Matt Jackson, Catcher

Chapter One

Chapter OneFebruary, Sandy Key, Florida

Depressed after losing the World Series, Matt needed sunshine, which was in short supply in February in New York. In the weeks before spring training started, he’d agreed to head up a two-week camp for underprivileged kids. Matt wouldn’t be doing it alone some joker, named Dusty Carmichael, from professional softball would partner with him.

The catcher sniffed. This asshole, Carmichael, was a pitcher. How good could he be playing men’s softball? The guy’s probably a f*****g amateur and doesn’t know s**t about baseball. It annoyed him to think he’d be running the show with little help from someone who didn’t know crap and was getting paid a bundle. He shook his head. Why did he always get stuck with the losers?

The more he thought about it, the more annoyed he got. He shouldered his equipment bag and headed for the locker room. He stopped at the stadium entrance and flashed his credentials to the security guard.

“That guy Carmichael here yet?”

“Yeah, but—”

Matt waved him away and continued on. At least the sun was shining. It was seventy-three degrees—perfect weather for baseball. Sure beat the twenty degree, cloudy day he’d left in New York the morning before. Arriving an hour ahead of time, he whistled as he strolled along. Matt had a thing about being late and showed up early to most everything.

He waved at the janitor as he pushed open the locker room door.

“You can’t...”

But Matt didn’t hear the rest. He looked up to see beautiful, long auburn locks hanging down from the head of a woman, who was dressed only in panties. She was bending over, brushing her hair, so he couldn’t see her face, and she couldn’t see him. At the click of the door closing, she snapped up straight, whipping her tresses back, so that they fell down her back and revealed the most gorgeous breasts he’d ever seen.

Her eyes widened. “Get out! Get out!”

Matt froze, his gaze locked on her chest before he realized what he was doing. He covered his eyes with his hand and backed toward the exit. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t know there was a woman in here.”

“Big fat lie, asshole. Get out!”

He peeked through his fingers, but the previous view was covered by her bare arms. He still managed to take in a middle with some ab definition and long, slender legs. Her white panties were almost see-through. Almost.

“Get out!”

With one hand, she rifled a gym bag at him, scoring a direct hit. Reaching behind his back, he found the door handle and was in the hall in a flash. Heat ran up his chest, to his neck and his face. The woman was stunning. He didn’t know if his flush was from s****l excitement or embarrassment. Maybe both.

He opened his cell and dialed the Nighthawk’s general manager, Barker Garland, known affectionately as Bark.

“Hey, Bark. There’s a naked woman in the locker room. What the hell’s going on?”

“Where are you?”

“In Florida.”

“Must be your camp partner.”

“Dusty Carmichael?” Matt’s eyebrows rose.

“Yeah. That’s her.”

“Why the f**k didn’t you tell me she was a girl?”

“I didn’t think it mattered.”

“Well, it sure as hell mattered when I walked in on her.”

Matt didn’t appreciate the guffaws on the other end.

“It’s not funny.”

“I guess formal introductions aren’t necessary, now,” Bark said, as he burst into another round of laughter.

“Hilarious. I have to work with this woman. She probably thinks I’m a rapist.”

“Maybe a voyeur, Matt.”

“Like that’s actually better?”

“You’ll figure it out. Hey, it’s Saturday. I’m going to brunch with the wife. Handle it. Win her over. I know you can.”

Matt put his phone in his back pocket. “Wonderful.” How the hell was he going to dig his way out of this one?

“Hey!” A feminine voice captured his attention.

He turned to see the previously-naked woman dressed in a baseball uniform, her luxurious hair tucked neatly under a cap. Except for the lipstick, her curvy figure—not well hidden by the uniform—and the absence of five o’clock shadow, she could have been a guy.

“Do you always walk in on women dressing?”

“I’m sorry.”

“You said that. Several times.”

“I didn’t know you were a woman.”

She chuckled. “I guess you do now.”

The heat in his face intensified. “What I meant to say was that I didn’t know Dusty Carmichael was a woman.”

She said. “Yeah, I’ve gotten that before.”

“Did your parents name you Dusty?”

“Nope. Desiree. But my brother nicknamed me Dusty, and it stuck.”

“Matt Jackson. Nice to meet you.” He held out his hand, and she shook it. Incredibly nice. The image of her half-naked flashed through his brain. “I hope you’re not going to hold that error against me.”

“Just don’t do it again.”

“No way. I promise. I’ll knock, next time,” he said, holding up his palms. “We don’t get many women in the locker room.”

She laughed. “I can see that.”

“You’re here early.”

“You too,” she countered.

“I hate being late.”

“I figured I might as well shower here as at home,” she said.

He nodded. “You’re a pitcher?”

“Yep. Number one in my league.”

That impressed him. In fact, everything about her impressed him.

* * * *

Is he a pervert or just a jackass? She stared at him through narrowed eyes. Not bad. Tall enough. Nice hair. Good body. She checked him out, keeping the frown on her face. “What position do you play?”

