Love of the Game (4 page)

Emma reached over and gave Kasha a hard hug. “I love you, titter.”

Kasha cupped the back of Emma's head in her palm and whispered the words that were normally so hard for her to say. “I love you too.”

“Color!” Emma announced, and swatted Kasha's hand. “You color now.”

“Oh sorry, I didn't realize I was holding up the works.”

They lay side by side on the floor, busily coloring in the coloring book. The girl stuck her tongue out while she worked. It seemed to help her concentrate. Kasha could smell her strawberry perfume, and Emma's shoulder brushed right up against hers.

Sometimes life was like the surface of a tranquil lake, calm, smooth, serene. But all it took was one stone dropped from the hand of a child, one twig fallen from a tree branch, one fish breaking the surface to cause ripples that fanned out, waved, rocked, disturbing everything.

Ripples.

Finding out about her half sister was the small stone plunked into the quiet lake of Kasha's life, and the ripples were still growing, widening, spreading out.

Change. Like it or not, change was here. And it was time to decide whether to roll with it, fight it, or ignore it.

Emma's beaming face made up Kasha's mind. First thing in the morning, she would call Howard Johnson and tell him she was certain that she wanted to become Emma's legal guardian and to start the paperwork.

This wasn't going to be easy, but she was ready to become her sister's surrogate mom.

W
hile Kasha was having dinner with her half sister at the group home, Axel was sitting alone at a tall bistro table in his condo eating a premade salad he'd picked up at Whole Foods, and drinking a pilsner.

The television was on in the living room, a replay of one of his best games, and he could partially see it from where he sat. As he watched himself wind up for a beautiful hundred-mile-an-hour fastball, he winced.

Great arm. Great game. Those were the days. Except he hadn't fully appreciated what he had until it was gone.

Naïve. Arrogant.

He'd foolishly believed he could power through anything to achieve his goals. He'd learned the hard way that some things simply could not be achieved by a bulldozer mindset and can-do attitude.

But the thought of doing nothing went so far against the grain of Axel's belief system that it made him physically sick to his stomach.

He pushed the salad away, got up from the table, and paced the length of the galley kitchen. Everything was new and shiny and modern and cookie-cutter, like every other condo in his neighborhood. Granite countertops. Cocobolo cabinets. Solid hardwood flooring. Stainless steel appliances.

The place was both gorgeous and soulless. It wasn't a home.

How could it be a home? He was rarely here and had no one to share his life with. Not that he'd wanted that. Not since he'd lost Dylan.

Axel put a hand over his heart, breathed out his grief. It served no one.

Action. Baseball. It was the only thing that had kept him sane in those nightmarish, thundercloud days after Dylan's death.

He moved into the living room, his mind replaying the events of the day. Fact: He was attracted to Kasha Carlyle. Had been from the moment he'd watched her glide into the sports medicine facility the previous Monday.

Fact: He wanted her more than he should.

Fact: For some unimaginable reason he'd agreed to hole up in the country with her for an entire week and do nothing, when he could be having surgery to fix his pitching arm.

Fact: He wasn't dreading it.

Fact: He was really disturbed by all of those facts.

Quandary? What was he going to do about these feelings?

Should he: (A) Call Dr. Harrison and tell him he wanted Paul Hernandez as his therapist while he rested instead of Kasha? (B) Call the general manager and tell him he was ready to go ahead with the surgery? (C) Rock on with the current plan, but do his damnedest to keep his desires in check?

Decisions. Decisions.

If he tossed Kasha in favor of Paul, he was afraid it would reflect badly on her and she'd lose her job.

Option B was tempting, but he couldn't seem to quell the nagging voice that told him Kasha was right about resting his shoulder.

That left option C. The most appealing and the most troublesome, because he wanted to hang out with Kasha, and that was the problem.

She reminded him of the willow tree that had
grown in his parents' backyard at his childhood home. Tall and slender, able to bend in the wind, but not break. Rooted deep, anchored and stable.

Controlled. So very controlled.

If he could control a baseball the way she controlled her emotions, he'd be headed straight for the Hall of Fame.

It all came down to what was best for his career.

He slumped on the couch in front of the TV, stared at the screen. Instead of seeing his younger self whipping a ball across that plate at a batter who swung hard and missed, he saw his dream play out the way he'd visualized it a million times.

