For a guy who claimed he wasn’t interested in anything to do with her beyond clearing his good name—and certainly not any attachments—he sure seemed agitated by her admission. “My thoughts exactly!” Leslie shot him a bright, overblown grin. “
Peter broke eye contact and looked over her shoulder, rolling his head from side-to-side like a boxer. Then his gaze whipped back to her and he swore, “Shit,” and moved with freakish speed, pinning her back against the desk.
His mouth came down hard on hers, his tongue thrusting between her lips in a kiss of straight possession. Leslie couldn’t do more than moan and wrap her arms around his neck. Her brain went into overdrive and short- circuited. God the man could kiss.
Immersed in the feel and taste of him, she murmured a protest when he ripped his lips from hers and stepped out of her arms. His eyes were hard and full of warning.
“
D-DAY HAD ARRIVED.
October thirty-first. Halloween. Last game of the World Series between the Denver Rush and the Boston Red Sox. The Rush were tied with the Red Sox 3-3. This last game would determine the Series winner. And most notably, it was also the last day of a
Peter couldn’t believe that he was starting as pitcher. It was like the universe had decided to have mercy on him, and the doctors had cleared his shoulder at the last minute. He was on a pretty heavy dose of ibuprofen, but that was it. There was no way he was going to play the last game of his career doped up on pain meds or a steroid shot. Nope.
This was a day he always wanted to remember.
Scanning the crowd of Coors Field, Peter breathed deep and steady despite the pounding of his heart and the swirling mass of emotions. So many feelings were bubbling around inside him: gratitude, anxiety, fear, exhilaration, nervousness, and anticipation. One minute he was flying high, the next he was swimming in an ocean of insecurity as the realization that when he woke up in the morning he would no longer be a professional ballplayer sprung to mind.
Tomorrow, and for the rest of his life, he was just plain old Peter Brian Kowalskin.
But for now, for this one last game, he was Kowalskin, jersey number fifteen, ace pitcher for the Denver Rush. Winner of the Cy Young Award two years running. And he was there to kick some Red Sox ass.
Cranking his hat down, Peter smiled into the stands. The stadium was bursting at the seams with green and yellow Rush fans, the impressive noise level a tribute to the talent and popularity of his team. A hard knot lodged in his throat and he swallowed around it.
God he was going to miss this.
“You all ready for a show?” he asked the crowd quietly, knowing they couldn’t hear him.
“What’s that you said, Walskie?” asked Arthur McMurtry, the team manager, as he came over from the dugout to where Peter was standing.
Squinting against the sun, he tucked his ball mitt under his left armpit and rolled a baseball between his hands, cocking a hip. “I was just thinking about the show our crowd is going to get today.”
Arthur had a wad of chew in his lip. He spit, saying, “It’ll be a good one.” Then his coach of fourteen years cuffed him on the shoulder and said, “Give them hell, Kowalskin. One last time.”
Yeah. He could do that.
The crowd cheered raucously as someone famous he didn’t recognize stepped out to sing the national anthem. After the elaborate rendition was done and the team was back in the dugout, the Denver Broncos’ starting quarterback came onto the field to throw out the first pitch to the great delight of the stadium full of fans.
Drake shook his head and grumbled next to him, “Don’t see why some football player gets so much love.”
Because it was Denver. And it was football. The end.
Peter slapped him on the back. “Don’t be a girl, Paulson. You get more love than most entire football teams, and you’re only one man. No whining allowed.”
“Yeah, yeah,” muttered the ballplayer. Then his brown eyes lit triumphantly. “Bet he ain’t never had a woman paint her tits in his teams colors though, with the nipples like bulls-eyes and then have him sign ’em with a Sharpie using just his teeth.”
Only Drake.
“Probably not, dude.” At that moment he spotted Leslie in the crowd down along the first base line and his stomach pitched. She was there with the rest of the posse, preferring to be down near the action instead of clear up high in the skybox where some of the other players’ families hung out.
She, Sonny, and Lorelei had gotten way into the team spirit of things and painted signs cheering the Rush to victory. Even Charlie had gotten into it, his face painted part green, part yellow. Leslie even had something painted on her cheeks, but he couldn’t tell what it was from the distance. Looked like a heart on one cheek and a big R on the other though.
Seeing her all dolled up for his team made his lungs seize. That woman knew just how to get to him. With a huge release of air, Peter forced his gaze off his favorite cheering section. There would be time with Leslie later.
Now there was the game.
Taking to the mound as Smash Mouth sang “All Star” and the crowd went crazy, adrenaline flooded his body and focused his mind. In an instant he was in the zone, ready to take charge and keep the Red Sox from getting on base. Rolling his shoulder, Peter was relieved at how good it felt.
Mark settled into position, his eyes sharp and intense even from the distance. With a quick glance at his teammates, he saw that they were all the same and grinned to himself. His boys were ready to bring it home.
A flash caught his attention and he looked over to see Charlie holding up a sign, the world’s biggest grin on his young face. It said “Kowalskin is a Baseball God” and he recognized Leslie’s handwriting. Heat flared in his chest, a hot ball of emotion, and he had to swallow hard against the sudden burn.
Was there no end to the ways the woman believed in him?
Pushing the thought aside, he forced his attention to the Red Sox player getting ready to bat and put everything else out of his mind.
“
For the next few hours the Rush took on the Red Sox, each team scrapping their hearts out for the pennant. Peter fired red-hot pitch after pitch, his shoulder feeling tender but completely manageable and his left eye holding. Everything else was forgotten, reality and life narrowing down to a tiny pinpoint of focus and concentration.
He forgot about it being his last game and let it all hang out, putting every ounce of effort he had into throwing serious heat.
When one Red Sox player hit a pop-fly high into the air, Peter dashed off the mound and caught it soundly in his mitt. Then he whipped around, arm already cocked and ready, and rocketed the ball off toward second, intent on outing the Red Sox player stupidly trying to steal base. The second baseman tagged the bag with a foot and lunged forward, reaching with his glove.
And the player was out.
By the time the ninth inning rolled around, the game was 5–4 and the Rush were up. Peter’s arm was hurting as he started, but he knew that if he could keep Boston from getting on base then the game would be over and the Rush would take the World Series. No big deal. It was just a little pressure.
The late October air was chilly and the sky overcast with the promise of snow. Even so, Peter was sweating, beads of it dripping down his temples. The exertion was immense and he could feel himself beginning to slip, could feel his shoulder starting to go.
