The Man For Me

By Gemma Bruce

Squeeze Play

The bragging. The pin-ups. The sweaty socks. Please oh please, set me free! Female sportswriter J.T. Green wants out of the locker room--until star pitcher Tommy Bainbridge walks in. Tommy defines the word hot: He's tall, a terrific kisser, and a total catch. J.T. wants everything he has to give. But Gilbeytown, PA, needs their hometown boy back where he belongs and if his plans to help get leaked to the press, there's going to be hell to pay. Distracting a woman as determined and downright sexy as J.T. isn't going to be easy. Unless he can show her how heavenly it feels to be held in his powerful arms and. . .well, hey. She seems to like it. A lot. And so does Tommy.

It's clear as a freshly chalked baseline that Tommy and J.T. are crazy in love. To hell with reality. They don't care if they never come back . . .

Praise for Gemma Bruce and her novels. . .

"Sexy comedy with romance that sizzles the pages!" –Romantic Times, 4 star review of Who Loves Ya, Baby?

"Smart dialogue and sassy heroines make this provocative collection shine."–Romantic Times, 4 star review of Who's Been Sleeping In My Bed?Gemma Bruce is the alter ego of a popular mystery writer, who loves the excitement of a "who done it" and the sizzle of romance. After a career in dance, theater, television and film, performing before packed houses even on a bad-hair-bloat day, Gemma now goes one on one with her computer screen to create the characters and stories she loves. Her laptop has never once made a snide remark about her hair (although it has eaten a few sentences that made it blush).

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kensington Books
• Release date: Dec 1, 2008
• ISBN: 9780758237484

Book preview

32

Chapter 1

"But I had clothes on." J.T. Green jutted her chin out and glared at the man glaring back at her across the littered desktop.

Skinny Martin was editor of the nationally read weekly Sports Today—and J.T.’s boss. But the paper on the desk between them wasn’t ST. It was The Buzz, a national tabloid that was sold in every grocery store across the country.

He shoved the paper toward her and jabbed his finger at the picture at the center of the front page. Does this look like clothes to you?

J.T. glanced down. Her back was to the camera, but the camisole T-shirt she’d been wearing was gone. The two AL players were full frontal and wet. The photo was cropped at their waists, but the implications were clear. Especially since one of them appeared to be lunging at her. A full page headline read SPORTS TODAY REPORTER CAUGHT IN LOCKER ROOM ORGY.

You told me to get an interview. I caught them when they came out of the shower.

"I didn’t tell you to single-handedly make a laughing stock of Sports Today. Skinny raised his eyebrows, which made little half-moons on his moon face. Did I?"

J.T. opened her mouth to explain, then closed it. The top of his bald head was turning red. Not a good sign. Skinny hadn’t been skinny in thirty years. He was pushing the parameters of big fat slob and she was afraid he was going to have a coronary. He might be a bully, but he was the savviest editor around and she needed this job.

Did I?

She pulled herself together. They were wearing towels. I was wearing a camisole, like the one I’m wearing now, only blue. They airbrushed the straps out.

I have irate e-mails coming out of my ears, the phone has been ringing off the hook, the real press is having a field day.

Three clichés in one breath. She was in deep doo-doo. "Skinny. There was nothing prurient going on. I’ve known both of those guys since I was ten. They were doing me a favor so I could get the story you wanted."

That’s why this guy is fondling you for the camera?

"Jesus, Skinny. He recognized the Buzz reporter and tried to push me out of the way. The cameraman sneaked in. They don’t allow those kind of journalists in the clubhouse. And just for this reason."

J.T. thought she sounded reasonable, but Skinny’s color grew redder. Maybe we should discuss this later.

Forget it. You’re outta here. J.T.’s stomach flipped over. He was firing her? She’d only gotten the job because Skinny and the Coach were old pals, but she’d been busting her butt to get good stories, cutting-edge news, so people would finally stop thinking of her as Abe Green’s little girl. She swallowed back the panic that rose to her throat. You’re firing me?

I’m sending you on location. J.T. nearly slumped with relief. The Coach would kill her if she blew this job. Another blot on the Green family baseball dynasty. You are? Where?

