Throwing Heat: A Diamonds and Dugouts Novel (20 page)

Peter broke eye contact and looked over her shoulder, rolling his head from side-to-side like a boxer. Then his gaze whipped back to her and he swore, “Shit,” and moved with freakish speed, pinning her back against the desk.

His mouth came down hard on hers, his tongue thrusting between her lips in a kiss of straight possession. Leslie couldn’t do more than moan and wrap her arms around his neck. Her brain went into overdrive and short-circuited. God the man could kiss.

Immersed in the feel and taste of him, she murmured a protest when he ripped his lips from hers and stepped out of her arms. His eyes were hard and full of warning.

“
That’s
why.”

Chapter Eighteen

D
-
D
AY HAD ARRIVED.

October thirty-first. Halloween. Last game of the World Series between the Denver Rush and the Boston Red Sox. The Rush were tied with the Red Sox 3-3. This last game would determine the Series winner. And most notably, it was also the last day of a
Very
Important Bet
.

Peter couldn’t believe that he was starting as pitcher. It was like the universe had decided to have mercy on him, and the doctors had cleared his shoulder at the last minute. He was on a pretty heavy dose of ibuprofen, but that was it. There was no way he was going to play the last game of his career doped up on pain meds or a steroid shot. Nope.

This was a day he always wanted to remember.

Scanning the crowd of Coors Field, Peter breathed deep and steady despite the pounding of his heart and the swirling mass of emotions. So many feelings were bubbling around inside him: gratitude, anxiety, fear, exhilaration, nervousness, and anticipation. One minute he was flying high, the next he was swimming in an ocean of insecurity as the realization that when he woke up in the morning he would no longer be a professional ballplayer sprung to mind.

Tomorrow, and for the rest of his life, he was just plain old Peter Brian Kowalskin.

But for now, for this one last game, he was Kowalskin, jersey number fifteen, ace pitcher for the Denver Rush. Winner of the Cy Young Award two years running. And he was there to kick some Red Sox ass.

Cranking his hat down, Peter smiled into the stands. The stadium was bursting at the seams with green and yellow Rush fans, the impressive noise level a tribute to the talent and popularity of his team. A hard knot lodged in his throat and he swallowed around it.

God he was going to miss this.

“You all ready for a show?” he asked the crowd quietly, knowing they couldn’t hear him.

“What’s that you said, Walskie?” asked Arthur McMurtry, the team manager, as he came over from the dugout to where Peter was standing.

Squinting against the sun, he tucked his ball mitt under his left armpit and rolled a baseball between his hands, cocking a hip. “I was just thinking about the show our crowd is going to get today.”

Arthur had a wad of chew in his lip. He spit, saying, “It’ll be a good one.” Then his coach of fourteen years cuffed him on the shoulder and said, “Give them hell, Kowalskin. One last time.”

Yeah. He could do that.

The crowd cheered raucously as someone famous he didn’t recognize stepped out to sing the national anthem. After the elaborate rendition was done and the team was back in the dugout, the Denver Broncos’ starting quarterback came onto the field to throw out the first pitch to the great delight of the stadium full of fans.

Drake shook his head and grumbled next to him, “Don’t see why some football player gets so much love.”

Because it was Denver. And it was football. The end.

Peter slapped him on the back. “Don’t be a girl, Paulson. You get more love than most entire football teams, and you’re only one man. No whining allowed.”

“Yeah, yeah,” muttered the ballplayer. Then his brown eyes lit triumphantly. “Bet he ain’t never had a woman paint her tits in his teams colors though, with the nipples like bulls-eyes and then have him sign ’em with a Sharpie using just his teeth.”

Only Drake.

“Probably not, dude.” At that moment he spotted Leslie in the crowd down along the first base line and his stomach pitched. She was there with the rest of the posse, preferring to be down near the action instead of clear up high in the skybox where some of the other players’ families hung out.

She, Sonny, and Lorelei had gotten way into the team spirit of things and painted signs cheering the Rush to victory. Even Charlie had gotten into it, his face painted part green, part yellow. Leslie even had something painted on her cheeks, but he couldn’t tell what it was from the distance. Looked like a heart on one cheek and a big R on the other though.

