Scoring (Under the Covers)

by Kristin Hardy

• ISBN13: 9780373790821
• ISBN10: 0373790821
• Format: Paperback
• Copyright: 2003-03-01
• Publisher: Harlequin

Excerpts

"God, I love it when you have your hands on me." The husky words broke the stillness of the room.

Becka Landon slid her fingers over the muscled back of the half-naked man lying in front of her, the warm oil slick under her palms. Skin slipped against skin as her breath came faster, a faint dew of moisture forming on her flushed face. The scent of the oil wove its way into her senses, the warmth of his body heated hers. She caught her lower lip between her teeth in concentration.

"I don't want to share you," he groaned. "Let's just run away, you and me."

Becka's mouth curved. "Sammy, you try running away with anyone and your wife will track you down and brain you with a frying pan." She slapped him smartly on the shoulder. "Off the table, coach. Time to go teach these kids to play baseball."

Sammy Albonado, manager for the Lowell Weavers minor league baseball team, sat up and ran his fingers through his grizzled hair. Years of crouching behind the plate as a major league catcher had given him dickey knees and chronic bursitis in his shoulder. Only Becka's skilled hands could banish the aches on those days when the arthritis gnawed at him. "You got yourself a great touch, kid. I'm gonna have you teach my wife."

"I don't know." Becka put her hands on her hips and gave him a sassy look from under the bangs of her red hair.

"If I were you, I'd be a little nervous about bringing Essie in. I might have to tell her you're threatening to run off on her unless you make it worth my while."

"Aw, you know I was just joking." When she only looked at him, he slumped his shoulders in defeat. "What do you want?"

"New hoses for the whirlpool."

"That's a hundred bucks. I'll have to fill out a req."

"You're the one asking me to keep a secret, Sammy," she reminded him, fighting a smile. "I'm only here as long as Ron's out with his carpal tunnel problem, and who knows how long that will be. I've got to do what I can to get this place in shape before I leave."

"You're not goin' anywhere," he insisted. "Whether Ron comes back this season or not, I'm gonna find a way to keep you on. Even if you do push me around."

Hope ballooned up inside her before she could hold it down. "I don't push you around, Sammy, I just... encourage you. But it's all for the sake of the team." She gave him an impudent grin and shoved her hands into the pockets of her khaki walking shorts, trying to ignore the leap of excitement. She knew that keeping her spot as team trainer was a long shot. It didn't do to count on things that might not happen.

Sammy walked out of the clubhouse and into the shadowed space underneath the grandstand, following the sloping walkway that led to the field. A couple of players skidded up from the parking lot in street clothes.

"Hey, Sammy, is it true?"

"What? You should be dressed and on the field stretching, not bugging me," he barked in the gruff tone he imagined gave him authority. "It's almost time for practice. In my day we cared enough to be early."

"But is it true?" asked Paul Morelli, the tough, good-looking catcher with the makings of major league talent.

"Is what true?" Sammy's voice rose. "Is it true that all of ya are gonna be out on the field in fifteen minutes or I'm handing out fines? You'd better believe it."

"No, for real, we heard that Mace Duvall is coming as a batting instructor."

Sammy took his time hitching up his trousers and adjusting his cap, then nodded. "Yep, he'll be the batting instructor all week, and he'll go on the road with us." His look turned to a glower. "But unless you guys get changed and out on that field in ten minutes, you ain't never gonna meet him."

"You just shaved five minutes off the time, Skipper," protested Sal Lopes, the team's center fielder.

"That's nothin' compared to what I'm gonna shave off you if you don't get your butts out on that field," Sammy thundered, and the players scattered toward the clubhouse.

* * *

Becka stretched a new cover over the massage table, idly listening to the chatter of the players as they dressed for practice. When she'd first joined, a few of them had tried to put the moves on her, but she'd laughed them off. Becka had been around locker rooms most of her life, whether competing or assisting the coaches, and locker rooms frequently contained half-naked, testosterone-laden men who found it hard to believe that a lush-mouthed redhead like Becka could resist their charms.

Over the years, she'd gotten very good at doing just that.

The buzz of a locker room energized her, and okay, so she'd gotten an eyeful once or twice. Admittedly, it was sometimes...entertaining, especially when her social life was almost nonexistent. Still, it didn't throw her off her stride. She'd perfected a slightly bored matter-of-factness that made her one of the boys, even though she was all female. And maybe to their own surprise, the Lowell players found themselves treating her like a bossy older sister rather than date bait.

"Look it up in the book. I'm telling you, he had a .360 career batting average." That was DeWalt Jefferson, aka Stats, resident baseball trivia fiend. "Why do you think they called him Mace? He was like tear gas, left all the pitchers weeping."

"You're full of it," Morelli's voice came back. "That's almost as high as Ted Williams. Next you're going to be telling me his season high was .400."

".383," Stats said triumphantly.

"That's a line of bull."

Becka glanced idly out the door of the training room and into the locker area.

"Hey, if Stats says that's the number, that's the number," Chico Watson, the team's burly first baseman, broke in. Twenty-three and married, Watson was the elder statesman of the team.

"Man oh man, what I'd give to bat like that in the big leagues," said Sal Lopes, dreamily pulling on his jersey.

"Me, I'd settle for having his batting average with the ladies," Morelli grinned as he leaned down to tie his shoes.

"Who's this?"

Four heads whipped around to stare at Becka before they went back to dressing. "Mace Duvall."

Even Becka had heard about Mace Duvall, seen his caramel-blond good looks as he'd escorted actresses and models to swanky benefits and premieres. He'd also escorted them to his bed, if the media was to be believed. There was something else about him that nibbled at the edge of her memory, something she couldn't quite dredge up.

"He retired or something, didn't he?"

"He got retired, more like it." Morelli stood and gathered up his catcher's gear, tucking his leg guards under his arm. "Car accident. A big rig took him out. He's lucky to be alive."

(Continues...)

Excerpted from Scoring by Kristin Hardy Copyright © 2003 by Harlequin Enterprises Limited
Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.