Eleven
“What are you doing with my wiener?”
“I brought your hot dog, fries, and beer,” said Stevie.
“Lou passed my food to you?” Joe’s expression was cool, closed.
“I went back inside the stadium, looking for you. I saw the vendor, carrying a brown bag, and figured it was yours. I remembered you telling me the night we had the picnic in left field that you liked alone time after a game. Time to think.”
“Alone, just me. Yet you’re here.”
She’d climbed up to the grandstand seats. Wanting, needing, to talk to him. To explain. However feeble her justification might be. He’d rebuffed her. Which she’d expected. Even understood. Still, she held her ground, here with the man and his nasty scraped face. She sought to reach out, to comfort him, but she knew he’d reject her.
Instead she handed him the bag. Their fingers brushed. Her entire hand tingled. “I don’t plan to stay.”
“Go anytime. You’re breathing heavily. Going down the steps is easier than coming up.”
If her breathing was a little rough, it was due to her concern for him. Her heartbeat raced. Her palms were sweaty. He’d issued no invitation to stay. He sat stiffly in a faded T-shirt with the logo Takes Gutz, jeans with a rip near his groin, and black Adidas athletic shoes. His hair was long and damp from his shower. Heavy five o’clock shadow. She caught a glint from his gold band. He still wore the pretend wedding ring, now on his little finger. That gave her heart hope. Yet there was no eye contact. He focused on the field, waiting for her to leave. She stayed.
“Talk to me, Joe. Please.” Her words were barely audible.
He remained as silent as the empty stadium. He didn’t encourage or deny her. His indifference scared her. No more than a step separated them, but it seemed insurmountable. A sense of loss squeezed her chest. “I’m so very sorry,” she managed.
He side-eyed her. “Sorry for what?” No slack.
He wasn’t making this easy. “For not telling you that Dean is my cousin.”
“Slipped your mind, huh?”
“I’d planned to tell you.” Truth. “No time to explain.”
His gaze darkened, his expression disbelieving. He was ticked. “No time? It would’ve taken seconds. Three short words: ‘Dean’s my cousin.’ You knew how I felt about him. I’ve vented. You didn’t come clean.”
“My mistake. You deserved to know.”
“Truth and trust are important to me.”
“Dean was never meant to be a secret, a skeleton in my closet,” she softly said. “He’s family—we’re close. He’s kind, generous, one of the good guys.”
Joe rolled his eyes. Made a rude sound.
“Dean’s also competitive, same as you. He’d asked Lori and me not to associate with any Rogues during spring training. Long before we came to Barefoot William. It was important to him. Family loyalty. No consorting with the enemy. No conflict of interest. An easy promise. I gave him my word and I kept it . . . until you.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Until me?”
“You made me like you.” Possibly she loved him. “After Kason Rhodes left us in the parking lot, I told Dean I’d been seeing you—”
“Sleeping with me.”
He was a naked memory on her bed. Never to be forgotten. “Dean was disappointed, but not mad. Lori will smooth things over. She gives him perspective.”
“What’s my perspective, Stevie?” His tone was caustically curious.
“That competition makes for better players. You and Dean are more alike than you realize. He reflects your strength and intensity, and he has the same drive to play ball. He wants what you have, Joe. Can you blame him?” No response. “I hope Dean succeeds. Not by replacing you in left field, but by landing somewhere in the majors. He is my cousin, after all.”
“So Kason revealed.”
Her heart sank. She was losing him. She had one last hope. “You can stay mad, hold a grudge, and I wouldn’t blame you. Not in the least. You’re justified. You can sit up here alone and enjoy your food or”—she drew the word out, daring him—“meet me at Unleashed for makeup sex.” She’d never had makeup sex before. Now seemed the perfect time. With this man.
“So the shrink’s telling me that sex can make it all better.”
“That’s my analysis. At least it’s a start.” She sighed. “If I could do it all over again, I would’ve told you about Dean between your kissing cupcake frosting off my lips and your taking off my panties.”
She swore one corner of his mouth curved up. Ever so slightly.
She left him then. Didn’t look back.
It was what it was. Unleashed or not.
* * *
How had Joe beaten her home? He hadn’t passed her on the main streets. Perhaps he’d taken the back roads. He’d parked his Jaguar next to the Unleashed van. She stopped behind the Sprinter, climbed from her Mazda Miata. When she entered the building through the side door and walked to the hallway, she found Joe and Turbo seated on the staircase.
