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  “Or the daughter of one,” her father said.

  “I couldn’t listen to you and Kelli talk shop and not pick up something. The odd thing is that no one with the Rays seems to have noticed that Brad’s hurt. I noticed, but not them. How crazy is that?”

  “You’ve been in the locker rooms. Broken bones and blood get attention. The rest is easy to miss. Especially when it’s being hidden.” A female voice sounded in the background. “Hold on,” he said. “I have lots more to ask, but your mother feels it’s her time to talk. Love you, honey.”

  “Love you, too, Daddy.”

  “Don’t forget my autograph.”

  She laughed. “I’ll get it.”

  “Oh,” he said, as if he’d had a last-minute thought. “Any word on you coming home for the Texas series?”

  “Not yet,” Amanda said, feeling the pressure of performance. The team would head to Nashville before Texas, and she didn’t know about that trip. “I imagine that decision will come once they decide if I’m a keeper or not.”

  “Then I’ll see you soon,” he said, confident in her as always.

  Amanda chatted with her mother a few minutes and then hung up. She was forever grateful for her parents’ confidence and support.

  It was time to earn that confidence. She was going to find the story behind every teeny-weensy towel in that locker room…even if she wasn’t allowed to remove any of them.

  LATE FRIDAY AFTERNOON, Amanda sat at her desk jotting down potential interview questions for the locker room postgame, nerves working a number on her stomach. She had a lot of ground to cover. Tuesday’s game had gone so horribly for the Rays that the coach had shut the locker room to the press. Wednesday and Thursday had been off nights so there’d been no talking with the players for her second column. She’d gone with Riley’s Gypsy oil as her featured superstition but hadn’t gotten as deep into the topic as she would have liked. Tonight would be her first chance to find out Brad’s reaction to her story on him.

  Brad.

  He’d stayed on her mind far too much.

  A loud thud jerked Amanda to attention. Kevin stood in front of her cubicle, having tossed two big bags on the floor. He pointed to one. “Fan mail.” Then to the other. “Hate mail.”

  Amanda gulped. “Hate mail?”

  “Attention is attention,” Kevin said. “Think Howard Stern. Keep this up and you might actually stay around a while.”

  She couldn’t quite get past the hate mail. “Why do they hate me?”

  Irritation flashed in his face. “It doesn’t matter. What matters is that you get that steroid story before Jack. Check out Tony Rossi. My source says Jack thinks he’s the user. My question to you is why does Jack know this and you don’t?”

  “I—”

  “I want that story, Amanda. Whatever it takes, get it.”

  She was being asked to earn the team’s trust and destroy a player’s career all at once. It seemed as wrong as the hate mail. She’d signed up to be a reporter, not a destroyer.

  “And another thing,” Kevin continued. “The team’s headed to Nashville. Jack’s not, so you’re not. That damn hotel room of yours is eating up my budget. Get a place to live before I find one for you.”

  He wanted her to get the story, but he wasn’t letting her go with the team. That didn’t make sense. Shouldn’t she go because Jack wasn’t going? Wouldn’t that give her an edge?

  She bit her tongue and focused on the solution she could give him. “I’m renting from Karen Tuggle. I move in next week.”

  “Good. And how much longer do you have that rental car?”

  She reminded him of their interview conversation. “We discussed me taking a few days after the Texas series to drive mine back.”

  He grunted. “That’s several more weeks.”

  His attitude was getting to her. They’d agreed to these terms before she’d started. “With the company discount, the rental came out cheaper than the cost to transport my car here.”

  Reggie appeared. “Ready to hit the road?”

  Amanda pushed to her feet. “I’m ready.”

  Kevin fixed her with a level stare. “Get me that story,” he ordered before exiting, leaving her staring after him, feeling frazzled.

  The phone on her desk rang and Reggie motioned toward the door. “I’ll meet you downstairs.”

  She waved, sitting back down and reaching for the phone. “This is Amanda.”

  “This is the star of your first column at the Tribune.”

