and my sister is—”
“My arm is fine,” he insisted, an edge to his tone this time.
“Okay,” she said, but added in a whisper, “Ice it, Brad.” She thought of all the things she’d heard her father say to players. The sooner he got his muscles nice and cold, the better. “Don’t wait.” Realizing where his thoughts must be going, she said, “This isn’t about a story. I won’t report it. You have my word.”
He stared at her a moment, those blue eyes probing, looking for the truth, for proof he could trust her. Without another word, he let go of her and gave her a nod.
She left him then, but she felt his eyes on her. And, lord help her, it took every ounce of willpower to keep her attention from drifting to him. He’d earned a spot in her column for being so hot on the field.
He’d earned a spot in her fantasies for getting her so hot in the locker room.
2
AN HOUR AFTER meeting Amanda, Brad stood in the cleared-out locker room. He slammed his locker shut, ready to get the hell out of Dodge and find some ice for his aching arm. He was still reeling from the knowledge that Amanda had guessed he was injured. Amanda. A damn reporter, for God’s sake. He was so screwed if word got out.
There was hope to cling to. Jack was cautious about what he printed, careful to keep his home team happy. With any luck, Amanda would use the same strategy.
“Got a minute, Rogers?”
Brad looked up to see Coach Locke standing in one of the trainer’s doorways a few feet away. A fifty-something man with thick gray hair and a hard-as-nails exterior, he was tough but fair with his players and Brad respected him for that.
“Sure, Coach,” Brad said, feeling tense when he normally wouldn’t. With his contract up for renewal and his agent telling him to play it cool, Brad was more than a little on edge.
He wanted to stay in L.A. for what might very well be his last run around the bases. He’d moved his mother here last year when she’d had some health issues. She was doing well now, settled and happy, which meant relocation wasn’t on his agenda. He wanted to bag five more years, hard and fast. Baseball was all he knew, and he wasn’t ready to give it up yet.
Brad left his duffel bag on the bench and followed Coach into the tiny office. Coach sat behind the scuffed up wooden desk and Brad claimed the chair in front of him.
Coach tossed a newspaper at Brad. “Care to explain that?”
Brad cringed. The Ohio press had caught a picture of Brad and the rookie reliever Casey Becker in a heated debate at the airport. Damn it, this was so not what he needed right now. His agent had been preaching about Brad keeping a low profile. So much for that.
“I don’t need to tell you this isn’t the press you need.”
“I know, Coach. I know.” Thanks to a stupid bar fight almost a year ago, Brad had landed in the spotlight and in court. Unfortunately, the team owner had been dragged into the legal battle, as well.
“Do you know?” Coach challenged and jabbed at the paper. “It doesn’t look like you know, to me.”
“Becker is trouble and you know it. The kid has rocks in his head. He respects no one and doesn’t listen to shit.”
“I’m aware of the kid’s attitude, but frankly, the owners are screaming about you, not Becker. I don’t know if you’re hoping to stay in L.A. or move on, but if you want to stay, this isn’t the way to do it.”
Brad’s agent had cautioned him about seeming too eager. Mike thought that making the Rays believe Brad could walk away was critical to offset the prior year’s fiasco. They’d argued the issue and Mike had won. After all, Mike Miller had been with him since day one of his career, and he’d never steered Brad wrong. He knew better than to second-guess Mike now, but damn it, he hated this. He wanted to sit down with the Rays and negotiate a new contract so he could focus on playing ball.
“I certainly want to keep my options open, Coach.”
Coach narrowed his gaze on Brad, clearly not happy with that answer. “Well, this isn’t the way to do it.”
Brad told himself to bite his tongue but it bit his ass that the rookie had landed him in hot water. “Becker needs to be dealt with, Coach. If you don’t get him in line, someone will. The kid’s gonna get his balls busted if he doesn’t show some respect to the veterans.” And it was the truth. Rookies who came into The Show disrespecting the seasoned players eventually got what was coming to them.
“I know the kid is a royal pain, but right now we’re talking about you. Keep your nose clean.” Coach leaned back in his chair, rocking a minute. “You looked good tonight. How’s that arm feeling?”
“Good,” Brad lied. He’d followed that bar fight with surgery and the ensuing recovery time kept him off the mound and unable to show his value to the team. He needed to be on that field now, throwing strikes, and he knew it. Playing good ball would get him a contract renewal. “My arm feels good.”
“Give me more of that heat you had on the mound tonight. Leave the rest at home.”
Brad pushed to his feet. “I hear you, Coach.”
Coach looked up at him, eyes narrowed in a scrutinizing stare. “I hope you do.”
A FEW HOURS AFTER his meeting with Coach, and a long, rough talk with his agent later, Brad stood in the middle of the tiny Texas-style pool hall, beer in hand, music and smoke filtering through the air. A blue neon sign blinked on the wall behind him, and bottle caps lined the trim at the top of the walls. If he closed his ears to the Californian accents, he could almost believe he was back home. In front of him a game of pool was underway, several of his closest buddies competing.
Elbow resting on a round bar table, Brad wished like hell the pain inching from his wrist to his shoulder would go away. It throbbed and ached, a constant reminder he couldn’t escape.
Just like his thoughts of Amanda. All that long auburn hair and those sultry curves served to distract him from his issues. But that was only part of it. She occupied prime space in his head because she knew his secret. She’d taken him from burning hot, ready to find a way to get her naked, to having a freaking heart attack with her caution to ice his arm. Man, if she—a journalist, for chrissake—figured it out, how long would it take his trainers and his coach to discover his secret?
A secret that was killing him.
After an hour of icing his arm and a double dose of ibuprofen, Brad had managed to drag himself to the traditional postgame festivities, also known as the postgame get-shit-faced gathering. Of course, Brad didn’t do the shit-faced thing anymore. Not even on a night such as this one—the final night of a series followed by a few days off. The last time he’d had a few too many, he’d gotten in that damn bar fight and landed in a world of hurt with the press and the team. Of course, hitting a rich college kid whose father just happened to be a senator had certainly invited their wrath.
A beer bottle settled on the table with a loud thud, jolting Brad out of his reverie. The offender was Kurt Caverns, the team catcher.
“I’m empty,” Kurt announced and eyed Brad’s
