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“So then don’t you think
you
ought to be accountable for your declining level of play? Wouldn’t it stand to reason that there is some sort of financial penalty levied if this big-time, expensive player does not deliver the results the ball club was looking for when they made that ginormous investment in you?”

“I do,” he said, clearly surprising her. “But I don’t think you can levy a penalty based on just a few games. I think you have to look at the season as a whole.”

“So are you saying that at the end of the season, if you haven’t helped the club achieve the sort of results the Mets were hoping for
in their gazillion-trillion-dollar investment of you—which, incidentally, forced them to trade one of the best pitchers in the National League just to free up enough cash to
get
you—that you will give back some of that scratch?”

“I damn sure will,” Parker said, and noticed, out of the corner of his eye, Frank falling up against the wall like he’d been shot and sliding down until he disappeared from sight.

Kelly reared back, blinking in surprise, and suddenly laughed. “Guido, look at the phone lines! They’re on fire. Let’s go to the phones!”

It went downhill from there, and by the time his hour was up, Parker had the distinct impression that Guido was feeling a little sorry for him. “I had no idea New York was that
mad
,” an awestruck Guido said as they wrapped the show.

“Our thanks to Parker Price, who has been an exceptional sport by showing up here today to talk about his abysmal record. I know we’d all love to keep talking to Parker, but unfortunately, we’re out of time. That’s it for us at
Sports Day with Kelly O’Shay
. Tune in tomorrow when we chat about another abysmal record—the New York Knicks.”

The show rolled over to commercials, and both Kelly and Guido got up, gathering their stuff to make room for the next guy. Parker followed them out into the hall—no sign of Frank, he noticed—and stepped in front of Kelly as Guido congratulated her on a great show.

She tilted her blond head back and smiled up at Parker. “I can’t thank you enough for coming on this show,” she said, practically bubbling with excitement. “That was just spectacular. Okay! So thanks
so
much,” she said, and jostling her papers and binders, she stuck out a hand.

He expected an apology, something that indicated she knew she’d just put him through complete hell. But all he got was impatient, wiggling fingers on that extended hand. “You didn’t listen to a word I said, did you?” he asked.

“I heard every word.”

“But you were determined to make a putz of me, regardless of the facts.”

She laughed and withdrew her hand in favor of holding all her crap. “No, I think you’ve done that all on your own. Listen, I’d love to chat, but I’ve got loads to do. So thanks again and good luck.” And with that, she turned and marched off in the opposite direction.

Kelly marched right into her office, shut the door, put down her things, and threw her arms in the air and did a Snoopy happy dance in the tiny bit of space around her desk. That had been a killer show. They had more callers than they had the day Jose Canseco’s tell-all book about doping in baseball was released.

She worked on the next day’s show until her stomach began to growl. She looked at a clock. High noon. No wonder she was starving—she hadn’t eaten anything since a protein bar at five this morning. She could pick something up on her way home.

She packed up her stuff, said good-bye to the station staff, and walked outside into a bright New York day, headed for one of her favorite restaurants, when someone stepped in her path . . . someone about six foot four with coal black hair, steel gray eyes, and a body right out of
Sports Illustrated
. Someone who had a square jaw on which stubble had already begun to appear, a small diamond stud in one ear, and incredibly muscled arms folded across a broad chest.

Someone who was really much more handsome than she’d anticipated, which had made this meeting on the street a little rough. She didn’t want to just ogle him, as she’d been tempted to do all morning. She’d always thought he was one of those overt muscle guys with spindly legs and feet and you-know-what-else. Only Parker Price didn’t have a spindly bone in his body.

Too bad, she thought, as she smiled up at him, that he was such a high-dollar choker. Otherwise, she might be seriously attracted to him. “Excuse me, but you are blocking my path and creating a traffic jam on the sidewalk,” she said politely.

“I don’t care,” he said, staring down at her. “What you did in there was not cool, Kelly.”

She gasped, truly affronted. The worst short stop in Mets’ history was going to critique
her
? “What wasn’t cool, Parker? The fact that you suck, or the fact that everyone knows you suck?”

