Hard and Fast

Lisa Renee Jones

www.millsandboon.co.uk

My thanks to:

Razor Shines for the interview

Matt & Ronald for the baseball insight!

Diego for believing when I didn’t

My mom for supporting my dream

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Epilogue

1

AMANDA WRIGHT was living a dream.

New shoes. Expensive outfit—also new. Press pass around her neck allowing entry into a professional baseball players’ locker room—a room certain to display hot male bodies in various stages of undress.

It was the perfect female fantasy come to life.

Or it should have been.

But right now, Amanda felt as if she were about to walk into the lions’ den and those lions—aka ballplayers—were going to eat her alive.

Her high heels clicked on the concrete floor of the tunnel leading to the Los Angeles Rays’ locker room, her toes pinched and her mind raced. Her journalistic instincts buzzed with the thought of the after-game activity on the other side of the door. Still, she hung back, wishing like hell she could tap her heels together and transport herself back to Dallas, Texas.

Dallas, the place where she’d had a position reporting high school sports for one of the daily newspapers. It didn’t matter that her work had lacked any semblance of challenge and leaned dangerously close to boring. She’d had job security. And her parents and her sister. She’d had her comfortable little downtown apartment overlooking White Rock Lake—she really loved that view.

Nerves flooded her system, and she stopped. For a moment, Amanda stood, watching people pass. What would she do if she went into that locker room and made a fool of herself? What would happen if she didn’t impress her editor with her first column? Or didn’t attract readers?

What had she been thinking? She must have been insane to leave her comfortable life behind. And for what? A sports column with her name attached? Didn’t seem like such a sweet deal at this moment.

She took a deep breath. A dream column, she reminded herself. On game days she got space in the paper no matter what, just as she had back home. But now she’d hit the big time. Twice a week she had her very own feature in the sports section. And this wasn’t high school baseball. This was the majors. An opportunity she’d fantasized about for years.

But, of course, the job had come with extreme pressure. There was one tiny condition she hadn’t shared with her family because they’d only worry more than they already were. Her new boss, Kevin Jones, had given her a short time frame in which to build a readership or she’d be gone. Seemed her predecessor had left and taken many of his fans with him. When she’d asked Kevin how short, he’d simply said, “Short.”

The ringing of her cell phone offered a welcomed excuse to continue to stall. She shoved a wayward strand of long, auburn hair behind her ear and reached inside her purse, a petite Louis Vuitton bag her sister, Kelli, had given her to celebrate the new job.

The minute Amanda hit the Answer button, her sister’s voice snapped through the line, a lightning rod of reprimand. “I knew it.”

“Knew what?”

Kelli ignored the question. “Why are you answering your phone?”

Amanda rolled her eyes. “Why are you calling if you don’t want me to answer?”

“Because I knew you would,” Kelli retorted. “I didn’t want to be right, but I knew I would be. Shouldn’t you be in a locker room full of hot bodies, drooling enough for the both of us?”

“How do you know I’m not?”

“Like you’d answer if you were”. A pause followed and in her mind’s eye, Amanda could see Kelli shaking her head. “You’ve worked yourself into a state of self-doubt, haven’t you? Why do you always do this to yourself?”

“I’m not doing anything,” Amanda said, lying. Kelli was right. Amanda tended to let big events work her into a ball of nerves, so much so that she often would get sick. Every year, the first day of school had been greeted with a horrible cold and a red nose. Before a swim meet, she’d have abdominal cramps from the knots in her stomach. It was a miracle she’d managed to perform so well, time after time.

“Right,” Kelli said. “I wasn’t born yesterday. You’re standing on the wrong side of that door talking yourself out of this dream.”

“Okay, so I am or I was or—”

“Stop trying to think of excuses. You’ve wanted your own column for years. It’s the only thing you’ve talked about with excitement since you left competitive swimming. You can do this. You’ve been doing it for years.”

Amanda hadn’t left swimming. Her knee injury had stolen her aspirations. Shoving away the thought, she reminded herself that period in her life was history and should be buried. The here and now counted and she had new mountains to climb. Or, rather, locker rooms to conquer.

“I covered high school events,” she reminded her optimistic sister, stepping out of the path of passersby and leaning against the wall. “These are professional ballplayers.”

“You’ve dealt with plenty of professional athletes.”

Following her NFL team doctor dad while she was a teen did not count. “Years ago!”

“Well then, you better come home,” Kelli said. “Absolutely, you are in over your head. You could get your old job back. You know you could.”

Amanda absorbed the sarcastic comments as a much-needed reality check. She’d spent years trying to get away from the high school grind. Her ex-husband had been rooted in Dallas and had refused to move, determined to work himself into her father’s good graces and the better opportunities—a higher-end clientele along with the status and money that accompanied it—to which he had access. Her ex had cared about those things more than her. After being sideswiped by his affairs, she’d welcomed the divorce, but had needed the security of having family nearby.

Now, she’d found the courage to land her dream job, to relocate, and she couldn’t blow it. Not now. She had to do this. She pushed off the wall and straightened.

“I don’t know if I should curse you for your snarky attitude or thank you,” Amanda said.

“You’re welcome. Now go get ’em, girl. With all that sass and your hot new image, you’re gonna kick butt. Which outfit are you wearing?”

Amanda smiled, thinking of shopping with her sister a month before. That had been the day Amanda had decided to make herself over with a new, sexier appearance and take on the world with a new attitude.

“The black Jones New York skirt,” she informed Kelli. She loved her new look. Why she’d hidden in long skirts and flat sandals for so long, she didn’t know.

Actually, she did know. She’d been so completely absorbed in competitive swimming that nothing else had seemed important. When her knee injury had burst that dream, her ex-husband’s career had easily taken center stage. It had been as if she’d lost herself, her very identity stripped. She’d been Amanda the swimmer who’d become Amanda the wife. Nowhere in there was space for Amanda the woman or Amanda the reporter.

