing where his thoughts must be going, she said, “This isn’t about a story. I won’t report it. You have my word.”

  He stared at her a moment, those blue eyes probing, looking for the truth, for proof he could trust her. Without another word, he let go of her and gave her a nod.

  She left him then, but she felt his eyes on her. And, lord help her, it took every ounce of willpower to keep her attention from drifting to him. He’d earned a spot in her column for being so hot on the field.

  He’d earned a spot in her fantasies for getting her so hot in the locker room.

  2

  AN HOUR AFTER meeting Amanda, Brad stood in the cleared-out locker room. He slammed his locker shut, ready to get the hell out of Dodge and find some ice for his aching arm. He was still reeling from the knowledge that Amanda had guessed he was injured. Amanda. A damn reporter, for God’s sake. He was so screwed if word got out.

  There was hope to cling to. Jack was cautious about what he printed, careful to keep his home team happy. With any luck, Amanda would use the same strategy.

  “Got a minute, Rogers?”

  Brad looked up to see Coach Locke standing in one of the trainer’s doorways a few feet away. A fifty-something man with thick gray hair and a hard-as-nails exterior, he was tough but fair with his players and Brad respected him for that.

  “Sure, Coach,” Brad said, feeling tense when he normally wouldn’t. With his contract up for renewal and his agent telling him to play it cool, Brad was more than a little on edge.

  He wanted to stay in L.A. for what might very well be his last run around the bases. He’d moved his mother here last year when she’d had some health issues. She was doing well now, settled and happy, which meant relocation wasn’t on his agenda. He wanted to bag five more years, hard and fast. Baseball was all he knew, and he wasn’t ready to give it up yet.

  Brad left his duffel bag on the bench and followed Coach into the tiny office. Coach sat behind the scuffed up wooden desk and Brad claimed the chair in front of him.

  Coach tossed a newspaper at Brad. “Care to explain that?”

  Brad cringed. The Ohio press had caught a picture of Brad and the rookie reliever Casey Becker in a heated debate at the airport. Damn it, this was so not what he needed right now. His agent had been preaching about Brad keeping a low profile. So much for that.

  “I don’t need to tell you this isn’t the press you need.”

  “I know, Coach. I know.” Thanks to a stupid bar fight almost a year ago, Brad had landed in the spotlight and in court. Unfortunately, the team owner had been dragged into the legal battle, as well.

  “Do you know?” Coach challenged and jabbed at the paper. “It doesn’t look like you know, to me.”

  “Becker is trouble and you know it. The kid has rocks in his head. He respects no one and doesn’t listen to shit.”

  “I’m aware of the kid’s attitude, but frankly, the owners are screaming about you, not Becker. I don’t know if you’re hoping to stay in L.A. or move on, but if you want to stay, this isn’t the way to do it.”

  Brad’s agent had cautioned him about seeming too eager. Mike thought that making the Rays believe Brad could walk away was critical to offset the prior year’s fiasco. They’d argued the issue and Mike had won. After all, Mike Miller had been with him since day one of his career, and he’d never steered Brad wrong. He knew better than to second-guess Mike now, but damn it, he hated this. He wanted to sit down with the Rays and negotiate a new contract so he could focus on playing ball.

  “I certainly want to keep my options open, Coach.”

  Coach narrowed his gaze on Brad, clearly not happy with that answer. “Well, this isn’t the way to do it.”

  Brad told himself to bite his tongue but it bit his ass that the rookie had landed him in hot water. “Becker needs to be dealt with, Coach. If you don’t get him in line, someone will. The kid’s gonna get his balls busted if he doesn’t show some respect to the veterans.” And it was the truth. Rookies who came into The Show disrespecting the seasoned players eventually got what was coming to them.

  “I know the kid is a royal pain, but right now we’re talking about you. Keep your nose clean.” Coach leaned back in his chair, rocking a minute. “You looked good tonight. How’s that arm feeling?”

  “Good,” Brad lied. He’d followed that bar fight with surgery and the ensuing recovery time kept him off the mound and unable to show his value to the team. He needed to be on that field now, throwing strikes, and he knew it. Playing good ball would get him a contract renewal. “My arm feels good.”