“I don’t”—he paused to lean down so that his nose was just inches from hers—“
suck
. And you ought to be ashamed for being such a mean shock jock.”

“Mean?”
she cried as two men walked by and suggested they move. “I’m not
mean.
I’m accurate. I have a show about
sports
, and sometimes, accurate and sports stars don’t mix very well. And anyway, Tex, what’d you think it was going to be? A love fest?”

“Well now, Yank, I didn’t think there was going to be any love, but I
did
think you might at least listen to what I had to say. I thought you would at least take my plea seriously.”

She laughed. “How could I take you seriously?” she asked, flinging her arms wide. “You were trying to influence the way I do my show, and that is
so
not cool. As they say, if you can’t stand the heat—”

Someone slammed into her from behind and knocked her right into his hard, immovable, one hundred percent male body.
Wow.
He put his hands on her arms and set her back.

“Hey, watch it!” Kelly shouted at the woman who’d bumped her.

“Get out of the way!” the woman screeched as she sailed by, followed by several more people staring darkly at them as they strode by.

“Like I was saying,” Kelly continued, completely undeterred, “the Mets paid you one hundred and ten million dollars to solve their problems, and not only have you not solved their problems, you have
added
to them. So don’t you think you owe the Mets, and me, and
all
the fans out there a viable explanation as to why you stink? Something a notch above
I am superstitious
?”

“Who died and made you the supreme judge of viable explanations?” he demanded. “I just asked you to cool it, that it was getting in my head, and I figure, if you
really
want the Mets to win, maybe you could lay off a couple days.”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” she said incredulously.

“I am
so
not kidding,” he said sternly. “Do you have any idea how much work I put in for this team?”

“Do you have any idea how much work I put into my show?”

“GET OFF THE SIDEWALK!” a man bellowed at them. “You’re blocking foot traffic here!”

Both Parker and Kelly looked at the outraged rotund man who was shouting at them. “Just move on, pal,” Kelly snapped.

“He’s right. Let’s go to lunch. How about Italian?” Parker responded.

Kelly gave a bark of laughter. “Now I know you’re out of your mind.”

“Why? We obviously have something to discuss, and this isn’t the place to do it. Unless you know I’m right—”

“That’s ridiculous!” she said, her eyes narrowing. “You really
have
lost your mind. Of course I’m not afraid
you
are right, because I know
I’m
right. And I don’t like Italian in the middle of the day, so let’s have sushi.”

“I don’t like sushi ever. Let’s have Asian.”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “Too spicy. Chicken.”

He thought a moment, then nodded. “I can agree to chicken. I know a great restaurant right around the corner—”

“No,” she said instantly. “I know a great place—”

“Jesus, will you just lead the way?” he demanded.

Kelly led the way, all right, wondering why it was that men who typically thought they knew
everything
and women were just minions in their world to do their bidding, had to be so damn good-looking. It wasn’t fair. It threw everything off kilter and distorted the proper alignment of things.

She was marching a few steps ahead of one prime example of a man who was too good-looking for his own good, who thought he could just waltz into her show and change it to whatever he wanted.

When he put his hand protectively on the small of her back as they were jostled in a crowded cross walk, she was painfully aware of how close he was, and how good he smelled, and how dangerous that was.

In the diner, which was loud and crowded and serving standard diner fare, they got the last booth. Well,
Kelly
got the last booth. Mr. Big Shot had to stop and sign a couple autographs. By the time he sauntered to his seat, she had read the entire menu, from the salad starters all the way down to liver and onions and back up again.

Parker sat down, glanced at the menu, and then shut it and pushed it aside. “Salad. It’s the only thing a person can eat in a joint like this.”

Weird. Kelly was thinking
the exact same thing
at the exact same moment. She glanced at him over the top of her stained menu, which she refused to put down. “What
kind
of salad?” she asked accusingly.

He seemed to think that was a strange question but said, “Chicken Caesar.”

“Augh!” she exclaimed and slapped the menu shut. “That’s what
I
was going to have!”

“So have it,” he said with a shrug.