Her makeover changed more than her outside. It gave her confidence and transitioned her into a new state of mind that was dedicated to finding herself and her dreams again. That change of perspective had helped her shine in her job interview.

“Very nice,” Kelli said, approval in her tone. “The skirt is one of my favorite picks. Did you go with the Bandolino sandals with those cute ankle straps?”

“Ah, yeah, though I regret letting you talk me into them. They’re killing my feet.”

“Smile through it, sis. They look sexy and that’s what counts. Now kisses and kick butt.” The line went dead.

Amanda smiled and slid her phone into her purse. She hitched the strap over her shoulder, prepared to take charge of the locker room and, if she got lucky, a few good men along the way.

With that in mind, she charged forward, no longer caring about the pinch of her toes. No longer letting nerves get in her way. She had a hot new image and a hot new job. No way was she going to stop moving forward now.

In fact, she decided arriving a little late might be good. The guys wouldn’t be expecting her. Their guards would be down and she’d get her story.

But it wasn’t their guards that fell as she entered that locker room. It was hers.

Surrounded by half-naked, gorgeous men, Amanda’s eyes went wide. Everywhere she looked she found rippling muscle and rock-hard backsides exposed by gaping towels. For a girl who hadn’t had sex in so long it was embarrassing, the sight was downright shocking. Okay, arousing.

She should have been prepared for this. After all, she’d been in plenty of locker rooms with her father. Clearly, years of working the high school circuit had made her forget just how delicious grown men could be.

And these grown men—correction, half-naked, hot grown men—were all staring at her as the noise had dissolved into silence.

Suddenly, Amanda’s bravado of moments before slipped into hiding. Her slim-cut skirt—the one that seemed so perfect only moments before—now felt revealing.

“Hi,” she said, waving nervously, while promising herself she would not look below the waist to the display of muscled thighs and teeny-weensy towels. “I’m the new reporter for the Tribune.” She reached for the badge hanging from a chain around her neck and held it up.

She was met with a few smiles and murmured hellos. Some turned away, curiosity satisfied. Many continued to stare. Without conscious effort, she did exactly what she’d vowed not to do. Her gaze dropped and took in several sets of rather enticing male torsos, complete with defined abdominals. Worse, before she realized what she was doing, she swiped a strand of hair off her forehead, trying to get a better view.

Afraid she would be caught peeking, Amanda snapped her attention to eye level. She’d come here for a story, and not just any story—one for her very own sports column. Her reaction proved, however, that she needed to address her state of sexual deprivation. Otherwise, being in the company of these men would pose a real distraction.

“Great game, guys,” Amanda said, smiling. “Who wants to be the headliner for my first story?”

“You’ve got to be kidding.” The voice came from Amanda’s left. A thirty-something man, wearing a sports coat and jeans, stepped into view. His piercing black eyes gave her a rude sweep from head to toe. “Has Kevin lost his mind?”

“Kevin?” Amanda asked, her eyebrows dipping, thinking. She’d come into town only the day before and met the staff at the paper in a whirlwind that morning. But there was only one Kevin she remembered. “As in my boss, Kevin?”

He crossed his arms in front of his plaid-covered chest before she could locate a press badge. “I’m surprised he didn’t go for blond and big-breasted.”

Who was this jerk? Amanda didn’t know nor did she care. Everything that happened here and now set a tone for the future. She wasn’t about to be made a fool of her first day on the job.

Amanda gave the jerk a bored look. “And who might you be?”

“Jack Krass,” he said, a slight gloat to his tone that said she should know the name.

And she did, as did the rest of the city. Jack Krass’s face was plastered on billboards—lots of them—advertising his column with a competing paper. She should have recognized him. Amanda had replaced him at the Tribune, meaning he’d once worn the shoes she now had to prove she could walk in. Worse, they were shoes two other reporters before her had failed to fill. Even though his confidence could be justified, in Amanda’s mind there was no call for him to be snide and nasty.

“Your name sounds vaguely familiar,” she said, a finger to her chin in mock concentration. “Wait!” She pointed in the air. “I know how I know you. A bunch of the guys at the paper were playing pin the tail on the Jack Krass this morning.” Her eyes went wide. “Wow. That must mean they really don’t like you. Why is that?”

A roar of laughter drew Amanda’s attention to the handsome face of Brad Rogers, who shared her hometown in Texas. The blond, blue-eyed pitcher had a lightning-speed arm and a reputation as a bad boy.

He was also her father’s favorite player, so Amanda knew him well, as did most women. The man was a walking sex god. Amanda didn’t have to look too closely to decide he was even more of a hottie in person than on television.

Leaning all six feet of his rippling muscles against a locker, he fixed Amanda in a come-get-me stare. When he winked, she felt it all the way to her toes. The sizzle was instant. He made her burn. If she could pick any man to end her sexless existence, Brad would be the one. Too bad their jobs put him out of reach.

“Jack Ass fits him well most of the time,” Brad drawled. “But we let him hang out, anyway.”

“You can be a real ass yourself, Cowboy,” Jack said in a biting tone and then shrugged. “And you let me hang around because I get you damn good press.”

“Actually, it’s all that free beer you buy us.”

Jack’s brow furrowed. “Say what you will, but we all know I deliver the readers.” He looked at Amanda. “Unlike others.”

“Since Jack got his face on the side of a bunch of buses and signs, he thinks he’s important,” Brad offered. “We know better.”

Jack tuned Brad out, focusing on Amanda. “Do you know anything about baseball?”

Officially, Amanda was irritated. Jack had pushed far enough. Time to strike back. She laced her words with sticky sweet sarcasm. “You mean I need to understand baseball to do this job? Nobody told me that. Maybe you better start explaining it to me.”

