From Left Field: A Hot Baseball Romance (Diamond Brides Book 7) (15 page)

Sure, he’d been angry when he slammed Paws to her face. He’d been furious with Parker, with the ump, with himself for losing control. He’d watched his entire image of himself shift off its foundation, shatter like a window hit by a ninety-mile-an-hour fastball. He didn’t want to be
that guy
, the one who argued strikes and balls, the one who got tossed from games, the one who tore up the dugout like a maniac.

But he
was
that guy. He was that guy every bit as much as he was the idiot who’d trusted his manager, the fool who’d thought bad things only happened to other people.

And when he was stripped down to the basics, to the bare reality, to the core of who he was and what he did, he had to say that he believed the Foundation was more important than Paws. Getting kids outdoors was more important than saving animals. He could make more of a difference through his Foundation than Haley ever could with her work.

“Hey, man. Are you going to rip that thing in two?”

He glanced up to meet Ryan Green’s dark gaze. The center fielder nodded toward his armrest, where the leather now bore a perfect arc of half-moons from Adam’s fingertips. He forced himself to relax as Greenie collapsed into the chair across from him. “Sorry,” he said. “I just want to get home.”

“Don’t we all, man? Don’t we all?”

Despite his black mood, he snorted. Green had been drafted right out of college, and he’d spent a couple of years bouncing back and forth from Double-A to the majors, paying his dues. He’d been up for a while now, and he’d hit his stride, playing good ball and getting along with management. The guy was on Easy Street, and he didn’t even know it. “Yeah,” Adam said. “Who’s waiting for you?”

“Not a who,” Green said. “What. I’m going to see Zombies Heart Brains at the Paradise tonight.”

The Paradise Ballroom. Adam remembered when he’d tried to sneak into the place, senior year in high school. He’d presented his fake ID but hadn’t had a prayer of getting past the bouncer. Now, he grunted. “You don’t know how good you’ve got it.”

Green shook his head. “If you miss her so much, go talk to her.”

“Who says there’s a she?” Adam protested, but his heart wasn’t in it.

“There’s always a she.” The kid looked like he was barely old enough to shave, but he sounded like one of those old guys, the half-naked men who sat on top of mountains and offered advice to any asshole stupid enough to climb all the way up there.

Shit, Green wasn’t a kid. He just acted like one, with his Ferrari and his laid-back attitude. But his advice was right on point, as accurate as his throws from center field. There
was
always a she. There was always Haley.

If only Adam could figure out what to say to her. If only there
was
something to say to her. Because he could never, ever take back the words he’d already used, the hurtful things he’d said to the woman he loved.

The woman he loved…

Shit. The words scared the hell out of him—but only because they were true. He’d lied to himself for weeks now—for years, really. He loved Haley Thurman.

It was only this last road trip that he’d allowed himself to admit how much he missed her. He missed calling her after the games. He missed sending her texts in the middle of his day. He missed saving up stories, ideas, random thoughts that they could bat around at the end of the day.

He missed everything about her—about the girl he’d known his entire life, about the woman he’d discovered far too recently.

But missing her was light years away from doing anything about it. Because deep down, no matter how much he loved her, no matter how much he longed to talk to her, no matter how much his body screamed to be with her, he knew they had no future. Because he’d told her the truth. Because he really did put the kids in BUNT ahead of the animals in her shelter, and he’d do that every day, forever.

He looked back at Green, who was shaking his head like he’d never seen anything as sad as Adam. “Call her,” the kid said.

“It’s not that simple.”

“Tell her you screwed up.”

“I didn’t—”

“Maybe not about this. Maybe not about whatever caused your last fight. But you’re a guy. You screwed up something. Figure out what it is and tell her you’re sorry. Let her know what’s really important.”

“Out of the mouths of babes,” Adam said.

