She quickly crossed out a dozen lines on the list in front of her. Ha! I’d caught her. None of her ideas would work, which got me neatly off the hook. I leaned back in the chair and let my lips curve into a smile.
“Last one,” she said.
Perfect. The word “no” was already on my lips.
“We could do a series of articles on you as you train to improve your batting average. We could line up one particular reporter to come here and watch what you’re already doing. It would only cost you a few minutes every day to give him your thoughts on your training. Maybe add a few pictures and a couple more personal interviews. I’ll oversee the rest. Easy peasy.”
I stared at her. It sounded too good to be true.
“What’s the catch?”
“No catch. Except that you need to be honest with the guy about what you’re doing to become one of baseball’s top hitters…and why.” She leaned forward, and damn it, I was distracted by the way her cleavage plumped right before my eyes. “You’re doing this anyway, Connor. Let me make a story about it.”
I tensed for all the wrong reasons. The first was the sudden urge to do some very naughty things with her breasts. Graphic things that burst through my brain in a parade of erotic images that had me instantly hard. The second was that I couldn’t act on those thoughts because we were alone, in her tiny little office, surrounded by all the things that I thought I hated.
The third was because it had suddenly hit me that she’d said something I didn’t like, though I couldn’t remember it at the moment. But then it came back to me. I dragged my gaze off of her tightening nipples and looked back to her face.
“How do you know what I’m training for?” I rasped.
She rolled her eyes, and again, I thought it was adorable. Damn it!
“I work in this building, and I’m not blind. Besides, I keep track of my players so I can get them press. That’s my job.”
Okay, I’d give her that. But how did she know about me? I’d only just started focusing on improving my batting average. Everything up until now had been about catching those wild pitches and throwing out runners. The lifeblood of a catcher. Then there was sizing up opposing batters—how they hit, where they hit, and how they screwed up. A catcher called the pitches, watched the field, and was as much the brains of a game as a coach. Sometimes more. That was my job, but my knees were a ticking time bomb. I had to become valuable in another way, before I lost the ability to play the position I loved so much.
So I’d started trying to improve my batting average. I was a power hitter, but my accuracy sucked. If I could just connect with the ball more, and place those hits in open field, then maybe, I could transition into being a Designated Hitter. It would keep me in the game for a few more years, and give my knees more time to rest. As a DH, I wouldn’t be expected to field.
So I had started training differently. It was a subtle thing, and I didn’t think anyone had noticed. Only the batting coach was in on the decision. No one else…I thought.
“How did you know?” I repeated.
She sighed and gave me a pitying look. “You guys think you’re so inscrutable. Honestly, Connor, it wasn’t that hard a leap. And if I noticed, then you can damn well bet that a couple of journalists will likely notice soon, too. So let’s make it a story. One that highlights your climb straight to a .400 batting average.
“Four hundred?” I gaped. Dream on. I was currently at a respectable .265. “Babe Ruth only got to .342.”
She shrugged. Did the woman ever sit still? Her body was constantly saying things to me, and most of them were erotic. “Statistics can be cut a thousand different ways. We’ll find a way to slice it so you come out in the middle three hundreds at least.”
My gut tightened. “You mean lie.”
She sighed. “I couldn’t get a journalist to lie if my life depended on it. I’m saying that for the articles, we’ll make it a point to end on a positive note. You’re going to improve—”
I hoped.
“So let me deal with how to paint the happy ending. That’s my job—”
“Your job,” I said with her, not bothering to hide the disgust in my tone.
She raised her eyebrows, and I glowered. She was going to find a way to spin my stats, and I hated it. Once upon a time, baseball had been about me and the ball. About making the play, getting on base. But the higher I climbed, the more expectations were thrown at me. I no longer played because I loved the game. I played to win—a game, a series…a pennant. I played because the team needed me. I played because I was paid to be spectacular.
And then my sister had become involved. She’d turned me into a heartthrob, a sex symbol. As a college kid, I’d loved it. But now, it just added to the expectations. Somehow I was supposed to win at baseball, and more importantly, look good while doing it.
Now Gia was suggesting I put my batting average on the line. A million eyes would read all about my struggles to become a better hitter. It would be out there, in public. What would happen if I failed? And I could, very easily. I hadn’t recovered yet from how I’d failed my youngest sister. The last thing I needed was another way to be watched and found wanting.
“Got any other ideas?” I growled.
“Nope. It’s this or a celebrity date-a-thon.” She leaned forward. “Come on, Connor. Charlie really likes this idea. It’s a great way to highlight your skills before your next contract negotiation.”
My contract wasn’t up for another year, but Charlie was always looking ahead.