Tommy Bainbridge waved cigar smoke out of his face as he listened to his uncle Bernie’s side of the phone conversation.

Bernie sat back in his desk chair, his stomach making a little mound beneath his gray sweatshirt. His right leg, encased in a hard cast to the thigh, was propped on a pillow on the desktop.

He jabbed the stale air with his cigar. Uh-huh. Yeah. Whatever.

Tommy stepped back until he was almost against the closed door. He wished he could open the window, but it was filled with an ancient air conditioner that rattled more than it pumped out air.

Bernie banged the phone down. Aw hell. Damn reporter left Atlanta three days ago. I’d like to ring Skinny Martin’s fat neck. In-depth story, my ass. They’re following you. Wondering why you aren’t with the Galaxies where you belong. Which brings us back to the same question I’ve been asking. Why the hell aren’t you with the team?

Because you said you were in trouble. And if the reporter left three days ago he isn’t following me. I’ve only been here since yesterday and I didn’t tell anyone where I was going.

You told him we’re in trouble? Larry Chrysler, the Beavers general manager, was sitting in the only other chair in the room. He was as tall as Bernie was short, streamlined where Bernie was thick. Balding while Bernie’s wiry salt-and-pepper hair was still thick.

Bernie narrowed bushy eyebrows until they met in the center of his forehead. I told him we were going through a rough patch. I just wanted some advice. I didn’t mean for you to come hauling back home to bail me out.

He rolled the cigar tip around in the ashtray, jabbed it out, and took a roll of Tums out of his shirt pocket. He downed two before frowning at Tommy. I don’t want you jeopardizing your season ’cause a me.

You’re family. Family first. Over the majors, over the money, over baseball.

Over the babes?

That, too.

Larry shook his head. Hell, you’re getting old, boy.

You’re right. I am, said Tommy. He was thirty-six. He’d been playing in pain for years, had surgery during the off-season, and spent most of last year on the disabled list. His rotor cuff was shot; no surgery in the world was going to make him the pitcher he used to be.

So if you’re not injured and you’re not being traded—

Jesus, Larry. The Galaxies would be crazy to trade Tommy. Bernie’s barrel chest expanded to fighting size. It had intimidated more than a few umpires in his day. It didn’t faze Larry.

Don’t get your panties in a twist. I’m just saying that it’s pretty damn clear that Skinny Martin smells a story and I’ll eat my Roger Clemens rookie card if it’s about the damn Beavers. He looked over his shoulder at Tommy. So if you’re not leveling with us on why you’re hanging around like a guy without a job, you’d better let us in on the joke.

Tommy looked at the space between the two men. He owed both men the truth. They were old-time ballplayers, all rough, scruff, and hard knocks. They’d played together on the Mariners in the late seventies.

These guys understood sacrifice. Had lived with the curves life had dealt them. They’d understand his decision. But Tommy was sworn to secrecy until the Galaxies signed his replacement. And he felt like a cad.

I took a few days off. It happens. Hell, I was back for most of last season. Had a winning record. Worked my butt off during spring training. Pitched on Saturday. I have five days before I’m scheduled to pitch again. I asked for a few days off for family reasons. They were fine with it. I’m here because I can be. And you’re in deep shit.

Larry barked out a laugh. You just noticed? We’ve been in deep shit for years. We keep on muddling by.

That was before somebody decided to help finish you off.

Bernie reached into his shirt pocket for more Tums.

Damn it, Bernie, said Larry. Why don’t you get yourself a prescription for your stomach? Only pregnant women pop Tums.

Bernie finished chewing and swallowed with a gulp. Can’t afford the co-pay. He stuck the unlit butt of his cigar between his teeth and clamped them tight.

Tommy finally moved from the door and leaned over the desk. This team is being sabotaged. You know it and I know it.

Aw hell. Larry straightened up and met Tommy’s eyes. This team doesn’t have to be sabotaged. It can sabotage itself. Have you looked at last year’s win–loss record? We’re monkey meat. No wonder we don’t collect shit at the gate. There’s more excitement at the little league field.

"They had a winning record, mumbled Bernie, and spit out a piece of tobacco. Not to mention state-of-the-art ball fields, concession stands, plumbing that works, and a grounds crew that any major league team would be proud of."

