It's a Wonderful Fireman: A Bachelor Firemen Novella (The Bachelor Firemen of San Gabriel) (16 page)

“So we have a Stan and a Clarence.” Double D shook his head mournfully. “What sort of firehouse are we running here?”

“I’ve been trying to figure that out for some time.” Captain Brody strode into the room and clapped Mulligan on the shoulder. “Glad to see you back on your feet.”

“Thanks, Cap. It’s good to be back.”

“I hear we have another wedding to look forward to.”

“It’s not until June,” said Lizzie. “So everyone will have time to recover from Fred and Rachel’s.”

Brody narrowed his charcoal gray eyes in speculation. “I’ll have to do the math, but we might be out of bachelor firemen. With Ace moving on, who’s left?”

They all thought about that for a long moment. Then Vader brightened. “There’s always the B shift. You never hear much about those guys.”

The tone sounded, and they all snapped to attention. “Structure fire for Task Force 1, Truck 6, and Battalion 8. Incident number six twenty-two, time of alarm nine twenty. Ten fifty-five Brighton Avenue.”

The firefighters raced to the apparatus bay, Captain Brody right behind them. Mulligan held tight to Clarence, who wanted to run after the crowd. As soon as they were gone, Mulligan turned to Lizzie and kissed her breathless, as he’d been dying to do since she’d given him Clarence.

When he’d brought her to a state of dazed and boneless relaxation, he released her. “Thank you,” he breathed. “Thank you for loving me, thank you for Clarence. You’re my miracle, you know that?”

Lizzie laughed softly. “Clarence, huh? Really not the name I expected, but I bet it’s perfect. Some day you have to tell me exactly what went on at Under the Mistletoe. It must have been quite an experience.”

“I can tell you now.” He nuzzled her warm neck. Clarence whined, wanting some attention as well. “But I can’t do it here. Let’s go home and get naked. It’s the kind of story you have to tell completely nude, between orgasms.”

“Did the doctor say it was okay?”

“Yep. He said as long as you’re on top, we’re fine. He especially recommended that you do that thing where you touch your nipples and tighten your—”

Lizzie gave him a little smack on the arm. “Stop that. Bad boy.”

“Very, verrrry bad. Now let’s go home and find out just how bad I can be. Help me up, my love.”

He swung out of the training room, Lizzie at his side, Clarence capering at their heels. With his heart so full he thought it might burst, Mulligan blew the Santa hat a kiss on the way out.
Merry Christmas, big guy
.
Keep an eye on the crew, would you?

F
OR A BRIEF
moment, the training room stood empty. Then Stan trotted in from the captain’s office, sniffed the air, and scampered onto the couch. He curled into a blissful little ball, surrounded by his favorite smell—the scent of heroes. He wasn’t allowed on the couch, so he always waited until the firefighters were gone. Hey, a firehouse dog had to have a few secrets. What the crew didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them.

Besides, they’d come back before long. They always did.

Introducing the Kilby Catfish in

ALL OF ME

the first book in bestselling author Jennifer Bernard’s brand-new series

featuring the hottest minor league baseball players around.

They’re burning up the diamond . . . and the sheets.

Coming Summer 2015

An Excerpt from

I
N
C
ALEB
H
ART
’
S
first start as a Kilby Catfish, he set a minor league record—and not the good kind. By the top of the fourth inning, he’d given up seven runs, five homers, and three walks, and nearly taken El Paso Chihuahua Steve Hunter’s nose off with a wayward fastball. Sweat was running down his back in rivulets of failure, and under his brand-new cap, with its cartoonish blue catfish logo, his head felt as if it might spontaneously ignite.

He stepped off the mound and swiped his arm across his forehead. Mike Solo, the catcher, called for time, the pitching coach jogged onto the field, and suddenly his new infielders surrounded him. Apparently they thought he needed some support. What he really needed was . . . well, he hadn’t quite figured that out yet.

“You can take this guy,” said the veteran first baseman Hernandez. “He can’t hit the changeup for shit.”

Caleb didn’t bother mentioning that he couldn’t throw the changeup for shit.

“Just keep ’em down,” said the pitching coach, clearly some kind of baseball genius. “And get ’em over the plate.”

