Читать книгу Scoring - Kristin Hardy - Страница 11

MACE LEANED on the dugout fence in the afternoon sun and watched batting practice. He’d always loved being out on the diamond, feeling the spring of power in his muscles, the excitement of knowing the game was just hours away. The nights he had good batting practice were the nights he felt like he could do anything.

“That was a ball you just swung at, Jefferson,” Sammy bawled as Stats stepped out of the batting box. “What, these pitchers such good friends of yours that you wanna give ’em gifts? Make ’em work.”

Mace grinned and stepped up to the batting box to talk quietly into Stats’ ear. A few pitches later and the young shortstop was waiting out balls and slamming the strikes into deep left field.

“You do that in a game, you’ve got yourself a .340 average, buddy.” The buzz of triumph Mace felt surprised him. Grinning, he turned to size up the next batter just as Becka stepped into the dugout, video camera at her side.

She spared him a glance. “Where do you want me?”

“I get a choice?” He couldn’t resist running his gaze down her legs, long and smooth in her walking shorts.

“Don’t get cute, Duvall. Sammy asked me to help out. How do you want the batters filmed?”

“From the side. Film the entire at bat, even if Sammy and I are up there. I want to see everything they do.”

She nodded and moved back into the background as Morelli came to the plate.

“Okay, Morelli, show me what you got,” Mace said.

Becka put the video camera to her eye and began filming. A miniature version of Morelli appeared in the viewfinder, then Mace moved into the frame. Somehow, in the electronic image he looked even more lean, even more male. The sunlight on his hair brought out the gold and bronze; sunglasses hid his eyes. Something about the frame of the viewfinder made it impossible to look away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And Mace exploded into motion.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Moving? What the hell for?”

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

“Where’s the new place?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sure thing, chief.”

“How’s Sal’s ankle looking?”

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

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

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

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

“Thanks. Have a good night, Sammy.”

He waved and ducked out of the room.

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

“I’ll rub yours if you rub mine.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I give you a rubdown tonight and you quit tomorrow.”

“Who knows? Maybe I will, maybe I won’t. I haven’t decided.”

She stared at him for a moment. “Fine. Get your shirt off and get on the table. But next time, you tell me you want treatment before I get everything all cleaned up.”

“Sure thing. You’ll be happy to know you’ve got me thinking, by the way.”

Becka snapped a cover over the table, then opened the metal door of the supplies cupboard to get to the massage oils inside. He wanted a rubdown, fine, she’d give him a rubdown and send him on his way, just like she did all the players. She snatched a clean towel off the linen shelves, then swung around.

And the shock went through her entire system. Mace stood with his shirt off, looking at her inquiringly. For an instant, everything stopped while she stared at the corrugated muscles of his belly, trying to remember how to breathe.

As a physical therapist, she had studied the human body exhaustively. She had been around athletes of various levels for years, both clothed and unclothed, but nothing had prepared her for the way Mace Duvall looked with his shirt off. Flat ridges of muscle defined his abs and pecs. The taut, cannonball lines of his shoulders and arms spoke of power and control, of energy coiled into muscle built by effort and determination. The sun had darkened his skin, bleaching the light dusting of hair that ran in a suggestive trail down his belly to disappear in the waistband of his jeans.

He gave her an amused look. “Face up or face down?”

“Huh?” she said blankly.

“You want me face up or face down?”

Her brain simply refused to work. “Uh, where do you want me to work on you?”

His grin widened. “You really want me to answer that?”

Becka flushed, unable to keep her own eyes from straying to follow his gaze. “On the table, Duvall, or I’m out of here.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said smartly and laid down, folding his hands under his chin.

She took her time moving to the head of the table, trying to compose herself. Trying to convince herself that touching him would be just like touching any other patient she’d ever had. Becka squeezed the massage oil on her hands and rubbed them together for a moment. As friction heated the oil, the scent of citrus wove into the air around her. She took a deep breath to clear her head, then lowered her hands to his shoulders, hesitating for just a moment before she touched his bare skin.

The warmth surprised her. It was as though he was stoked by some inner fire. She caught her breath for an instant and pressed downward, sliding her hands from his shoulders to the small of his back in one smooth motion. Her palms registered the texture of his skin, the cords of muscle that lay beneath. He was hard and rugged, smooth and streamlined, powerful, all hardened sinew and coiled strength.

Her practiced hands searched for knots, working to release the pockets of tension from muscles that had been asked to do too much that day. His broad back tapered to a narrow waist, a small patch of soft hair nestled at the very base. Now using pressure, now using deep strokes, she worked at him.

Time seemed to stop as she sank into the mesmerizing sensation of flesh against flesh. Smooth skin over bone and sinew, his body beckoned her to keep touching as she worked the tension from his back and shoulders, pushing on the hard muscles in the lumbar spine where his back dipped low just before rising to the tight, hard curve of his ass.

Becka moved to the side of the table, down by his waist, and ran the heels of her hands up the lines of muscle on either side of his backbone. Again and again she repeated the movement, now using her thumbs, now using her palms, coaxing every bit of tension from the muscles.

She stretched out over his body, her fingers curling over the edge of his shoulders, the skin of her forearms resting lightly on his back.