“Fuck you,” Green said amiably, and then he shuffled off to vacuum up some money at the poker table. Adam stared out the window and tried to figure out an answer he could live with.

~~~

Haley looked around the room nervously, trying to gauge whether her guests were having a good time. No matter how many times she told herself that Paws was different from the Sartain Foundation, she kept drawing comparisons between this silent auction and the gala Adam had hosted.

The Foundation had fed its guests gourmet food. Paws had gone with an inexpensive animal theme—goldfish crackers and gummi bears, scooped into paper cups that bore images of different dog breeds. The Foundation had offered an elaborate mixed drink, along with free beer and wine. Paws had gone with childhood favorites—lemonade and fruit punch. The Foundation had rented out a swank hotel ballroom, while Paws was taking advantage of the assembly room at a local church.

“This is great, Haley!” She turned around at the enthusiastic shout, only to find herself enveloped in Michael’s arms.

“Thanks,” she said when her brother finally let her go free. “I just hope people are bidding.”

“You’re not checking?”

“That seems a little rude, doesn’t it? I figure I should let people wander at will, write down their offers. The last thing they want to see is some vulture peering over their shoulder.”

Michael said, “I’ll go spy for you.”

“Would you?”

He laughed, and she joined in. She really
had
been transparent, hadn’t she? “Thanks,” she said, brushing a kiss against his cheek.

As her brother ambled away, Kate took his place. “Well, the good news is, our supply of food and drink is holding out.”

Haley frowned. “That sounds like there’s bad news.”

Her assistant shrugged. “Not any worse than we expected. We both knew this was a long shot.”

Haley fought the urge to wince. “How far off are we?”

“It’s too soon to tell. We’ve got the big live-auction items to go.”

“You’re ready for that?”

Kate tapped the microphone pack hooked to her belt. “Ready and waiting. I figured we should give them another five minutes for the silent items, and then I’ll let loose.”

“Perfect.” But it wasn’t perfect. It was so far from perfect that Haley wanted it all over now. She wanted to head home to the comfort of her crazy dogs, to her welcoming cats. She wanted to cuddle with Spike, to ease the new cat’s transition into the household full of animals. He’d come out from under the bed last night, but he still had the boys’ room to himself. She wanted to bring in a laser pointer, to let the poor animal play.

She shouldn’t be so desperate to escape the fundraiser. Paws was her job. When—
if
, she reminded herself firmly—the organization failed to raise the money for the Reeves farm, she’d still have to go into the office every day. She’d still have vendors to wrestle with, policies to implement, animals to place at shelters across the country, if she couldn’t make room for them in the current cramped quarters.

And there was still a chance she’d succeed. A minuscule one, certainly, but a
chance
that Paws could raise the money it needed to buy the farm.

Michael sidled up to her, Billy in tow. “And?” she asked.

“They’re bidding,” he said, but he refused to meet her eyes.

She punched his biceps. “Don’t lie to me, big brother.”

“Ow!” Michael exclaimed, rubbing his arm. He shoved Billy to stand between them. “Go on,” he said to his brother. “You tell her.”

“They’re bidding,” Billy repeated, ducking and offering up a mock look of terror as he shielded himself from her blows. “Some of the items are going well—especially the restaurant meals. But it’s all going to turn on the live auction.”

Which she’d known all along.

“Thanks,” she said.

Before she could figure out something else to push down the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, Kate scrambled onto the stage at the front of the room. “Ladies and gentlemen!” she called out, setting off a vibrating scream of feedback. Her fingers flew to the microphone pack, adjusting the volume, and she eased to the far side of the stage, safely away from the speakers. “Ladies and gentlemen,” she repeated. “Thank you for joining Paws for Love for our first annual fundraising auction. Not that we plan on making it an annual thing,” she corrected herself. “So make sure you maximize your donations tonight!” The easygoing audience laughed.

As Kate went through a lighthearted explanation of Paws’ plan for the Reeves farm, Haley looked around the room. She recognized person after person, recalling individual stories about who had adopted which pet. There was the couple who had taken in two pit bulls, committing to months of care to guarantee that the abused animals would feel safe in their new home. There was the woman who had taken in the tabby cat found at a construction site, the creature with mange so bad it had looked more like a rodent than a feline. There was the old man who had opened his home to one litter of kittens after another, fostering the tiny creatures until they were old enough to be adopted out to forever homes.

These were good people. They were generous people. She had to trust that they would make her dreams come true.