Larry let out a long sigh and leaned back in his chair. We’re about to be history. There’s nothing you or I or Bernie or anyone else can do to stop it. In a quieter voice he said, Tommy, times are changing. The population is changing. They want a new ballpark, a triple-A team. They’ll pass the referendum. They have the clout to get it done.

By tearing down Gilbey Field, Bernie groused.

They want progress.

On the backs of the rest of us poor tax-paying schmucks.

The commuters have support among the locals.

Bernie spit out another piece of tobacco. Thanks to our sell-out, hypocrite mayor. If you had told me Charlie Wiggins would grow up to be the swine that he is, I wouldn’t have believed it. And his mother one of our oldest fans. Poor woman deserves more than that polecat for a son.

That might be, said Larry, "but that’s life. Tommy, I know what the team means to you. But if you want it to survive, you’d better buy it. I haven’t seen one of our downy absentee owners in years. Just get nasty directives ‘From the desk of.’ As if they give a shit. We’re a great tax write-off.

"And if the town takes back the ballpark, they’ll unload the Beavers faster than you can say strike three. But we don’t need it broadcast all over the country.

If you really want to help, you can babysit this reporter. But don’t mention any of this shit. We look bad enough as it is. Just flash your million-dollar smile at him, tell him you’re here for your mother’s birthday—

Her birthday’s in March.

Whatever. Give him some razzle-dazzle and send him on his way. Whatever he’s looking for, I don’t want him poking around in our business.

Neither did Tommy. This was just what he and the Galaxies were trying to avoid. Leaks to the press would damage the Galaxies clout in the negotiations with Isotori. If the new deal went south, Tommy would be playing in pain for another year. So what do you know about this reporter?

Never heard of him, said Bernie. Must be a rookie or a deadbeat. Why else send him to cover a bush league team. So I guess you’re right. If they were after you, they’d’ve sent a veteran.

Larry snorted. Maybe, but Skinny Martin is a conniving son of a bitch. No way is he interested in the Beavers. The Beavers are old news. Hell, the Beavers are no news.

The Beavers might be old news, but they’d survived for twenty years, and Tommy wasn’t about to let them go down without a fight. Okay. Nanny nine-one-one at your service.

Good. Larry stood up. He was a good three inches taller than Tommy. And though a paunch fell over his belt, he was still pretty formidable. Knew you wouldn’t let us down. Now I gotta go figure out a way to make a payroll from peanuts, so let me get outta here and do it.

When Larry was gone, Tommy turned back to Bernie. You coming to Ma’s for dinner tonight?

No, me and Nonie promised the kids we’d take ’em for pizza.

Then see you tomorrow.

Hey, Tommy?

Yeah?

You think you could drop by the Night n Day and give the guys a heads up about this reporter? Tell ’em not to gossip.

Yeah, no problem. And Bern. Don’t worry about the reporter. Nobody reads print.

Yeah. I hope you’re right. Now get outta here. And watch out for that damn reporter. And tell the boys to keep their mouths shut.

Exit right in one point three miles. Obeying the pleasant voice of her GPS, J.T. crossed two lanes of highway and down-shifted her red Mustang convertible.

A piece of hair that had escaped from her ponytail lodged in her mouth. She spit it out. She should have stopped to put up the top miles ago; she was covered in goose bumps. But she was anxious to get on with her assignment and get it over with.

Gilbeytown was supposed to be in a valley. She imagined warm, sunny, and mild….

It was a stretch. Things were not looking sunny at all, in the sky, in her career, in her life, certainly not in her love life. She didn’t even have a love life. You needed time for love. Though if she blew this assignment she might have all the time in the world. She shuddered—and not from the cool air.

J.T. knew Skinny didn’t give a shit about the Beavers, an independent team at the bottom of the independent league. He just wanted her out of the way. That’s why she was going to be roughing it with a bunch of bush league bozos for the next three weeks.

Maybe she’d meet her soul mate in Gilbeytown, Pennsylvania. Like that was going to happen. At least one of the players might be cute enough for a little flirting. Probably not. Which would be too bad, because at least there, she could be sure there were no cameras except for her own digital. She had to watch her back of course, keep her nose clean, and all those other clichés Skinny had heaped on her before she left. But he didn’t say she couldn’t have a little fun. And J.T. deserved it.