  “Give me more of that heat you had on the mound tonight. Leave the rest at home.”

  Brad pushed to his feet. “I hear you, Coach.”

  Coach looked up at him, eyes narrowed in a scrutinizing stare. “I hope you do.”

  A FEW HOURS AFTER his meeting with Coach, and a long, rough talk with his agent later, Brad stood in the middle of the tiny Texas-style pool hall, beer in hand, music and smoke filtering through the air. A blue neon sign blinked on the wall behind him, and bottle caps lined the trim at the top of the walls. If he closed his ears to the Californian accents, he could almost believe he was back home. In front of him a game of pool was underway, several of his closest buddies competing.

  Elbow resting on a round bar table, Brad wished like hell the pain inching from his wrist to his shoulder would go away. It throbbed and ached, a constant reminder he couldn’t escape.

  Just like his thoughts of Amanda. All that long auburn hair and those sultry curves served to distract him from his issues. But that was only part of it. She occupied prime space in his head because she knew his secret. She’d taken him from burning hot, ready to find a way to get her naked, to having a freaking heart attack with her caution to ice his arm. Man, if she—a journalist, for chrissake—figured it out, how long would it take his trainers and his coach to discover his secret?

  A secret that was killing him.

  After an hour of icing his arm and a double dose of ibuprofen, Brad had managed to drag himself to the traditional postgame festivities, also known as the postgame get-shit-faced gathering. Of course, Brad didn’t do the shit-faced thing anymore. Not even on a night such as this one—the final night of a series followed by a few days off. The last time he’d had a few too many, he’d gotten in that damn bar fight and landed in a world of hurt with the press and the team. Of course, hitting a rich college kid whose father just happened to be a senator had certainly invited their wrath.

  A beer bottle settled on the table with a loud thud, jolting Brad out of his reverie. The offender was Kurt Caverns, the team catcher.

  “I’m empty,” Kurt announced and eyed Brad’s bottle. “What’s your status? Need a refill?”

  Brad shook his head. “Nope. Not yet. Give me a few minutes, though, and I should be ready for another one.”

  “Saw you in Coach’s office after the game,” Kurt s
aid, talking low, focused on Brad so no one else could hear. “Any word?”

  Kurt referred to his contract. As Brad’s closest friend, Kurt was the only one who knew how much he wanted to stay with the Rays and why. They’d both gone to University of Texas, though at different times. It had given them a bond that had opened the door to friendship. But even Kurt didn’t know Brad’s arm was hurting.

  “The Ohio press got a shot of me and Becker arguing. Coach didn’t like how it made me look.”

  “Damn, man, you can’t live that fight down, can you?” He shook his head. “That freaking sucks.”

  “Yeah, it does,” Brad said. “So does the timing.”

  “I’ve told Coach that Becker doesn’t listen to jack,” Kurt said. “I hate catching him. I give him a sign and he ignores it. And Coach is doing squat about it. He needs a hard lesson.”

  Brad had to agree. He had a damn good record on the mound, and the kid didn’t have one at all. Yeah, Becker had talent but he was undisciplined and jeopardized as many games as he saved. He needed a lot of training, but he wasn’t interested in receiving help. All that, and Brad was the one getting his ass chewed. Brad was the one with his career on the line. Because of a fight with a loudmouth University of Texas pitcher who reminded him a hell of a lot of Becker.

  His agent had lectured him with more of the play-it-cool instructions tonight, but Brad wasn’t feeling cool at all. He was feeling pretty damn hot, as a matter of fact. “Oh, I’d be happy to teach the kid a few lessons,” he commented. “Doubt Coach would be happy, though.”

  “Probably not,” Kurt agreed, “but Becker needs a reality check. Count me in on that play.”

  Determined to shake off his mood, Brad caught a glimpse of the pool table as Tony aimed his stick then made a horrific shot.

  “Holy shit,” Brad called out. “If I watch much more of this, I’ll need two more beers and I’ll need them fast.” As if on cue, Tony scratched. Again. His third time that night. Brad tipped back his beer to hide a smile. Though Tony had been with the Rays only a year, he’d become part of the team almost instantly, not to mention fast friends with him and Kurt.