Chapter Two

Rhett

“Oh, fuck me!” I spat as I watched Brenna Sinclair’s slim figure collapse in the press pen. She crumpled gracefully to the ground, her silky chestnut hair creating a halo around her pale face.

“Rhett, brother, what the hell!” One of my teammates, Andy, jogged across the field toward me, holding his splintered bat. “You made me whack the shit out of that chick! You know you’re not supposed to throw me the sinker at practice!”

I snickered but felt the guilt rise in my throat. “Fuck.” I shook my head, wiping the sweat from my brow with the back of my hand. “You know I didn’t mean to do that. You’re the one who hit the damn ball!”

Andy rolled his eyes. “I’ve told you a thousand times, bro, to never use that damn sinker on me. I’ll foul that shit off every fuckin’ time. Hard.”

“Listen, asshat,” I grouched, “I need to warm up all my pitches. Can’t you fuckin’ watch where you swing that damn thing?” I pointed at the bat, hanging like shredded deadwood from Andy’s tight grip.

He shrugged, eyes dancing with amusement. Blaming me. I wanted to pop him one in the jaw so I could wipe that smug look off his face. I knew what he was thinking. That it couldn’t have happened to a better person. Or “cold bitch” as she was known around the locker room. Now, I’d get blamed in her latest scathing exposé about all things professional baseball player. I could tell that my buddy didn’t give a shit about knocking anyone out, especially not someone as disliked among the Yankees organization as Brenna Sinclair.

As I jogged toward the dugout, I frowned and scratched my head. I wondered what the hell I’d done to make a woman like that hate me so much. I’d just fucking waved in a hey, can’t we just let bygones be bygones kind of thing. Sure, she’d trashed me in her latest piece for Sport Taste, but she was a journalist. If I gave her fodder for her column, she wrote about it. Period. More important than a journalist, Brenna was a woman. And women loved me. Women of all shapes, sizes, races, religions, and socio-economic background. It mattered not. And she would too... if she’d ever give me a damn chance.

Not that I wanted her to give me a chance, the hateful witch.

Well, making jabs and barbs about my Golden Number probably isn’t in her job description. She could have at least left all that shit out of there.

My coach glared at me with his steely black eyes that missed nothing. Don even saw everything that lay between the moments. “The first fuckin’ day back from a long road trip and this is the shit you two pull?” He threw his arms into the air. “I don’t know what’s worse. That you threw the damn sinker when you knew you shouldn’t, or that this ignoramus swung at it!”

“Hey, I didn’t hit that ball,” I said, knowing in advance that Don wouldn’t give two shits about my role in knocking Brenna Sinclair on her ass. That I’d had a role at all made me guilty as sin in his eagle eyes. “I threw it. I wouldn’t do something like that on purpose!”

Don glared and wagged his finger in the air like a schoolteacher. “You better check yourself,” he snapped. “You may be hot right now, Bradshaw, but you gotta remember – I’m in charge around here.”

Don’s word was the law around the stadium, and anywhere else I happened to be with the team. He was a great coach. A little salty, a little impolite. But since he’d taken the Yankees under his wing, we’d had three great seasons. I knew it wasn’t practical to think about the World Series this year. And even though we were only a month into the season, I was pretty damn confident in myself and the rest of the guys.

“I feel terrible,” I admitted, regret roiling through my gut. I really did. What if she assumed I tried to take her out so I could shut her up? I wasn’t raised to abuse women. “I never meant for that to happen.”

Don’s beady black eyes searched my face. When he was satisfied that I looked appropriately contrite, he jerked his head toward the dugout. “Shake it off. Time to suit up. We’ve got a game to play.”

I groaned, trying to turn my mind back to baseball and off Brenna’s gorgeous, pale face. I didn’t want to think about her, but my mind drifted there anyway. For someone so stunning, she packed a punch in the frigid bitch department. Despite what she’d written about me, Brenna Sinclair was the perfect inspiration for blue balls. I liked her sassiness, how she spoke her mind without fear. At least when I wasn’t the star of her shit show.

And while a lot of the guys on the team avoided her like the plague, I didn’t mind her. My mom always said I’d been born with a happy-go-lucky personality, and I prided myself on not being a hothead unless someone got so up in my face, I’d lose cred if I backed down. But hell, it was hard to fight against the written word, especially when what the hateful woman wrote was mostly true.

Bet I could give her a reason to be mad for real, I thought, thinking about how it would feel to pull her into my arms, kiss her senseless, then leave her moaning and begging for more as I loped away, not even looking back. Maybe it was just because Brenna was the only woman in NYC who hadn’t fallen onto my dick. Intriguing. Beautiful, smart, talented, and fascinating. An anomaly.

I spotted a crowd of people still gathered around Brenna, including the emergency medical guys. With a possible head injury, you couldn’t be too careful. After taking a few balls to the pate by some wicked line drives to the mound, I knew they didn’t like to move a person until they were stable. Another girl crouched down beside her, holding her hand. The other girl looked vaguely familiar. Ramona, Ruth, Roberta. No, there was one other female journalist at Sport Taste. Riley Buxton! That was it.

They’re both gonna crucify me for this. I’d become pitcher roadkill at the hands of the avenging female sports writer’s guild. Like Erin Andrews. That chick sued people. Jogging over, I tried parting my way through the crowd of people clustered in the stands.

“Hey,” I called loudly. “What’s going on?”

“The ambulance is on its way,” Riley said. She stared at me with an odd look on her face. I’d seen it before. It was the look of a woman who thought I was hot, but who didn’t want to show it because accusation lingered there too. Like I’d done this shit on purpose.

“Fuck,” I muttered. “Is she okay?”