On the mound at Yankee Stadium, leadoff pitcher, last game of the World Series, pitching a no-hitter; the crowd chanting his name, Axel, Axel, Axel; the smell of popcorn and peanuts and hot dogs in the air; the guys in the bullpen happy for the win, but jealous it wasn't them leading the charge; kids in the stands, holding up mitts, praying for a fly ball to land in the pocket of their gloves, everyone watching and waiting with breaths held for him to strike out the last batter.

From the time he was seven years old, he'd fallen asleep with that image in his head. Awakened with it.

And when he was twenty and his casual girlfriend, Pepper Grant, had gotten pregnant, he'd offered to marry her because the thought of being a dad thrilled him to pieces.

Pepper rejected his proposal because she said she couldn't tie him down like that, and they didn't really love each other the way they deserved to be loved. But they both loved that baby something fierce. Pepper had been an awesome mom, and he had the utmost respect for her.

Raising Dylan had only strengthened his resolve to be the very best example he could. He did it through his actions, not just words.

Work hard. Commit. Never give up on your dreams.

He had firmly believed that, and he'd done his best to instill those values into his son.

Without Dylan, what did it all mean? So what if he achieved the pinnacle of success? Without Dylan, the dream was sawdust in his mouth.

But without the dream, what else was there?

He'd worked his entire life for this. Dylan had cheered him on, been his biggest fan, his strongest champion. Letting go of the dream now would be like letting Dylan down in the most fundamental way. Betraying his beliefs.

Axel leaned over and opened the drawer in the coffee table, took out a undersized baseball glove closed around a baseball, a soft cleaning rag, and conditioning oil. The glove was so small that he could only wriggle three fingers inside.

Gently, he rubbed the leather, felt his heart pump hard with every stroke, and knew he had no choice. He had to do everything in his power to reach his goal. If that meant resting, that's what he'd do.

In memory of his son.

Axel blinked, swallowed, and with the tip of the cleaning rag wiped away the single salty tear that had fallen into the pocket of his dead son's glove.

P
er arrangements with Rowdy, Axel arrived in Stardust on Wednesday evening, May eighteenth. Gentle therapy sessions with Kasha were to start in the morning, and then the following Thursday he would return to Dallas for Dr. Harrison to reexamine him and determine if Kasha's “take it easy” plan was working.

In the meantime, Axel was stumped.

What the hell was he going to do out here in the sticks? Granted, there were plenty of distractions in Rowdy's house—big-screen TV, recordings of innumerable baseball games, state-of-the-art video technology for video gaming, heated swimming pool, hot tub, a class-A home gym, and even a zipline that ran down to the edge of the lake.

But Axel was an extrovert. He needed people around. Stimulation. He met the live-in caretakers, Boston and Zelma Creedy, but they weren't big talkers, and after they showed him around the place, they took off on a golf cart to their cottage several acres away.

Leaving Axel twiddling his thumbs.

He prowled the grounds. What was he supposed to do? He'd been in the house for only one night, and already he was bored out of his skull. He had nothing to think about but the constant ache in his shoulder, and how far he was falling short.

At eight o'clock on Thursday morning, Kasha
showed up with that smooth, butter-don't-melt-in-Iceland look on her face, a tablet computer tucked under her arm, and an efficient snap to her step.

Her glossy dark hair hung down her back in its customary braid, and she wore her uniform—blue chinos and a green polo shirt with the Gunslingers logo. The outfit didn't look good on anyone, but on her, somehow it did. Her exotic sloe eyes locked onto him with a determined sense of purpose.

“Good morning,” she said crisply. “Let's get to the gym.”

Without waiting on him, she turned and headed for the sliding glass door that led to a garden courtyard, and the detached home gym beyond. For a second, it stumped him how Kasha knew the gym's location, and then he remembered she was Rowdy's sister-in-law.

He ambled after her, rotating his shoulder and wincing against the pain. On the opposite side of the swimming pool stood the glass building that looked like something out of an architectural magazine.

Axel had worked out in plenty of commercial gyms half this size. Through the glass walls, he could see Kasha heading toward the massage table in the far corner. When he pushed through the door, classical music floated out to greet him.

“Ugh.” He crinkled his nose. “Could we put on some Kanye instead?”

“No,” she said. “Mozart stays.”

“Snooty.”

“Not snooty,” she corrected in an even tone. “Soothing. Soothing music soothes tense muscles.”

“You gotta be kidding.”

“On the table.” She patted the massage table. “And take off your shirt.”

“Straight to the point.”

“Which is why I'm here.” Her face was a blank canvas.

He had no idea what she was thinking. He wished he had paints so he could draw a smile on those full wide lips of hers. “Why are you so uptight?”