“That’s right, you’re overthinking it,” said the fast-talking shortstop, who looked about twelve. “I saw you pitch with the Twins. Over three games you had an ERA of 2.78, average of five strikeouts per game. ’Course then you had that crazy fourth game. Whatever you do, don’t think about that game. Do what you did during the first three. Forget the fourth. Easy peasy.”

Caleb stared at the smaller player, trying to remember the last time he’d heard a baseball player say “easy peasy.” Never, that’s when. And why’d he have to bring up the worst game of Caleb’s entire life?

Solo, who was the only guy on the team Caleb had played with before, gave a wolfish grin and a wink. “Yeah, easy peasy, big guy. The natives are getting restless. And since it’s Texas, they’re probably armed.”

Caleb looked at the half-full stands, where the crowd of maybe three thousand diehards was starting to shout catcalls. For a painful moment, Caleb remembered the noise level at Target Field in Minneapolis. It was like comparing a 747 jet to a mosquito.

The pitching coach headed back to the dugout, with an air of having done all he could. Caleb glared at the remaining players. “What is this, a damn committee meeting?”

The baby shortstop looked offended. “Excuse me for trying to help you resurrect the correct firing of your synapses.”

Caleb looked incredulously at the other Catfish. “Is this kid for real?”

“He was studying brains before he signed on,” explained Mike Solo. “Now let’s get cracking. Y’all forgot we have a bus to catch after this?”

“Not brains. Neurophysiology,” piped up the shortstop, as they all scattered, jogging back to their positions.

Christ. Caleb had heard the Catfish were a little . . . odd. So far, that seemed to be an understatement.

He settled himself back on the mound, inhaling a deep breath of humid, grass-scented air.
It’s just a baseball game. Pretend you’re back home, when baseball was the only fun thing in life. When you ruled the diamond, any diamond.

Solo called for the fastball, low and away. Good call, since an inside pitch might hurt someone, the way he was pitching, and his changeup wasn’t doing shit today. He went into his windup, lined the seams up just right in his hand, and let fly.

Boom. Home run number six cracked off the bat with a sound like a detonation. Maybe it was Caleb’s career blowing up, come to think of it.

Just to torture himself, he swiveled to watch the ball soar high overhead, winging toward the right field bleachers like a bird on speed. Lowering his gaze, he caught the shortstop’s reproachful stare. The Chihuahuas batter cruised around the bases. The guy ought to send him a thank-you note, the way he’d served up that pitch with extra biscuits and gravy.

Someone cleared his throat behind him. He turned to find Duke, the Catfish manager, facing him, hand outstretched. He wanted the ball. Wanted Caleb out of the game. But as much as Caleb hated giving up home runs, he hated giving up the ball more. How could he turn things around if got yanked from the game?

“I’m just trying to get my rhythm going, Duke,” Caleb said in a low voice.

“And how’s that working out for you?”

Sarcasm. Ouch. “My last pitch had to have been in the upper nineties.”

“Yup. It sure went over the fence fast.” Duke, a barrel-chested former catcher who’d played for the Expos in his prime, but had spent most of his career bouncing around the minors, didn’t sugarcoat things. “I’m taking you out before your ERA looks like a Texas heat wave. Let’s talk after the game.”

A sickening sensation made Caleb’s gut clench. In the minor leagues, being called into the manager’s office was either good news—you were being called up to the Major League team—or bad news of a variety of kinds. Caleb was a hundred percent sure he wasn’t being called up.

“Nothing bad,” Duke assured him. “Just want to talk.”

Caleb nodded and handed him the ball. It felt like handing over a piece of his heart. He needed the ball, needed to pitch. Because the only chance he had in life was when he had that ball in his hands.

Walking toward the dugout, he caught a “shake it off” from the third baseman, along with a rumble of boos from the stands. His replacement, Dan Farrio, ran onto the field from the bullpen. Farrio was, theoretically, his rival for one of the spots on the Friars’ pitching staff. But after today, that rivalry might be history.

From someone’s radio, he heard the color announcer saying, “We’re checking the history books, but one-time blue-chip prospect Caleb Hart just had possibly the worst first start ever on a Triple-A team. He should have been pulled after the second inning, but the Catfish bullpen’s about as ragged as my kid’s blankie. If the Caleb Hart trade was supposed to add some juice to the Friars’ pitching staff, maybe they should have gone with a shot of the cactus instead. How much you want to bet Crush Taylor’s squeezing the limes already?”