“I’m not sure.” Riley bit her lip. “The on-site EMTs said we shouldn’t move her until the ambulance gets here. I guess I’m surprised there wasn’t an ambulance on site, too.”

The team’s catcher and my brother from another mother, Ernesto Garcia, jogged over when he saw me standing there, his thick, black hair ruffled by the afternoon breeze. He smiled with his perfect white teeth and charming dimples, and I swear I saw Riley do a double take. Us single dudes had to stick together. Most of the guys were leg shackled, but Ernie and I kept it light and tight. We always went out together, and Ernie was good people. I could trust him, and as a result, I tended to spill my guts too often.

Between the pair of us, we’d slept with hundreds of girls around New York. Ernie wasn’t as brash and loud as I was, and he was the perfect straight man for my brand of comedy. We even contrasted each other physically – Ernie’s Cuban looks against my All-American charm. Bars and restaurants clamored for our patronage. Everywhere we went, chicks with deep pockets and loose morals followed. In spite of my seven-figure yearly salary, I couldn’t remember the last time I actually paid for my own drinks. Now, due to my stellar financial planner, I’d turned my millions into a cool billion.

“Man, what happened?” Ernie said, his Cuban accent coming out in the face of his alarm. “She okay?”

“Andy whacked my sinker into the press area,” I said, shaking my head as if I couldn’t believe it. “Hit her right in the skull.”

Ernie let out a low whistle. “Fuck, man,” he muttered. He narrowed his eyes as he shoved his cap back on his head. “That’s serious. She could die.”

I glared at him. “Die? Nah, I’ve had my bell rung more times than I can count. I’m a pitcher. Know how many times I’ve seen a line drive barreling toward my face? Especially back in little league when I hadn’t learned how to duck in time.” I turned my attention back to Riley. “You want me to stay until she gets safely in the ambulance?”

Riley glared at me. “I think you’ve done enough,” she snapped.

Cold sweat crawled down the back of my neck, and I shivered. The balmy late March sun burned into my skin, but chills still sent prickles across my body. I’d never hurt anyone like that – wild pitches aside. Of course, I’d hit some batters before, but all that did was bruise their skin…and their ego. That was what they got for crowding the plate.

I heard the loud whine of the ambulance before I saw it. A team of EMTs ran across the field and into the stands. Just as they reached our little knot, Brenna opened her eyes.

“Brenna!” Riley cried. “Oh my god, girl! You had me terrified!”

Brenna squinted against the sun. A soft moan escaped her lips as she lifted a hand to shield her eyes.

“Brenna?” Riley asked in a puzzled voice. “Are you okay?”

“Hey, man,” Ernie whispered, a sliver of a friendly voice above the din of the sirens. “You really kicked the shit out of her. Just like she did to you with that article.”

“Shut up,” I hissed.

“Miss?” One of the EMTs stepped forward. “Miss, can you tell me what happened?”

“Her name’s Brenna,” Riley said.

Brenna’s eyes narrowed in confusion. “What?” Her voice sounded odd – sleepy. It was almost like she’d just woken up from a long winter’s nap. “What happened?”

“That’s what I’m asking you, Brenna,” the EMT said. “Can you tell me what happened?”

Riley glanced down at Brenna’s face, then speared me with a lethal glare. “She got hit in the head with a baseball.” Her finger speared toward me. “Because of him.”

All eyes locked on me, then back to Brenna when she groaned. “No, I didn’t,” Brenna said. She tried to sit up, but then her eyes rolled back in her head, and she slumped back down.

Shitballs. This situation had just graduated from bad to worse.

“Brenna!” Riley shrieked. “Brenna, wake up!”

“I’m awake,” Brenna said, her weak voice imperceptible. “Why do you keep screaming?” She blinked. “And why the hell can’t I get up? Oh, I’m so tired. I just want to sleep.”

“I’m afraid you can’t sleep right now, Brenna,” the EMT said, flashing a light in her eyes.

“You really don’t remember what happened?” Riley needled. “Come on, Brenna. Tell these guys. They came to take care of you.”

“Brenna, we’re going to take you to the hospital, just to check you out,” the EMT said. He and the other EMTs carefully lifted Brenna onto a stretcher and secured her. It frightened me to see her like that. I started to think that I’d really hurt her. I never should have thrown that damn pitch, but I’d felt like showing off in front of her because I knew Andy couldn’t hit it. I really thought he’d whiff.

“I don’t need to go to a hospital,” Brenna said. Her eyelids fluttered but stayed open. “I’m fine. I just…I don’t know where I am and why I’m here. I’m supposed to be…” She frowned. “I’m supposed to be doing something.”

“Where do you work?” The EMT gripped her wrist and checked her pulse. Brenna tried to snatch it away, but he held on tight.

“I…” Brenna trailed off, a soft sigh escaping her full lips. “I don’t know.”

“Fuck,” Ernie whispered beside me. I jabbed an elbow in his ribs, willing him to shut the hell up.

“You don’t know?” The EMT glanced around, his concerned eyes resting on Riley. “Miss, we’ll need you to come along as well. You’ll have to answer some questions for your friend.”

Oh my god, this is so fucked up. I balled my hands into fists and shoved them deep into my pockets. I couldn’t believe I played a part in hurting someone so badly they needed to be hospitalized. I never would have wished that on Brenna, either. Sure, I hadn’t exactly been a fan of her piece on me, but I’d never willingly cause someone else’s pain. Especially a woman. Sure, she seemed like a judgmental brat, but I didn’t want revenge. After all, Brenna Sinclair was gorgeous. Women like her were for fucking, not for knocking out cold with a rogue sinker.

“Brenna? We asked about your work,” the EMT repeated. “Where do you work?”

Brenna’s green eyes focused right on me. “Well, I’ve always wanted to be a journalist.”

Oh, fuck. She doesn’t even remember that.