Chapter Eight
Another day, anotherstadium. New fans, same old media, same old chants. He used to love going to new stadiums. They all had their own charms. The Green Monster in Boston. Yankee Stadium Bleacher Creatures. The friendly confines of Wrigley Field with its ivy-covered brick outfield wall. The water next to the Giants’ ballpark. And the waterfall in Kansas City, his next venue to fail in.
The whirring of the pitching machine warned him of the pitched ball. He swung and launched it into the net. Would have been a fly ball out, nowhere near deep enough for a home run. The machine whirred again. He swung the bat and hit a grounder into the net.
“Damn it.”
“Don’t you think you’ve been hitting long enough?” A soft voice behind the fencing masked the sound of the machine, but he swung anyway, in rhythm with the machine. He missed. “Strike three, I think.”
He grimaced at the machine. Didn’t take her long to get here. He had hoped for a couple of days before he had to face her. A couple of days to show he didn’t need her guidance. A couple of days to get his swing back. A couple of days to prove to himself that he didn’t want her with every breath he took.
“So, you’re picking up some baseball lingo now. Good for you, Stacia,” he replied without turning around. He swung and launched the next ball into the net. Another fly ball out. Damn it. The machine powered down and he whirled around. “I wasn’t done.”
Stacia emerged from behind the fence into the batting cage. Her pale blue business suit hugged her curves, the v of the blazer displaying a tantalizing bit of lace arrowing down into the cleavage where he had spent many hours just a week ago. Another color of lace, not black like that night. How much lace did she have? He wanted to get to know each and every piece of it, on and off of her. He followed the lace down to her skirt, fitting snugly around the smooth round derriere and stopping just short of her knees. There was nothing special about the suit, nothing sexual, yet his cock stirred and he regretted wearing the cup for batting practice. He shifted slightly adjusting the plastic into a tolerable position, but if she stayed, he couldn’t expect to remain comfortable for much longer.
She stepped in front of the button controlling the machine. “You are for now. You’ve been at this for over two hours. Don’t you think you’ve had enough practice?”
“Not even close,” he growled. “Not until I feel the swing coming back.”
She tilted her head and studied him for a long moment. “The swing looked good to me.”
“Thank God you’re not the hitting coach.” He reached around her, brushing her hip, and punched the button and waited for the ball. The whirring started, but nothing came out.
“Guess the machine is tired too.”
Jason snarled at the machine then at the balls scattered around the batting cage. He stalked outside the cage and grabbed a tee. He placed it at the plate and perched a ball on it and swung– hard. It went straight– line drive out. His shoulder twinged, reminding him of the surgery less than a year before.
“Well, that was smart,” she commented, rested against the wall, ignorant of her suit and the possible grime she was picking up. “Maybe you’re trying too hard.”
He leaned on the bat and scowled at her. “Really? And what would you have me try? Deep breathing out of my freaking eyelids?”
“Don’t be silly. That was a movie. I seriously doubt anyone can breathe out of their eyelids. But the deep breathing is a good idea, like meditation. It’ll help you relax and feel the ball.”
“Are you for real? Have you ever hit a baseball? Oh wait, you might loosen up and that stick up your ass might fall out. Or do you need a drink to relax?” She winced as his words hit home and he turned away, guilt gnawing at him for taking out his frustration on her. She didn’t deserve it but maybe, if he pissed her off enough, she’d leave without bitching about his interview the other night.
She narrowed her eyes, anger finally snapping in them. She tossed her bag on the other side of the wall and glided over to him. She took the bat and hefted it, swinging it around, probably like she’d seen the players do in the on-deck circle, stumbling in her heels as the weight of the bat threw her off balance.
He snorted. “Not like that.” He grabbed the bat from her hands and showed her circles to warm up her arms and open her back.
She followed his movements carefully, precisely. “Put the ball there.”
He obliged and stepped back. She swung and promptly missed, wobbling on her heels. He grabbed the bat and stalked to the line of bats propped against the wall. Tossing his bat and finding a lighter one, he walked back and handed it to her. Then he held out his hand. “Shoes.”
She stared at him. “These are eight hundred dollar Manolo Blahniks. I am not going to just hand them over.”
“You will if you don’t want to break your pretty little ankle perched on them.”
“You wear cleats.”
“No comparison. Cleats are less than an inch and made for digging in.”
“So are these.”
“Not here. If you want to bat, take off the shoes. I don’t need you crying lawsuit when you break your neck or something else.”
She huffed. “Fine.” She all but tossed them at him and took the bat, swinging like he had shown her. She paused and slipped off the suit jacket, handing it to him, revealing a fitted white blouse, edged in the lace he’d seen peeking out. The blouse wasn’t sheer, but it sure left little to the imagination. She started swinging the bat again, pulling the blouse against her firm breasts, the skirt running tight against her behind. Jason stared and before he could drool, he tossed the coat on the hook near the entrance to the batting cage and the shoes on the ground and gathered his composure.
“Ready.” She set her stance and wiggled her butt a little, stretching that blue skirt almost to its breaking point. His groin tightened in response and he shifted his own stance, subtly adjusting the cup’s positioning.