“I'm not uptight. I have a job to do, and I'd appreciate it if you'd just let me get to it.”

“Message received.” He raised both palms. “No idle chitchat.”

“I'm glad we understand each other. Now if you please . . .” She gestured toward the table. “Take off your shirt.”

He obliged.

Her gaze flicked to his bare chest. Her controlled expression gave away nothing, but in her eyes he saw a quick flash of interest before she managed to snuff it out.

Curiosity about the tattoo? Or was she admiring his muscles? The former made him uncomfortable, the latter made him smile.

She cleared her throat, stared at the table pointedly.

He took his time climbing up on it. She might be in charge, but she wasn't in control. He'd asked for her to be on his case. She was working for him, and it didn't hurt to remind her.

“On your stomach,” she said. “We'll start with moist heat to loosen up your shoulder.”

He rolled over, got settled, closed his eyes, listened to her moving around, and caught the faintest hint of her scent. She smelled of raindrops and moonlight, of lavender and sage. The fragrance wasn't strong enough for cologne, most likely body lotion or shampoo.

She rested a moist heat pack on his right shoulder,
and his body started to relax. He hated to admit it, but she was right about the Mozart. Between the heat and the music and the lulling fragrance, he actually drifted off to sleep for a couple of minutes, jerking awake when her hand touched his bare flesh.

Gently, she massaged his shoulder, her strong fingers pressing into his skin, and instantly Axel got hard. At least he was facedown, but that didn't stop the ache.
Quit thinking about her
.

Pretty damn hard to do when Kasha's outer thigh was touching his hip.

Axel squeezed his eyes closed. Gulped.

“Does that hurt?” She lightly caressed the ball of his right shoulder joint.

“Um, no, why?”

“You tensed up.”

Well, yeah lady. You're the sexiest thing since black silk stockings with the seam running up the back.

“It's . . . uh . . .” he stammered. “. . . hot in here.”

“I'll turn down the thermostat.” She stepped away, momentarily giving him breathing room.

But it didn't last long or help much. The second her hands touched him again, he was as hard as marble.

“Are you always this tense?” She clicked her tongue. “No wonder you're not healing.”

No, no, not always this tense, only when he was around gorgeous physical therapists with enigmatic dark eyes and magic fingers.

“We're not going to get anywhere until you relax. What do you normally do to chill out?”

“Exercise.”

“I'm not talking about exercise. How do you unplug from work? Read? Watch TV? Play video games? Listen to music?”

“I don't have time to unplug. I'm thirty, and injured. If I'm ever going to make it to the top I have to give one hundred and ten percent.”

An amused laugh rolled out of her, soft as fairy dust.

“What's so funny?”

“Excuse me? You are the big time.”

“The Gunslingers are an expansion team,” he said.

“So what?”

“It's not the same.”

“How much more ‘top' does it get, Axel?”

“Pitching for the Yankees, the finest team in baseball.”

“That's a matter of perception,” Kasha said. “I thought the best team in baseball is the one who won the last pennant.”

“Best is transitory, you're right,” he said. “That's why I said finest team. Historically there's no team with as much history and heart and can-do spirit as the Yankees.”

“I'm certain there are millions of baseball fans that will argue the point.”

“The Yankees are iconic. They're synonymous with baseball.”

“Why is playing for the Yankees so important to you? Let's face it, especially when the odds are slim that things will actually go your way. When it comes to trades, a lot of that stuff is beyond your control.”

The old anxiety and uncertainty hit him in the chest, and he hardened his chin against the massage table. No room for doubt. He was going to make it to the Yankees or die trying. Nothing or no one was going to dissuade him. He was determined to make Dylan proud.

A salt lump knotted in his throat and he swallowed hard. He wouldn't talk about Dylan. Couldn't.

“You're tensing up again.” Kasha's fingers kneaded his back. “Try to relax.”

“I can't stop thinking how far I'm falling behind.”

“Do you know how many people would kill to be where you are?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I know how lucky I am, but that doesn't stop me from wanting more, and at my age, I don't have much time left to achieve it.”

Kasha sighed.

“What?” he asked, turning his head to glance over his shoulder at her. Her face was in profile. Her eyelids lowered halfway, her chin dipped down slightly.

“I can see I've got my work cut out for me.”

“Sorry, it's just who I am.”

“Is it really?”

He snorted. “Yes.”

“Think back to before you were consumed with baseball.”

“My mind doesn't stretch back that far.”

“You don't have any other hobbies?”

“Who has the time?”

“You do. Now.”

