to agree. He had a damn good record on the mound, and the kid didn’t have one at all. Yeah, Becker had talent but he was undisciplined and jeopardized as many games as he saved. He needed a lot of training, but he wasn’t interested in receiving help. All that, and Brad was the one getting his ass chewed. Brad was the one with his career on the line. Because of a fight with a loudmouth University of Texas pitcher who reminded him a hell of a lot of Becker.
His agent had lectured him with more of the play-it-cool instructions tonight, but Brad wasn’t feeling cool at all. He was feeling pretty damn hot, as a matter of fact. “Oh, I’d be happy to teach the kid a few lessons,” he commented. “Doubt Coach would be happy, though.”
“Probably not,” Kurt agreed, “but Becker needs a reality check. Count me in on that play.”
Determined to shake off his mood, Brad caught a glimpse of the pool table as Tony aimed his stick then made a horrific shot.
“Holy shit,” Brad called out. “If I watch much more of this, I’ll need two more beers and I’ll need them fast.” As if on cue, Tony scratched. Again. His third time that night. Brad tipped back his beer to hide a smile. Though Tony had been with the Rays only a year, he’d become part of the team almost instantly, not to mention fast friends with him and Kurt.
Brad watched in amazement as Tony proceeded to place the cue ball on the table as if he hadn’t scratched. When Tony bent down to take another shot, Brad said, “Damn, Tony, if you’re gonna cheat, do it well.”
“Have you made even one shot tonight?” Kurt asked, adding insult to Tony’s already wounded pride.
“Shut the hell up, Kurt,” Tony snapped.
Kurt accepted a beer from a waitress who’d spotted his empty bottle. He gave her a wink and a tip before sauntering over to the table where he picked up the eight ball. “Good thing you swing the bat better than you play pool.” He raised his beer. “I know. Maybe you need some luck. Why don’t you get some of that peppermint oil Walker uses and rub it on your balls.”
Brad laughed, almost spewing a mouthful of Bud.
“Shut up, Caverns.” Tony’s use of Kurt’s last name indicated he was getting a serious attitude. “Before I shut you up.”
“I’m scared, man. Truly shaking.” Kurt nudged his ever present cowboy hat with his knuckle and fixed Tony with a speculative look. “You know what your problem is?”
Tony straightened, pool stick in his hand, irritation in his voice. “I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”
It was Brad’s shot, but Tony’s expression had him so amused he couldn’t focus. Not only did Tony hate to lose, he was a sucker for a good verbal teardown over it. Kurt was always happy to oblige.
“You can’t find the hole, man,” Kurt said. “Guess that’s why we haven’t seen you with a woman in so long.”
Tony rattled off a string of unpleasant words. “I get laid when I want to get laid.”
Kurt laughed. “Right. The Italian Stallion you ain’t.”
“All you get are groupies. That doesn’t make you the man.” Tony bit the words out. “Anyone can score with them.”
“Okay. Put your money where your mouth is.” Kurt rubbed his palms together. “Let’s make a bet. Pick a woman. Any woman. And let’s see who can score first.”
Tony leaned on his pool stick, a smile lifting the corner of his lips. “Okay.” He motioned at Brad. “I see you laughing there, man. You aren’t out of this. We bet. All three of us. And I know just the woman. The new reporter.”
An instant no ripped through Brad’s mind, and he barely kept it from sliding from his lips. Amanda was off-limits. Sure, she was hot. She damn sure got him hot. But it didn’t matter. She, or more accurately her job, was trouble with a capital T. The kind that could screw up the career he was desperately trying to hang on to. The wrong thing said across the pillows and he could wave a contract renewal goodbye.
“Don’t mess with the press,” he said. “Pick another woman.”
Tony waved off the warning. “She won’t report her own indiscretions.”
“But she can twist them in her favor,” Brad countered. “She has the pen and the audience.” He paused, his lips thinning as he remembered his own personal media bashing. “We all know what happened to me.”
Kurt chimed in. “You know what they say about female reporters?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Once she gets you to drop your pants, she’ll bend you over.”
Tony grinned. “I’ll do her so right she’ll want to brag to the world.”
“I hear that,” Kurt said, as he flagged a waitress and pointed to Brad’s empty bottle, taking the liberty to order for him. “But she’s still trouble, man.”
Grabbing the opening Kurt had given him, Brad eyed the blond hottie tending bar. “Forget the reporter,” he said and used his chin to motion toward the suggested target. “How about her?”
Tony broke out in a smile, pointing at Brad. “I know what’s up. I figured you out. You already tried with the reporter and got shut down. You know you can’t win this bet.”
“She busted your chops, didn’t she?”
The voice from behind Brad was distinct and all too familiar. A New York accent delivering a smart-ass comment could only be the rookie—Brad’s nemesis of the past few months.
Becker came into view, his pressed Dockers and collared shirt looking more preppy than cowboy. Even his blond hair was perfectly groomed—buzzed on the sides, longer on the top, maybe a hint of hair product to hold it in place. He looked like Mr. GQ. He always looked like Mr. GQ.
“Becker,” Brad said, giving him a nod.
“Hey, old man.”
Brad shook his head at the tired jab, wondering if the kid would ever grow up, or at least get new material. “What brings you out tonight?”
Becker lifted his draft beer—figured. The kid couldn’t even drink beer like a man, he had to sip from a glass. “Same as you, I suspect. A little celebration. A little drinking.” He paused. “That reporter from the Tribune…I saw you try to score with her.” Becker flashed his perfect white smile. “She shut you down.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about, kid,” Brad said, refraining from making a much snider remark and taking a slug of beer. “If I wanted her, I could have her.”
“She’s not your type,” Becker said. “She’s what you call a lady.” He leaned on the pool table. “And a lady needs a certain kind of man.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Brad demanded, feeling the rise of his temper. The comment bit his ass, and it bit hard.
“You can hand a good ol’ boy money, but you can’t teach him about being a gentleman,” Becker said. His gaze was insolent as he eyed Brad’s faded Levi’s with obvious meaning.
Inhaling
