Hot Ticket (5 page)

“Huh,” he said, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Just how do you picture me?”

The image of him naked suddenly danced merrily across her mind’s eye, and totally taken aback by it, Kelly blinked.

“What?” he demanded.

“Nothing,” she said, feeling a bit of heat beneath her collar. “I don’t picture you at
all
.”

“Well, I wish you would try picturing me playing baseball and see if you can’t turn that shock jock bit down a notch.”

There was that image again, only this time it was a naked Parker in the batter’s box, and Kelly could not keep the smile or the heat from her face. “I don’t
picture
you,” she insisted emphatically and instantly dropped her gaze to the table, working to wipe the grin off her face.

“Look at me,” Parker demanded.

Kelly refused to look up but rubbed the back of her neck and wished the naked Parker would take a hike. Her face was flooding with heat.

“
Oh
. Okay. I get it,” he said with a sigh.

“What?” she asked, looking up, and saw the knowing smirk. “No, no, there is no
oh
,” she protested, perhaps a tad too emphatically.

“Right.” He was grinning at her. A naked Parker Price was grinning at her.

She snorted and looked around for the waitress. “So how hard can it be to unwrap some premade chicken Caesars and bring them over?

“Hey, don’t freak out, Kelly. I will admit that I pictured you the same way.”

That
certainly got her attention—she jerked a wide-eyed gaze at him. “
Excuse
me?”

He threw up a hand. “Just keeping it real, here.”

“Well . . . keep it real someplace else,” she suggested, gesturing vaguely toward someplace else.

He laughed. “Didn’t have you pegged for a prude.” His gaze flicked the length of her. “Quite the opposite.”

“I am
not
a prude,” she insisted. “Just because I don’t appreciate a man I’ve just met picturing me like
that
does not make me a prude.”

“You’re right. It doesn’t make you a prude; it makes you uptight.”

“Thanks a lot.”

He grinned. “You’re welcome.”

He was teasing her. Okay. She sat back, crossed one leg over the other, and started swinging her foot. “So now that you have enlightened me that you are a whole person, and not just a jock who pictures women he’s just met naked, maybe you will tell me the real reason you are playing so poorly.”

That made Parker groan and roll his eyes to the ceiling. “May
I
ask a question for once?”

“Ask away.”

“Why did you choose me to hate?”

She didn’t
hate
Parker. She actually kind of liked him in a weird, distant kind of way. “I don’t hate you,” she scoffed, flicking her wrist at him as if that was a completely ludicrous suggestion.

“Yes, you do. You trash-talk me every day. You don’t seem to have a program if you’re not Parker-bashing. And I would like to know how it ever got to that point.”

“Well, first of all, I trash lots of sports stars on my show—Wait. That didn’t come out right. What I mean is that I have sports talk show. I have to talk about the good and the bad to be legitimate, and you just happen to be spectacularly bad at the moment. But hey, if you started hitting and fielding and living up to that truckload of dough they paid you, I’d talk about how great you are.”

He suddenly leaned forward, put his arms on the table, and looked at her with an intensity that made her suck in her breath a little. “So if I play well, you’ll ease up on me?”

“Absolutely!”

His eyes narrowed. “Let’s put a little wager on it. We’re playing the Astros at home tomorrow. If I get a base hit, you ease up a little. If I get an RBI, you not only
ease
up, you
talk
me up. And if I get a home run, you go out with me.”

Kelly almost spewed her water all over the table and then laughed out loud. “Are you nuts? I’m not going out with you!”

“What’s the matter? Afraid I’ll get a home run?”

“You are
so
not going to hit a home run.”

“Says who?’

“Says
me.
You haven’t had a decent turn at bat in a month!”

“Then what’s the problem? Take the bet.” His gaze challenged her, daring her to do it.

Kelly drummed the table with her fingers while considering it. First of all, he’d never get a homer, at least not now, not batting like he was. And second of all, it wouldn’t be the end of the world
if he did, because he really was cute—and likable in a sort of full-of-himself jockish way. And third . . . She suddenly leaned forward. “Okay, how about this? Deal on the base hit. Deal on the RBI. But if you don’t get a hit or an RBI or, let’s be real, a
home run
, then you agree to come back on my show and let me ask you why.”

