She had her hand pressed flat against his stomach, her pinkie resting above the rim of the wool kilt that was currently itching the hell out of him. She was clad in a leopard-spotted faux-fur bikini, long tail, pointy ears, and all, and had the body to pull it off.
Only Mason wasn’t interested, however clear her signals were.
It was Halloween night, and he was out here working the crowd and signing autographs and locking his smile in place, for one reason only: to keep a promise to a buddy even though it conflicted with a stronger promise he’d made himself.
The season was over and winter was coming. Mason was craving quiet the way he craved water after a strenuous workout. The insanity that the most successful season of his career had brought would taper down. It had been a marathon year, and he was ready for the finish line.
The fame he’d acquired still felt oddly surreal, sort of like the Ford Explorer he’d been in had when it had careered across the highway and tumbled into an embankment. Maybe there were some things you were never ready for. Not the things that changed your life in ways you’d never seen coming, and not even the ones your father warned you about.
The photographer snapped another few shots, then Mason stepped back, reclaiming an inadequate bubble of space around him. Leopard Girl’s smile faltered. “Oh, come on, I can’t let a man who looks this good in a kilt out of my arms without a fight. How about I buy you a drink and we find a spot in the corner to enjoy it?”
Mason read what she was saying with her eyes as clearly as he heard what she was saying with her lips. A year ago, he’d have brought her back to his place and let her rock his world. Hell, who was he kidding? A month or two ago even.
“I appreciate the offer. Maybe another time.”
He thanked her again and let the finality seep into his tone. The din of the crowd was starting to hurt his head just like the bright lights were. He’d had enough tonight. The world—lights, sounds, commotion—was still stark, harsh when he overdid it.
Twenty-six nights ago, he’d lain in the ER, disoriented from a concussion and trying to lie still for a CT scan of his left shoulder and collarbone. He’d sworn then and there he was done with the sporadic partying and racy nightlife that had landed him in the back seat of that Explorer.
He scanned the crowds, searching for Thomas. When Mason had left for the bathroom, they’d been talking to a small group of die-hard Red Birds fans. Now, Mason found his buddy and teammate encircled by a small crowd of women who seemed more excited by Thomas’s supposedly-worn-by-Arnold-Schwarzenegger Conan the Barbarian costume than his career stats.
Compared to Thomas’s dressed-up loincloth, the green-and-black tartan kilt and black silk vest Mason had been cajoled into wearing wasn’t so bad. Mason didn’t know where his buddy had gotten them, but Thomas had acquired his share of authentic garb. He even had an aboriginal headdress that took up a full shelf in one closet and a top hat supposedly worn by a member of Lincoln’s Cabinet.
Mason came up behind Thomas, tapped his shoulder, and offered the very real excuse of a headache as his reason for taking off early. Thomas was disappointed but didn’t press.
All it took was heading outside into the night and feeling the cool air wash over him for Mason’s release to be palpable. He loved the pulse of the city, loved living in his converted warehouse loft so close to the stadium, but lately, he’d felt an unmistakable stirring in his chest to head home.
When he’d left the serene but stiflingly quiet, rolling farmlands of Balltown, Iowa, for college, he’d never imagined experiencing a longing for the solitude he’d lost. Back then, he’d craved city living, replete with all the culture and chaos nearly as much as he’d wanted to be a pro ball player. He’d been fortunate to have gotten both wishes.
Now, ten years later, he was struck with a wave of nostalgia for the Halloween night he was missing back home. A quieter, simpler Halloween full of people who thought they knew everything there was to know about you, and were largely right.
A glance at the out-of-character Movado watch he’d forgotten to take off showed it was ten thirty. The only Halloween tradition he’d experienced until he was eighteen would be winding down. His extended family and a handful of friends always made for his parents’ farm on Halloween night, showing up an hour or so before dark. If the weather was good like it was here, there’d be a roaring bonfire outside and, at the side of the yard nearest the house, there’d be a few folding tables covered with his mom’s worn linens. They’d be loaded with all the Halloween regulars, like his aunt’s jack-o’-lantern stuffed peppers, his cousin’s zombie meat loaf, his mom’s pumpkin turkey chili, and his dad’s homemade hard cider from apples harvested on their farm.
Dinner would be long finished, and the assortment of homemade pies would be picked over. His uncle Ron would be dozing in his reclining folding chair after having enjoyed one too many hard ciders. His mom and aunts would be wrapping up leftovers while the younger kids and grandkids played the inevitable game of chase after finishing the skeleton hunt his dad set up year after year in the woods beyond the east field.
As Mason walked home, it occurred to him that nothing was keeping him here. He could head home for a few weeks. The season was over. He contemplated