“Turbo looks sad,” she noted. Joe, unreadable.
“My boy lost his girl,” he told her. “Dean apparently picked up Etta right after the exhibition game. Turbo’s lonely.”
“Treats might help. He likes turkey jerky. My aunt recently bought a fresh bag.”
“Whatever it takes to get him back to his old self. Etta’s changed him.”
“Love can do that.”
“Love takes it out of a guy.”
“Not when the woman gives love back.”
He descended the steps, and they proceeded to the kitchen. A note from her aunt on the table indicated that she and George had gone out for a drive. Turbo had the run of the house. Stevie canvassed the cupboards, located the treats in one, high on a top shelf. A bit difficult to reach. She stretched on tiptoe. Almost there . . .
Joe came up behind her. Not beside her. A full-body press. She closed her eyes, absorbed his heat and strength. Felt his erection at the small of her back. He was fully armed. She held her breath when he snagged the bag, then rubbed against her, slow to back off.
Turbo heard the rustle of snacks and charged them. He sniffed the bag, nearly inhaled it. Joe gave him two pieces. One he scarfed with barely a chew. With the second, he took his time. Joe sealed and returned the bag to the shelf. Turbo lay down, one eye on the cupboard.
“More later, big guy,” Joe told his dog.
The rottie wagged his tail.
Joe turned to Stevie, arms crossed over his chest, his stance wide. Hard-faced, hard-bodied, hard-on. His “So . . . ?” had a dark undertone.
“Make up with me.”
He made her wait. Seconds of silence stretched to a minute. “Forgive and forget?”
“Our situation could be worse,” she dared. “Dean could be your cousin.”
The corners of his eyes tightened. His mouth flattened against his teeth. “Not funny, Stewie.”
“I’m laughing, Joey.”
“You’re asking for it, babe.”
“Give it to me,” she risked.
He took one giant step toward her, and she took off running. Down the hallway, up the stairs, to her bedroom. The doorknob stuck, and she twisted it hard. Too late. She heard his footsteps, heavy, stalking, behind her. On her. All over her. A man demanding more than her apology.
The landing closed around them. He pulled her back against him. There was nothing slow or sensual in his move. He had his way with her. Not rough, but deliberate. Tauntingly sexual. Makeup, make out, he made her. A rush to orgasm. Her orgasm.
He grasped the round neck of her T-shirt and stretched it wide, kissing her nape, biting her shoulder. He felt her up, then down. He snuck under the hem, fanned her ribs with his fingers, and seduced her breasts. Lengthy caressing and a pinch to her nipples. Heat flicked, arrowed low, when his fingers stole beneath the waistband on her skinny jeans. No unsnapping, no unzipping. She sucked in her stomach. His hand scored her mound, parting her sex. Her arousal dampened his fingertips. He slid two fingers inside her. Drew them out, then delved deeper. His thumb rubbed her most sensitive spot. She responded, all hot need and urgency. Passion pounded in her bones, in her heart, and deep between her thighs.
She went up on her toes. Strained. Back down. Moaned. Short of breath. She rocked her hips. Built to climax. Spiraled, shuddered. Then collapsed against him. Undone. Her head fell back. Her spine was liquid. Her knees weak.
“Accept my apology? ” escaped her lips, soft and breathy.
He turned her toward him. He held her hips tightly. His nostrils flared. His gaze was wicked dark. “You’re not sorry enough. I’m still pretty mad, sweetheart.”
He reached around her and opened her bedroom door with a slight flick of his wrist. He backed her inside, towering over her, but not overpowering. The door creaked closed. They stood on the braided rug. The air between them was electric. Raw excitement. Whatever anger he’d felt earlier had left his body hot. A fusion of heat and arousal. His erection was prominent. He wanted her, despite the secret she’d been keeping.
Dean was momentarily forgotten. Her full attention was on Joe. He raked his hands into her hair, and her scalp tingled. She looked up into his warrior’s face, scraped and bruised. Sore lip. Being battered didn’t stop him. He kissed her aggressively. Thoroughly. Biting her own bottom lip, the tip of her tongue. Then sucking it into his mouth. Deep. Her heart softened to this hard man. She cared for him.
“Lift your arms,” he roughly said.
