Brad watched in amazement as Tony proceeded to place the cue ball on the table as if he hadn’t scratched. When Tony bent down to take another shot, Brad said, “Damn, Tony, if you’re gonna cheat, do it well.”
“Have you made even one shot tonight?” Kurt asked, adding insult to Tony’s already wounded pride.
“Shut the hell up, Kurt,” Tony snapped.
Kurt accepted a beer from a waitress who’d spotted his empty bottle. He gave her a wink and a tip before sauntering over to the table where he picked up the eight ball. “Good thing you swing the bat better than you play pool.” He raised his beer. “I know. Maybe you need some luck. Why don’t you get some of that peppermint oil Walker uses and rub it on your balls.”
Brad laughed, almost spewing a mouthful of Bud.
“Shut up, Caverns.” Tony’s use of Kurt’s last name indicated he was getting a serious attitude. “Before I shut you up.”
“I’m scared, man. Truly shaking.” Kurt nudged his ever present cowboy hat with his knuckle and fixed Tony with a speculative look. “You know what your problem is?”
Tony straightened, pool stick in his hand, irritation in his voice. “I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”
It was Brad’s shot, but Tony’s expression had him so amused he couldn’t focus. Not only did Tony hate to lose, he was a sucker for a good verbal teardown over it. Kurt was always happy to oblige.
“You can’t find the hole, man,” Kurt said. “Guess that’s why we haven’t seen you with a woman in so long.”
Tony rattled off a string of unpleasant words. “I get laid when I want to get laid.”
Kurt laughed. “Right. The Italian Stallion you ain’t.”
“All you get are groupies. That doesn’t make you the man.” Tony bit the words out. “Anyone can score with them.”
“Okay. Put your money where your mouth is.” Kurt rubbed his palms together. “Let’s make a bet. Pick a woman. Any woman. And let’s see who can score first.”
Tony leaned on his pool stick, a smile lifting the corner of his lips. “Okay.” He motioned at Brad. “I see you laughing there, man. You aren’t out of this. We bet. All three of us. And I know just the woman. The new reporter.”
An instant no ripped through Brad’s mind, and he barely kept it from sliding from his lips. Amanda was off-limits. Sure, she was hot. She damn sure got him hot. But it didn’t matter. She, or more accurately her job, was trouble with a capital T. The kind that could screw up the career he was desperately trying to hang on to. The wrong thing said across the pillows and he could wave a contract renewal goodbye.
“Don’t mess with the press,” he said. “Pick another woman.”
Tony waved off the warning. “She won’t report her own indiscretions.”
“But she can twist them in her favor,” Brad countered. “She has the pen and the audience.” He paused, his lips thinning as he remembered his own personal media bashing. “We all know what happened to me.”
Kurt chimed in. “You know what they say about female reporters?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Once she gets you to drop your pants, she’ll bend you over.”
Tony grinned. “I’ll do her so right she’ll want to brag to the world.”
“I hear that,” Kurt said, as he flagged a waitress and pointed to Brad’s empty bottle, taking the liberty to order for him. “But she’s still trouble, man.”
Grabbing the opening Kurt had given him, Brad eyed the blond hottie tending bar. “Forget the reporter,” he said and used his chin to motion toward the suggested target. “How about her?”
Tony broke out in a smile, pointing at Brad. “I know what’s up. I figured you out. You already tried with the reporter and got shut down. You know you can’t win this bet.”
“She busted your chops, didn’t she?”
The voice from behind Brad was distinct and all too familiar. A New York accent delivering a smart-ass comment could only be the rookie—Brad’s nemesis of the past few months.
Becker came into view, his pressed Dockers and collared shirt looking more preppy than cowboy. Even his blond hair was perfectly groomed—buzzed on the sides, longer on the top, maybe a hint of hair product to hold it in place. He looked like Mr. GQ. He always looked like Mr. GQ.
“Becker,” Brad said, giving him a nod.
“Hey, old man.”
