involved and rowdy. They were his kind of people.
Tossing them a salute and a grin, Peter loped off the field with the rest of his team toward the dugout as the Jumbotron followed his movement. He glanced up to see himself on the big screen in his green and yellow jersey and white pants, feeling the joy of it all. Even after all these years it was still one helluva thrill.
He was damn sure going to miss it when it was all said and done.
For now he had his fans and his team, and his arm was firing like it had twelve cylinders. And Leslie was sitting in the bleachers along the first base line, gorgeous as always, cheering her boys on with her sister-in-law Lorelei.
Today, that was enough.
Entering the dugout, Peter slapped Drake Paulson’s ass and said, “Show ’em your stuff, killer,” as the first baseman crammed on his batting helmet and grabbed for a bat. He was up in the rotation and ready to slam one home.
“If I hit a homer you got to buy me dinner, brother,” the veteran shot over his shoulder with a lopsided grin, the smile making him look a little less ugly. How the dude got laid as much as he did was beyond Peter’s comprehension. It simply defied the laws of physics.
“Whatever, Snuffy.” The team had taken to calling Drake that lately because the brown afro on his head and thick chest hair made him look like Snuffleupagus from
The player pointed a finger at him and added gruffly, “I don’t mean Taco Bell’s ninety-nine-cent menu, either. You’re taking me out somewhere real nice like a proper girlfriend.”
Peter pushed up the bill of his hat with a thumb to get some air on his damp skin. “Any other requests? A corsage maybe?”
Drake made a face and tugged at his batting glove. “Shit. This ain’t the prom, Pete. Keep it in context.”
Right.
JP Trudeau bumped into him as Paulson strode toward the batter’s box. “Hey, man.”
The kid looked happier than he’d ever seen him. More relaxed too. Funny how regular sex could do that to a guy. “Things are going well with you and Sonny I take it.”
The shortstop plopped down on the bench next to him, looking mildly surprised. “Yeah, it’s great. Why do you ask?”
On the far side of the bench, Mark Cutter leaned forward in his catcher’s gear and said, “Cuz lately you’ve been smiling like a dog with two dicks.”
JP laughed and rolled his shoulders. “What can I say, man? It’s good.”
Peter slapped the young player’s shoulder. “Why don’t you give up the deets? This dry spell I’ve been on has turned into one long-ass drought.”
“Would you stop yapping? We’ve got a game on, you knuckleheads,” barked the team manager, Arthur McMurtry. “Sorry, coach,” Peter mumbled.
“Since we’re up by five and it’s the ninth inning, I want you to rest your arm, Kowalskin. That’s why I waved you over here. Caldera’s filling in for you. You’re done.”
Those last few words rung in his ears. The echo lasted for just a moment, but it was enough. It left him feeling hollow, like a foreshadowing of things to come. Which it was, and that scared him. It was hard as shit knowing this was his last season.
Shaking it off, Peter slumped onto the bench and cast a quick glance down the row at his teammates. It was a blast and a privilege playing with them. Of his thirty-four years, he’d spent the last fourteen with the Denver Rush. The players had become his family.
What was he going to do without them?
Feeling his morale dropping, Peter turned his gaze to the game just as Paulson connected with a pitch and sent it flying over the outfield wall into the stands. Crap. Looked like he had himself a date later.
The veteran jogged around the bases, taking his sweet time while Rush fans cheered his home run. When he passed in front of the dugout, he pointed at Peter and hollered, “I want fancy, sissy boy!”
JP turned to him. “You realize taking him out for something fancy is only asking for trouble, right?”
Yeah. The last time Paulson wanted highbrow, he’d wound up tanked on Dom Perignon and screwing their server in the coatroom, making her miss the last hour of her shift. There’d been a lot of ticked-off customers wondering what had happened to their checks.
Peter nodded. “I’m steering him clear of the bar.”
Sometimes Drake was like having a toddler around. You took your eyes off him at your own risk.
And that was exactly why Peter loved him.
He owed the veteran and Mark for some really memorable times. The most infamous being the night Peter lost a ten-dollar bet and wound up hungover on cheap beer with a tattoo on his dong.
To this day he didn’t know how he’d managed to go through with it. But he knew he must be some epic kind of jackass to have stamped a tattoo on his dick for all eternity.
Alas, such was the story of his life.
Drake entered the dugout, out of breath and sweaty, then plopped down with a
“Hell if I know,” Peter shrugged. “You’re not gonna get all picky on me are you?”
Mark smirked from down the bench. “The guy’s got expectations, Pete.”
Grinning at that, he pulled off his hat and raked a hand through his damp hair. “Don’t I know it.”
Paulson took offense. “Just because I have standards, don’t make me high maintenance, man.”
Something occurred to him as he looked at the first baseman. “How come you aren’t hitting the town with some tight-bodied little thing later? It’s not like you to be in short supply for company.”
Drake leaned his head against the dugout wall and scratched his unshaven chin. “I’m taking a breather.”
“Did all those spring chicks finally wear you out, old man?” jabbed JP.
“Look who’s suddenly getting big for his britches now that he’s got a woman?” Drake said.
“Yeah, I know. But I don’t blame him. Sonny is seriously foxy.” He looked around Drake to JP. “You lucked out, dude.”
The player flashed a grin. “True that.” Then he stood up and moved to the dugout entrance. It was his turn in the hole. “You should find something real, hoss,” he said behind him to Paulson. “Then maybe you wouldn’t feel the need to take a breather.”
“
Something in the tone of his voice sounded off and Peter narrowed his eyes. He knew the smell of bullshit. Mostly because he specialized in it. “So you say now, bro. But you aren’t immune.” His hand waved toward the men sitting on the long dugout bench. “The best of them fall at some point or another.” He ended with a nod toward Cutter.
Drake pegged him with a deep brown stare. “What about you? You haven’t gone down yet.”
An image of Leslie came to mind and he shoved it aside, plastered on a smile. “What can I say? It just isn’t in my cards.”
“Maybe you should get a new deck.”
What the hell? Where’d that come from? The words had popped right out of his mouth before he’d even known they were there.
He didn’t want a new deck. Nope. He was happy with the one he had.
So why had he said that?
Leslie popped into his head again. This time she was topless and splayed out over a cream cotton comforter. Her body was willing and supple, but her eyes were filled with shadows as a tear slipped down her cheek.
What the fuck?
Peter shook his head hard enough to make his brain hurt. Why had that memory come back to him now? He didn’t want it there. He wanted new ones to replace the old. That way he wouldn’t have to remember anymore what it had been like to see Leslie Cutter fall apart.