  Her heart beat like a drum in her chest. “I never had the chance to ask what you thought of it. Did you like it?” she asked.

  “I told you not to make me out to be superstitious,” he reminded her, but his voice held no anger. In fact, his tone seemed flirtatious.

  “I didn’t,” Amanda said. “I made you out to be sentimental. And the way I see it, I did you a favor.”

  “A favor, huh? What exactly was the favor?”

  “Well,” she drawled, picking up a pencil and tapping it on the desk, needing an outlet for the adrenaline coursing through her body. “You’ve had some bad press, what with the fight and being out for part of the season. The public needed a reminder that you may be more good ol’ boy than bad boy. I suspect your team did, as well.”

  “My agent agrees with you on that point, even if I don’t see it. I guess I’ll cut you some slack on the superstition thing.”

  “So kind of you. I was worried. Really, I was.”

  “You really are a good smart-ass. I noticed that when you talked to Jack.”

  “Jack,” she said, her lips thinning with the name. “Such a nice guy.”

  Brad let out a bark of laughter. “Right. I could see how well you two got along. Now, back to the article and my thoughts on it. You left some unanswered questions. It felt a bit unfinished.”

  She frowned. “What unanswered questions?”

  “Who is the real man behind the ballplayer?” he recited the question she’d posed in her story.

  “It wasn’t meant as a literal question,” she replied, wishing like hell she could answer it herself firsthand. Wondering why she wanted to so badly. She didn’t get distracted by such things. “It was meant to pique interest.”

  “I think you owe it to your readers to find out.”

  “Oh, really?” she said, forgetting Kevin and that hate mail. “I got the impression you wanted the ‘real man’ kept private.”

  “Depends on who’s involved,” he said, his tone low, suggestive.

  “You’re offering me an interview?”

  “That’s right. Tonight. After the game.” He paused. “Strictly business, of course.”

  If it was strictly business, why say so? “Of course,” she agreed, though she sensed there was more than that going on between them. And, damn it to hell, her fantasy image of him, gloriously naked and tied to her bed, chose that moment to flash in her mind.

  “Goodbye, Amanda.”

  She blinked away the erotic images, reprimanding herself for allowing them to surface. “Goodbye, Brad.”

  The line was silent a moment, neither of them hanging up, their breathing soft, intimate, sizzling with promise. Amanda forced herself to set the receiver on the cradle.

  What had just happened? She grabbed a piece of paper and fanned herself. She’d never been this tempted to stray from a goal. And her career represented an important goal. Yet, Brad had most definitely proven he could seize her attention and make her forget all the reasons she needed to avoid him. If the man could get her this hot on the phone, what could he do in person?

  And there was the question she couldn’t help but want answered. Yet, she couldn’t—no, wouldn’t—allow herself to find out. Brad Rogers was off limits. She wasn’t about to compromise her journalistic integrity to discover if some ballplayer with a God complex burned up the sheets as much as his voice promised.

  She pushed to her feet, and made herself repeat her vow. She would not be seduced by Brad Rogers.


  And that was that.

  She hoped.

  5

  SEVERAL HOURS AFTER Amanda’s little chat with Brad on the phone, she walked to the ballpark concession stand, Reggie by her side. “You enjoy your talk with the girls?” he asked.

  “Actually, I did,” Amanda said, surprised at how much she’d learned from her powwow with some of the groupies. One in particular, a young girl named Laura, had taken to Amanda and been quite informative. She found herself giggling at all the dirty little details those women had shared.

  “Okay, none of that,” Reggie scolded. “Must share all jokes with your wingman. It’s a rule.”

  Leaning closer to Reggie, she lowered her voice. “I now know one of the players has a foot fetish. Another one likes a little bondage action. And you know the rookie pitcher, the one they just recruited?” She paused for effect. “I hear he’s watched a little too much Bull Durham.”

  “Okay, I’ll bite. Meaning what?”

  “Word is he’s so uptight about walking in Brad’s footsteps, he’s resorted to wearing a garter belt under his uniform.”

  “Get out of here,” Reggie said, eyeing the sky. “What a flipping freak.”

