Besides, she was a lyricist. And the funky song had swelled up out of her with practically no effort, as though her music had been just waiting for the right moment to make a comeback.
From down on the field, a familiar tune drifted up to the seats. The voices of at least fifteen guys roused a few of the fans to join in.
“What are they singing?” Lance released her long enough to watch a woman a few seats away as she did a little spin move and hummed.
“I set the tribute to music,” she explained. “And actually, I created a dance, too. You know, lots of Super Bowl teams have had their own dances over the years.”
Lance clapped a hand over his eyes and groaned, although the sound wasn’t completely despairing.
“You know I’m not a contender for the Super Bowl as a baseball player, right?”
“Of course.” She’d been really proud of the song, her first stab at being entertaining in too many months. “But you can take a little of the magic that makes football fun to sort of liven up your sport, can’t you?”
Down on the field, Jamie noticed two of Lance’s teammates yukking it up and slapping their thighs over a shared joke.
“You realize I’m going to get harassed all season for this?”
“I figure you’re a big boy, you can handle it.” She winked at him and then her smile faded. “But I would feel worse if you didn’t accept my apology.” She twisted one of the pewter pins bearing the Scrapers logo that she’d used to outline her skirt pocket. “I understand if you can’t forgive me, but I did work hard on the montage.”
He wrapped her in a bear hug before she finished the sentence, her final word muffled in his shirt.
“Jamie, I want you to ride home with me and never leave.” He kissed the top of her head. “Remember? I knew yesterday I was crazy about you. I was just waiting for you to realize we should be together. If your apology means you’re going to try to be with me, that makes me the happiest man you can imagine.”
She felt the smile in her heart before it reached her lips. Her whole soul seemed to smile.
“Even if your fans think my song is silly?” She hadn’t fully thought through that part. She’d just wanted to show him she could handle the public scrutiny, but maybe she’d ended up bringing unwanted attention his way.
“They can sing it all the way to the World Series, sweetheart.” He pulled away from her and withdrew her sunglasses from her shirt pocket. “Just root for the home team, and we’ll finish this discussion after the game, okay?”
His fans were starting to swarm. The kids carrying clean white baseballs for autographs had returned, and more of the seats nearby were filling up. The ushers in charge of section 22 were starting to have their hands full keeping other ticket holders out of the area.
“Will I get another chance to go back to your place?” She wanted to rewrite the night before. To show him how much a second chance meant.
“Depends.” He tugged her down a few rows toward the rail he would have to hop to get back on the field. “You might have to do the umbrella trick to get past the media after the big splash your video made.”
She fished in her handbag and pulled out her brand-new Scrapers purse-size model still in the shrink-wrap. “I’ve got just the thing.”
“Then it’s a date.” He kissed her then, his mouth settling over hers with warm possession, a kiss that brought out every camera phone in the area and made Jamie’s thoughts scramble.
“I’m crazy about you, too,” she whispered, keeping the embrace PG out of respect for all the children’s charities his foundation helped. She’d studied up on him online and she’d been more than a little impressed. “Swing for the fences, big guy.”
His grin wrinkled the corners of his eyes and he backed away to take his place on the field.
“Always.”
TALKING SMACK
1
“DON’T STOP.”
Javier Velasquez panted the command over a wave of feel-good endorphins as the woman above him sank her fingernails into his inner thigh. He wanted to praise her, to parcel out some kind word to encourage her. But he couldn’t even remember her name right now when his body throbbed under her touch.
Sweat rolled down his forehead, a testament to how hard he’d worked himself during the first half of their hour together. But this bliss he felt was more than reward enough. He wanted to kiss his nameless female companion senseless for what she was doing with her strong, silky hands…
“Mr. Velasquez,” she said sharply. “Are you resisting?”
The woman was all business when he wanted to revel in the moment. What was it about women that demanded they talk at these times?
“Baby, I can’t resist another minute.” Opening his eyes, he grinned at her and sat up on the physical therapy table. “Let’s ditch this place and go somewhere more private to finish what we’ve started.”
His new athletic trainer straightened from where she’d been working on his groin muscles. The fury in her flushed face couldn’t be mistaken and he knew a moment’s regret for teasing her. It wasn’t her fault his nagging manager had demanded the extra daily sessions with her to prevent another injury this year. He knew these sessions were as much for babysitting purposes as they were for his muscles. If he was in the clubhouse training facility everyday, he couldn’t be out raising hell and having fun.
And that’s what the Chicago Flames coaching staff objected to about him most of all. They couldn’t stand it that their All-Star slugger knew how to have a good time off the field.
“You’d better get your head out of your ass and a muzzle on your mouth, Velasquez.” The woman leveled an accusatory finger at his chest as her eyes narrowed. “If you think you can send me running out of here crying sexual harassment because of a few sorry lines I’ve heard a hundred times, you’re sadly mistaken. Now roll over, champ, and take it like a man.”
She moved to the sink nearby and washed her hands with brisk, efficient movements, pausing midway to change the radio station from some dentist office Muzak to hard rock. She cranked the volume as if she could tune him out totally, then pumped out massage oil from a dispenser bottle she kept strapped to her waist.
Javier studied her, vaguely disappointed he couldn’t coerce her into taking the sweaty session somewhere private. He’d only been half joking about that. The trainer was hot. Even with no makeup and her hair wrenched back in an unforgiving ponytail, she was seriously attractive. The hair swinging against her back was Bond-girl platinum, her figure something any SI swimsuit model would be proud to flaunt. She wasn’t some overinflated product of Miracle Bras or surgery. She was just perfectly proportioned.
“Well?” She’d turned on him while he was fantasizing about her, and her blue eyes glittered with icy challenge. “Are you going to turn over, Mr. Velasquez, or shall I retrieve the cattle prod?”
“Could you at least call me by my first name if you’re going to insult me?” He lay prone as she’d requested, hating the self-indulgent hour spent on his body everyday as if he was some kind of pampered movie star who required a bunch of metrosexual B.S. treatments to appear in public.
Javier had scared off his last athletic trainer by running his mouth and being all-around annoying. In the process, he’d earned himself a week’s vacation from the sessions. But his manager had moved quickly to find someone new.
Enter the Bond girl and her almond-scented massage oil that almost drowned out the scent of sweat in the room. She seemed a hell of a lot more immune to talking smack.