Laughter echoed against the tiled floors, boosting her confidence.

Numerous offers to school her on the art of baseball filled the air. Jack’s expression soured until he looked as if he’d been sucking lemons. “Sweetheart, looking good will get you laid, but it ain’t gonna get you a story.”

She laughed, but inwardly the words stung, nestling amongst her insecurities that the only reason she had this job was because she looked good. She eyed Jack’s slightly protruding belly and her response held more bite.

“Right. I most definitely do not want to look good. That makes me a very, very bad reporter. I should drink more beer and get me a body like yours. Then I’ll get lots of stories.” Amanda reached for her pad of paper and pen inside her purse. “I should take notes. What else do you think I need to know?”

More laughter filled the air. Jack’s face reddened. “Funny. Real funny. We’ll see who is laughing when your readership comes up a big zero.”

She eyed her fingernails as if bored and then waved at Jack. “Bye-bye. Run along. I’m sure you have some major ego stroking to do.” She turned her attention to Brad, offering Jack her back. “Great pitching today, by the way.”

He grinned. “Thank you, ma’am.”

“You’ve had two shutouts in a row, but there’s speculation your old teammate, Mike Ackers, could rattle you next week. In fact, he promises a home run. What’s your take on that?”

Brad eyed Jack with amusement evident in his expression, then motioned Amanda toward his open locker. “Well, darlin’, why don’t you step right over to my little home away from home, and let’s talk about it.”

She didn’t have to look at Jack to know he was glaring. Amanda felt his stare like a dart landing in her back. Ah, but she liked it, relishing a little high from her successful verbal banter.

But the high shifted as she stepped close to Brad and his towel. Though she maintained a calm exterior, her heartbeat kicked into double time, pounding like a drum against her chest. The spicy scent of freshly showered male invaded her senses, and his gaze, direct and attentive, warmed her skin.

Amanda had met her share of professional athletes over the years, and none had affected her this way.

“So, ah, about those shutouts…” Amanda lost her words as he reached down and made a slight adjustment to his towel. She followed the action with avid interest. She swallowed and forced her attention upward. “Maybe I should let you get dressed.”

The corners of his full mouth lifted, mischief once again in his expression. “I trust you to shut your eyes if it falls off.”

That made her laugh. She couldn’t help it. No way in hell was she shutting her eyes if Brad Rogers lost his towel. He was lucky she didn’t yank it off.

His eyebrow inched upward. “What’s so funny?”

She shook her head, aware he was working her. “You’re being very bad and you know it. You should cut the new girl a little slack.”

“What fun is that?”

“Hey, reporter lady!”

Brad and Amanda both looked over to find Tony Rossi demanding her notice. An Italian with dark good looks and the best bat on the team, Tony had a reputation for playing the field with the ladies as much as he did the game.

“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 said, 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.

Brad watched in amazement as Tony proceeded to place the cue ball on the table as if he hadn’t scratched. When Tony bent down to take another shot, Brad said, “Damn, Tony, if you’re gonna cheat, do it well.”

“Have you made even one shot tonight?” Kurt asked, adding insult to Tony’s already wounded pride.

“Shut the hell up, Kurt,” Tony snapped.

Kurt accepted a beer from a waitress who’d spotted his empty bottle. He gave her a wink and a tip before sauntering over to the table where he picked up the eight ball. “Good thing you swing the bat better than you play pool.” He raised his beer. “I know. Maybe you need some luck. Why don’t you get some of that peppermint oil Walker uses and rub it on your balls.”

Brad laughed, almost spewing a mouthful of Bud.

“Shut up, Caverns.” Tony’s use of Kurt’s last name indicated he was getting a serious attitude. “Before I shut you up.”

“I’m scared, man. Truly shaking.” Kurt nudged his ever present cowboy hat with his knuckle and fixed Tony with a speculative look. “You know what your problem is?”

Tony straightened, pool stick in his hand, irritation in his voice. “I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”

It was Brad’s shot, but Tony’s expression had him so amused he couldn’t focus. Not only did Tony hate to lose, he was a sucker for a good verbal teardown over it. Kurt was always happy to oblige.

“You can’t find the hole, man,” Kurt said. “Guess that’s why we haven’t seen you with a woman in so long.”

Tony rattled off a string of unpleasant words. “I get laid when I want to get laid.”

Kurt laughed. “Right. The Italian Stallion you ain’t.”

“All you get are groupies. That doesn’t make you the man.” Tony bit the words out. “Anyone can score with them.”

“Okay. Put your money where your mouth is.” Kurt rubbed his palms together. “Let’s make a bet. Pick a woman. Any woman. And let’s see who can score first.”

Tony leaned on his pool stick, a smile lifting the corner of his lips. “Okay.” He motioned at Brad. “I see you laughing there, man. You aren’t out of this. We bet. All three of us. And I know just the woman. The new reporter.”

An instant no ripped through Brad’s mind, and he barely kept it from sliding from his lips. Amanda was off-limits. Sure, she was hot. She damn sure got him hot. But it didn’t matter. She, or more accurately her job, was trouble with a capital T. The kind that could screw up the career he was desperately trying to hang on to. The wrong thing said across the pillows and he could wave a contract renewal goodbye.

“Don’t mess with the press,” he said. “Pick another woman.”

Tony waved off the warning. “She won’t report her own indiscretions.”

“But she can twist them in her favor,” Brad countered. “She has the pen and the audience.” He paused, his lips thinning as he remembered his own personal media bashing. “We all know what happened to me.”

Kurt chimed in. “You know what they say about female reporters?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Once she gets you to drop your pants, she’ll bend you over.”

