Fingers snapping in front of his nose wrenched his thoughts away from Jamie.
“You got your head in the game, Montero?” a voice from the bench piped up as Lance climbed the steps to leave the dugout. “We need this one.”
They were playing the Boston Aces tonight, a rivalry that stretched back to when the league was in its infancy and tickets to a day game cost pocket change. Boston had beaten them out in the playoffs the previous year, but New York had spent big bucks on some rookie talent to improve their chances this year. One of whom just had a base hit with two outs in the bottom of the seventh. The Scrapers were down by two, so the runner on first could be the tying score.
“Is my head in the game?” Lance turned toward the lineup on the bench, staring down his teammates. He normally minded his own business with the other players, but in a youth-dominated sport, sometimes it paid to defend your territory and put the mouthy ones in their place. Narrowing in on the perpetrator, he leveled his bat in the guy’s direction. “Bobcat, you work on that hole in your glove and let the big guns take care of the hits.”
He grinned as he stalked off to the on-deck circle for a few warm up swings, keeping things on friendly footing. Of course, half the team hooted at the taunt while the other half smothered laughs. The right fielder had bobbled one early in the second inning that cost the Scrapers a run, and no doubt big Bob Cacciatore would be stinging from that error all week. But if he couldn’t handle the ribbing, he damn well shouldn’t dish it out.
In the meantime, the hitter walked, advancing the leadoff runner and bringing Lance up to bat. The crowd reaction was predictable—he’d been sent to the All-Star Game for five years straight. But he had die-hard detractors along with his fans. This was New York, after all. No major league city was more notorious for tough fans.
And tonight they seemed louder than ever. Or maybe that was because Boston’s supporters didn’t mind traveling to cheer on their team. Scrapers Stadium sported plenty of Boston blue and red this evening. And as Lance readjusted the Velcro straps on his batting gloves, he noticed a crowd of Boston fans featured on the overhead screen. That in itself wasn’t unusual.
What was out of the ordinary is that the whole row of guys wearing Aces T-shirts also held up paper copies of Jamie McRae’s gorgeous face in front of their own. The jumbotron broadcast ten identical smiling Jamies for the whole stadium to see.
One of the hecklers waved a sign that read “Boston’s Secret Weapon is the Catfight Queen.” The guy next to him flashed a piece of cardboard that said “Jamie McRae—the Ultimate Distraction” next to a cartoon of Lance with eyes the size of dinner plates and a head that looked like a bobble head doll.
Is your head in the game, Lance?
Bobcat’s question suddenly didn’t seem so off base as the noise in the stadium rose to a fever pitch.
Damn. It.
A hundred-mile-an-hour fastball suddenly seemed like the best place for him to take out his frustration. He’d been trying to polish up his womanizer image and he’d inadvertently flirted with a notorious divorcée in front of the whole world. But that was the nature of the media, wasn’t it? One mistake could alter the course of a career.
And the only defense Lance had against the hooting and hollering crowd was to send that fastball into the East River. A simple matter of physics and iron will.
Too bad the first ball got past him.
And the second.
Down in the count, he half regretted talking smack to Bobcat. How could he brag about getting hits when he watched two fastballs sail past him without getting the bat on a square millimeter of it?
Careers were made or broken at moments like this. And it wouldn’t have jack squat to do with a strikeout and everything to do with a sexy songbird who had taken up residence in his head—and in the public eye—at the worst possible time.
Seeing the potential career-defining moment in front of him, Lance realized Jamie McRae wasn’t going away simply because he ignored her. Like it or not, the two of them were forever linked by an unguarded moment caught on film.
Digging in at home plate, Lance tightened his grip on the bat and stared down the hard-ass pitcher with a left arm like a cannon. Lance kept his eye on the ball as it left the guy’s hand and swung for the fences.
When the splitter hit the bat, it wasn’t a crack that would send it to the East River, but Lance knew beyond a doubt it was a hit that would end up in the stands. The solid connection of his time-tested Louisville Slugger on the ball was the kind of beautiful moment a player never forgot. Even on his home field where he’d hit one out plenty of times.
There was magic playing under the lights for seventy-five thousand fans at one of the biggest baseball stadiums in the world. And something about having all those people there to witness it, driving the ball deep into the opposite field against one of the best pitchers in the majors, tattooed this particular three-run homer forever in his mind.
Jogging the bases, Lance noticed the jumbotron had stopped showing the hecklers with Jamie photos, swapping instead to fireworks and all kinds of home run graphics. But he didn’t need to see Jamie with his eyes to see her in his head because—even with a clutch at bat behind him—Lance knew his head had never been in the game tonight. He wouldn’t rest until he’d tracked down Jamie and explored the connection between them—because it wasn’t going away just by ignoring it.
HER PHONE WOULDN’T STOP ringing just because she ignored it.
Jamie knew this from experience since she’d ignored every call she’d received after the latest media maelstrom had blown through her life, aka Lance Montero. But she definitely couldn’t take any calls right now when the source of her latest problems might put in an appearance any moment.
She’d been waiting for him in the players’ parking lot for the last twenty minutes. It was easy enough to get into the area where the home team parked their cars, although there were loads of security guards around to make sure people passing through didn’t touch the sleek, high-end automobiles the athletes favored. A few members of the media milled around the door where the players would exit into the garage, but Jamie had avoided their notice by wearing a false nose she’d purchased for an old Halloween costume. It wasn’t the first time she’d used the fake schnoz. Between the prosthetic, a hat and some sunglasses, she was fairly safe as long as she didn’t mingle.
“Here he comes,” someone shouted near the doors.
An answering rustle of excitement surged through the throng as floodlights clicked on and last-minute audio feeds were tested. Jamie hung back, sticking close to Lance’s car in the hope she could ride out of here with him. As much as she wanted to put the kibosh on the media interest in their nonrelationship, she knew that couldn’t be done without some help from him. And she had a plan to make it happen that would serve them both well.
Still, an unexpected flutter of excitement went through her at the thought of seeing him again and she marveled at the surprising chemistry they’d experienced. Not that she could listen to her instincts when it came to men. Especially powerful men with a foot in the spotlight. She’d been dragged through that wringer before and didn’t plan to go back for seconds, no matter how enticing the baseball player looked in a suit.
The hubbub around the door increased and then she spotted him. Tall and commanding, he dwarfed most of the media members. He had to be all of six foot three, his shoulders easily wedging their way through pedestrian traffic toward the low-slung Viper that one of the security guards had confided belonged to him. The information hadn’t been difficult to come by as the security officer had been all of twenty years old and easily impressed by a suggestive glimpse of thigh.