That would defeat her determination to have nothing in
common with him. “No thanks,” she muttered and glanced at his hands. Those were some
enormous
hands. Enormous hands that were making her feel slightly flushed. Hello . . .
flushed
? The last time she’d felt slightly flushed, she’d had mononucleosis.

The waitress appeared, her ticket book out. “You know what you want, hon?” she asked Kelly.

“Chicken Caesar and water with lemon, please.” Across from her, Parker lifted a brow.

“Got it,” the waitress said. “And for you, sugar?”

“Same,” he said.

The waitress looked up as she reached for the menus and looked at Parker fully for the first time. Her eyes went wide, and she suddenly broke into a wreath of smiles. Oh great, time for more idol worship.

“Hey, you’re that baseball player!” the waitress said.

Parker smiled charmingly and shrugged a little. “I am.”

“
Wow
,” the waitress said, beaming. “Can I have your autograph?”

Across from him, Kelly rolled her eyes. But Parker calmly took the ticket book the waitress handed him and asked, “Who should I make it out to?”

“Lucy. Like in
I Love Lucy
,” as if he couldn’t get Lucy the first time. Parker started to write, but Lucy suddenly put out her hand. “No, wait! Will you make it out to my husband, Paul? He’s a
huge
Mets fan.”

“How about I do two? One for you and one for Paul?”

“Would you
really
?” she squealed, and squatted down at the booth, watching him write something on one ticket then on another ticket as Kelly restrained herself from barfing. Parker tore out both tickets and handed them to her. “Thank you so much,” she gushed. “This will make my husband’s day.”

“My pleasure, Lucy,” he said with a wink and watched her rush away, clutching her autographs. Then he looked at Kelly. “Would you like an autograph?”

Kelly snorted. “I just hope she didn’t have the salads written on the other side of those autographed tickets, because I am starving.”

“So am I,” he said, pushing a hand through thick black hair. “You must have to be at work very early every morning.”

“Five-thirty, Monday through Friday.”

“Wow,” he said, with a lopsided smile. “That’s rough.”

“Not if you’re not a party animal,” she said with a lopsided smile, too.

His smile widened to a full grin. “Now Kelly O’Shay, you don’t look like the kind of woman who believes everything she reads in the
Daily News
.”

“You’re right. I never believe my horoscope. But everything else, I believe. I mean, why would the
Daily News
lie to me about you? And can you honestly expect me to believe you are a good boy, early to bed, early to rise?”

He chuckled low, leaned forward so all she could see was his gray eyes, and said, “I never claimed to be a good boy. And I won’t deny that I get out every now and then. A guy can’t live on frozen dinners alone, you know.”

She just bet he got out every now and then. Probably in the company of little girl groupies, dressed in tiny micromini skirts and halter tops. Probably the sort that wore microminis and halter tops
and
hung on his every word. Hell, she couldn’t blame the poor dumb things. Parker was
hot.

“The last time I went out, I went to the Museum of Modern Art,” he said, completely surprising her. “Have you seen it since they completed the renovations?”

“Ah . . . no.” The Museum of Modern Art? A
museum
? He really didn’t seem the type, did he? She couldn’t picture him, a big guy, knocking around a museum. “That must be your attempt to get me to believe you are cultured and refined and not just a jock who can’t bat.”

“I’m not trying to get you to believe anything. I was just
remarking that the last time I went out, I went to see the Museum of Modern Art. I happen to be a big fan of architecture and modern paintings.”

Well, knock her over with a feather. “Right,” she said, and smiled, waiting for the punch line.

“Come on, Kelly,” he said genially. “Don’t tell me you’re suffering from the totally inappropriate, completely ignorant, and disgustingly uninformed conception that just because I am a professional athlete, I have no appreciation for the fine arts. I hope you aren’t
that
narrow-minded.”

In a word?
Yes
. She didn’t buy for a minute that Parker appreciated the fine arts. She had him pegged as the sort of guy who came off the field, sat back, popped a couple beers, and watched
SpongeBob SquarePants
reruns. “I’m just having a hard time picturing you walking around an art gallery.”