Tony grinned. “I’ll do her so right she’ll want to brag to the world.”

“I hear that,” Kurt said, as he flagged a waitress and pointed to Brad’s empty bottle, taking the liberty to order for him. “But she’s still trouble, man.”

Grabbing the opening Kurt had given him, Brad eyed the blond hottie tending bar. “Forget the reporter,” he said and used his chin to motion toward the suggested target. “How about her?”

Tony broke out in a smile, pointing at Brad. “I know what’s up. I figured you out. You already tried with the reporter and got shut down. You know you can’t win this bet.”

“She busted your chops, didn’t she?”

The voice from behind Brad was distinct and all too familiar. A New York accent delivering a smart-ass comment could only be the rookie—Brad’s nemesis of the past few months.

Becker came into view, his pressed Dockers and collared shirt looking more preppy than cowboy. Even his blond hair was perfectly groomed—buzzed on the sides, longer on the top, maybe a hint of hair product to hold it in place. He looked like Mr. GQ. He always looked like Mr. GQ.

“Becker,” Brad said, giving him a nod.

“Hey, old man.”

Brad shook his head at the tired jab, wondering if the kid would ever grow up, or at least get new material. “What brings you out tonight?”

Becker lifted his draft beer—figured. The kid couldn’t even drink beer like a man, he had to sip from a glass. “Same as you, I suspect. A little celebration. A little drinking.” He paused. “That reporter from the Tribune…I saw you try to score with her.” Becker flashed his perfect white smile. “She shut you down.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, kid,” Brad said, refraining from making a much snider remark and taking a slug of beer. “If I wanted her, I could have her.”

“She’s not your type,” Becker said. “She’s what you call a lady.” He leaned on the pool table. “And a lady needs a certain kind of man.”

“What the hell does that mean?” Brad demanded, feeling the rise of his temper. The comment bit his ass, and it bit hard.

“You can hand a good ol’ boy money, but you can’t teach him about being a gentleman,” Becker said. His gaze was insolent as he eyed Brad’s faded Levi’s with obvious meaning.

Inhaling deeply, Brad managed to keep his sour words to himself. Not an easy task, considering the sorry little bastard not only had landed him in hot water today, but basically had insulted his mother. A mother who’d worked her backside off on a teacher’s salary to help Brad achieve his dreams, who’d kept him striving even after his dad had died during his junior year of high school.

But if he was honest with himself, the thought of Amanda with Becker didn’t sit well. The idea of that punk touching her, taking her, when Brad wanted her, brought a bitter taste to his mouth. If anyone on this team was getting Amanda naked, damn it, it was going to be him.

“You think Amanda, or any woman for that matter, wants a snotty nosed little boy?” Brad asked, then followed with a disbelieving sound. “She’d be screaming my name long before you could even find her bra strap.”

Becker’s face started to redden as he clenched his jaw. “Say what you will, old man,” he replied in a tight voice. “Talk is cheap.”

Tony pounded a fist on the pool table. “Now this is a bet I am in on for sure.”

Kurt spoke up then, clearly having realized why this was not a good idea. “Brad’s right. The shit’ll hit the fan if Coach hears you’re screwing with the press.”

“I like the press,” Becker said with a gloating look in Brad’s direction. “And they like me.”

Brad ground his teeth together. Despite Coach’s warnings to leave Becker alone, Brad wanted nothing more than to teach the kid a lesson in respect. “Fine, kid. You got yourself a bet.” He might regret this, but his pride had taken enough for one night.

Without giving Becker—or anyone else—a chance to respond, Brad walked away. The bet was made and once he’d committed to a play, he took it all the way.

Amanda would be his soon, and keeping the new reporter occupied might be a good idea. He’d give her something other than his arm to think about.

3

TO CELEBRATE her first foray into the Rays’ locker room, Amanda shared dinner with her assigned photographer, Reggie Sheldon. Considering she’d only met him that morning, Amanda was surprised she already felt comfortable with him. He’d guided her through what could have been a rough first day of work, and helped her make sense of all the new people and places. The hole-in-the-wall restaurant he had sworn she’d enjoy had indeed been an exceptional choice. The food was phenomenal.

Amanda tossed her napkin on the tiny square table and sighed. “You were right,” she admitted. “That was great Mexican food. I thought for sure I’d given up such fare when I left Texas.”

“Told you,” Reggie said, pushing his empty plate aside. “Los Angeles is the other Texas.”

Amanda laughed. “Not sure what that means but okay.”

“L.A. is a melting pot. There is so much diversity here. It keeps things interesting.”

Reggie himself seemed to be a melting pot of characteristics. A heavyset black man with dreadlocks and stern features, his forearm sported a tattoo of Mickey Mouse. She was coming to know his choice of tattoo matched his unexpected sense of humor.

“Interesting is moving in a matter of days,” Amanda commented. “I still can’t believe this time two weeks ago I didn’t even know I was moving. I’ve started working before most of my wardrobe even crossed the state line.” She glanced at her watch. “Wow. It’s late. I have to write up something about tonight’s game for tomorrow’s paper.”

“That’s just a quick write-up, at least. It’s a good way to get your feet wet. The real pressure, I imagine, is your first feature.”

“Oh, yeah.” Butterflies fluttered in her stomach thinking about submitting that feature. “It’s not due until Monday night, so I have three days to fret about what to write.”

“I have a feeling you’ll do just fine,” he assured her. “But I better get you home to write tomorrow’s piece.”

“You mean my hotel?” she asked, but she didn’t give him time to respond, her mind on the work ahead of her. “Speaking of my story, did you get any shots of that home run Tony hit?”

“The one he blasted halfway to Texas?” Disbelief laced his tone. “What kind of wingman would I be if I missed that kind of shot?”

