Playing Catch: A Baseball Romance

O
n the field
and off the field, bartender Jeanine Jewell plays, collecting one-night stands like baseball cards. She doesn’t need a man, except to curl her toes and make her scream. She’s learned the hard way that love is about control and manipulation—and the last thing she can handle is letting herself be vulnerable, or having anyone discover her shameful secret.

Scoring women is easy for catcher Kirk Kennedy—they don’t call him “Catch and Release” for nothing. He never goes back for a repeat performance. Being traded to a new city is an opportunity for new adventures—until he runs into Jeanine and she refuses to go home with him.

Intrigued, Kirk is determined to catch the elusive blonde and keep her to himself. When he proposes a wingman-to-wingwoman, friends-without-benefits relationship, he’s surprised she accepts.

The no-benefits clause soon falls by the wayside when neither Jeanine or Kirk can resist their explosive chemistry. Despite the sizzle between the sheets, they both refuse to acknowledge they’re anything more than friends.

Everything changes when Kirk discovers someone from his past is the one Jeanine is hiding from.

T
hose who survive are winners
.

S
ome nights
, Jeanine Jewell hated herself. Actually, make that most nights.

Twenty-nine years old, part owner of her own business, she was single and definitely not available—at least for more than a night. Her blond hair, sky-blue eyes, and trim figure draped with designer clothing ensured her a steady supply of attractive and desirable men—the type who play, but not for keeps. Which suited her just fine and kept life exciting and fun—or so it seemed to those standing outside the closed doors.

Jeanine pulled on her skinny jeans and tugged her tank top in place, checking her bra straps. The man she’d hooked up with was already snoring like a mad dog. He’d been hot while he kept it up, but unlike his muscles and studly physique, he and that thing between his legs ran out of steam shortly after crossing home plate.

Jeanine plucked the baseball card from the nightstand. Sam Forster, first baseman for the New York Minutes, an expansion team who had to winter out west in Arizona instead of Florida where other east coast teams trained.

She snickered. It was no wonder they called them Minutemen, because one thing was for sure, he’d been fast. She pulled out a black leather notebook. After sliding in the baseball card, she wrote his name, dated it, and scored him. A nine in looks, but a four in bed, and that was being generous.

The hotel he stayed at was five star. His tousled dark brown hair over a chiseled Hollywood handsome face was a heartbreaker. But when it came to performance, Jeanine wondered if she’d be better off testing sex toys.

Except she had an image to keep up, and no one could ever know that she didn’t like sex.

Because she did. Right? Loved it and had the little black book to prove it.

After scanning the upscale room to make sure she hadn’t left anything, Jeanine quietly let herself out. Sam would probably wonder where she went, but maybe not. She never spent the night. Ever.

Let other women whine and moan for cuddling, or wish for after-sex conversation. Jeanine wasn’t made that way. Once the deed was done, her interest level dropped faster than a wrecking ball over a gravestone. Her main goal was to get away, to never look the guy in the eye again, to shield herself from the fake promises to call or the general awkwardness of a sober morning-after once the intoxicating hormones of sex and power had dissipated.

It was a little after midnight, and the plush burgundy carpeted corridor appeared empty. Jeanine strode briskly toward the elevator. As she turned the corner, a man came out of another hotel room and shut the door slowly so that the lock barely clicked.

Holy hot tomato. Jeanine’s breath caught in her throat.

He was a hunk in tight stretched pants that outlined his fine ass and muscular thighs, and the build? Over six feet tall and broad-shouldered without an inch of fat to soften the chiseled marble of his physique.

He ran his sturdy hand over his dirty blond hair, smoothing it back and put on a baseball cap. Rattlers, the hometown team, who’d beaten the Minutemen in tonight’s first spring training game.

Jeanine swallowed her drool, considering. Perhaps this Rattler would rattle her cage and make her scream longer than a minute. But then, even she had standards, and sleeping with another man so soon after her rather forgettable encounter was gross.

“Calling it a night?” She asked, since there was no way to avoid him. She owned the Hot Corner Bar and Grill where many of the Rattlers hung out, but she’d never met this ballplayer before. Even doing his walk of shame, he looked fresh and peppy.