Three weeks. It seemed like an eternity. But at least she was still employed. She was a good reporter and if she ever got a chance to do something big, she’d prove it.

Her cell chimed Take Me Out to the Ball Game. Corny, but she liked it. She checked caller ID and groaned.

The Coach. He’d already called her three times. She hadn’t returned any of them. She was sure Skinny had been on the horn to him before she’d packed up her laptop and taken the elevator downstairs. Too bad you couldn’t trade fathers the way teams traded players.

J.T. didn’t really want a different father. She just wanted the one she had to approve of her. But he never did.

It had always been like that. Standing before him as an eight-year-old, blinking back tears because she’d just struck out at T–ball. You don’t even have to have an eye. Just knock the damn ball off the pole. Telling her to get tough when she skinned her knee sliding home instead of kissing it better. Now that she was older, he wanted only one thing from her. Get married. I need grandchildren. Boys.

Exit right in point two miles.

Oh, what the hell. She pressed the CALL button.

Hi, Coach.

What the hell were you doing in that locker room? Haven’t you learned anything? How could you let yourself get in that kind of situation? You’re the laughingstock of the sports world.

Okay. That hurt.

I’ve been avoiding calls for days.

Gee, Coach, thanks for asking my side of the story, for sticking up for me. For having faith in me. For knowing me so well.

Exit right. Exit right. J.T. braked and swerved off the highway.

Well, don’t you have something to say for yourself?

She had plenty to say, but like always it stuck in her throat.

Why don’t you just get married and give me some grandchildren.

Boys, she thought as he boomed, Boys, at the top of his lungs.

She hung up before he did.

Turn left at the end of the ramp and proceed point one mile.

J.T. stopped at the bottom of the ramp and sat there gripping the steering wheel. Breathed in, out, in, out, until she stopped shaking. Looked across the road. Saw green trees everywhere. It’s a jungle out there.

Well, she’d show them. The Coach. Skinny. Everybody. She’d do the most kick-ass, in-depth, human-interest story of the Gilbeytown Beavers that the world had ever seen. She’d raspberry the whole crowd when she received her Pulitzer. And no one would ever question her credentials again.

She turned left and crossed over the highway. The first thing she saw was a Holiday Inn Express. Followed by a steak house chain, a Wendy’s, a Pizza Hut. And suddenly not a tree in sight. Just acres of asphalt parking lot in front of a giant, newly constructed mall.

There was probably some metaphor for that, but metaphors didn’t sell. She’d learned that the hard way.

J.T. had done her research. Gilbeytown was one of the many small Pennsylvania towns that had gone belly-up after the collapse of the steel industry in the 1950s.

The town had managed to hold on to its baseball team for twenty years. That alone was newsworthy. Independent league teams had a short life span. They were either being put out of business by lack of operating funds or by a bigger team moving in and forcing them out.

But not in Gilbeytown.

She turned right at the mall and proceeded down a county road. The trees returned and she wound her way beneath them, passing an occasional house or boarded-over gas station.

Two point five miles later, she came to a billboard in green script that advertised Applewood Acres. Behind the sign, a web of newly paved streets wound through a neatly organized community of perfectly landscaped McMansions.

On the opposite side of the road was an identical neighborhood called The Pines.

Green plastic men lined the street warning motorists to Use Caution. Children at Play. She didn’t see any children, just big houses, three-car garages, two-story atriums with huge chandeliers. And tiny, little striplings to replace the mature trees someone had bulldozed away.

Point four miles later, a wooden sign welcomed her to Gilbeytown Home of the Beavers. Rotary Club, American Legion, Vietnam Veterans, and a bunch of other names she didn’t have time to read.

She slowed to the twenty-five-mile speed limit. One lone truck rattled past her, going in the opposite direction. It was too late to sit in on the Beavers afternoon practice, so she turned left onto Main Street—an optimistic name if ever there was one—and headed for the motel where the team had booked her a room.

She crossed two sets of railroad tracks and entered downtown. Several cars were parked in front of a storefront whose chipped letters seemed to spell out LUNCHEONETTE. There was a 7-Eleven with an empty parking lot.

