High Heat

By Sierra Dean

Miles Cartwright had the rookie season of any player’s dreams. The San Francisco Felons made it all the way to the World Series – with some help from his electric talent – then lost it all in game seven with him on the mound. To make matters worse, a misunderstanding has him in hot water with the law, and on a short leash with his club. The next season might be his last shot at a major league career, and he can’t let anything get in his way.

Last chances are something Carmen Murphy is all too familiar with. Her goal of becoming a respected sports writer is circling the drain while she wastes her talents writing sports gossip for a trashy, but popular, blog. Getting some insight on the Miles Cartwright scandal would be great for page views, but she knows a candid editorial could be just the ticket to a real career. Too bad Miles doesn’t trust her.

With the heat of summer building, and two dreams on the line, can Miles and Carmen both get what they want, without getting in each other’s way? And can they stop driving each other crazy long enough to realize that what they’re looking for might be right in front of them?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bryant Street Publishing
• Release date: Jul 6, 2021
• ISBN: 9781094419091

Sierra Dean

Sierra Dean is the kind of adult who forgot she was supposed to grow up. She spends most of her days making up stories, and most of her evenings watching baseball or playing video games. She lives in Winnipeg, Canada with two temperamental cats and one sweet tempered dog. When not building new worlds, she can be found making cupcakes and checking Twitter.

Book preview

Chapter One

World Series – Game Seven

Don’t hold your breath.

It was the first and most important rule…or maybe the second. Miles could never remember the order of the rules he’d made for himself, he just knew it was vital he follow them.

Don’t listen to the crowd.

That might be the first rule.

Oh, who cared?

All around him the noise was a deafening series of booms, pounding down on him with the violence and tenacity of two giant fists. He sucked in a breath through his nostrils and let it out slowly from his mouth. Sweat dripped from his temple in rivulets he was helpless to stop. Between the Atlanta heat—much higher than usual for the end of October—and the pressure of the situation, he had already needed to change his jersey once tonight.

A blur of navy blue and red filled the stadium, reminding him this was enemy territory and he was leading the charge against them. If he looked hard enough, he might find some orange mixed in with the home team colors, but not enough to comfort him.

He wished he were back at Felons Stadium in San Francisco. Maybe the comforts of home would make this situation less terrifying.

Fat chance.

Game seven. Bottom of the ninth. The Felons were up by one run, and all he had to do was protect the lead. Three outs from victory, and those three outs were weighing heavy on his shoulders.

The Felons regular closer, Austin Briggs, had put too much strain on his shoulder, and the team’s athletic trainer had said playing him tonight would most likely end his career.

So, with a string of other bullpen relievers waiting in the wings, the team’s manager, Chuck Calvin, opted for Miles instead.

What Calvin didn’t know, and what Miles had done his damnedest to keep from everyone, was that pitching in game four had put too much stress on his arm.

Calvin and the team’s head athletic trainer, Emmy Casper, were sure he was ready, in spite of breaking his collarbone earlier in the season.

Miles didn’t necessarily agree with them.

Now, standing on the mound with the overhead lights beating down on him, he was regretting agreeing to play. His shoulder screamed in agony, throbbing along with each frantic beat of his heart. His brain was telling him this was a mistake, he was going to fuck everything up.

Already he’d walked the first batter up to the plate. Sure, he struck out the second one, but just having a man on first made him uneasy. He could wave the manager down now, call for a timeout, and excuse himself from the game.

No.

He would finish the game. He would win the game.

He needed to focus.

Sweat dripped into his eyelashes, and he blinked it away, staring down the Braves’ batter standing at home plate. Miles had struck the guy out three times in game four. Aging batters who used to hit for power were suckers for a changeup. They’d see it coming as a fastball, and would already be swinging when the speed dropped off at the end. It had worked against him up until this point, and Miles didn’t see any need to change now.

Alex Ross, the Felons catcher, threw down a signal asking for a slider.

What was he thinking?

Miles knew he’d been impressive throughout the season. He was the Felons’ fifth starter, and the press were whispering about Rookie of the Year contention. Miles tried not to let that stuff get to his head, but it was hard for him to avoid feeling like an impostor when Sports Illustrated ran articles with his photo and headlines like Is Miles Cartwright the second coming of Nolan Ryan?