And suddenly, her mind filled with the vivid image of them naked together, her bare skin pressed against his, his hands tormenting her until she was hot and mindless.

She jerked upright, pulling her hands away as though they’d been burned. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came.

Mace turned his head to look at her inquiringly.

Becka licked her lips. “Okay, that’s it, you’re done,” she said, backing away. Then she glanced at the clock and gave a heartfelt curse. “How did it get to be midnight?” She wiped her hands and tossed the towel into the hamper.

Mace pushed himself up to sit on the edge of the table. “I thought it seemed like it went on for a while.” He stood and stretched. “Guess you lost track of time.”

“Get dressed so we can get out of here. I have to get up at the crack of dawn tomorrow to move.” Becka crossed to her desk, fishing her purse from the bottom drawer. She didn’t want to look at him standing there with his shirt off. She definitely didn’t want to remember what it had felt like to touch that body. Quickly, she snatched her keys, then rose and turned.

And found herself face to face with him.

He topped her by about eight inches, which left her looking at his clavicle. She dragged her eyes up from the hard planes of his chest, only to find herself drowning in his eyes.

“I dreamed about you last night,” he said softly, his drawl whispering over her skin and along her bones. “I’m trying to figure out why that is.” He touched his hand to the side of her face, running his fingertips down her cheek and tracing them into the open collar of her polo shirt. She shivered. Her purse dropped from nerveless fingers with a soft thud.

“I’m thinking it’s because of your mouth,” he said, staring at her. “I’m thinking it was because I was wondering what it might be like if I did this—” he dipped his head to take a light nip at her lower lip, sliding a hand around her waist to draw her nearer. “Or if I did this—” he brushed her lips with the tip of his tongue, featherlight, tempting them to part as her breath shuddered out. “Or maybe I should just do this,” he whispered, and he closed his mouth over hers in a hard, urgent kiss that sent her spinning into passion, unable to think, only to feel.

Hot and demanding, his mouth made no pretense of gentleness. The rough scrape of his beard was a sharp counterpoint to the silk of his tongue, to the teeth that scraped at her lips. His body was hard against her, the insistent pressure of his desire sending little shudders through her.

The heat overwhelmed her. His hands ran down her back, molding her to him. Though she might have satisfied her need to touch others through massage, she’d been starved for the feel of a man’s hands on her body. Need flooded through her, had her almost whimpering for more.

Long minutes passed as they dove into one another, mouths locked, hands roving. The soft release of breath punctuated the silence. Becka ran her fingers across his cheek and into his hair, even as Mace made a sound low in his throat and pulled her closer.

Mace had kissed her out of curiosity and desire. He’d no idea that kissing her would be like a fist in his gut, robbing him of air, making his head whirl, leaving him weak. Her mouth was a ripe, red fruit, tempting him to devour. It was too much, he thought dimly as he feasted on her lips, but he was powerless to stop himself.

The lithe, taut feel of her against him sent his system into overdrive and he made a small growl of satisfaction. For nearly an hour he’d lain on the table, feeling the stroke of her hands driving him mad, using all his control to keep from rolling over and pulling her to him, knowing it was too soon to touch her. Now, he needed to stop, but he couldn’t resist tasting her just a little more deeply.

Mace’s fingers slid down to the waistband of Becka’s shorts, tugging her shirt loose so he could touch the smooth, silky skin of her back.

Becka sighed against him. The sudden surge of wanting overwhelmed her. Sensation vibrated through her, making her excruciatingly conscious of every atom of her body. She needed his hands on her everywhere, needed him to release her from the tension that was stringing her tight. It wrenched a moan from her and she moved to wrap her arms around his back. Her car keys slipped from her fingers to hit the floor with a jangle.

She jumped at the noise. Sanity came rushing back. What was she doing? Tumbling for him, just like every other woman he’d ever met? He wanted to know what she was like in bed, he’d said so, and he’d been halfway there. She pulled out of his arms and sucked in a long breath.

“Oh no, we’re not done yet.” Mace reached for her again, his eyes darkened to the shade of old amber.

“Yes we are.” Becka put a hand on his chest. True, it trembled a bit, and she had to fight the urge to stroke him, but at least she was making a stand. Even though all she wanted to do was wrench his clothes off and… “I hope you’ve satisfied your curiosity, Duvall. From now on, hands off.”

“On work time, sure.”

“All the time,” she retorted, tucking her shirttail back in. “Let me be really clear about this. I’m not interested in being part of your parade.” She looked him up and down. “You’ve been around the block a few too many times for me. Now if you’ll get your clothes on, I need to get home.”

Mace slipped his shirt on. Becka picked up her purse and keys and started to walk out the door. Swiftly, he reached out an arm and pulled her in close against him.

“Now let me be clear about something. There is no parade of women, I don’t give a damn what people say. My life is my own, not what the media makes it. As for you and I—”

“There is no you and I.” Becka pressed her hands against his chest and glared at him. “And if you think I’m going to sleep with you—”

Wicked amusement filled his eyes and he brought his mouth down to ravage hers until he felt her arms weaken and heard her soft sigh. Then he raised his head. “It’s not a matter of if, darlin’,” he said, staring into her dazed green eyes. “It’s a matter of when.”

And he walked out the door without another look.