Brad shook his head at the tired jab, wondering if the kid would ever grow up, or at least get new material. “What brings you out tonight?”
Becker lifted his draft beer—figured. The kid couldn’t even drink beer like a man, he had to sip from a glass. “Same as you, I suspect. A little celebration. A little drinking.” He paused. “That reporter from the Tribune…I saw you try to score with her.” Becker flashed his perfect white smile. “She shut you down.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about, kid,” Brad said, refraining from making a much snider remark and taking a slug of beer. “If I wanted her, I could have her.”
“She’s not your type,” Becker said. “She’s what you call a lady.” He leaned on the pool table. “And a lady needs a certain kind of man.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Brad demanded, feeling the rise of his temper. The comment bit his ass, and it bit hard.
“You can hand a good ol’ boy money, but you can’t teach him about being a gentleman,” Becker said. His gaze was insolent as he eyed Brad’s faded Levi’s with obvious meaning.
Inhaling deeply, Brad managed to keep his sour words to himself. Not an easy task, considering the sorry little bastard not only had landed him in hot water today, but basically had insulted his mother. A mother who’d worked her backside off on a teacher’s salary to help Brad achieve his dreams, who’d kept him striving even after his dad had died during his junior year of high school.
But if he was honest with himself, the thought of Amanda with Becker didn’t sit well. The idea of that punk touching her, taking her, when Brad wanted her, brought a bitter taste to his mouth. If anyone on this team was getting Amanda naked, damn it, it was going to be him.
“You think Amanda, or any woman for that matter, wants a snotty nosed little boy?” Brad asked, then followed with a disbelieving sound. “She’d be screaming my name long before you could even find her bra strap.”
Becker’s face started to redden as he clenched his jaw. “Say what you will, old man,” he replied in a tight voice. “Talk is cheap.”
Tony pounded a fist on the pool table. “Now this is a bet I am in on for sure.”
Kurt spoke up then, clearly having realized why this was not a good idea. “Brad’s right. The shit’ll hit the fan if Coach hears you’re screwing with the press.”
“I like the press,” Becker said with a gloating look in Brad’s direction. “And they like me.”
Brad ground his teeth together. Despite Coach’s warnings to leave Becker alone, Brad wanted nothing more than to teach the kid a lesson in respect. “Fine, kid. You got yourself a bet.” He might regret this, but his pride had taken enough for one night.
Without giving Becker—or anyone else—a chance to respond, Brad walked away. The bet was made and once he’d committed to a play, he took it all the way.
Amanda would be his soon, and keeping the new reporter occupied might be a good idea. He’d give her something other than his arm to think about.
3
TO CELEBRATE her first foray into the Rays’ locker room, Amanda shared dinner with her assigned photographer, Reggie Sheldon. Considering she’d only met him that morning, Amanda was surprised she already felt comfortable with him. He’d guided her through what could have been a rough first day of work, and helped her make sense of all the new people and places. The hole-in-the-wall restaurant he had sworn she’d enjoy had indeed been an exceptional choice. The food was phenomenal.
Amanda tossed her napkin on the tiny square table and sighed. “You were right,” she admitted. “That was great Mexican food. I thought for sure I’d given up suc
h fare when I left Texas.”
“Told you,” Reggie said, pushing his empty plate aside. “Los Angeles is the other Texas.”
Amanda laughed. “Not sure what that means but okay.”
“L.A. is a melting pot. There is so much diversity here. It keeps things interesting.”
Reggie himself seemed to be a melting pot of characteristics. A heavyset black man with dreadlocks and stern features, his forearm sported a tattoo of Mickey Mouse. She was coming to know his choice of tattoo matched his unexpected sense of humor.
“Interesting is moving in a matter of days,” Amanda commented. “I still can’t believe this time two weeks ago I didn’t even know I was moving. I’ve started working before most of my wardrobe even crossed the state line.” She glanced at her watch. “Wow. It’s late. I have to write up something about tonight’s game for tomorrow’s paper.”