She raised them high. Her spine stretched. Her breasts lifted. He focused on her chest as he pushed her Rebels T-shirt over her breasts, her head. He tossed it to the floor. Her pale yellow bra was scalloped and lacy. Her nipples were visible through it. He fingered the front clasp. It popped open. Her breasts spilled into his palms. They rose and fell with her breathing. Erratic. Her nipples pointed. He squeezed and kneaded, his touch callused, hard, but not hurtful. Her bra went the way of her shirt.
She slipped off her leather thong sandals, amber-embellished. He took down her jeans. She sidestepped the denim. His gaze moved down her body. Narrowed on her V-zone. She wore his gift, the natural-blond panties. Sheer and revealing. Her pubic hair was a shade darker than the silk. He stroked a finger from her navel to the juncture of her thighs, then pressed the silk against her sex, rubbed her dampness. Her legs stiffened. Her knees locked. He held her on the edge. But didn’t let her come.
She was wound so tight, her heart bumped, her stomach was a sexual knot. She stood nearly naked while he was fully clothed. She rectified the situation. She scored her fingernails under his T-shirt, over his six-pack, his pecs, then back down his sides. His muscles rippled, tensed. A streamlined push up his torso, and she pitched Takes Gutz. His expression was as tight as his body.
Confident, momentarily in control, she bent, pulled off his sneakers and socks, traced his toes, then got him out of his jeans. His boxer briefs came next. Still on her knees, she kissed up his thighs, and his dick rose, long and large. Looking for attention. No kiss, only a tease of warm breath along its length. She flicked her tongue to each hip bone, gave Chaos a kiss. She imagined the hellhound’s howl. Her fingers stretched, sketched his abdomen. Solid. Tanned flesh. Breathing muscle.
Joe widened his stance. Exhaled sharply. He grasped her shoulders and drew her to her feet. “Condom,” was a husky sound.
“Bedside drawer.” A few left over from their previous night together. Their pretend honeymoon.
They stared at each other. The look on his face was a subtle meld of anger and need. Need won out. Her body ached, craved him. His erection was ready for her. She made her move, bold and transparent, leading him to the bed, and not by the hand. There she stripped off her panties. Went flush against him. Clutching his shoulders, she climbed him. Her legs wrapped his waist. Her thighs squeezed. Sex to sex. Him hard. Her wet. He cupped her butt.
Dusk crept through the window, casting shadows. On Joe. On her. Obscuring the scraped side of his face, and shading her cleavage. A rock of her hips signaled him to the bed. He went down on the mattress, took her with him. He hitched himself up against the headboard until he was sitting. She straddled him. His erection nestled between her thighs.
Leaning forward, she brushed his dick, as her breath bathed his neck, his cheek, his mouth. Their tongues soon tangled, mated. Erotically. He palmed her breasts, circled one nipple, and thumbed the tip, bringing exquisite pleasure. His hand flared across her belly, wide, coarse. Her stomach fluttered.
A quick recovery of a condom, a ripped wrapper, and she sheathed him. She rocked forward, then back, teasing his erect penis, yet refusing to take him in fully. He curved his hands over her hips, squeezed her. His need was raw, rushing, and intense.
She went on to frustrate him further. She stroked his sex, holding him between her palms, suggestively rubbing her hands together. Friction and heat; slow, then fast. Until air exploded in his lungs, jagged and sharp, his chest heaved, and he took control. Slipping inside her. Their bodies linked.
She moved her hips up and down. The strength of her thighs set the pace for their mutual satisfaction. She dug her fingers into his shoulders. He clutched her hips. Crushing, yet careful. She craved. Lusted. Began to unravel. Their rhythm left her sighing, him moaning. Both panting.
Sensation overtook her. A sexual high. Time went away and her orgasm rose, broke in a sunburst. His muscles bunched, his back arched, and his hips came off the bed. He came a second after her, his expression going from pain to pleasure. Sex defused his anger. Orgasms ended an argument they’d earlier had no idea how to end.
In the aftermath, he rid himself of the condom and came back to bed. They lay facing each other, bodies aligned, forehead to forehead. A light touching of lips. Until his smile broke. “Makeup sex. You’re good at it, babe.”
He brought out her best. She felt close to him. Reassured in the moment, even if the issue of her connection to Dean wasn’t fully resolved. A situation she couldn’t push. She crossed her fingers and hoped the two men would come to an understanding. However tenuous. Friendships often formed without conscious thought. Differences and similarities fused. For mutual benefit. Their future might yet come together. Given time.
