had all but fallen into her lap.
'Nice catch.' Leaning over, she kissed him full on the mouth.
Then one of his teammates had him around the waist, and the rest was madness.
Parks had more champagne dumped on him than he could possibly have drunk. It mixed with sweat and washed some of the grime away. Snyder had positioned himself on top of a locker and from there emptied two bottles on anyone in sight-reporters and league brass included. Accused of showboating, Parks was tossed, fully dressed, into the whirlpool. Grateful, he stripped and remained where he was with half a bottle of champagne. From there he gave interviews while the water beat the aches from his body and bedlam raged around him.
The pitch on his double had been an outside fast ball. Yeah, his slide into home had been risky, considering the arm of the right fielder, but he'd had a good lead. He continued to answer questions as Snyder, in a champagne-drenched uniform, was not so gently assisted into the whirlpool with him. Parks slid down farther in the soothing water and drained the cold wine straight from the bottle. Yes, the redhead in the stands was Brooke Gordon, his director on the de Marco commercials. Parks smiled as Snyder wisecracked the reporters' attention to himself. Teammates might poke and prod into each other's business, but they protected their own.
Parks closed his eyes a moment, just a moment. He wanted to recapture that instant when she had leaned over and touched her lips to his. Everything had been heightened in that split second of victory. He had thought he could hear each individual shout from the crowd. He'd seen the sunlight glint on the chipped paint of the railing, felt the baking heat as his hand had wrapped around it. Then he'd seen her eyes, close, soft, beautiful. Her voice had been quiet, conveying excitement, humor and love all in two words.
When they had touched his, her lips had been warm and smooth, and for an instant that had been all he had felt. Just the silky texture of her lips. He hadn't even heard the last out called. When he'd been dragged back on the field by his teammates, she had simply lowered her chin to me rail and smiled at him. Later. He had heard her thought as clearly as if she had spoken it.
It took two hours to urge the last reporter out of the clubhouse. The players were quieting. The first rush of victory was over, replaced by a mellowness that would very quickly become nostalgia. The year was over. There'd be no more infield practice, batting practice, night rides on planes with card games and snoring. They were in a business where today was over quickly and tomorrow took all their efforts. Now there wasn't a tomorrow, but next year.
Some were sitting, talking quietly on the benches in the midst of the locker room clutter, as Parks dressed. He glanced at the second-string catcher, a boy of barely nineteen, completing his first year in the majors. He held his shin guards in his hands as if he couldn't bear to part with them. Parks put his mitt into his duffel bag and felt suddenly old.
'How're the ribs?' Kinjinsky asked as he slung his own bag over his shoulder.
'Fine.' Parks gestured to the boy on the bench. 'The kid's barely old enough to vote.'
'Yeah.' Kinjinsky, a ripe thirty-two, grinned.
'It's hell, isn't it?' They both laughed as Parks closed his locker for the last time that year. 'See you in the spring, Jones. My woman's waiting for me.' Parks zipped up his bag while the thought warmed in him. He, too, had a woman, and it would take him thirty minutes to drive to the mountains.
'Hey, Parks.' Snyder caught him before he'd reached the door. 'You really going to marry her?'
'As soon as I can talk her into it.'
Snyder nodded, not questioning the phrasing of the answer. 'Give me a call when you set it up. I'm the best man.'
With a smile, Parks held out a hand and shook the beefy one. 'Damned if you're not, George.' He walked into the corridor, closing the door on the clubhouse and the season.
When he emerged outside, it was dusk. Only a few fans lingered, but he signed autographs for them and gave them the time they wanted. Parks thought idly about picking up another bottle of champagne for himself and Brooke as he signed his name to the bill of a twelve-year-old's battered hat. Champagne, a fire burning low, candles. It seemed like a good setting to propose marriage. It was going to be tonight, because tonight he didn't think he could lose.
The parking lot was all but deserted. The overhead lights were just flickering on as twilight deepened.
Then he saw her. Brooke was sitting on the hood of his car, spotlighted in the flood of a security light, her hair like tongues of flame around her strong-boned, delicate-skinned face. Love welled up in him, a fierce possessive love that took his breath away. Except for the lips that curved, she didn't move. He realized then she had been watching him for some time. He struggled to regain some control over his muscles before he continued toward her.
'If I'd known you were waiting here, I'd have come out sooner.' He felt the ache in his ribs again, but not from the bruise this time. This was from a need he was still not quite used to.
'I told E.J. to take my car. I didn't mind waiting.' Reaching up, she put both hands on his shoulders. 'Congratulations.'
Very deliberately, Parks set his bag down on the asphalt then dove his hands into her hair. Their eyes held briefly, endlessly, before he lowered his mouth and took what he needed.
His emotions were more finely tuned than he had realized. All the pleasure of victory, the weariness that came from winning it, the dregs of excitement and tension surfaced, to be doubled then swept away by one all- encompassing need. Brooke. How was he to have known that she would grow to be everything and all things? A bit unnerved by the intensity, Parks drew away. A man couldn't win when his knees were buckling. He ran his knuckles down her cheek, wanting to see that very faint, very arousing clouding of her eyes.
'I love you.'
At his words, Brooke rested her head against his chest and breathed deeply. She could smell his shower on him, some subtle soap, fragrance that spoke of gymnasiums and locker rooms that were inhabited only by men. For some reason; it made her feel acutely a woman. The light grew dimmer as they remained, held close and silent.
'Too tired to celebrate?' she murmured. 'Uh-uh.' He kissed her hair.
'Good.' Drawing away, she slid from the hood.
'I'll buy you dinner to start it off.' Brooke opened the passenger door and smiled. 'Hungry?'
Until that moment, Parks hadn't realized that he was starving. What little he'd eaten before the game had been devoured by nerves. 'Yeah. Do I get to pick the place?'
'Sky's the limit.'
Fifteen minutes later, Brooke gazed around the garishly colored Hamburger Heaven. 'You know,' she mused, studying the overhead lights that were shaped like sesame seed rolls. 'I'd forgotten your penchant for junk food.'
'A hundred percent pure beef,' Parks claimed, picking up an enormous double-decker sandwich.
'If you believe that, you believe anything.' Grinning, he offered her a French fry. 'Cynic.'
'If you call me names, I won't read you the sports page.' She put her hand over the folded paper she'd just bought. 'Then you won't hear the accolades the press have heaped on you.' When he shrugged, unconcerned, she opened the paper. 'Well, I want to hear them.' With one hand on her milk shake, Brooke began to thumb her way through. 'Here… Oh.' She stopped dead and scowled.
'What is it?' Parks leaned over. On the front page were two pictures, side by side. The first was of his over- the-seats catch of the final out. The second was of Brooke's impulsive kiss. The caption read: JONES SCORES… TWICE
'Cute,' he decided, 'considering I didn't score but snagged a pop fly.' He twisted his head, skimming down the article which ran through the highlights of the game-critiques and praise. 'Hmm… 'And Jones ended it with a race to the rail, snagging Hennesey's long foul out of the seats in one of the finest plays of the afternoon. As usual, the MVP makes the impossible look routine. He got his reward from the luscious redhead-''' here he shot Brooke a brief glance '-Brooke Gordon, a successful commercial director who's been seen with the third baseman on and off the set.''
'I really hate that,' Brooke said with such vehemence that Parks looked up in surprise.
'Hate what?'
''Having my picture splashed around that way. And this-this half-baked speculation. This, and that silly business in the Times a couple days ago.'