No, he wasn’t.

Miles was not the second coming of anyone. And as someone who’d grown up in Texas idolizing Nolan Ryan, he loathed the comparison because it would only give the doubters something to point at when he failed.

Which brought him back to the plate, where he shook Ross off. The slider was arguably the worst of his four pitches. He’d given up twelve home runs in the regular season off it. His command was shaky, and he couldn’t always locate the damned ball in the zone, no matter how good Ross was at pitch framing.

Ross gave him the signal for a straight heater. Fastball down the middle. Again, Miles shook him off. Evidently two shake-offs was all Ross had patience for. He asked the umpire for a timeout and jogged up to the pitcher’s mound. The Atlanta crowd booed heartily.

Miles immediately covered his mouth with his glove, an age-old tradition with pitchers who wanted to avoid having their lips read by cameras or opposing players. It was a pretty silly thing to do, he thought, but it was the way the game was played.

Ross gave him a friendly squeeze on the shoulder and lifted his own glove, in spite of the fact he was wearing his catcher’s mask.

You doing okay, kid? he asked. Feeling good?

Oh, yeah. Just peachy. One of the leather tassels on Miles’s glove tickled his lip. A line of sweat slid down his cheek, and he hastily wiped it away with the back of his arm.

Any reason you keep shaking off perfectly good calls?

I want to throw him the changeup, Miles explained.

He’s seen your changeup.

And he swings at it every time.

The umpire started his slow walk towards the mound to tell them they were out of time.

You sure about this? Ross gave him a meaningful look, like he wanted to say more but wouldn’t just spit it out.

Fuck it. Miles knew what he was doing.

Yeah. I’m sure. His gaze flicked over to the runner on first, a tall guy chewing a big wad of pink gum like he didn’t have a care in the world.

Around them, the stadium roar had turned into white noise. Miles wiped at his sweat again.

All right, kid. Ross gave him a quick pat on the butt. You’ve got this.      The umpire had joined them at this point, but Ross merely gave him the nod, and they walked back to home plate together.

Miles rotated his shoulders, and the muscles screamed. He closed his eyes and tried to blot the pain out by sheer force of will. He was hurting badly, and a logical part of his brain told him he should be calling Calvin and Emmy out of the dugout to let them know his night was done.

But who would they bring out instead? The whole bullpen was beat up and exhausted. They could turn to another starter, but would it be fair to throw in someone like Tucker to get these last two outs?

No, Miles wanted this. He wanted to show the team they were right to trust him. He wanted to prove that all the good things being said about him weren’t without reason.

He took a deep breath to steady his nerves then dug his cleat into the dirt of the mound. Ross didn’t bother to give him a sign, he simply squared up his glove behind the plate and gave Miles a miniscule leather target to aim for.

Don’t hold your breath, Miles reminded himself, sucking in a big gulp of air.

He lifted his leg, adjusted his grip on the ball, and let it fly. The pitch took less than a second to reach the plate, but that was more than enough time for Miles to see the mistake. The ball didn’t drop. He had misjudged his release point, and the ball soared right towards the heart of the plate without dropping.

Crack.

A home run sounded different than any other hit. It had a beautiful, crisp, wooden resonance. Miles didn’t need to watch the ball to know it had left the field; he heard it all in the bat.

The crowd screamed with maddening delight. The batter tossed his bat towards the Braves’ dugout and began a slow trot around the bags.

Two-run home run.

A walk-off win.

The game was over, and Miles had just lost the Felons the World Series.

Chapter Two

Carmen Murphy stood at the back of the press room. The place was so packed she could smell the stew of body spray and BO no matter which way she turned her head. There were several rows of chairs, but they’d all been taken when she arrived, and now even the standing-room-only area was getting claustrophobic.

The game had ended almost thirty minutes earlier, but many of the camera crews were still on the field interviewing lingering players who were receiving their series MVP trophies and thanking their mothers and God.