Shortly thereafter, Joe dragged on his jeans and left her, just long enough to feed Turbo. To let his dog outside. To lead the rottie back to his bedroom and settle him in for the night. Doors opened, then closed, as he cut through their adjoining bath. He arrived with a T-shirt in hand. He held it out to her. “Yours.” Richmond Rogues appeared on the front. His number, forty-five, on the back. She sat up, knelt on the bed, and tried it on. The XXL dwarfed her, hanging off one shoulder, swaying at her knees. His scent infused the cotton.
He eyed her. “Perfect fit. Wear it.”
“To bed. My new pj’s.”
He shucked his jeans, joined her again, bare-ass naked. He looked good in his skin. He rolled onto his side, curved her into his body, where she felt cocooned and protected. She realized a moment before she closed her eyes that every woman should have a lover like Joe. At least once in her life. As a gold standard for sex.
Sleep tucked them in, and open shutters ushered in sunshine at 6 a.m., fluttering Stevie’s eyelids and drawing her yawn. Trapped by Joe’s weight, she had no wiggle room. His chest backed her shoulders, his hips bracketed her bottom. Snug. Taking a deep breath, she inched away. At the edge of the bed, she glanced over her shoulder and fell in love with the man.
He remained on his side, arms in the exact position where she’d left him, as if awaiting her return. His hair shadowed his scraped face. He looked battle-worn. She’d applied antiseptic salve to his cuts the night before, and he hadn’t grimaced or winced. He had a high tolerance for pain. She herself was shaking after her ministrations. He’d pulled her close, assured her that he was a fast healer. Minor scars would join his twice-broken nose, further hardening his features. She liked him rugged, rough. He emanated strength.
She drew the white cotton sheet over his hip. Admired the sturdy width of his chest, his powerful arms. His flat abdomen. His hellhound tat. Hot. Sunbeams played off his fake gold wedding band, reminding her of their extended honeymoon. Which would eventually end. She just didn’t know when. He didn’t do monogamy.
She debated getting dressed, then made it easy on herself. Her oversized Rogues T-shirt dragged her knees. She added a pair of black leggings and went to brush her teeth, barefoot. To comb her hair. Then she went to check on Turbo. He lay on the double bed, a scavenger of Joe’s pillows. He wagged his greeting, and followed her to the kitchen. Her coffee. His kibble.
The lighting on the staircase was dim, the hallway even darker. The front door creaked, and Lori slipped in. She hit the main light switch, brightening the entrance. Both women startled, blinked. Then came together. Hugged. They smiled knowingly at each other. As close as sisters.
Lori wore her Rebels T-shirt from the exhibition game.
Stevie faced her in her Rogues tee.
“I assume you got to Joe,” hoped Lori.
“He got me, good.”
“How are things?”
“Horizontal.”
Lori laughed. “Nice position.”
She hesitated, whispered, “How’s Dean?”
“I talked him down. He values family. You’re important to him. He can live with you seeing Joe. It won’t affect his game. But he doesn’t want you to get hurt. Joe apparently takes being single to a new level. He’s not marriage material.”
“I’m not looking to get married.” Not at the moment, anyway. Joe’s playing groom for an afternoon was as close as she might ever get to wearing a wedding gown. To having a honeymoon. They lived in the real world. “We’re just enjoying each other.”
“I’m appreciating Dean, too. We’re making up for lost time.”
The back door lock clicked, and Twyla hobbled inside. Her hair was slightly mussed. Her teal wire rims rested low on her nose. She wore a mauve bathrobe belted at the waist. One bedroom slipper and her plaster foot cast.
Lori raised an eyebrow. “Your aunt has that morning-after look.”
“Morning after what?”
“Morning after George.”
“No way!”
“Way. I passed him leaving in his SUV as I was coming home. He saluted. A definite overnighter.”
“George is a nice guy,” Stevie said. “My aunt’s always been too busy for a relationship.”
“Apparently she’s not too busy for George.”
Stevie embraced the idea of the older couple. In a roundabout way, a torn braided rug had brought them together. Turbo’s destruction, followed by Joe’s introduction of George to her aunt, had led to a good match. The way they looked at each other promised a future.
Lori sniffed the air. “I smell coffee.”