“Catcher.”

She raised her eyebrows. “You catch Dan Alexander?”

“Yep.” Matt shifted his weight.

“He’s a hunk.”

“He’s taken,” Matt said, frowning.

“The good ones always are,” she muttered. One glance at Matt confirmed she’d said the wrong thing.

“Have you ever done this before?”

“Nope. I thought maybe you had,” she replied.

“First time for me too,” Matt said.

They stood for a moment in silence.

She shrugged. “Guess that means there are no rules to break.”

He glanced at his watch. “The kids’ll be here soon.”

Dusty looked at hers. “We’ve got half an hour. How do you want to work this?”

“We’ll have to set it up.” He plucked something from the breast pocket of his sports jacket.

“Works for me.”

“Here’s a copy of the roster,” he said, handing her a piece of paper.

She reached into her back pocket. “I had a couple of ideas about a schedule.” He moved closer. His scent, obviously fresh from a shower, teased her nose. Damn, he smells good.

He started walking, and she fell in with his step. He studied the roster. “Guess you can’t tell from the names who’s a boy and who’s a girl.”

She laughed. “Guess not. Does it matter?”

“We’re not going to give the same training to the girls as the boys.”

A smidgeon of anger entered her system. She tamped it down. “Why not? The game is the same for both.”

“You’re softball. I’m baseball. Boys play baseball, and girls play softball. Big difference.”

“Really? Have you ever played softball?”

He shook his head.

“Then, maybe you’d better keep your mouth shut. The game is the same. The drills are the same. The ball is the only thing that’s different.”

“Easier, softer—for girls, ya know?”

The desire to slap him reared up in her. She moved away. “I was hoping you wouldn’t be a chauvinist pig.”

“I’m not a chauvinist pig. I just don’t want any of the girls to get hurt.”

She straightened her spine. “Don’t worry about the girls. Just make sure to wear your cup. Wouldn’t want you to get hit anywhere you might be vulnerable.” She increased her stride and beat him to the entrance. She jogged slowly in place, waiting for him.

Dusty c****d an eyebrow when he caught up. “What took you so long?”

Matt grabbed her upper arm. “Look. We have to work together. Sniping is only going to make things harder. I’m sorry if you took my words the wrong way...”

“I didn’t take them any way. That’s the way you said it.”

“Okay then. I misspoke. I’m sorry.”

“Have you noticed that you keep apologizing?”

His lips flattened into a thin line. “You’re hypersensitive.”

“Am not!” She crossed her arms over her chest.

“Let’s warm up. Let me catch you. See what you can do.” He sighed.

“Why, so you can pass judgment on me? Tell me I throw like a girl?”

He laughed. “Would you rather I tell you you throw like a boy? Come on, let’s go,” he said, taking her elbow.

She jerked her arm away from him, ignoring the tingle caused by his touch.

“Did you bring a softball?”

“Right here,” she said, pulling one out of her glove.

Matt opened his equipment bag.

“Are you gonna catch me in that?” She gestured to his khakis and sports jacket.

He glanced down at his street clothes. “Oops. Be right back.”

“Can I watch?” she teased.

“If you want to,” he replied, wiggling his eyebrows as he backed toward the locker room.

She sensed color in her cheeks. He was just as sassy as she. This wasn’t going the way she’d expected. She plopped down on a bench and massaged the ball with her hands. Her brow furrowed as she wondered how she’d get through the next two weeks.

Before ten minutes were up, he returned.

She jolted upright. He was magnificent in his black pinstriped uniform. Hot damn! She swallowed. He seemed to have grown four inches. He was attired as a professional ball player. His sexy presence filled her sight, and her body reacted.

“What?” he asked, raising his brows.

She gulped a little air. “Nothing.”

He clearly didn’t buy it and gave her a quizzical stare. “Really?”

“You. Uh, you. You look great.”

“In this old rag?” he said, pulling the sides of his pants out to look like a skirt and laughing.

She giggled.

“Dan’s taken, but I’m not.”

Realizing he’d seen through her façade, she lowered her gaze.

“How about you?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Single.” When she raised her eyes, he was smiling.

“Maybe we’d better get started.” He put on his face mask and glove and loped over to home plate. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

She pushed to her feet, adjusted her cap, and marched to the mound. She took a deep breath and prayed her legs would hold. Oh no, this camp s**t was nothing like she’d expected at all.

Focus, girl! Be professional. She dug a toe in the dirt and took several breaths, releasing the air through her mouth. She flexed her arm a couple of times, shook it out, and then got her concentration going. Dusty narrowed her eyes, pinpointing her focus on his glove.

She fired in an underhand pitch, satisfied with where it went and the sound of the thwack when it hit his mitt.

“Not bad. A little high. Bring it down,” Matt called.

She raised her eyebrows. “What the hell?”

“What?”

She ran down off the mound to the plate, her chin jutting out. “Who said you could tell me what to do?”