His eyes narrowed. So did hers. And Lucy the waitress chose that moment to drop two chicken Caesar salads on the table. “There you go, sugar. The cook put extra chicken on your salads.”

“Thank you, Lucy,” he said, and gave her a smile that probably melted the woman’s underpants right off her.

“Oh for Pete’s sake,” Kelly muttered and picked up her fork. “That’s the deal, Tex.”

Parker grinned. “I’m game if you are.”

Kelly put down her fork and stuck out her hand. Parker took it in his big bear paw, and they shook on it. Only Parker didn’t let go of her hand right away. He sort of held on to it, that charming little smile of his curling the corners of his mouth, his eyes roaming her face.

“May I have my hand, please?” she asked politely. He let go. She wished Lucy would come back and fill her water glass, because she was feeling a little parched. His smile went even deeper, and she had the distinct impression that he knew exactly how parched she was.

Kelly cleared her throat and forked a piece of chicken. “This will be the easiest bet I ever took,” she said.

“I was thinking the same thing.”

“I can’t wait for the game tomorrow night. I’m going to listen to every play,” she said, and laughed, imagining him at bat, swinging for the fences and hitting nothing but air.

“Why listen when you can see it in person? I’ll leave two tickets for you and Guido.”

Actually, that sounded like a perfect plan. “Seriously?” she asked.

“Absolutely. It would be my pleasure.”

Not nearly as much as it would be her pleasure to watch him lose the bet. And as the conversation turned to pitching, Kelly happily thought of all the one-liners she would use when he came back on her show.

In the bottom of the seventh, the Houston Astros were leading the Mets two to one, but the Mets had two guys on base and Parker was up to bat. He’d gotten a base hit in an earlier inning, and that had boosted his confidence. But he was mildly disappointed to look up to the seats he’d left for Kelly—choice seats, right behind the dugout—and see them empty.

Who knew why she hadn’t come? Frankly, it wasn’t a big deal—whatever he did tonight would be repeated over and over again on ESPN and local news. But he was playing so well, and he had an excellent feeling about this at bat, because the Astros had Orsen Harbacker warming up in the bull pen.

Orsen was a relief pitcher Parker knew almost better than anyone else in the Major Leagues. They’d played against each other in high school, together in college, and together in the minors and big league. Parker knew Orsen so well, he knew Orsen liked to throw a sinking fast ball, which most guys in the league couldn’t hit.

But there wasn’t another ballplayer who’d spent hours letting Orsen practice throwing sinking fast balls to them, either. Years ago, when Parker and Orsen had played college ball, the two of them had practiced many afternoons in an empty ball field.

So when Parker stepped into the batter’s box with two men on, he casually knocked the dirt from his cleats and lined up. He could see Orsen size him up, could see him shake off the catcher’s first two signals. Then he threw a curve ball.

“Strike!”
the ump called, and Parker smiled at Orsen, stepped out of the batter’s box, adjusted his helmet and his glove, and knocked the dirt off his cleats once more. Just as he was about to step into the box, he happened to glance up to the seats behind the dugout.

Damn it if his pulse didn’t leap a little, because there she was, with Guido beside her. He didn’t how he might have missed her before. She was sitting with her legs crossed, leaning forward, her arms propped on her knee, watching him intently. She was wearing a Mets baseball hat, a kick-ass top with spaghetti straps, and what he guessed was some sort of short skirt—all he knew was that she had some of the shapeliest legs he’d ever seen.

Shit. Now he had a freakin’ audience, like there wasn’t pressure enough just from his own bench. He had to ignore those legs, that was all. He had a job to do, and that job was to get his bat on Orsen’s pitch, no matter what. All he needed was a base hit to bring in one run and tie the game. Anything more was gravy.

He stepped back into the box, adjusted his grip on the bat, and glared at his old pal Orsen.

Orsen threw him a ball, much to the delight of the Mets crowd but much to Parker’s dismay. For once, just once, he needed the baseball gods to be with him and make Orsen throw his sinker.
Just this once.

Parker stepped out of the box, went through his ritual of adjusting his helmet and glove and knocking the dirt from his cleats
before stepping back into the box again. And even then, he took all the time he needed to get into position, hoping to shake up Orsen a little.