It was always Twyla’s first order of business. A rich Colombia blend. Next came Turbo. Afterward, she’d scramble eggs and fry bacon. Heat croissants. For Lori, Stevie, and occasionally Joe. An hour before the doggy day care opened at seven.
“Good night’s sleep?” Lori asked Twyla as the girls entered the kitchen.
She eyed both girls. Blushed. Was honest. “Little night’s sleep,” she said on a yawn.
“Sexual hangover,” Lori teased.
Deepening color flushed her aunt’s cheeks. “I’ll catch a nap later,” said Twyla. “You girls will be busy. Unleashed is full today. I interviewed and accepted three new pups Sunday afternoon while you were at the exhibition game. All six to eight months old. Small. Two Maltese and a Yorkshire terrier. Mannered, but playful. They’ll need lots of yard time.”
Stevie gave her a thumbs-up. “Got it.”
“Got what?” came from the doorway. Joe.
“Got puppies today,” Stevie told him, as she took him in. He was wearing a worn and torn Catch Me If You Can white T-shirt, navy gym shorts. Running shoes. He’d tied back his hair. His face was like a mask, half morning stubble, half bruised and scraped.
“Run?” he asked, tagging Turbo. The rottie made a swift exit, headed for the front door. He nodded to Stevie. “See you before I go.” He took off, too.
Lori put her hand on her chest. “Joe makes my heart kick.”
He made Stevie’s heart quicken, as well—into a rapid pulse felt throughout her body. Echoing in her ears, fluttering at the base of her throat, settling in her belly, a throbbing at her pelvis. She’d never felt this way about any man before. It scared her, excited her, and made her a little crazy.
Joe was difficult to analyze; the outcome of their relationship, unpredictable. Would it develop or end? Either way, she was with him now. Short-lived or long-term, she’d have to take her chances. Let it unfold on its own.
Her aunt soon passed her a plate, and she ate her breakfast, momentarily content. Turbo reappeared before Joe, panting from their jog. He flopped down on the kitchen floor to rest.
Stevie heard Joe head up the steps for a shower and a half-face shave. She finished her breakfast, enjoyed a second cup of coffee, then pushed back her chair. Ready to attack Monday. Twenty minutes before the first dogs arrived.
“We’re good to go,” she told her aunt. “Time to put up your foot, rest.”
Twyla’s eyes misted. “You girls are lifesavers. I have a great staff, but I’m not sure I could’ve managed without you.”
Stevie washed off her plate, put it in the dishwasher. Paused by her aunt’s chair and gave her a hug. “Family takes care of family. We’re here as long as you need us.”
“What about your psychology practice?” Twyla asked.
Stevie gave her an extra squeeze around the shoulders. “My degree isn’t going anywhere. I’ve been offered positions at two mental health clinics. The offers are open-ended. I can even hang out my own shingle. I’ll make my choice when I return to Roanoke.”
“Lori?” Twyla asked.
“No career path yet,” she admitted, not the least bit concerned. “I’ve been bouncing between jobs for three years now. I love Barefoot William. I’m thinking about becoming a beach bum.” Big grin.
“You’re dating my nephew now?”
Lori finished her eggs, sighed. “I love Dean.”
“I know, dear.” Twyla patted Lori on the hand. “I’ve seen how you look at him. How he looks at you. Dean is dedicated to playing pro ball. But he’s equally devoted to you.”
“Spring training is all-important,” said Lori. “Afterward, we’ll figure us out.”
Stevie waited for Lori to clean up, then the girls took the narrow back kitchen steps to the second floor. They parted ways to dress. Joe heard her bedroom door open, close, and shouted from the bathroom, “Shower’s open, babe.”
She had little time, so she washed up quickly. Threw on clothes even faster. A yellow Unleashed polo, khaki shorts, and brown Keds. She towel-dried her hair. The new short style had its advantages. She left the pretend gold band on her thumb. Silly, but it felt right. For now.
Joe, Lori, and Stevie converged on the front door at the same time, just as the first group of dogs arrived. Turbo awaited Etta. Rylan Cates dropped off his Great Dane, Atlas. Halo Todd came next with pug Quigley, then Will Ridgeway with Chihuahua Cutie Patootie.
Ry spoke to Joe in the entry hall. “Big fund-raiser tomorrow, following practice, at four. Jill wanted me to remind everyone.”
“I’ve already received six texts from her.”
“She knows who needs the most reminding.”
“I’ll be there.”