His too gorgeous blue eyes raked her with a spark of reignited heat. Oh yes, he knew exactly what she was doing skulking down the corridor of a five-star hotel shortly after midnight. Her makeup was off, hair rumpled, and despite smoothing her tank and draping it with a well-worn chambray shirt, she still had that freshly romped look.

But then, it was obvious what he’d been up to. Covering his bed head with a baseball cap? His white shirt was not buttoned correctly and one tail was tucked into his slacks while the other hung out, as if he was advertising what he’d been doing. A buttery, leather jacket was slung over his shoulder, and if it hadn’t been for the misbuttoned shirt, he could have stepped out of a magazine ad for fine menswear.

His lip twisting with a confident smirk, he extended his hand for a shake. “Care for a nightcap downstairs?”

Yowza, was he fast. But then, her quickie had left her with plenty of time to kill. Midnight was still early for a bartender. It was her night off, and she could definitely go a second round—at the bar.

“Why not?” She shook his warm, firm hand, noting the well-muscled forearm. Yep. Definitely a ballplayer. “How about we hop back to The Hot Corner? I’m Jeanine, the owner, and I haven’t seen you around.”

“That’s where my new teammates hang out. Kirk Kennedy, catcher. Just got traded to the Rattlers.”

“Ah, I figured you’re new in town. You know Brock Carter? Ryan Hudson?”

“Yep, but I don’t hunt where my teammates hang, if you know what I mean.” Again, he seared her with those clear blue eyes. “I know this great Mexican joint open until three. Hottest tamales in town.”

“New in town and scoring hot tamales already?” She quirked an eyebrow at him, amused that he’d recommended her rival in baseball bars, the unimaginatively named Home Plate. “Sure. I don’t mind checking out the competition and doing a little mystery shopping.”

He offered her his arm, an incredibly gentlemanly gesture, considering they met on their walks of shame.

Jeanine wet her lips and broke into a grin. Maybe, just maybe, this night was salvageable.

K
irk Kennedy was feeling
like a couple of million bucks—the numbers on his contract and a new town meant plenty of new faces, figures, and fun.

He loved women, loved their smiles, their stimulating scent, their luscious bodies, and the way they felt beneath, on top, in front and around him, but only for a single night. No expectations and no repeat performances.

Tonight’s pickup hadn’t left him satisfied. What had appeared sexy and hot at the bar turned into a woman who wanted the lights off. So he’d gotten the job done, groping in the dark, but couldn’t wait to hightail it out of her room. She was some sort of sports reporter, not that he really cared to find out more.

When she went to the bathroom to clean up, he’d hastily pulled on his clothes, buttoning his shirt in the dark room and snuck out.

The gods must have been smiling on him, because pow! A hot, mussed up blonde still glowing and breathing rapidly from her own encounter strolled by on her own walk of shame—or the way she wore it, he’d have to say walk of pride.

She was fairly tall, slender with well-rounded boobs, and legs a mile long—legs that would feel at home wrapped around him or kneeling over him as she rode him hard like a bucking bronco. The lean, well-cut clothes and the BMW key fob dangling from her fingers showed her to be a woman of substance—one who played on her own terms without the need for gold digging.

Yep, the gods were smiling.

After chatting her up, he’d asked Jeanine to have a post-sex snack with him. He offered her his arm, and she slipped her elegant hand around the crook of his elbow.

Somehow, Kirk didn’t feel as tawdry leaving the hotel with this woman on his arm. Despite the circumstances, she held her head high and walked confidently. She wasn’t dressed fast and loose, but classy: wearing a sedate pair of jeans, a soft work shirt over her white tank, and hand-tooled white cowgirl boots. He nodded at the doorman and stepped into the cool Arizona night.

“Mind if we walk?” he asked. “I only have my bike here and no extra helmet for you.”

“I’ve a car,” she said. “I never leave myself without a way out.”

“You drove him here?”

“Did you ride her here on your bike?”