It didn’t shake up Orsen in the least. The next pitch he threw was a slider, and Parker was stupid enough to swing at it. The ump signaled a strike, a groan went up from the crowd, and from the corner of his eye, Parker saw the club manager shake his head and say something to the batting coach.

No, goddammit, he was not going down this time. He survived another ball, and another one after that as Orsen tried to throw another curve ball to make Parker swing. He had a full count now. He stepped out of the box and angrily knocked the dirt from his cleats. If Orsen thought he was going to walk him, he had another think coming, especially with Kelly sitting up there lapping this up like a dog. It felt like everything was riding on this full count.
Everything.

He adjusted his helmet and glove, gripped his bat, and stepped into the box, getting in position very quickly this time. “Come on, buddy,” he muttered through his teeth. “Come on . . . give me what I want.”

Orsen wound up and uncorked a sinker. And by some divine miracle, Parker got under it. The ball went sailing high to right field. He dropped the bat, raced toward first, and rounded it like an old pro as a lusty cry went up from the crowd. The right fielder had missed it; the ball bounced off the back wall and away from him, and the go-ahead run was rounding third and headed for home.

As Parker hit second base, the third base coach signaled him on, and Parker felt a burst of energy like he hadn’t felt since he was twelve years old. He was flying—his legs were moving under him, eating up great lengths of ground, his arms pumping like pistons. He did not break stride when he rounded third, flying over the base without knowing where the ball was. But as he came down the home stretch, he got the signal to slide and literally hurled
himself through the air, sailing headfirst into home, his hand outstretched, his fingers reaching the plate just ahead of the catcher’s tag.

The crowd went absolutely wild as he jumped up and brushed himself off. The dugout emptied as the entire team rushed out to high-five him. Parker clapped hands with every teammate who could reach him, and as he trotted back to the dugout, he looked up.

Miracle of all miracles, Kelly O’Shay was smiling. The girl was actually
smiling
and gave him a thumbs-up that made him feel lighter than air.

He grinned through the rest of the game and made a couple really spectacular catches, if he did say so himself. The Mets won that night, breaking a two-week losing streak. Afterward, Parker had a few beers with some of the guys to celebrate but then headed home when they all continued on into the city to do more celebrating. Not him—he wanted to be up bright and early to hear
Sports Day with Kelly O’Shay.

The next morning, Parker awoke to the glorious sound of his radio alarm . . . but then frowned in disappointment when he was awake enough to realize it was Guido who was doing the talking.

“Full count, the go-ahead run on second, and
bam
right to the warning track! That was
off
the
hook
!”

“It was off the hook all right,” Kelly agreed in her sexy—and surprisingly genial—voice. “You wouldn’t think a guy that big could run that fast, but he ran like greased lightning. Guido and I were there to see it with our own two eyes.”

“We saw it all right,” Guido agreed, and someone sang “Take Me Out to the Ballgame.”

“I’m telling you, Guido, Parker Price hit what might have been the most spectacular infield homerun I’ve ever seen. There is no question that it saved the game.”

“It may have saved the game, but Kelly, I have to give you
props,” Guido said. “If it wasn’t for your show, I don’t believe Price would have stepped up to the plate, pardon the pun.”

Wait just a damn minute . . . Parker stared disbelievingly at the radio. Guido was going to give
Kelly
credit for his game-winning homerun?

“Oh, Guido, that’s sweet, but
I
didn’t hit that homerun,” Kelly said.

“Damn straight you didn’t,” Parker muttered.

“No, no,” Guido responded, determined. “If you hadn’t called this guy on the carpet for his sucky performance this season, I don’t think he would have done what he did last night. That’s just one man’s opinion, but I defy someone to prove me wrong. Before your show, Price was sleep-walking through the season.”

“Well,” Kelly said airily, “Sometimes, all it takes is a reality check. You know how these high-flying baseball players are—they’ve got so many managers and handlers that sometimes they don’t really know how they are playing in Peoria, right? But take a guy like Price, clue him in, and maybe it sinks in, maybe it doesn’t, but the Mets won last night!” she sang out.