“People-sized wooden board games,” Rylan explained, including Lori and Stevie. “The Rogues will split into three teams. Tic-tac-toe, chess, or checkers. My group is checkers. We’re human game pieces, playing on enormous boards. We’re all wearing black shirts. We need twelve players, but we only have nine. Five Rogues: Halo, Landon, Pax, Joe, and me. My sister Shaye; her husband, Trace. My two brothers: Dune, who’s a retired pro-volleyball player, and Zane, a hurricane hunter, who’s home on leave. You girls want to join Team Rogue?”
“Yes!” Lori didn’t have to think twice.
“I’ll inform my aunt, and have the staff close out the day for us,” said Stevie. “They’re dependable.”
Rylan nodded. “Great. We still need one more player.”
The front door opened, and Dean Jensen and his bulldog entered. Turbo greeted Etta affectionately. They nuzzled noses, then trotted off together. A furry twosome.
Dean pulled a face. “Of all the dogs here . . .” Etta chooses Turbo. His implied insult went unspoken.
Joe set his jaw. His expression reflected Dean’s sentiment.
“So . . . one more checker,” came from Rylan.
Stevie saw Joe narrow his gaze on his team captain, a don’t-you-dare stare. Ry ignored him. “Dean, you’re aware of the fund-raiser tomorrow afternoon?” he asked.
He gave a short nod. “It’s been advertised all over town. I read a flyer. A Rogues/Barefoot William promotion. Fans pay for spots on opposing teams, on all boards. Rogues are showcased, and, win or lose, the challengers exit. Money raised goes to local charities.”
“That’s right,” said Rylan. “I’m in charge of checkers. We’re at eleven with Lori and Stevie.”
That stunned Dean. “Lori?” He looked at her. Confused.
She responded with, “They need twelve players.”
“You’d round off our dozen, if you want,” added Ry. “Invitation extended.”
Dean swallowed. “To play with the Rogues.”
“It’s a board game,” Joe emphasized. “On the beach, not at the ballpark.”
It was clear that Dean was so taken aback, he couldn’t speak. Stevie held her breath, hoping he’d accept. Lori nudged him with her elbow, encouragingly.
“I’m there,” he agreed.
Stevie caught Joe’s eye. His body was tense, his expression resigned. Thank you, she tried to convey.
He got her message. His gaze was wicked dark. She received his thank me later, as he and his teammates left for practice.
Dean hung back. He curved his arms around the girls’ shoulders. Hugged them hard. His grin was explosive. “Damn, I’m a human checker.”
Stevie absorbed her cousin’s happiness. She appreciated Rylan. Grateful that Joe hadn’t objected. She would spread her gratitude all over him later tonight.
* * *
Tuesday afternoon came on fast. Rylan appointed Joe chief strategist for Team Rogue. Joe had played checkers as a kid, hustling on street corners for money. He’d refreshed himself on the rules on the Internet. He would call the plays. He presently leaned against the blue metal railing that separated the boardwalk from the beach. He surveyed the setup below. Damn impressive.
Collapsible bleachers enclosed the slightly raised, full-scale game boards. The seating was filled to the max. Standing room only. Sunshine shimmered off the sugar sand like a mirage. Low tide tugged at the Gulf, widening the coastline. Egrets and heron skimmed the shallow foam for small fish. Pelicans floated in deeper water.
Time closed on four o’clock. He took the short steps down to the beach, where the Rogues were hanging out with fans, providing photo ops and signing autographs. Stevie, Lori, and Dean were last to arrive. It was difficult to maneuver through the thick crowds. Joe greeted Stevie with a casual possessiveness. His arm circled about her waist, cinching her close. Dean eyed them, adjusted to seeing them together. Turned away.
Photographer Eden Cates-Kane walked between the games, her Nikon raised, ready to capture all the excitement of game day. It would be excellent promo for the Rogues’ website.
Joe took to the checkerboard and placed the players on their individual black squares. Everyone wore black T-shirts and jeans. Played barefoot. He rolled his eyes when Lori requested to stand near Dean. The two were inseparable. He positioned them in the front row. Sacrifice checkers. Out first and captured. He fit Stevie on the back row, between brothers Rylan and Dune. The guys were friendly, and would put her at ease. He then headed to a border square in the first row. It would be a solid advantage point to view the entire board and call the plays.