“I see your point. Let me give it some thought.”

“Since you don't have a hobby, we'll do mine.”

“Which is?”

“Yoga.”

He groaned.

“Stop complaining. I gave you a chance to come up with something you enjoyed. You didn't, so we do things my way. I'll change into my yoga clothes and meet you outside on the lawn.”

“You carry yoga clothes around with you?” he
asked, his pulse leaping at the thought of seeing her in yoga pants.

“I keep a change of clothes in my car.”

“You had this yoga thing planned all along.”

She gave him a “maybe” shrug and a whisper-smile. Oh, she was a sly one.

“Do I need to wear anything special?” he asked, sitting up on the massage table.

“You're good in those sweatpants, but you can put your T-shirt back on. And grab a yoga mat from the closet.”

Five minutes later, he had a yoga mat spread out on the back patio a few feet from the swimming pool, the morning sun reflecting off the water, scattering prisms of light over the ground. He smelled chlorine and coconut-scented sunscreen.

Dressed in black skin-tight yoga pants, a black and red tank top layered over a red sports bra, Kasha glided out of the house as if skating on a cloud, and frankly, he couldn't stop staring at her. The woman was a walking wet dream.

She carried a purple tote bag with a yoga mat sticking out of it. She unrolled the mat, bent over to spread it on the ground.

He studied her boldly as she bent over. The yoga pants looked brand-new and clung to her curves, and he thought,
I'm in love with those pants.

She straightened and came to stand on a spot in front of him at the end of her mat, and indicated he should do the same on his mat, and then she led him through a series of poses in what she called a grounding process.

“Turn off whatever is bothering you,” she soothed. “Close your eyes and just be here now.”

Yeah, like that was so easy.

But the more she talked, the more the sound of her voice lulled him, and before long, he wasn't thinking about anything except for breathing the way she taught him to breathe and holding the poses.

Even the hot sexual thoughts banked to a low simmer.

Okay, maybe this yoga thing wasn't so nutty after all. In those few minutes he felt more calmed and controlled than he'd felt since . . . well, since he couldn't remember when.

They were doing side arm stretches and he was swinging along at a steady clip, when she cautioned, “Easy does it. Explore the edge, but don't go over it.”

“Explore the edge? What does that even mean?”

“Feel the power of the stretch. But if there's the least bit of actual pain, back off.”

He grunted, and stopped extending as far as he could.

“Good job,” she encouraged him.

“I feel like I'm revving my engine with the transmission in park.”

“Then back off more.”

“If I do that, I'll barely be moving.”

“Then barely move.” She slowed her own pace to demonstrate.

“At this rate my shoulder won't heal until I'm eighty.”

Her smile was enigmatic, slight and light.

“What?” he asked, mimicking her movements, rotating his body from side to side with painstaking motions that were actually starting to feel really good in his shoulder.

“I was thinking of what you'll be like at eighty.”

“How's that?”

“You'll be winning wheelchair races down the
hallway of the nursing home and goosing the nurses not smart or fast enough to get out of your way.”

“I don't know whether I should feel flattered or insulted.”

“Your choice,” she said. “Arms straight out at your sides, shoulder height, palms up.”

“This isn't hard,” he said.

“Not yet.” There was that knowing smile again, as if she held the keys to heaven and she wasn't going to let him in until he proved himself worthy. “Make tiny little circles with your fingertips as if they were paintbrushes, and you were painting the walls.”

“That I can get into.”

“Slow down.”

“You're starting to sound like an echo.” He snorted.

“I'll stop repeating myself when you hear me.”

“I don't see how this is helping much. It's just stretching, and not very strenuous stretching at that,” he grumbled.

“Last time I checked, I was the therapist and you were the patient. Why don't you just let me do my job?”

“Great, fine, okay.” He chuffed out a breath and slowed his movements. “Ow, this is getting harder.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Are you always such a tough taskmaster?”

“Close your eyes,” she said. “Focus on what you're doing, nothing else in the world matters but painting those walls. Nothing else exists.”

“Um . . .” He cleared his throat. “Your voice exists.”

“Widen the circles,” she instructed, ignoring that.

“Right. Focus. I'm focusing.” Except that he wasn't. His shoulders were burning, and her lavender-
sage smell was tangling up in his nose, and her voice was heating up his blood. He dropped his arms.

“Arms up,” she said, perky but insistent.

“They're tired.”

“I know. Mine are too. Arms up.”

Grunting, he raised his arms. “Is this painting almost finished?”

“The longer you complain, the longer it takes.”