Thwack!

That was the sound he loved. There was no greater rush Carter Fox got than from the sound of wood hitting cowhide.

There were five tools in baseball: speed; arm strength; fielding ability; hitting for average; and hitting for power. Carter, was good at most of them, but he excelled at exactly one of these. His powerful hitting was what had brought at least half the fans to the stadium today.

As he sped toward first base, Carter knew before the ball had even made the top of the arc that it was another home run. His 30th. He was halfway there.

Almost there, Babe.

Babe Ruth was his idol. Sure, there had been plenty of players who had hit more single-season home runs, but something about reaching Babe’s nice round number of 60—a record which he had held for 34 years, and during an era with fewer games per season to boot—plucked a chord inside Carter that hit that perfect note of nostalgia and pride.

More importantly, he was about to score another Sluggers’ win for his team. The icing on top of this home run cake was the nudge pushing them closer to making it to the post season.

Once it was clear to Carter that the ball was headed to the stands, he relaxed. No need to rush off to third base. Let the moment linger.

He loved it. Baseball was the one—the only—good thing in his life. The feel of his bat connecting with the ball. The crowds. The lights. His teammates. Most of all being out here on the diamond.

His eyes wandered up to the screen. For once it wasn’t mirroring his face back to him. It was broadcasting something far more enjoyable to look at. He slowed down, appreciating the image of the woman who had apparently caught his ball. The shorts and tank top—royal blue, he was pleased to note—revealed smooth, cinnamon skin that he had an instant desire to feel underneath his hands. Huge, brown eyes with amazingly thick lashes beamed down at him. As her full lips broadened into an excited smile, deep dimples dotted both of her cheeks.

God, this woman was gorgeous.

She was definitely doing something to him as he rounded the bases. He could feel his groin start to swell. Maybe he’d make a point of personally trying to get that ball back. He mouthed his appreciation, his lips forming a very impressed O. The screen switched to his face at the very moment that O continued on to form the words: very nice.

Whoever was in charge of the cameras was smart enough to switch right back to the one focused on the woman in the stands. If she was on Carter Fox’s radar, she was worth a second look.

That was when the blood rushing to his cock reversed direction and went straight to his head. By now, he was rounding third base and slowed down just enough to see the woman get tackled to the ground. The blood in Carter’s head began to boil. He could feel his fists tightening into boulders, wanting to slam both of them into the face of the man who had just assaulted her. What kind of animal was this guy?

Carter may have been labeled a playboy by the media, and he, more often than not, lived up to that image, but he would never, ever, hurt a woman.

For some reason, watching this particular woman get attacked made him see red more than he normally would have. Carter had the desire to both punch this guy’s lights out, and shield the woman from the danger around her with his own massive body.

Maybe it was because she was currently—hopefully, still—in possession of his 30th home run ball. Maybe it was because she was the sexiest thing he’d seen all day. Maybe it was both.

He crossed home plate and his mind fell back into the game as he was mobbed by his teammates celebrating their win and congratulating him on his home run. Based on the roar of the crowd, he wasn’t so sure the fans weren’t about to do the same. No need to finish out the inning. Carter had done it. Another win for the Sluggers. He should be happy, and he was—thrilled, actually.

Still, his mind kept going back to the woman on the screen.

* * *

The reporters were already swarming by the time the team was headed back to the clubhouse. The fans would be crowding him on the way out outside. He wondered if he’d see the woman on the screen again, this time in person.

“Carter, a word?”

“Hey Fox, can we ask a few questions?

“Carter, how does it feel to have your 30th home run of the season?”

“Carter, what do you have to say to those who feel your home run stats are too impressive for you not to be doping?”

That one stopped him cold. He looked around to see who the offender was and saw a new face in the crowd of reporters. He was a short man with a slight build, glasses, and a face that seemed to have a permanent smirk. That smirk grew wider when he saw that he’d been the one to get Carter Fox to stop in his tracks.

Carter stormed over to him so aggressively that even those standing near the man took an anxious step back. Despite obviously wanting to maintain a composed front, Carter saw him flinch slightly. Then that smug smirk reappeared.

“What the hell did you just say?” Carter growled. “Who are you anyway?”

“Lucas Grabow, writer for the sports news blog, LoneStarStateBaseball.com.”

Carter searched his brain. He’d never heard of the site, but he looked down and saw the press badge. Apparently, anyone could get one these days

“I hope you have some evidence to back that up,” Carter continued. “Otherwise, you might just find my fist putting those words right back in your mouth.”

There were rumors of course. No player who scored as many home runs as Carter did could avoid them. But no one had ever offered any evidence of Carter Fox doping. That was because there was no evidence to be found. Carter was just naturally strong. Combine that with an arm he’d been swinging a bat with since grade school, and he didn’t need enhancement drugs. Thus, most reporters stayed off the topic, not wanting to be sued, or worse, have a not so friendly meeting with Carter Fox’s fist. Obviously, this guy hadn’t got the memo.

“Can I quote you on that?” Grabow said, the shit-eating grin still on his face. “I never said I had evidence, I’m just wondering what your response is to the rumors. Obviously, if you’re clean, then you could just deny it.” He gave an exaggeratedly sheepish shrug in the hopes that it would set Carter off.

“There’s nothing to deny,” Carter said in a dangerously even tone of voice, not taking the bait. “They aren’t rumors, they’re lies. And you’re nothing more than a sleazy, bottom-feeding blogger”—he spat the word—”who probably wouldn’t even have a site if it wasn’t for the Sluggers.”

The reporters around Grabow snickered and the smile on his face faltered. Carter walked away, ignoring the rest of them. He was in no mood for a media blitz. He had just scored his 30th home run, his team had just won, and this asshole had just flipped his switch from elated to pissed off.

* * *

By the time Carter left the clubhouse, most of the fire from his interaction with Lucas Grabow had been extinguished. A nice hot shower and the camaraderie of his teammates had helped.

There was a smallish crowd of die-hard fans and a few reporters still waiting as he walked out. Usually, he enjoyed this part after a game: that final bit of post-game congratulations. Today, he couldn’t help but wonder how many of them thought he was actually juicing. He cursed Lucas Grabow once again.

Then he saw her.

There was the usual throng of groupies screaming his name, hoping to catch his attention. Any other day his eye would have immediately gravitated toward them. Today, he had eyes only for one woman.

Carter had a better opportunity to check her out now that she was standing there in person. She had the sort of long, cinnamon legs that curved in and out perfectly at all the right places: narrow ankles, nicely rounded calves, a dip inward at the knee, very nicely rounded thighs. She shifted from side to side as she leaned on one foot then the other, which made him notice the rest of her body. She had that sort of pear-shape he loved: all dangerous curves on the bottom and demure and small up top.

It was the face that did it for him, though. The face on the screen was nothing compared to the live version. He saw the small bruise on her chin, and the fury at the man responsible for it overcame him again. Hopefully, the asshole was in jail right now.

The anger was quelled by the perfect lips, those dimples, and the lashes fluttering around those bright, brown eyes. A man could sink into those deep brown pools and forget to come up for air.

She was standing there with the ball in her hand—his ball—smiling and talking to some man who was obviously admiring the ball…or was it the body that the ball was in front of? Those dimples re-appeared as she smiled up at him. Carter’s primal jealousy took over and he wanted nothing more than to make her forget about this guy, and every other man on earth. He had to impress this woman, and there was one thing that had always served him well in the past: money.