The opposing team arrived seconds later. Team Breakers, a local surf club, wearing red shirts and assorted board shorts. All guys. Athletic and deeply tanned. Sun-streaked hair. Each had paid fifty dollars to face off with the Rogues. Nice donation. Shaye Cates-Saunders, CEO of Barefoot William Enterprises, left her square, crossed over, and greeted the guys. Rylan waved to his hometown buddies. He had surfing skills. When not at the ballpark, he could be found on his board.
Shaye returned, walking straight to Joe. She leaned close and whispered, “This is a checker game for charity, Zoo. Don’t get crazy-ass aggressive on the locals.”
Aggressive? Him?
She poked him in the gut. “Play nice. It doesn’t matter whether we win or lose. It’s fun in the sun.”
Winning was always better.
She motioned to an impartial official who stood in the sand near the edge of the board. Time was now. Megaphone in hand, he welcomed everyone, read the basic rules, then went on to shout, “Play checkers!”
Black shirts moved first. Joe started with Lori, motioning her one diagonal space forward. Red, next. Both sides soon crowded the center rows. Black was first to jump and capture. The Rogues picked the surfers off, checker by checker. Until Shaye loudly cleared her throat, and Joe cut back on his quick captures.
The official moved the game along when the surfers slowed. “No stalling,” he called out. “You have to take the jump in front of you.”
Which was Rylan Cates. Team Breakers considered him one of their own. They hated knocking him out. With a fist bump and a slap on the back between surfer and Rogue, Ry hopped off the elevated board. He stood among the other eliminated players.
“No jumping Stevie’s bones,” Joe growled at one of the challengers. “Jumping doesn’t include landing on her square and staying. Back it up, man.” The guy shrugged, grinned, and moved in another direction. Stevie remained safe.
“Zoo, you’re leaving me exposed,” Halo called over his shoulder. He stood alone, a stray checker surrounded by red shirts.
Team Breakers was unorganized. They hadn’t realized Halo’s vulnerability. They were too busy high-fiving, having fun, yet they were losing the game. Joe could’ve strategized and saved Halo, Landon, and Pax. Instead he let them fall to the surfers. Shaye winked at him, pleased with his decisions.
Joe glanced at his watch. Thirty minutes were allotted per game. There were three further matches scheduled for the afternoon, all needing to be played before dusk. Joe wrapped up play with a triple-jump. A king was crowned. Zane Cates. He got a cardboard gold crown. The fans cheered the hometown hurricane hunter.
Joe kept his eye on Zane and Stevie. Zane paid her attention beyond what Joe felt was warranted. They talked as the surfers left the board and the new challengers took their squares. Stevie smiled over something Zane said. Even touched his arm. Zane seemed taken by her. Too damn taken.
Rylan crossed to him. “Don’t death-stare my brother.”
Joe turned on Ry. “He’s hitting on Stevie.”
“Not hitting on her, being nice.”
“There’s nice, and then there’s interested.”
“Let it go.” Rylan returned to his square.
Joe continued to watch the two. One eye on the game, one eye on them. The next challengers made him smile. Middle-school students from the Checkers Club. Twelve serious boys and girls. The faculty had donated twenty-five dollars per pupil. They were prepared, and they played exceptionally well.
In under twenty minutes, the red players jumped, captured, and blocked the Rogues so they didn’t have any more moves. Joe had seen it coming, and let it happen.
Halo held up his hands in defeat. “Trapped.”
“I’m backed against the edge,” from Pax.
“You kids are good!” Shaye praised.
The students’ smiles lit up their faces, and they bounced like pogo sticks. Team Rogue celebrated their win right along with them. The crowd applauded wildly. The board cleared. Parents collected their sons and daughters with big hugs.
Joe hadn’t been given the list of challengers. The next opponents from Beachside Memorial totally surprised him. In a good way. Shaye was nearest him, and gave him the rundown: “A doctor, intern, three nurses, and seven children, recently released from the hospital. Administration donated fifteen hundred dollars.”
His heart hitched at the sight of nine-year-old Ashley. Small, blond, she’d battled lymphoma and won. He’d planned to visit her one final time before her discharge, but she’d found him first. The doctor lifted her onto the game board. Joe hoped she could identify him without his superhero costume.
She did, running straight to him in her red tee and pink, gold, and brown paisley jeans. Red flip-flops, to keep her feet clean. “Super Z!” she squealed, all happiness and excitement.
He picked her up, spun her around, and hugged her hard. Relieved. “I wasn’t sure you’d recognize me.”