“Well, pardon me. I thought a little advice from a major-league catcher might be welcome. I guess I was wrong. Little Miss Perfect doesn’t need any coaching from big, bad All-Star Matt Jackson.”

The anger drained from her like air from a punctured balloon. “I, I, I’m sorry.”

“Now, who’s apologizing?”

“I mean. I didn’t think. I guess.”

“No, you didn’t think. Go on. Back to the mound. I’ll keep my mouth shut,” he said, resuming his crouch and lifting his glove.

Dusty tapped his shoulder. Her fingertips felt the hardness of the muscle underneath.

“What?”

“I’m sorry. You’re right. I could use some professional advice. Please let’s try again. The pitch was too high?”

“You just missed the box. Bring it down an inch, even half, and you’ll nick the corner.”

She nodded and sprinted back to the rubber.

Dusty pitched, and Matt critiqued. When she got it right, he shouted “great!” Pitch after pitch, his advice was spot on.

Before she could wind up for a tenth one, a raft of kids, accompanied by parents, came through the entrance. Her private time with Matt Jackson was over. She wondered why that made her sad.

* * * *

Matt introduced Dusty and then himself to the parents and children. He unfolded the paper Dusty had slipped him and read off the schedule she had prepared.

“First, warm-ups. Sprints, jogging, and running.” There was a groan from the kids. “Every athlete works out to keep in shape. You can’t play ball unless you’re willing to do that. Next, crunches and push-ups to build strength. Then evaluation. We’ll want to see each of you hit, run, and throw. Dusty and I will make notes and put you in groups for tomorrow’s training sessions. Let’s get started.”

Parents sat on the sidelines while Matt and Dusty shepherded the young wannabe’s through their exercises and try-outs. Matt got in the groove quickly. He’d trained his little sister, Marnie, to play ball. Being eight years older, he had had the experience and had taught her everything.

She had been a natural athlete. Her skill and determination had impressed him. If pressed, he’d admit she was better, more talented, than he. But he’d never told Marnie, because he didn’t want her to get a swelled head. Nothing worse than a player who’s full of himself or herself.

She’d joined the National Women’s Softball League, just like Dusty. Marnie’s home base had been Pittsburgh, where Matt’s father lived. She’d played for the Pittsburgh Pythons and traveled by bus from city to city for games in the Northeast Division. One rainy, June night, her team bus had hydroplaned off the road when the driver had braked for a deer. Marnie had been killed.

It had only been two years. Matt had not yet recovered from her death. He visited her grave every time the Nighthawk’s went to Pittsburgh. He never talked about the kid sister he had adored and lost. No one on the team knew.

Teaching these kids reminded him of Marnie. Instead of being sad, he remembered the good times he’d had with her—working out together, playing ball every night until dusk had become darkness. He’d even gone to a local college so he could continue to work with her. When she was fifteen, she’d been the youngest player ever admitted to the NWSL. He’d been so proud.

The camp ended at three thirty. On the first day, happy campers left with their parents. For the duration, they would be riding a bus to and from the stadium. Matt and Dusty were left to gather the balls, gloves, and other paraphernalia.

The security guard unlocked the equipment room where the two instructors stored the gear. Dusty wiped the sweat off her forehead with her sleeve. Just like a pitcher. Matt smiled.

“What?” she asked.

“Nothing. You’re not bad, for a girl.”

“Not bad?”

“Pitching.”

“Oh. I see.”

When they got to the locker room, Matt gestured toward the door. “Ladies first.”

“How do I know you won’t come in?”

“You don’t. It’s called trust.”

“Let’s just say experience tells me differently.”

“I’ll wait out here. I promise. Unless you want me to go first?”

“No, no. I’ll go first. And you’d better wait out here. Oh, and knock off that s**t about my not being bad for a girl,” she said.

“I was wondering how long it would take you to object,” he said.

She showered and dressed faster than he had expected. He sat on a bench and dreamt about what he’d seen before. Even the baggy uniform couldn’t hide her luscious body. And the view from the back was almost as good as the front. She had a fine ass.

She came out, fluffing her long hair. In tight jeans, a soft green jersey top, cut low enough to be interesting, she stole his breath.

“Locker room’s all yours,” she said.

“Thanks.” He wanted to tell her how great she looked, but didn’t think she’d like it.

“Where does a girl go for a beer and a burger in this town?”

“The ’Hawks hang out at The Salty Crab. If you wait, you can follow me.”

“Don’t be long. I’m hungry.”

“Got it.”

Matt showered and dressed, taking extra care combing his hair. He wasn’t much good with women in the bar scene. Too much noise, too much competition, and he wasn’t as swift with one-liners as some other guys. This situation was perfect. The girl was gorgeous, played ball—of a sort—and he’d already seen enough of her to haunt his dreams.

“Come on,” he said, heading for the parking lot.

“You don’t clean up bad at all,” she remarked, following him out.

“Gee, you say the nicest things.” He opened his car door.