“Wingman, huh?” She kind of liked the sound of that. Back in Dallas, she’d been lucky to have her own coffee mug, let alone a wingman.

“That’s right, honey cakes.” He gave her a nod. “The right arm to your left. The holder of thy hand in troubled times.”

“Honey cakes?”

“What?” He lifted his eyebrow. “You don’t like your new nickname?”

“I guess you don’t like Amanda?”

“Amanda is a fine name.”

When he said nothing else, she took the bait. “But?”

He shrugged. “It’s what everyone else calls you. I don’t like being like everyone else.”

“You’re joking right?” she asked. “Using my name would make you different. The players called me every name imaginable but Amanda. Honey. Baby. Sweetie.” She rolled her eyes. “Men.” Then quickly added, “Present company excluded, of course.”

They paid the bill, then left the restaurant.

“What do you know about Jack?” Amanda asked, as they settled into the van.

“Jack Ass?” Reggie asked. “I mean Krass.” He started the ignition. “I guess I should have warned you about him.”

“Ya think? Seems a wingman’s duty if I ever heard of one.”

“Yeah, well, I hate to waste good air talking about that sorry bastard.”

“I take it you don’t like him any more than I do,” she commented. “So what’s the story?”

“In a nutshell,” he said, maneuvering the van onto the highway, “he’s an asshole.”

“And a chauvinist bastard. He treated me like I didn’t know sports because I’m a woman.”

“Jack lashes out when he feels threatened.”

“He didn’t act threatened.”

“Oh, he’s threatened. Kevin finally got smart about who he hired to replace star Jack. You have an advantage over the two guys before you, and Jack knows it.”

“And what exactly would that advantage be? Because I have to tell you, I didn’t feel any advantages back there in that locker room.”

Reggie cast her a sideways look. “A woman has an edge when it comes to men. You can get guys to admit to and talk about stuff they won’t with other guys. What you do with that edge is what counts. And right now, Jack knows you are getting attention he wants as his own.”

Amanda digested that information in silence. She’d never considered being female as one of the reasons she was good at her job. But then, it wasn’t until after her makeover that she’d started to see her feminine assets.

Still, her gender couldn’t completely explain Jack’s reaction to her. “Jack seems pretty tight with the Rays. Don’t get me wrong, they gave him a hard time. But it was in a you’re-one-of-the-guys kind of way. When we were in the other team’s locker room, not so much. But with the Rays, he was the one who seemed to have the edge.”

“He’s been around a long time.” They pulled up to a stoplight and Reggie gave her his full attention. “When he first started with the paper, he seemed real down-to-earth. A good guy. He was eager to earn the players’ trust—always printing their side of the story while still being objective. And the team takes care of their own. Jack ended up with all kinds of exclusives.” His lips thinned. “And that’s when the real Jack showed his colors. He changed in a big way. One minute, a nice guy. The next, cocky and demanding. The bigger his readership, the bigger his head.”

“And the players?” Amanda prodded. “Did they notice?”

“Oh, yeah, they noticed. But he was inside their circle. He’d looked the other way on some things, didn’t oversensationalize some career-damaging incidents, so the team hung tight. Until Jack does someone dirty, the guys won’t kick him out. But let me tell you, he will. Jack’s new job is a stepping stone to bigger things. He’s going to do what it takes to get to the next level.”

From the conviction in Reggie’s words, she knew he had experienced the bad side of Jack firsthand. “Jack did you dirty.”

The light turned green and Reggie focused on the road. “When we worked together he talked a lot about the two musketeers. All for one and one for all.” Pause. “In the end, Jack was out for Jack.”

“He burned you pretty bad, huh?”

Reggie didn’t look at her. “I let it happen,” he said and didn’t elaborate.

Amanda wanted to push him for details but decided it was best she leave it alone. They’d only just met, and Reggie had no reason to trust her. But in time, maybe he’d feel he could tell her the entire story.

“After being burned by Jack, I’m surprised you’re so willing to be my wingman.”

He laughed, but not with humor. In fact, the sound rang with a hint of bitterness. “Because of Jack, I’m willing to be your wingman.” He cast her a sideways glance and winked. “I want to see him go down, and I’ve a good feeling you can kick some Jack Ass. In fact, I’m counting on it.”

“You and me both,” she murmured, feeling the pressure of success more than ever.

She’d known her predecessor would be tough competition. Now, she knew Jack was more than that. If he would stoop to such low levels to achieve success, even burn those closest to him, he’d certainly bury her, given the chance.

But Jack Krass wasn’t standing between her and success—and she refused to let him. He reminded her of her ex, who’d been willing to do anything to get ahead, even marry her. Though she’d put her marriage behind her, she had learned to be wary of people like her ex, like Jack.

She wouldn’t play dirty the way Jack did. She’d play smart. And she would prove good reporting and good ethics could defeat big egos and dirty deeds every time.

BY MONDAY NIGHT, Amanda had written and rewritten her first feature story so many times, she wanted to rip her hair out. Now as she stared at the blank screen of her notebook computer, the pressure of that short time frame she had to capture an audience had her second-guessing herself.

One angle played over and over in her mind. If being a woman gave her an edge, why not use that edge in her column? How could she translate that advantage to the page in a way that connected with readers? She toyed with the hem of her oversize T-shirt while she considered and discarded potential story threads. As seemed typical since meeting him, her thoughts strayed to images of Brad wearing that skimpy towel. In her fantasies, a bolder version of herself tugged off that towel and indulged her every sensual impulse in the perfection of his body. Maybe she should make him the focus of her feature, write this crazy urge out of her system.

Her cell started to shake on the bedside table, disrupting her thoughts. Eying the caller ID, Amanda wasn’t surprised to see her sister’s number. She put the receiver to her ear, and before she could even speak, the verbal barrage started.