Seeing her all dolled up for his team made his lungs seize. That woman knew just how to get to him. With a huge release of air, Peter forced his gaze off his favorite cheering section. There would be time with Leslie later.

Now there was the game.

Taking to the mound as Smash Mouth sang “All Star” and the crowd went crazy, adrenaline flooded his body and focused his mind. In an instant he was in the zone, ready to take charge and keep the Red Sox from getting on base. Rolling his shoulder, Peter was relieved at how good it felt.

Mark settled into position, his eyes sharp and intense even from the distance. With a quick glance at his teammates, he saw that they were all the same and grinned to himself. His boys were ready to bring it home.

A flash caught his attention and he looked over to see Charlie holding up a sign, the world’s biggest grin on his young face. It said “Kowalskin is a Baseball God” and he recognized Leslie’s handwriting. Heat flared in his chest, a hot ball of emotion, and he had to swallow hard against the sudden burn.

Was there no end to the ways the woman believed in him?

Pushing the thought aside, he forced his attention to the Red Sox player getting ready to bat and put everything else out of his mind.

“
Play
!” yelled the umpire with a finger pointed at Peter.

For the next few hours the Rush took on the Red Sox, each team scrapping their hearts out for the pennant. Peter fired red-hot pitch after pitch, his shoulder feeling tender but completely manageable and his left eye holding. Everything else was forgotten, reality and life narrowing down to a tiny pinpoint of focus and concentration.

He forgot about it being his last game and let it all hang out, putting every ounce of effort he had into throwing serious heat.

When one Red Sox player hit a pop-fly high into the air, Peter dashed off the mound and caught it soundly in his mitt. Then he whipped around, arm already cocked and ready, and rocketed the ball off toward second, intent on outing the Red Sox player stupidly trying to steal base. The second baseman tagged the bag with a foot and lunged forward, reaching with his glove.

And the player was out.

By the time the ninth inning rolled around, the game was 5–4 and the Rush were up. Peter’s arm was hurting as he started, but he knew that if he could keep Boston from getting on base then the game would be over and the Rush would take the World Series. No big deal. It was just a little pressure.

The late October air was chilly and the sky overcast with the promise of snow. Even so, Peter was sweating, beads of it dripping down his temples. The exertion was immense and he could feel himself beginning to slip, could feel his shoulder starting to go.

But he had to hang in there a few more minutes.

He yanked off his hat and swiped at the sweat just as John Crispin came up to bat. His former teammate’s brows were pulled down in a scowl. His eyes were intense as he prepared to take on Peter. He stepped into the box, ground his cleats in the dirt, and swung the bat before pulling it into position.

And all Peter could see was the man who used to date Leslie. The man who had just asked her out on a date. The man trying to move in on his territory.

Not today.

Peter wound up and released the first pitch, a brutal fastball, straight down the pipe. He merely grunted when John swung and missed. Damn right.

Strike one.

He knew John. Knew his weaknesses. Knew how to play him.

So did Cutter.

Mark signaled for a slider and Peter nodded, more than happy to oblige. Pulling his arm back, he ignored the sting and released the ball. John took a step forward and swung high, cursing profusely and earning another strike.

Strike two.

Panting with the effort, Peter wound up one more time and went with another slider, knowing it was Crispin’s Achilles’ heel. The big, gruff player took a huge forward step and swung with everything he had. And he connected.

The ball ricocheted right back at Peter, coming hard and fast at his head. He didn’t have time to move. All he had time to do was react. In a flash he raised his mitt to his face.

And caught the ball, the velocity of it slamming the leather glove back into his collarbone, narrowly missing his chin.

The force of it stung like a bitch until he heard, “
Out
!” That one call changed everything, made all the pain disappear in a blink.

The Rush won the World Series.

Fans screamed, his team came running, everybody was yelling in celebration. Drake loped over to him and scooped Peter up, spinning him around, hollering, “Yeah, Walskie!” Exhilaration flooded him, took him on a high so glorious that he never wanted to come down.