Carmen didn’t want the story of the winners. She wanted to hear what losing pitcher Miles Cartwright had to say. Loads of papers and websites were falling all over themselves to get the perfect victory shot onto the front page or to snag a quote from Eugenio Enciarte who had hit the walk-off home run, but winners weren’t what appealed to Carmen.

More specifically they weren’t what got traffic to the blog she worked for, and when it all came down to it, the only thing her superiors cared about was post clicks. That was what her boss told her on a regular basis. I don’t care what you write as long as you bring in traffic.

Sometimes it made her feel seedy to hunt down stories that would yield the best click-bait titles, but she also had a condo in Tampa she needed to pay the mortgage on, and quite frankly that wasn’t going to happen if she published stories about bunts and smiling farm kids from Kansas getting their first home run.

What she was after right now was something that would play on people’s emotions, but not in a positive way. As much as some readers enjoyed a winner, the internet was swarming with those who loved losers even more. People who wanted to feel justified that players made too much money for playing a children’s game, or that pitching at the major league level was something they could do.

Carmen hated her readers sometimes.

But she loved being able to pay her mortgage.

Carmen checked her phone to make sure her recorder app was open. A big guy who smelled like onions and had a sweaty red neck elbowed her in the chest, and she almost dropped her cell.

Watch it, she grumbled. Sure, the space was small, but it wasn’t like she was invisible. The dude needed to learn some spatial awareness.

He turned and locked an unfriendly stare on her. Under different circumstances she might smile and try to charm him, but she was hot, she was tired, and she had a deadline to make.

They’re just letting anyone in these things now, I guess. His face was as red as his neck, but she would know his round cheeks and bushy brows anywhere.

"They stopped having standards the second they issued you a press pass, Bobby," Carmen said. Now she wouldn’t even be fake nice. Bobby Sinclair was a tool of the highest order who had once grabbed her ass and called her Sweet Cheeks at a spring training game in Dunedin.

He made a harrumph noise that caused his cheeks to jiggle. Next to him was his usual ESPN sidekick Dale Kinneson. Dale was as tall and skinny as Bobby was short and fat. When they stood next to each other, they were like Laurel and Hardy, only no one was laughing.

"If they’re going to let bloggers in, maybe it’s not worth it to have a press pass anymore." The way he said bloggers was like he had just thrown up the word in his mouth and had then been forced to swallow it.

Carmen sneered at him. At least people read my blog, Bobby. Last time I checked, the circulation of your little column was, well… She let her voice drift and shrugged.

That shut him up in a hurry. The last thing any writer wanted was for it to become apparent how small their audience was. At least page views weren’t a problem for Carmen.

The blog she worked for, Sports Uncovered, was basically a glorified tabloid, but it got enough attention the league had issued them press passes and access to whatever events they wanted to cover. The caveat being they had to behave themselves. No inappropriate questions and no twisting what players said. This might have been an issue for others, but Carmen never needed to take things out of context. She could usually get people to give her the perfect quotes without too much effort.

A reporter from CBS, Kim Nelson, was standing on Carmen’s other side, fanning herself with the deck of game notes they’d all been given earlier. I know these things never start on time, Kim said. But it would be nice if they’d at least pretend to feel sorry for making us wait.

As if on cue, Chuck Calvin, the manager for the San Francisco Felons, came into the room and took a seat at the head table, giving every reporter the stink eye. It was his way of letting them all know he had better things to do and better places to be, so this whole ordeal was beneath him.

What was missing, however, was a body for the vacant seat next to him.

Where’s Miles Cartwright? Carmen asked over the growing din.

Calvin’s focus narrowed on her and made her feel like she was about three feet tall. Earlier that season Carmen had published an exposé about the Felons catcher, Alex Ross, and his affair with a minor league umpire. Carmen was willing to bet she wasn’t a popular figure in the Felons clubhouse these days.

That story still got over a thousand clicks a week, though, so Carmen couldn’t say she really regretted it.

Though she had heard after the fact that Alice Darling, the umpire in question, had been forced out of her job with the minor leagues, which Carmen did carry some guilt over. It wasn’t her goal to ruin anyone’s life, she just wanted to tell a story.

Cartwright won’t be joining us, Miss Murphy. Sorry to disappoint.