“I’d know you anywhere, galactic bounty hunter.”
His chest warmed. He stared, taking her in. “Look at you, pretty girl.”
“Look at you.” She touched his scraped cheek. “Owie.”
“It doesn’t hurt. I’ll heal.”
“I got all better.”
“I knew you would.”
She scrunched her nose. “How’d you know?”
“Superpowers.”
She angled her head, made Kewpie-doll lips. “You like my hair?” It hung beyond her shoulders. Shiny.
“Beautiful, sweetie. It sure grew fast.”
She giggled. “It’s a wig, silly.”
“It looks real to me,” he complimented. “No one ever wore hair better.” He searched out Stevie, found both her and the Rogues watching their reunion.
Kuts for Kids had enabled Ashley to face the world and her peers with confidence. Stevie had provided the gift. He lowered his voice, asked the girl, “Would you like to meet the lady who cut her hair for you?”
Ashley’s eyes rounded. “Is she here?”
He set her down. “On the game board.”
Ashley targeted Stevie in a heartbeat. She bounced over to her, threw her arms around her waist. “I’m Ashley. I love you.” Her voice shook. “Thank you.”
Stevie’s eyes misted. She choked up, unable to speak. She patted Ashley on the shoulder, finally managed, “I’m Stevie. Love you back.” Stevie eased her to arm’s length. Admired, “You look better in long hair than I ever did.”
“My real hair will grow back,” Ashley told her. “But it could take a few months.”
“Wear the wig in good health,” said Stevie.
Ashley beamed. “I am healthy now.”
Joe joined them. He took Ashley’s hand as they crossed the board. She skip-stepped beside him. “We played checkers during my recovery,” she remembered.
“From what I recall—”
“I won!”
That she had. Legitimately. Joe had gotten distracted and played without paying attention. Once his attention was snagged by a hot nurse taking Ashley’s temperature and blood pressure. Second time it was a female volunteer pushing the book cart. She’d reminded him of a sexy librarian with her bun and glasses. She’d helped Ashley select reading material. Joe picked out comic books. While he was preoccupied, Ashley cleaned his clock. Her smile was worth his loss.
He left Ashley on a white square in the last row, between two nurses. The spot protected her from immediate elimination. Whoops and laughter erupted with each move. Joe didn’t give a lot of direction. He let Team Rogue jump and capture, then alternately accept their fate and be removed from the game.
Ashley pointed at him as the game board cleared, and only a few human checkers remained on both sides. “Coming after you, Super Zooker,” she determinedly announced, spoiling the effect with a giggle.
Soon it came down to the two of them. A checkerboard with a sweet young girl who’d overcome a major illness, and a Rogue who’d cheered her on. They faced off. A move had to be made, diagonally forward. He could avoid her by going left, or land in her path by shifting right.
He rubbed his knuckles over his chin. “What to do?”
Ashley stepped from her white square onto a black, close to him. An illegal move. The crowd went quiet. “We call it a tie.” Her expression hopeful. “Like when we had wheelchair races at the hospital, and Batman, Captain America, and you crossed the finish line together. It’s come down to you and me, Super Z.”
The sideline official lifted his megaphone. “There are no ties.”
The fans booed. Long and loud.
The air settled, and Joe informed the man, “Ties are allowed in fund-raiser checkers. Both sides win.”
The crowd roared. The right decision had been made. Those on the bleachers stomped their feet in approval. He took Ashley’s hand, walked her to the edge of the board. They hugged again. He kissed her on the forehead. She kissed him on his good cheek. Photographer Eden took memorable photos. The doctor soon lifted Ashley down. Her parents were waiting off to the side. Ashley’s mom clutched a handful of Kleenex. Her dad was soft-eyed, his chin trembling.
Team Rogue hustled back onto the checkerboard. One game left to play. Joe raised an eyebrow at Shaye. “Who’s next?”
“Take a look over your shoulder,” said Shaye. “They signed up for the fund-raiser with the first flyer, a month ago. Weeks before you arrived in town. Sponsored by local bars. They donated ten thousand dollars.”
Joe fully turned. Stared. He shifted his jaw. Holy shit. There came his party posse, Team Zoo Squad, shuffling through the sand. Alyssa was leading eleven of the hottest girls on the beach. All in tight red T-shirts and short shorts. Ready to play checkers. Out to win.