“You didn’t call me,” Kelli reprimanded. “It’s been days and not one phone call. How am I supposed to know what’s going on if you don’t phone?”

Amanda leaned against the headboard, preparing for a long chat. “Hello to you, too.”

“Screw hello. I’ve used great restraint not calling before now. I want the gossip. Tell me everything. How did the first night go?”

“I didn’t trip and fall, and my skirt did not get stuck in my panty hose. I’d say it was a success.”

“Falling isn’t so bad. Nothing wrong with creating opportunity for chivalry.”

Amanda remembered all too well her tumbling act, smack in the middle of the food court at the mall, when she’d switched from flats to heels. “Preferably not when landing facedown, looking like a fool, I would assume.”

“You didn’t look like a fool.” Kelli gave an unladylike snort. “Okay, a little, but it was your first day in heels.”

“I still can’t believe I fell,” Amanda said. “I never do stuff like that.”

“Walking like a goddess in heels is an art.”

“So I found out,” Amanda agreed. “I’m just waiting for the toe-pinching to subside.”

“You get used to that, too.”

“One day I might grow up and be a diva doctor like you,” Amanda teased.

“You could never be a doctor. You turn blue at the sight of blood. Besides, my dear little sis, why would you want to develop a God complex? Doctors, pilots and athletes all have gargantuan egos and you are much too sweet to either acquire one or date one.”

“Diva doctors are much better than God complex doctors,” Amanda replied dryly. Her sister had reason to be a bit cocky, since she was one of the best sport medicine doctors in Dallas, possibly in Texas.

“You don’t see me running off getting married,” Kelli said, not disputing her diva status one bit.

“No, you certainly are not. No marriage for you. I’ve heard it a million times.” Amanda mimicked her sister, “All play and no stay.”

Kelli wasn’t fazed. “Speaking of play, how ’bout them ballplayers?”

A smile lifted Amanda’s lips as she thought again of Brad’s towel. “I don’t remember the locker rooms being so—”

“Hot?” Kelli asked. “Heck, yes. There is enough beefcake in the locker room to keep a girl drooling for hours. You were so freaked out by the blood, you stopped hanging out with the guys before you were old enough to enjoy the scenery.” She made an unladylike sound. “Well, that and the fact you were talking like a sailor. It was quite comical. Cute little thing until you opened your mouth.”

“Well, I’m enjoying it now and, believe it or not, my sailor talking past comes in handy these days.”

“Just don’t go falling for one of those beefcakes.”

“Daddy’s a doctor.” Surely their father proved the exception to Kelli’s God complex rule.

“And Mom is a saint.” Apparently not. “Which reminds me. Call Mom and Dad. They are freaking out worrying that their little baby is okay.”

Amanda rolled her eyes. “Good grief. I’ve only been gone a few days. I’m twenty-eight and divorced, not eighteen and headed off to college.”

“That’s Mom and Dad. You know how they worry.”

“I’ll call,” Amanda promised. “But I have to make my deadline first.”

“How’s that going?”

“Not good.” Amanda went on to explain her run-in with her competition. “I’m thinking the best way to fight him is by embracing the whole woman power thing. Maybe try to draw female readers who might not otherwise even open the sports section.”

“Hmm,” Kelli said, pondering. “I like the concept but how do you do that and write a sports column?”

“What if my column could be the Cosmopolitan of sports? You know, take the personal side of the athletes, and blend it with their performance on the field.”

“I’m not following.”

“Well, I found out about a lot of superstitious stuff the guys do before the games. It gave me an idea about sharing the secrets behind the players. Digging into the men behind the uniform. I could top it off with suggestions for a sexy headline.”

“I like it. You have to have the game stats, though.”

“Right. But after the rundown, I’ll highlight a player’s more personal side. I was thinking I’d start with Brad Rogers.”

Kelli made a purring sound. “Good place to start. Yu-m-m-y. Oh crap. I have to go. I have a date in ten minutes, and I still haven’t fixed my hair. But I love your idea. And don’t forget to take your vitamins. Kisses.”

The line went dead.

Amanda rolled her eyes as she punched the End button and dropped her phone on the bed. Her sister was an herbal supplement freak, which made absolutely no sense, since most doctors hated them. But then, her sister wasn’t what anyone expected a doctor to be. She was as unique as they came.

Speaking of unique, Amanda had a kick-ass article to write. A kick-ass article featuring Brad…

She sighed, and leaned against the headboard, giving herself a few minutes to consider how hot he’d gotten her. After two years of being single and pretty damn close to celibate, she’d started to think her On switch had been locked in the Off position. Thanks to Brad, she knew not only was she on, but she was downright smoking.

Her mind pictured those rippling abs. The trail of blond hair starting at his navel and disappearing beneath the towel. She so wanted to see where it ended.

Yet, if she found out, if she dared to get lost in those sultry blue eyes, to taste those full, sensual lips, she knew how that would look. No one would take her seriously and it would be impossible to do her job. She would have to pack and go home. Any success she might have would be wiped away, dismissed as part of her bedroom antics.

Regret settled in her stomach. It had been so long since she’d felt this fire of attraction, this desire for physical satisfaction, and her libido had chosen a man out of reach. The only place she could have Brad was in a fantasy.

Maybe a little trip down fantasy lane was what the doctor ordered. A little mental satisfaction would rid her of this restless sensation. Amanda’s lashes fluttered, and she inhaled, allowing the sensual tension to flare.

What would sex with Brad be like?

Her hands settled on her stomach as she visualized him lying beside her, sprawled naked on the bed, sinewy muscles glistening in the candlelit room. He’d be hard for her, ready for her to take him inside her. But she wouldn’t give him what he wanted. Not at first. She’d take control, tease him, make him wait and want.