“That’s just a quick write-up, at least. It’s a good way to get your feet wet. The real pressure, I imagine, is your first feature.”
“Oh, yeah.” Butterflies fluttered in her stomach thinking about submitting that feature. “It’s not due until Monday night, so I have three days to fret about what to write.”
“I have a feeling you’ll do just fine,” he assured her. “But I better get you home to write tomorrow’s piece.”
“You mean my hotel?” she asked, but she didn’t give him time to respond, her mind on the work ahead of her. “Speaking of my story, did you get any shots of that home run Tony hit?”
“The one he blasted halfway to Texas?” Disbelief laced his tone. “What kind of wingman would I be if I missed that kind of shot?”
“Wingman, huh?” She kind of liked the sound of that. Back in Dallas, she’d been lucky to have her own coffee mug, let alone a wingman.
“That’s right, honey cakes.” He gave her a nod. “The right arm to your left. The holder of thy hand in troubled times.”
“Honey cakes?”
“What?” He lifted his eyebrow. “You don’t like your new nickname?”
“I guess you don’t like Amanda?”
“Amanda is a fine name.”
When he said nothing else, she took the bait. “But?”
He shrugged. “It’s what everyone else calls you. I don’t like being like everyone else.”
“You’re joking right?” she asked. “Using my name would make you different. The players called me every name imaginable but Amanda. Honey. Baby. Sweetie.” She rolled her eyes. “Men.” Then quickly added, “Present company excluded, of course.”
They paid the bill, then left the restaurant.
“What do you know about Jack?” Amanda asked, as they settled into the van.
“Jack Ass?” Reggie asked. “I mean Krass.” He started the ignition. “I guess I should have warned you about him.”
“Ya think? Seems a wingman’s duty if I ever heard of one.”
“Yeah, well, I hate to waste good air talking about that sorry bastard.”
“I take it you don’t like him any more than I do,” she commented. “So what’s the story?”
“In a nutshell,” he said, maneuvering the van onto the highway, “he’s an asshole.”
“And a chauvinist bastard. He treated me like I didn’t know sports because I’m a woman.”
“Jack lashes out when he feels threatened.”
“He didn’t act threatened.”
“Oh, he’s threatened. Kevin finally got smart about who he hired to replace star Jack. You have an advantage over the two guys before you, and Jack knows it.”
“And what exactly would that advantage be? Because I have to tell you, I didn’t feel any advantages back there in that locker room.”
Reggie cast her a sideways look. “A woman has an edge when it comes to men. You can get guys to admit to and talk about stuff they won’t with other guys. What you do with that edge is what counts. And right now, Jack knows you are getting attention he wants as his own.”
Amanda digested that information in silence. She’d never considered being female as one of the reasons she was good at her job. But then, it wasn’t until after her makeover that she’d started to see her feminine assets.
Still, her gender couldn’t completely explain Jack’s reaction to her. “Jack seems pretty tight with the Rays. Don’t get me wrong, they gave him a hard time. But it was in a you’re-one-of-the-guys kind of way. When we were in the other team’s locker room, not so much. But with the Rays, he was the one who seemed to have the edge.”
“He’s been around a long time.” They pulled up to a stoplight and Reggie gave her his full attention. “When he first started with the paper, he seemed real down-to-earth. A good guy. He was eager to earn the players’ trust—always printing their side of the story while still being objective. And the team takes care of their own. Jack ended up with all kinds of exclusives.” His lips thinned. “And that’s when the real Jack showed his colors. He changed in a big way. One minute, a nice guy. The next, cocky and demanding. The bigger his readership, the bigger his head.”
“And the players?” Amanda prodded. “Did they notice?”
“Oh, yeah, they noticed. But he was inside their circle. He’d looked the other way on some things, didn’t oversensationalize some career-damaging incidents, so the team hung tight. Until Jack does someone dirty, the guys won’t kick him out. But let me tell you, he will. Jack’s new job is a stepping stone to bigger things. He’s going to do what it takes to get to the next level.”