  “You haven’t heard the half of it,” Amanda declared, “but I’ll save the rest for later.”

  “So which part of this are you thinking of using for your story?”

  “The garter, maybe.” She inspected Reggie for a reaction. “What do you think?” Not waiting for an answer, she made her case. “It fits my superstition theme and it’s such good timing. You know, having written about the center fielder after Brad, doing a story about the new pitcher—”

  “Is brilliant,” Reggie said. “Really perfect. What about the steroids? Any tips from them?”

  Amanda sighed. “No. I didn’t see an opening to ask. But, the girls invited me out for a drink tomorrow night so I have another chance. It’s some Saturday night deal they do every week.”

  Reggie’s expression held surprise. “I’m impressed you got an invite.”

  “I hit it off with one of them. Laura’s her name,” Amanda said. “I think I’ll work my Becker story and see if he is pulling a Bull Durham.”

  “She’s the one who’s close to Tony,” Reggie pointed out. “If Kevin’s right about Tony, Laura could be your source. I like it. I like it a lot.”

  Amanda wasn’t sure how she felt about the reliability of information she’d glean from the women. It was one thing to use them as sources for the men-behind-the-players theme of her column, which was based on impressions and suggestions. But it was something else entirely to use the women as sources for stories that had to be grounded in absolute fact, not speculation.

  A huge order of nachos appeared on the counter. Thanks to habits formed during her years in the pool, Amanda didn’t often indulge in junk food. Given how delicious the cheese-covered chips looked, she might have to make an exception today since she was starving. As the PA sounded with the announcer reading the stats for Brad Rogers and her blood pounded, she wasn’t so sure food would sate her appetite.

  She was afraid it might take a big serving of Brad to ease this particular hunger.

  “SAFE!”

  Brad let his head fall forward as the umpire’s words spilled into the air. Son of a bitch. His shutout record was a goner. All this pain. All this torture and the Jets had just scored, thanks to a hole in the Rays’ center fielder’s glove.

  But it wasn’t their center fielder’s—or his damn peppermint oil’s—fault, and Brad knew it. If only he’d had a little more heat on that last pitch…

  He tried to flex his shoulder without seeming obvious, biting back another curse at the throb deep in the tissue. Forget the rest of this game, would he even make it out of this inning?

  Brad watched as Coach signaled to the umpire for a time-out and headed for the mound. Looked as though the decision wasn’t even his to make.

  The coach stopped in front of Brad, a wad of dip puffing out his bottom lip. “You’ve pitched a great game, son. You pushed hard for that record and your arm is tired. We’ve got five on the board and their best hitter is up next. Let’s give the rookie a shot to take him on. I need to see what he’s got.”

  The muscles in Brad’s gut tightened, and he ground his teeth. Not only had he lost his shot at a record, but the coach wanted to give the mound to Becker. “Simpson is 0-6 against me, Coach. Let me take him and then I’ll come out.”

  The coach spit and then eyed Brad. “You’re tired. Let Becker have him.”

  Brad cut his gaze from the coach, keeping it low so the camera couldn’t zoom in. He wanted to argue. God, how he wanted to argue. But the truth was, he was hurting, both his body and his pride. He wasn’t sure he could take another blow.

  With a heavy sigh, he accepted the inevitable. “Fine. I’m out.”

  The crowd booed when Brad started toward the dugout, clearly unhappy with the coach’s decision, and he fought the urge to ask to stay in. Brad took comfort from the fans’ belief in him, even if he doubted himself.

  Irritation replaced that comfort when he spotted Becker exiting the bull pen. The kid jogged toward the mound, a cocky smile on his face that seemed to say, “Don’t worry, old man, I’ll bring it home.”

  The little bastard didn’t get it. Brad wanted to stalk back to the mound and tell him so. But the coach was there, ready to instruct Becker on what to expect.

  Inside the dugout, Brad sat and dropped his glove to the ground. The kid wanted to be a starter. With his know-it-all attitude, he was lucky to be a reliever, in Brad’s opinion.