The first item up for live auction was a dog house, to be designed by a student at the University of Raleigh. The enterprising architect had promised to build a house in any style requested by the successful bidder, from a log cabin to Frank Lloyd Wright, from Bauhaus to Gehry. Kate struck the perfect tone as she worked the crowd, building excitement and raising the bids. In the end, four different bidders alternated for three full rounds. “Sold!” Kate cried out. “To the woman in the German Shepherd Dog T-shirt!”

Haley started a tally in her mind, even as Kate made a quick note on the pad of paper she brandished like a weapon. And then Kate immediately launched the auction for the next item—a month’s worth of handmade dog food, prepared by one of the most exclusive chefs in town, a man who just happened to breed prizewinning Bedlington terriers. A bidding war erupted between two of Paws’ board members. Haley was astonished when the package went for more money than she spent in a year on eating out in restaurants.

Kate didn’t let the momentum die. She auctioned off twelve months of canine grooming at an upscale boutique. She pushed a seven-level cat tower designed by an engineer and built to fit any room of the winner’s choice. She eked out every last cent for a local author to write a short story featuring a pet, and when the bidding ended fast and furious, she convinced the writer to create a personalized work for each buyer, thereby doubling the take for Paws. Each time, she recorded the sales price on her pad, underscoring some numbers, scribbling in new ones.

And then it was time.

Kate called Haley up to the stage, introducing her as the executive director of the shelter and the woman behind the Reeves farm purchase. Applause rang out across the room, and Haley raised her hand to her eyes, trying to shield herself from the overhead lights, so she could make out the specific faces of her enthusiastic supporters. The lights were too bright, though. How the hell had Kate been spotting the hands that were raised to make bids?

As if to help her, Kate handed over her notepad. Haley could see the calculations Kate had sketched out, quick predictions for the silent auction bids, easy totals for each of the live items. Kate had done some hasty math, and one number was circled at the bottom of the pad: $82,000.

That’s what they still needed, to succeed. More money than she earned in a year,
twice
what Kate got. It was too much. It had always been too much. Through her own headstrong pride, she’d committed Paws to an impossible project.

But Kate wasn’t going to admit defeat. Instead, she launched into a spirited definition of Pet Ownership University. The successful bidder would be acquiring Haley’s time to study and diagnose behavior problems for one owner, for up to six pets. She would create an individual training program for each animal in the household, personally conducting the classes two times a week for four months. In addition, Haley would be on call, day and night, for any crisis that arose among the animals for the entire time the University was in session.

“All right,” Kate proclaimed. “This is our grand prize of the evening. Let’s start the bidding at one thousand dollars.”

One thousand dollars. A couple of months ago, Haley would have laughed at the notion that her time was worth that much money. But if the past two months had taught her nothing else, she’d learned that good people donated to support the causes they believed in—even when those donations meant paying absurd amounts of money for common items like a coconut cake or a detailed car.

Even so, they would never get the bidding up to $82,000.

Haley was gratified by the number of bidders who stepped up for Kate’s opening amount. She grinned as Kate worked the crowd, adding bids in increments of one hundred dollars. After a couple of minutes, most of the bidders had dropped out, but there were still a few earnest supporters trying to buy her time. The cost of the package edged up to five thousand, to six.

“Seven thousand dollars!”

Haley recognized the nails-on-chalkboard voice before she could pick out a face in the front row of the crowd: Missy Newton. For the first time since bidding began, the room fell silent.

“Excuse me,” Kate said. “You
do
understand that Pet Ownership University is for owners of pets, don’t you?”

“I understand,” Missy grated, stepping forward so that the stage lights caught the brassy blond of her hair. “I own the stock of Fab Fidos, every animal. They’re my pets, unless I choose to sell them.”

Haley could argue the point. She could stand there on the stage and tell everyone in the audience that Missy Newton was the worst thing for dog-lovers since puppy mills began. Haley could launch into an explanation of how the poor breeding animals were overworked, how they produced litter after litter without regard to their own often-fragile health. She had the statistics at her fingertips—about inbreeding, about disease, about why Fab Fidos should be avoided like the plague by anyone who truly loved animals. Missy’s “pets” were doomed, well before the harpy ever sold them to an unsuspecting buyer.