Chapter Eight
Alex threw his gear bag into his locker, slammed it shut and headed down the tunnel to the field. The aroma of hot dogs and roasting peanuts already wafted in the air. Fans were filtering into the stadium, laughing and shouting. He loved the sound of the ballpark before a game. It was the sound of anticipation, the sound of people leaning into their yearnings. They put their troubles aside and entered the thrall of the game, settled into the flow of time that it, and not their busy schedules, dictated, if only for nine innings. He needed to do the same, to lean into that groove, but lately he hadn’t succeeded.
“You’re late,” Scotty said as Alex reached across him to grab his helmet. “You missed my Spades tournament in the locker room. Andres won.” Scotty’s smile froze when he focused on Alex. “You look terrific—bags that puffy are usually on bases.”
Alex didn’t need Scotty to tell him how bad his eyes looked. He’d barely slept. Though he’d sworn not to spend time dealing with the vineyard, Emilio had needed his help. He’d also taken on extra shifts at the Center; both had eaten into his schedule and his sleep. But his restless nights had more to do with his inability to get one feisty lady vet out of his mind than with any worries about Trovare.
“Time to warm up that arm,” Alex said. He ignored Scotty’s probing stare and jogged up and onto the field.
During batting practice Alex smacked ball after ball deep over the wall, but his mind wasn’t tracking what his body was doing. Jackie’s face kept rising in his mind’s eye, and the fantasies that followed weren’t ones he was used to. The sensual fantasies tugged at him with a new power but it was his imagining a life, a future, with her that had him stumped. Meeting her had cracked open some place in him that he hadn’t known existed, in territory he’d thought he’d known well. Evidently he’d been wrong. The woman had roused a force that wasn’t entirely under his control.
Zack walked up beside him, ready to take his practice hits. He ran a hand along Alex’s bat. “Scotty said all that vineyard work was magic.” He shot Alex a wry smile. “Sign me up.”
The guy was twenty pounds overweight and ate donuts for breakfast. But he had an eye for the ball and the power to send it out of the park. He didn’t need magic.
“There’s a waiting list,” Alex joked as he tucked his batting gloves in his pocket.
He grabbed his game glove and headed out to first to field ground balls. For a moment he scanned the faces in the stands. What puzzled him most was that no matter how many times he ran the images of Jackie in his mind, he couldn’t get a bead on any of them. And he’d hardly spent any time around her, so none of his reactions made any sense.
Sharp pain shot through his right leg. Cursing, he ran after the ball that had glanced off his shin.
“Yo!” Laughton, their shortstop, shouted from the batter’s box. “Thought you saw that coming.”
Half an hour later, his leg still twinged as he jogged toward the clubhouse. A routine grounder had hit him; he couldn’t remember the last time that happened.
“Laughton rang your bell,” Scotty said, tapping Alex’s head as they strode into the clubhouse to change into their game uniforms. “Anybody home?”
Alex cuffed him, making sure to go for his left arm. If they were to reach the playoffs, they needed his right one. When they reached the playoffs, Alex said, under his breath.
Scotty eyed him. “I told Walsh that you’re still depressed that they downgraded Pluto to an ice ball.”
“Ice balls are your department,” Alex said. The last thing he needed was their manager, Hal Walsh, hovering over him.
“Your locker’s over here, man.” Scotty banged on the one next to his. “What’s got you?”
Pitcher’s eyes—they missed very little.
“I keep thinking about all those animals,” Alex said absently as he moved to his locker.
“You mean about her,” Scotty said. He straightened, all trace of humor gone. “What’d you tell me last week—don’t bring it to the park?” He stuffed his glove into his gear bag. “Breaking your own rules, man.”
Alex pulled his shirt up and over his head, wishing he hadn’t told Scotty about the night he’d helped Jackie and Gage save the whale. Scotty had the wrong idea.
Scotty wagged a finger. “You once gave me a great piece of advice—”
Alex groaned, cutting him off. “Hold the bat with both hands?”
“Yes, very helpful, that,” Scotty said with the boyish grin he was famous for, the grin that had half the women in San Francisco swooning. “But it was another useful tip that you seem to have forgotten. You told me never to start any kind of real relationship during the season, that there’s no time to work it out, et cetera and blah, blah, blah.”
“That wasn’t me. Should’ve been, but I think you’re going senile.”
“That’s your department,” Scotty volleyed.