  He eyed the coach as he returned to the bench. “Simpson’s gonna knock it out of the park, you know.”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Becker gets in there and thinks he can throw a bunch of heat and strike ’em all out. He doesn’t pay enough attention to batters’ strengths and, worse, he ignores Kurt’s signs.” Brad could hear his voice rising but he was too pissed off at being replaced with the rookie to moderate it.

  “I’ll talk to him,” Coach said. “He needs a role model.”

  “What he needs is an ass kicking,” Brad responded.

  “There are other ways of getting to him.”

  Brad snorted. “Short of busting him back to the minors, I don’t know how.”

  The sound of a bat making contact with a ball drew their attention, and the coach cursed under his breath.

  Simpson had just hit it out of the park.

  BY THE TIME Brad entered the locker room, Amanda and several other members of the press were already there. He’d already dealt with numerous television cameras and the stupid question of the night. “How does it feel to be so close to a third shut out and miss it?”

  How the hell do you think it feels? Like shit. It felt like shit. Brad had said as much, although not with that exact language. Normally, he kept his mouth shut when the camera rolled, reciting only management-approved sound bites. But not today. Not when he felt this foul.

  Watching Becker take the mound with that smart-ass sneer on his pretty boy face had been pure torture. Watching Simpson smash one of the kid’s fastballs out of the park had been pure satisfaction. And since the run hadn’t cost the game, Brad didn’t feel one bit of guilt.

  As his locker came into view, he spotted Becker in deep conversation with Amanda. Brad mumbled a curse as he realized the rookie was in hard play to win the bet.

  Eyeing Amanda’s sultry curves displayed in the black skirt she wore, Brad ground his teeth. He’d handed over the mound to the kid. He’d be damned if he was handing over Amanda.

  In fact, a good night of hot, sweaty sex would go a long way toward improving his disposition. The sooner he got Amanda’s curvy little body beneath his, the better.

  Brad shoved his glove into his locker, then focused on Amanda. The line of her neck was exposed as she laughed at what the rookie was saying. He imagined pressing his lips right there. Inhaling her sweet scent. Hearing her moan with the pleasure he gave
her.

  His competitive side flared as he watched the rookie work her. This was one battle the kid might as well give up. Brad had already decided Amanda was his.

  Shoving aside his pain and fatigue, Brad started walking. Sidestepping a reporter’s question, his attention was on only one thing.

  He’d lost his shot at a record today. He wasn’t losing this bet, too.

  AMANDA KNEW the moment Brad walked into the locker room. No. She felt it. And try as she might to concentrate on the answers coming out of the rookie reliever, Casey Becker, she was thinking about Brad.

  Her gaze traveled in his direction, sliding down his long, muscular frame encased in tight baseball pants. Damn, the man was hot. She’d take him dressed over other men wearing only towels any day.

  Then again, she wouldn’t mind Brad…undressed.

  She swallowed and forced herself to focus on Casey, who appeared more interested in flirting than answering her questions. She was ready to scream. Funny how the banter and innuendo hadn’t bothered her when Brad delivered it.

  “I hear you’re pretty superstitious about your pitching,” Amanda commented. “Did luck help you recover from that home run you gave up?”

  “What?” Surprise flashed across Casey’s chiseled face. “Who told you that? No, I don’t believe in luck. It’s just me and the batter out there. No false sense of security. Brad’s getting old. He needs necklaces and luck. I don’t.”

  The Brad lashing had been unexpected. Hmm. Could someone be a bit jealous? Brad might have lost a shot at a record today, but he’d pitched a good game. Clearly, following in the star pitcher’s footsteps had the rookie a bit rattled.

  Amanda decided to leave the nastiness alone and redirect him back to her story. “I heard you’re a fan of Bull Durham. The pitcher in that movie,” she said, “well, he wore garters for luck.”

  His face reddened instantly and he threw his hands in the air, yelling out to the locker room. “Who the hell is telling everyone I wear garters for luck again? Tony!” Laughter filled the air but Tony was nowhere to be found.