She’d climb on top of him, straddle him, his cock pressed to her backside. She might even reach behind her and stroke its length.

Her hands traveled over her body. She’d touch herself as he watched, tempting him without allowing him to caress her. She slid deeper into the imagined feel of naked skin against naked skin. Amanda palmed her breasts and her nipples puckered and tingled as she thought of Brad’s gaze, of his hunger as he watched her pleasure herself. He’d try to pull her close, to take control, and she’d shove his hands away, warning him not to touch…not until she said he could. Not until she gave permission. Yes. Dominating a man so wholly male was enticing. Exciting.

She’d lean forward, her nipples brushing his chest, nestled for a moment in the soft sprinkle of light brown hair there. From beneath a pillow, she’d produce the tools to ensure his compliance, two long silk scarves. She’d watch her intent register in his eyes, see his conflict as he debated resisting. But in the end, he’d let her tie him up. He’d hand over his power. And he’d be rewarded….

Taking her time, Amanda would secure his wrists, one by one. Her nipple would brush his lips and he’d claim it with his lips, pulling it into his mouth, suckling the hardened peak. Just thinking of that moment made her body ache, made her wet with desire.

When she’d secured him, when Brad was her prisoner, she’d begin the real game. She’d move between his powerful thighs, his cock hard, her hand circling its width. And she’d watch him watch her as she drew him into her mouth. Watch his eyes shut as he took a breath of pure pleasure.

Amanda thought of all the ways she could tease and please him. Her fingers slid between her legs, into the wet heat of her body, images of a new scene with Brad taking hold. Images of climbing on top of him, of taking him deep. Of riding him until she shattered with release.

Driving herself wild with desire, she felt the throbbing pressure of her orgasm build until, finally, she found release. And with release came regret that, as much as she wanted to, she could never dare to do these things to him, with him, outside of this fantasy.

4

BRAD WOKE Tuesday morning to the ringing of the phone on his nightstand. He rolled over to check the time. Early. Seven in the morning on one of the few days he could sleep in, since their series didn’t start until the next night. With a groan he grabbed the receiver.

“Have you seen the morning edition of the Tribune?”

It was his agent, Mike. “No.” Brad pushed to a sitting position, instantly alert. Please don’t let it be about my arm. “Do I want to?”

“Oh, yeah,” Mike said. “You want to. It’s good stuff. Exactly what we need for this negotiation. Read it. Like it. Thank God for it after that Ohio piece. Give me more stuff like this and you’ll lock up that contract in no time.”

Brad threw off the blankets and grabbed a robe before heading toward his front door. Though it didn’t sound as if the news was about his arm, he wouldn’t be calm until he knew for sure.

Brad prodded for more information, hoping to ease his nerves. “What exactly did it say?”

“The Tribune did an exposé titled, Undressing the Rays and you were the feature. Brad Rogers stripped down to a good guy who loves his mom. Man, oh man. It couldn’t get better than this if I had bribed the reporter.” Brad could hear Mike rustling papers. “Now we need that record. Ready to rock the world tonight?”

“Not tonight. Friday night. And I was born ready. You know that.” But even as Brad said the words, he knew he wasn’t ready. Already his arm hurt and he’d just woken up.

“That’s what I want to hear,” Mike said, approval lifting his voice. “Bring me three shutouts in a row. That’ll go a long way in negotiations.”

“Right.” Brad yanked open the front door and grabbed both morning papers. “Good press. Great pitching. No problem.” Hopefully his arm agreed with that declaration.

After a quick goodbye, Brad kicked the front door shut and headed for the kitchen. He sat at the table and read the piece Amanda had written about him, breathing easier with each line.

No mention of his arm.

With one worry behind him, his mind switched gears. This article gave Brad the perfect opportunity to make his move on Amanda, to open the door to more intimate communication. He considered his options, a variety of rather tantalizing plays to launch his campaign to victory flashing in his mind. Soon Becker would know who ruled this show. And who was man enough to make Amanda moan.

ON TUESDAY MORNING, the day of her column’s debut, Amanda whipped her piece-of-junk rental car into a parking spot outside the Tribune with only minutes to spare. How she’d managed to snag a rental that seemed on the verge of a breakdown was beyond her. The last thing she needed was to be late for work only a few days into her new job. Of course, it might not matter. She could very well be fired after writing such a daring story.

She’d hit the Send button on her computer the night before, delivering her story to her boss just in time to meet her deadline. Afterward, Amanda had stared at her inbox waiting to hear his feedback. It never came.

This morning, having slept through her alarm, Amanda had been forced to dress in a frantic rush, leaving her no time to find a newspaper. For all she knew, some Associated Press filler had taken her story’s place.

Shoving aside self-doubt, Amanda walked toward the building, running her palm down the slim-fitting black dress she wore, hoping she didn’t appear wrinkled. She knew she was fidgeting so she wouldn’t focus on the nerves making her chest tight and her stomach flutter.

She’d done the right thing, she told herself. Considering the short window of opportunity she’d been given to succeed, she had to make a splash, and fast. Adopting the Nike motto of Just Do It had worked in the pool. It could work here, too.

Amanda walked through the newsroom, turning heads and instigating hushed whispers as she passed. Great. Everyone but her knew she was getting fired. She let out a relieved sigh at the sight of her boss’s closed door. She preferred seeing the paper before she faced Kevin.

But all her fears and concerns disappeared as Amanda stepped inside her tiny corner cubicle and spotted the front page of the sports section laid on her keyboard. She picked it up and stared down at story center page. Her story.

Undressing the Los Angeles Rays. Beneath the racy headline, she saw her name. Beneath that, the words staff writer. A smile touched Amanda’s lips. She wasn’t a flunky anymore and, damn, it felt good.

“Whatcha think, sugar plum?”