On the second block, a florist shop, a check-cashing depot, a tired-looking grocery store, and a plumbing and heating store were open for business. There was a gas station selling a brand she’d never heard of. And next to it a state liquor store the size of a bread box. J.T. shuddered to think what brands they might sell. Most of the other stores were boarded over.

Like many old towns, the town center had moved out to the mall.

She proceeded point seven miles and arrived at her destination.

Not a Marriott, not a Sheraton, not even an Econo Lodge, but the Night n Day Motel. A horseshoe of concrete block rooms, painted green, with doors opening onto a graveled parking area.

No room service, she bet. And she could forget about a whirlpool and sauna.

If there had been any doubt in J.T.’s mind why it was called the Night n Day, it was put to rest when a balding man in a brown suit emerged from one of the front rooms, followed by a woman in a short white skirt. He got into a blue Ford Fairlane; she walked past the Ford to a black Honda hatchback. They drove off in opposite directions.

With a choice expletive, which cast aspersions on several of Skinny’s body parts, J.T. stopped the Mustang in front of a separate square building and went into the office to register.

Surprise, surprise. The office was something right out of the Bates Motel. There was an old television with rabbit ears sitting on the counter. Guess she wouldn’t be getting ESPN. Behind the desk, the dark-paneled wall was covered with cheap framed photos. Half were autographed pictures of ballplayers. The other half were old movie stars. A lot of them were autographed, too.

J.T. could understand the baseball ones. The Night n Day seemed to be the choice of America’s bush league. They must have sent away for the movie stars.

A wizened man with a peanut-shaped head sat behind the desk. He was wearing a flannel shirt even though it was May.

He looked up from the word search he was working and frowned at her, scratched his cheek just below his left eye, looked past her shoulder, and sniffed. Twenty-five dollars an hour.

What? J.T.’s cheeks flamed. He thought she was a hooker. I have a reservation.

He looked at her as if he were waiting for her to come up with the correct answer.

A reservation? J.T. prompted. "Bernie Karpinsky of the Beavers called. I’m J.T. Green. With Sports Today?"

He closed his word search book, stood up, and calling, Harriett, get out here, he disappeared through a door at the back of the room.

J.T. tapped her foot. The Holiday Inn Express on the highway was looking pretty tempting. But she couldn’t get the up-close-and-personal angle she wanted unless she embedded herself with the team. And the players who weren’t staying with local families stayed at the Night n Day.

There was a bell on the desk. She rang it.

Hold your horses, said a voice from the doorway where the man had disappeared. J.T. looked up to see a woman hobbling toward her, wiping her hands on a dingy dish towel.

Her hair, a cross between gray and platinum blond, was piled haphazardly on her head in a style several decades out of date. She was wearing a lot of makeup, a pink flowered house coat, and bedroom slippers.

She stopped on the other side of the registration desk and frowned at J.T. Honey, you don’t want to do what you’re about to do. You go on home now and be a good girl.

I am—I mean—I’m here to work. I mean. Jeez. This didn’t sound like a hard-nosed reporter. J.T. pulled herself up to her full five feet four and a half inches. "I’m J.T. Green. I’m a reporter with Sports Today covering the Beavers." She had to take a steadying breath to keep from laughing. She sounded more like a feature editor for National Geographic—or a porn magazine. I have a reservation.

The woman looked like she had some reservations, too. A reporter, huh. You’re telling me Bernie Karpinsky got you a room here? Honey, it’s clean and it’s fine for the boys. But we don’t have the kind of amenities you’re likely to get at one of the bigger establishments out on the highway.

I’m sure it will be fine. Now, if I could check in. J.T. smiled, polite but determined, until the woman pulled out a registration card and slid it across the desk.

I won’t turn down the business, get little enough of it as it is. But don’t blame me if it isn’t up to your standards. And don’t come running if the boys get a little rowdy. You break anything, you pay for it.

Harriett pulled a key off one of the hooks that ran along a bank of mail cubbies. It was an honest-to-god key on a ring attached to an oblong rubber disk. She handed it to J.T. Number twelve. It’s on the left near the back. Between the players and the, um, other guests.

J.T. took the key.