At the mention of the owner of the Catfish, Caleb groaned. With most minor league owners, no one cared what they thought, since the Major League front office called all the shots. But Crush Taylor was a legend, a Hall of Fame pitcher who had purchased the Catfish shortly after his retirement. Not to mention that he was Caleb’s childhood idol. Yep, he’d just had a record-setting horrendous start for the team owned by his childhood idol. And he’d been lectured by a shortstop barely out of high school. Could things get any worse?

He reached the dugout and grabbed a drink of water at the cooler. Man, it was hot today. All he wanted to do was hit the showers and get the hell out of this stadium. But since it was his first game, he ought to stick around and support the team for one more inning. Before he could sink onto the bench, Duke caught his eye and gave him a jerk of the head, releasing him to retire to the clubhouse.

First break he’d gotten all day. He seized the opportunity and stalked out of the dugout. He’d get to know his fellow Catfish sometime when he didn’t want to kill someone.

As soon as he entered the rabbit’s warren of back corridors that wound through the stadium, his tightly maintained control disappeared. He ripped off his sweat-soaked uniform shirt as if he could ditch the sense of failure along with it.

“Fuck,” he bit out, slamming a fist against the wall. “Get it together, Hart.” He usually kept his emotions under tight wrap, but . . . damn it. If he screwed this up, he’d be letting down his sister and the twins, and they’d all been through enough. His entire family was counting on him, and he’d just given up six home runs in about five minutes.

“What the fuck is wrong with you? You can’t afford another fucking fuck-up.” Veering around the corner toward the home clubhouse, he nearly tripped over someone standing at the double doors that guarded the entrance.

The “someone” pushed an elbow into his stomach, making the breath whoosh out of him. It wasn’t a hard blow, probably accidental, but still, not what he normally encountered on his way to the shower.

Struggling to get his breath—and his composure—back, he steadied his attacker. A woman, a young one. Though he still hadn’t gotten a good look at her, she felt soft and shapely under his hands.

“Geez, you should watch where you’re going.” Her voice had a husky cadence; a local girl. She stepped out of his grasp and spun to face him. He received a quick impression of brilliant but wary dark eyes, quicksilver slimness, and a haphazard ponytail. He was six feet five inches, but he didn’t tower over her the way he did most girls. She must be at least five ten, with a lanky, slim build, all arms and legs. She held a manila folder filled with papers about to spill out. “You must be one of those crazy Catfish players.”

“What clued you in? The uniform or the overuse of profanity?” He gave her a rueful smile, remembering his exuberant cursing. He should have waited until he was inside the clubhouse.

Something sparked in her eyes, and her lips quirked. “Well, I guess it must be the profanity, since I don’t see much in the way of a uniform.” She glanced down his torso. He remembered he was bare-chested, having ditched his shirt.

“Yeah, well . . . had to let off a little steam.”

“So that was you cussing up a storm? I’m not sure what was crazier, that or being trampled like a barrel of grapes.”

From the gleam in her eye, she was probably teasing, but just in case, he took a step back.

“No trampling, I promise.” Again, her gaze flicked down his chest, as if she couldn’t help it. “I’m not coming on to you either. Too sweaty. But if you want to hang around until after my shower . . .”

He said that part mostly to get a rise out of her, since something told him she’d be fun to get all riled up.

But her face changed, the playful sparkle vanishing. She took a big step back and narrowed her eyes at him. “No, I do not. I want to deliver this message and get on with my day. Can you tell me where to find Mr. Ellington?”

Ellington—that was Duke’s last name. Most baseball guys had a nickname, but not that many were called after jazz greats. But the Catfish manager broke the mold on just about everything.

“He’s probably busy doing his job.” Deciding to make her work for it, he folded his arms over his chest. Excellent. Now those lively dark eyes were taking in his forearms as well as his torso. Usually at this point, a girl would do something to signal her willingness to spend intimate time with the hotshot pitcher who’d gotten half a million dollars for signing with the Twins.

Not this girl. “I can see you want to be difficult, which is exactly what I would expect given the contents of this document.” She tapped the folder. “Fine. In the interests of moving on with our lives—you to your shower and probably a six-pack and a groupie—why don’t you give me a hint about where Mr. Ellington’s office might be? I’ll wait for him there.”