Reggie appeared in the opening of her little space. “I think I’m a ball of nerves,” she told him, examining the rows of thumbnail pictures on either side of her story. “And you’re my hero.” She’d asked him to dig up photos that showed Brad on and off the field, and he’d come through. “I can’t believe what great shots you found.”

He flashed her a bright white smile. “That’s what a wingman is for.”

“So…what did you think about the story?” she asked, anxious to hear but afraid to at the same time. So much so, she continued talking before he could respond. “I went for a dual audience. Draw in the men with the facts. Entice the women with the real man and a promise of lots more to come.”

“Stop already,” Reggie said, leaning on the wall. “You scored big-time. You’ve got just enough sports to keep it real, but you’ve got that edgy, speculative quality that sells papers.”

She bit her bottom lip. “So as a guy, you’d still read it? You weren’t turned off by the real man stuff.”

He shook his head. “Actually, as a guy, I loved the part about Brad’s lucky necklace. It made him seem human. Besides, men are all about superstition when it comes to our sports. It’s something a guy could relate to.”

Before Amanda could comment, Kevin appeared, resting his arms on the top of her partition walls. The shininess of her boss’s bald head did nothing to detract from the scowl on his face—the one he’d worn in her interview that she would have sworn meant he hated her.

“My phone is ringing off the hook,” he declared, his tone clipped and rough.

Amanda and Reggie exchanged a concerned look. “About?” she prodded because Kevin seemed to expect her to ask the obvious.

“Some of the players are worried about your promise to expose the real men.”

Reggie made a sound. “Then they must have something to hide. Sounds like news to me.”

Kevin didn’t say anything. He stared at her, ignoring Reggie. Amanda’s heart settled in her chest and proceeded to beat so loudly she was quite certain the entire building could hear. “Right. I—”

Kevin cut her off. “The papers are flying off the racks.” Then, to her shock, he smiled. Almost. His lips sort of lifted on the sides a bit. She doubted the man ever full-out smiled. “You need to ease up a little. I printed the story, so obviously, I thought it worked. Every newspaperman worth a grain of salt knows sex and scandal sells. Good work.”

Amanda blinked, taken aback and thrilled by the compliment. “I, uh, well, thank you.”

“Speaking of ‘Undressing the Rays,’ there’s a rumor of steroid usage on the team. Jack’s working the story.”

Steroids? That was the kind of story that ruffled feathers. The kind of story one treaded lightly around. The wrong information could ruin careers. “Do I get to know your source?”

“No.” His tone was clipped. “I’ve been around a long time. I’ve earned my contacts. You haven’t yet. All you need to concern yourself with is getting this story before Jack. Understand?”

Her response was instant. “Oh, yes. I want that, too.” Amanda made sure her voice held the conviction she felt.

Kevin’s eyebrow inched upward, but he didn’t comment. “Good. I expect an update soon.” Without another word, he left.

Hand pressed to her chest, Amanda felt both relieved and happy. “Oh, my God, I just knew I was getting fired.”

“You scored big,” Reggie told her. “Now you have nothing to worry about except—”

“Getting this story before Jack Ass.”

“Right,” he said with a nod. “But don’t fixate on Jack. Do this your way, not his. And that wasn’t what I was going to say, anyway. I was going to say you need to find a place to live.”

“Oh,” Amanda said, settling into her chair. “I know. Kevin said to get here, so that’s what I did. I need time to find something I can afford. So far, everything the real estate agent has showed me is crazy expensive or so far away it’s nuts.”

“I might have a solution,” Reggie offered. “Karen Tuggle, our weather woman, has a duplex and she rents out the other side. I’m not sure when it’s available, but it’s in a good area of town and it’s affordable.”

“Sounds good. I’ll contact her today. I’m hoping Kevin lets me travel with the team for the Texas series in six weeks. That way I can drive my own car back.”

“I’d bet on it. The Rangers and the Rays have a competitive history with some tension between the coaches. Jack Ass will be going for sure. All the more reason for Kevin to want us there.”

Amanda’s cell phone rang before she could respond.

“I’ll check in with you in a bit,” Reggie said, before departing.

Amanda managed to retrieve her phone from her purse by the third ring. Caller ID told her it was her father. “Hey, Dad.”

“How is my baby girl?”

“I’m fine.” Amanda smiled into the phone. “My first story hit the paper today.”

“I saw that,” he said, his voice holding a fatherly authoritative tone as if he wasn’t completely pleased his daughter had written it. “And quite the story it was. I bet you got some notice.”

“I did,” Amanda agreed. “And the good news is, I’m still employed.”

“Well, of course you are. But let me get this straight. You wrote the article thinking it might cost you your job?”

“No.” She blinked. “Well, maybe. It is a bit daring,” Amanda admitted.

“You certainly made everyone sit up and take notice, and you did it right out of the gate.” He paused. “I noticed you picked Brad Rogers as your first feature, too.”

“I knew you’d approve.” Her father had a thing for pitchers. Not teams, but pitchers. Brad was a favorite. Amanda loved watching baseball with her highly opinionated father. Just listening to him complain about the bad calls, bad pitching, bad coaching and a long list of other bad things, kept her entertained.

“You didn’t happen to get—”

She rolled her eyes. “No, Daddy, I did not get you an autograph. Give me time to be accepted.”

A heavy sigh filled the phone. “All right, but don’t wait too long. You know how I like my autographs.”

“Yes,” she said, thinking of his den filled with his collection. “I do know. I’ll get you one. I promise.”

“Before he quits pitching.”

She frowned. “You think he’s going somewhere?”

“He’s playing hurt. You know from your own history what that means.”

She knew very well. “I noticed, too. He kept doing that little flexing movement between pitches. Discreet, but obvious if you’re a doctor.”

“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—”

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