There’s cable in the rooms. You got Internet hookup. Did it special for the boys. And if any of them forget their manners, you tell them Harriett’s watching them. And Hank’ll come kick their butts.

Thanks, Harriett. Is there someplace around here where I can get dinner?

The Pine Tree Tavern across the street, said Harriett. It ain’t fancy but it won’t kill you. That’s where most of the boys hang out.

J.T. thanked her again and drove around to the left curve of the horseshoe. She parked between a truck with monster wheels and a new model Toyota Tundra—and sat looking at the door of number twelve, the picture window, and the plastic lining of the heavy drapes drawn across it.

She’d come to this. She gritted her teeth and lugged her suitcases, laptop, and printer inside.

Chapter 2

J.T. didn’t unpack but went straight across the street to the Pine Tree Tavern. She hadn’t eaten since noon and the encounter with the Coach had left her stomach roiling. And besides, if the team hung out there she could get a jump on her story.

If there was a story.

The Pine Tree was another concrete building carved out of the surrounding trees and fronted by a parking lot strong on potholes. The inside was a typically dingy, poorly lit, stale beer–smelling bar.

But hell, what was a little case of ptomaine in the scheme of cutting-edge journalism?

Several guys were sitting at one of the tables and they were eating, so maybe she was safe. They all looked up when she came in.

One of them whistled and made kissy noises. Hey mama, you wanna see my big bat?

She’d found the Beavers.

One of his companions said, Put a sock in it, Ramirez.

Jaime Ramirez from the Dominican League. She’d done her homework, though she’d gotten little more than a roster of players and the stats of their last, losing season.

J.T. sighed, picked a place at the bar where the light was bright enough to read a menu, and sat down.

The bartender was big and had a shaved head. Or maybe he was just bald. It was hard to tell. He was standing in a shadow. What can I get ya?

I don’t guess I could get a glass of pinot grigio?

No, but I got one of those blush wines for when you ladies come in.

I’ll have a beer, imported—and a menu.

Dos Equis okay? He plunked a plastic menu down in front of her.

Sure.

She ordered a burger, ate it without being interrupted, and was considering going over to the table of men to introduce herself, when the door opened. The newcomer went straight to the table and leaned over it.

What little light there was cast him into silhouette, but she could tell he was tall and lean. Dare she hope good looking and halfway intelligent?

"Bernie asked me to come by and give you a heads up that there’s a reporter on his way from Sports Today."

Cool.

To do a story on the Beavers?

Yeah. So be on your best behavior. Got it?

Sure, Tommy. We’ll be dyn-o-mite.

Maybe Boskey will hit a home run for him.

Shut up, Kurtz. It isn’t funny.

The newcomer pushed away from the table. Just try to act like a ball team. And pass it on to the other guys.

J.T. changed her mind about introducing herself. She wasn’t here to get homogenized accounts of how they had to refocus and get their heads together for their first game next week. She could write that spin without leaving the comfort of her town house.

She wanted something different. Something that would get Skinny’s attention and redeem her reputation. Something real. She sighed. Something that would get her out of here and back to major league ball.

You mean don’t tell him about Boz’s slump?

He means, dickhead, don’t tell him about the jinx. J.T.’s ears pricked up. The bartender took her plate and asked if she wanted anything else. She waved him away.

The team was jinxed? Not cutting-edge news, but interesting. She might be able to segue it into a story. Especially if she got the goods before they clammed up.

She’d just wait until the management voice box left, then make her move.

Just be professional and no gossip. Tommy turned to leave. His eyes snagged on a woman sitting at the bar. Alone.

Not one of the regular girlfriends, nor one of the Annies who hung around to pick up a willing player. He was pretty sure he would have remembered that tight little butt. And if the front of her was anything like the back view, the boys would have been all over themselves to get to her.

Maybe they’d tried and failed? She exuded class, even from the back.

The bar light created a blaze around reddish brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. A narrow strap of a tiny T-shirt ran over seductive shoulders. Her waist was thin and a little strip of skin dipped into the jeans that molded perfectly to her butt, which in turn molded perfectly to the bar stool.

Tommy stood there for a minute to admire the view. He wasn’t doing enough of that these days. He didn’t have the time. The interest.