Kirk took a closer look at Jeanine. She wasn’t early twenties and stupid, but she was definitely not a cougar. If he were to guess, he’d say she was in her mid to late twenties, and yes, it was smart for a woman to take care of her own transportation.

“I met her downstairs at the bar. That’s her hotel room, not mine,” he explained.

“Same here. I mean. That’s his room. I never bring them back to my place.”

“Smart.” He draped his leather jacket over her shoulders. “If we’re walking, you have to stay warm.”

“How about you? Don’t you have to keep your muscles in tip top shape? You boys are playing every day, with only one day off the whole month.”

He put his arm over her shoulder, trapping the jacket on her. “Where I’m from, it’s still snowing. Besides, the hellfire hot tamales will warm me right back up again.”

And if he were lucky, he’d get a taste of that tamale between her legs.

She giggled, shaking her head. “Or have you on the run to the john. Seriously, you ought to try our nuclear wings—on the house.”

“Still trying to get me to your corner?” He pulled her into a brisk walk down the sidewalk.

“They don’t call it The Hot Corner for nothing.” She nudged him with her elbow.

Yep, he’d bet all her corners were hot and spicy, but he had a rule. He avoided running into anyone he bedded. Which worked great in New York City, but not so great if the hottest woman in Phoenix owned a bar where all his teammates hung out.

Things could get complicated fast, and Kirk Kennedy did not do complications.

T
he Home Plate
wasn’t quite as hopping as The Hot Corner, but Jeanine didn’t mind the slower ambiance or the patio strung with cheap lanterns under a wooden overhang.

The night was cool and free of traffic noises, because The Home Plate was tucked in a sleepy area near the canal. Since she had Kirk’s jacket, she was okay with him choosing to sit outside next to a fire pit. The less light, the better. She hadn’t had a chance to freshen up her makeup, and she wasn’t eager to be seen with the baseball player—not after having been with another ballplayer the same night.

“How’d you like your margaritas? Plain or fruit flavored?” Kirk asked after the waitress seated them.

“Not planning on drinking. You asked me here to try the tamales,” Jeanine said.

“Sure, how spicy? Medium, hot, or killer?” His grin seemed to curve wickedly as if he thought she couldn’t take the heat.

“As hot as they come,” Jeanine replied. “But I’ll split it with you. I don’t usually eat so late.”

“They
come
hot all right.” Kirk winked. He turned to the waitress and ordered a Dos Equis beer, while Jeanine settled for mineral water with a twist of lime.

After the waitress delivered their drinks, Kirk tipped the bottle at her glass for a toast. “From one player to another, and don’t deny it and go all goodie girl on me.”

“Why would I do that?” Jeanine tapped his bottle and wet her lips. “I like sex. I like men, but not enough to have a relationship. I don’t like complications.”

“Then you have my interest.” He raised a bushy eyebrow and took a swig of beer. The hot gaze he leveled on her had no other interpretation besides lust and immediate desire.

“What do you mean?” A quiver of awareness warmed her belly at the thought of being handled by a man who’d experienced many bodies and practiced the art of love—or so she hoped.

“Love sex. Love women. Hate complications.” He set the beer bottle on the table and crossed his arms. “I know it’s tacky for me to proposition you tonight, but are you free tomorrow evening after the game?”

“Sorry, I have to work,” Jeanine said. Sheesh. This man had a tremendous appetite. As much as she played, it was only once a week on her Wednesday night off. Occasionally, she’d get a weekend day off, but she spent it with her best girlfriend’s baby boy, daughter, and father who were the closest people she had to family.

“Shucks. I’m afraid if I have to wait a week, I won’t be able to bed you.”

Direct and to the point. This guy wasted no time. Other women would have been insulted, but somehow, his naked need stirred a tingling in her breasts.

“What makes you think I’m interested?” She settled for an indirect tease.

He slowly licked his lips and touched her face. “You are, except I would never want to see you again after we sleep together, and every minute I’m spending with you makes you more of a friend and less of a lover.”

Just the touch of his fingertip had her burning, if that were possible, and she hadn’t even tasted the tamale. His steady eyes pinned her, and she found it hard to break his penetrating gaze.