He did it. He fucking did it. He won the goddamn World frigging Series.

He couldn’t believe it.

Riding the wave, Peter was laughing and smiling when he looked into the stands and saw Leslie. She had her hands to her mouth When she spotted him looking at her she dropped her hands from her mouth and waved, her smile absolutely beaming. And he felt the echo of it inside him wrap warm around his heart.

It was the greatest moment of his life.

Chapter Nineteen

H
OTBOX WAS HOPPING.
The kind of hopping that made it hard to breathe from all the bodies smooshed together in a confined space. And Leslie couldn’t have been happier.

A blast of music hit her ears like a hammer, the beat thumping and pulsing heavily as her favorite local reggae band Gyration burned up the stage in their Rastafarian zombie costumes. Colored bulbs had been installed, and red beams of light rained down over the throng from the ceiling. Spider webs were strewn all about, from the liquor display behind the bar to the upstairs railing with arachnids of varying shapes and sizes perched and hunting for prey.

She’d hired some fifth-year theatre majors from the nearby university to dress up as witches and spend the night stirring a big steamy cauldron of dry ice by the front entrance. From where she was standing she could see white smoke crawling along the floor in thin, curling fingers. Every so often one of the drama students would cackle or lunge, teeth snapping at those who entered. They were having a blast, really getting into character. It was pretty creepy.

And way freaking awesome.

Even Mario had gotten into the spirit of things and was dressed like a jailbird who’d been dead and decomposing for a few decades. Already imposing in his natural state, there were more than a few faint-of-heart party-goers who had taken one look at him and slipped to the back of the line. They were probably hoping that another stint in the falling snow would get them pumped up for when he scared the shit out of them the second time. It was really quite amusing.

To top it all off, every once in a while the lights would flicker and stall out and there would be a thundering boom—with just enough time lapsing to get a nice roll of murmurs going. Then they flashed back on again like nothing had happened and it was business as usual, confusing them further. It made her smile every single time.

The on-air radio deejays set up near the stage were having a really good time. In front of them and to the left was the Rush’s unofficial table. She’d dubbed it that since they always gravitated there.

The club looked awesome, if she did say so herself.

Speaking of other stuff that was pretty killer, Leslie thought as she brushed her palms down the front of her costume, she was doing all right herself. Oh, okay. She looked frigging fantastic.

Tonight she was a princess; an exposed-shouldered, bosom-enhanced, deep amethyst, embroidered-velvet medieval princess who was ready to take back her crown. And she would, too, in about two hours.

A shrill scream came from the entrance, drawing Leslie’s attention. A group of college-aged girls dressed like characters from
Twilight
were huddled together, clinging because Mario had scared the daylights out of them. The looks on their faces had her giggling.

That giggle turned into a howl of laughter when Drake Paulson stepped through the door. He was in full costume, from the top of his newly green afro head to his grass green feet. Even his lips were green.

It was the Jolly Green Giant.

Leslie laughed so hard it brought tears to her eyes. That had to be one of the best costumes she’d ever seen. It put all the Storm Troopers and naughty nurses out on the floor to shame.

She was dabbing at the corner of her eye with a section of her huge bell sleeve when Peter stepped inside and she nearly jammed her finger into her eye socket. Damn the man. Why did just seeing him have her mouth turning to sawdust?

He wasn’t even dressed up. Oh no, Peter Kowalskin was too cool for a costume. He dressed like his normal self in a white Pearl Jam T-shirt, faded jeans, leather jacket, and Vans. Just like any other day.

But it wasn’t just any other day and they both knew it when he stopped in front of her, his incredible blue eyes glinting with a whole lot of naughty. “Happy Halloween,
princess
. Nice costume.”

Leslie slid him a look through her lashes, enjoying the banked heat she could see simmering in his. “Sonny and I found it at a consignment store in Boulder. You like it?” She knew he did. It was written all over his rugged face.

His gaze flicked over her, from the golden crown woven into her hair to her purple suede Michael Kors heels on her feet. Those weren’t so historically accurate, but they were her magic-makers. Every time she wore them something fabulous happened. And, well, they just so happened to match her dress. How about that?