From the conviction in Reggie’s words, she knew he had experienced the bad side of Jack firsthand. “Jack did you dirty.”
The light turned green and Reggie focused on the road. “When we worked together he talked a lot about the two musketeers. All for one and one for all.” Pause. “In the end, Jack was out for Jack.”
“He burned you pretty bad, huh?”
Reggie didn’t look at her. “I let it happen,” he said and didn’t elaborate.
Amanda wanted to push him for details but decided it was best she leave it alone. They’d only just met, and Reggie had no reason to trust her. But in time, maybe he’d feel he could tell her the entire story.
“After being burned by Jack, I’m surprised you’re so willing to be my wingman.”
He laughed, but not with humor. In fact, the sound rang with a hint of bitterness. “Because of Jack, I’m willing to be your wingman.” He cast her a sideways glance and winked. “I want to see him go down, and I’ve a good feeling you can kick some Jack Ass. In fact, I’m counting on it.”
“You and me both,” she murmured, feeling the pressure of success more than ever.
She’d known her predecessor would be tough competition. Now, she knew Jack was more than that. If he would stoop to such low levels to achieve success, even burn those closest to him, he’d certainly bury her, given the chance.
But Jack Krass wasn’t standing between her and success—and she refused to let him. He reminded her of her ex, who’d been willing to do anything to get ahead, even marry her. Though she’d put her marriage behind her, she had learned to be wary of people like her ex, like Jack.
She wouldn’t play dirty the way Jack did. She’d play smart. And she would prove good reporting and good ethics could defeat big egos and dirty deeds every time.
BY MONDAY NIGHT, Amanda had written and rewritten her first feature story so many times, she wanted to rip her hair out. Now as she stared at the blank screen of her notebook computer, the pressure of that short time frame she had to capture an audience had her second-guessing herself.
One angle played over and over in her mind. If being a woman gave her an edge, why not use that edge in her column? How could she translate that advantage to the page in a way that connected with readers? She toyed with the hem of her oversize T-shirt while she considered and discarded potential story threads. As seemed typical since meeting him, her thoughts strayed to images of Brad wearing that skimpy towel. In her fantasies, a bolder version of herself tugged
off that towel and indulged her every sensual impulse in the perfection of his body. Maybe she should make him the focus of her feature, write this crazy urge out of her system.
Her cell started to shake on the bedside table, disrupting her thoughts. Eying the caller ID, Amanda wasn’t surprised to see her sister’s number. She put the receiver to her ear, and before she could even speak, the verbal barrage started.
“You didn’t call me,” Kelli reprimanded. “It’s been days and not one phone call. How am I supposed to know what’s going on if you don’t phone?”
Amanda leaned against the headboard, preparing for a long chat. “Hello to you, too.”
“Screw hello. I’ve used great restraint not calling before now. I want the gossip. Tell me everything. How did the first night go?”
“I didn’t trip and fall, and my skirt did not get stuck in my panty hose. I’d say it was a success.”
“Falling isn’t so bad. Nothing wrong with creating opportunity for chivalry.”
Amanda remembered all too well her tumbling act, smack in the middle of the food court at the mall, when she’d switched from flats to heels. “Preferably not when landing facedown, looking like a fool, I would assume.”
“You didn’t look like a fool.” Kelli gave an unladylike snort. “Okay, a little, but it was your first day in heels.”
“I still can’t believe I fell,” Amanda said. “I never do stuff like that.”
“Walking like a goddess in heels is an art.”
“So I found out,” Amanda agreed. “I’m just waiting for the toe-pinching to subside.”
“You get used to that, too.”
“One day I might grow up and be a diva doctor like you,” Amanda teased.
“You could never be a doctor. You turn blue at the sight of blood. Besides, my dear little sis, why would you want to develop a God complex? Doctors, pilots and athletes all have gargantuan egos and you are much too sweet to either acquire one or date one.”