“Are you saying this offer has an expiration date?” She didn’t want to like his touch, hang onto her breath, yearning for more. But then again, wasn’t this the way it always was? The excitement of a man wanting her, staring at her as if she were the most desirable woman in the world, something worth possessing. That raw edge of desperation to get in between her legs was oftentimes better than the act itself.

“Not if we get going before the night’s over.” His sexy, half-closed eyes moved to her lips. “Since, as you say, you have to work tomorrow.”

Jeanine smiled to herself and bobbed her head knowingly. “You’re saying right after the hot tamale?”

“We could shower together, if that bothers you.”

Oh, she had him hooked, almost lined, before she’d sink him.

“I’m not squeamish.” She passed her tongue over the rim of the beaded water glass.

“Then let’s get the tamale out of the way.”

“Exactly. I can’t wait to dig in.”

What great timing. The waitress approached their table with a giant steaming tamale, one plate, and two forks.

Kirk rubbed his hands and took the bottle of hot sauce from the condiment caddy and doused the entire unwrapped tamale.

That was awfully rude, but from the ten minutes she’d spent with him, she hadn’t expected anything better. The man was a spoiled, entitled player, and a first class douche.

“Did you just ruin this?” Jeanine speared the tamale with her fork.

“You challenged me with hot. I’m not letting you weasel out of it.”

Despite his douchiness, he did sport a heartbreaker’s grin, square jaw, killer blue eyes, and a face handsome enough to make nuns weep. Granted, no female alive could withstand such a combination of asshole and cockiness with an athlete’s body and male model’s face. But Jeanine was no ordinary woman.

She split the tamale into half and wolfed down the smaller side, despite the steam coming out her ears, and the hot sauce burning up her tongue and closing down her throat.

One gulp of water later, she laid the fork on the table and commanded, “Your turn.”

“Wow,” Kirk said. “I love a hot mama.”

Sounded about right for words out of an athlete’s mouth, especially one with few brain cells. Hopefully the other head was better developed.

This hot tamale foreplay thing was strange. But then, maybe even Kirk found it hard to bounce from one bed to the next, especially since he was barely choking down his half of the tamale and cooling his throat with beer.

“Do I detect watering eyes?” Jeanine teased.

Kirk sniffed. “Never. You interested in that hot shower we talked about?”

“Sure, but where? I never take guys back to my place, and I’m guessing you never bring a woman to yours either.”

“You got that right.” He clasped her hand, rubbing it slowly and lazily. “I could rent a hotel room for the night. You game?”

“Too cheap.” She shook her head slowly. “What kind of woman do you think I am?”

“The fun kind.” He raised an eyebrow and pressed her hand to his lips. “Okay, then, since you’re a player and you don’t want complications, I could make an exception for you and bring you to my place. But let me make it very clear. After I blow your mind with the best sex you’ve ever had, I don't ever want to see or hear from you again. And if we happen to bump into each other, I don’t know you, and you don’t know me.”

“What makes you think I’d want a repeat performance? Assuming you perform.” Jeanine all but rolled her eyes. “If you don’t make me scream and curl my toes, I’ll even throw you out of my bar if you happen to show up with your teammates.”

Technically, this wasn’t true. She was a businesswoman after all, and she’d take his dollar bills and credit card anytime. Heck, she’d even be friendly and flirt a bit, but as for him getting into the temple between her legs? She never gave second chances. Ever.

“I’m not worried.” Kirk ran his tongue over the back of her hand. “You coming to my place or not? And I do mean ‘come.’”

His touch, his every move drew shivers of delight throughout her body, but Jeanine pulled away from him. A man who could actually fill up all those dark places inside of her would be too dangerous and hard to control.

Nope. Jeanine played, but never with fire, and with the way Kirk was stimulating her needy nerves, especially after the Minuteman fail, she could go down hard if he lived up to the best sex ever promise.

She opened her purse and threw down enough bills to cover the tamale and drinks. “I’m sorry. I don’t even want a rain check.”

Turning on her heels, she marched from the patio, putting distance between herself and Kirk Kennedy.

She liked sex, but no way did she want to let one man define what sex was to her—never, ever could that happen again.