Oh yeah, she’d made an impression.

Another reporter raised his hand, but for Carmen, everything had become a blur. Her entire narrative revolved around getting the scoop on Miles Cartwright, and if he wasn’t going to show up to the presser, then her whole article crumbled as a result.

Shit.

What to do now?

She could wait out the rest of Calvin’s Q&A and collect the same practiced answers as the dozens of other reporters in the room, or she could try something a bit more outside the box.

Carmen pushed past Bobby and Dale, intentionally elbowing Bobby as she went. Immediately her spot along the back wall was filled, as if reporters were like water flowing into an empty container.

Once she was out of the press room, a swell of cool air conditioning washed over her, drying the sweat that had coated her body and sending a little shiver down her spine. She hadn’t even realized just how hot the room was until she was free from it.

The press room was a few doors away from both clubhouses, and Carmen headed in that direction. The noise from the Braves clubhouse was audible even from down the hall. Music was blaring, and the doors were slightly ajar. Plastic sheeting hung from floor to ceiling to protect the expensive suite from any damage that might be caused by forty grown men spraying each other with bottles of champagne.

Across the hall the door to the visitors’ clubhouse was closed, and there was no music, no sound. The difference between the two was night and day.

The Felons clubhouse door swung open, and two men walked out. Carmen recognized Chet Appleton and Ramon Escalante immediately. Either they didn’t notice her or were pretending they hadn’t, because they walked right past her on their way to where the bus was waiting outside to take them back to their hotel.

Carmen wasn’t entirely sure what her next move would be. Press had been denied clubhouse access postgame, so her badge wouldn’t get her through the door. And even if it could, she wasn’t going to waltz in there and start picking Cartwright’s brain in front of his teammates.

He’d only give her good material if she could get him open and chatty, so it was important that he trust her. That was the only way she’d get the quotes she needed.

While she waited, she tugged the hair elastic from her ponytail and let her dark-brown hair fall around her shoulders. She ran her fingers through it, hoping to fake a little volume, then quickly applied some lip gloss that had been lingering at the bottom of her purse for about five years.

This wasn’t how she typically liked to go about securing interviews. In fact, the whole prospect of flirting for a front page made her sick to her stomach. But she knew how important getting this story was.

One way or another she would find Miles for an interview, because getting her name out there was the only hope in hell she had of moving on from Sports Uncovered to a real job. A job where they cared about her actual knowledge and opinions. Someplace she could be proud to see her byline.

For now, though, the bottom of the barrel was where she’d have to stay, and if she needed to apply a bit of lip gloss to make Miles Cartwright give her a second glance, well, she’d swallow what little pride she had left and slap on some CoverGirl.

The door swung open again, and this time it was just the man she wanted to see, blessedly alone.

His dark hair was damp and messy. He wore a light-gray Henley, the top button undone, and a pair of beat-up jeans that sat low on his hips. Where his shirtsleeves were rolled up, Carmen glimpsed his toned, muscular forearms.

God, she was such a sucker for good forearms.

Typically she didn’t pay much attention to the guys she wrote stories about. Not as lust objects, anyway. These men were her job, nothing more. But she was human, and as a straight, single woman, sometimes it was hard to ignore that some of the players were, for lack of a better term, smoking hot.

She’d never really sized the rookie up before, but damn, he was not hard on the eyes.

He had a duffel bag slung over one shoulder and seemed more focused on his Converse sneakers than what was happening around him.

Miles? she asked, keeping her voice low and calm. In that moment he struck her as a wild animal, and one wrong word would be enough to make him run for the hills. She’d need to go slow to not spook him.

He stopped in place, his head snapping up, and suddenly with all his attention on her, Carmen felt at a loss for words.

His expression was just so fucking sad.

She’d seen disappointment in the eyes of players at postgame pressers before. She’d seen grown men cry at award ceremonies or retirements. It wasn’t like she was unfamiliar with displays of male emotion. Yet Miles Cartwright’s face in that split second was so full of raw sorrow it absolutely gutted her.

Empathy wasn’t a feeling Carmen was used to. More often than not she kept her emotions totally divorced from her job. It made the shitty parts a lot easier.

Recognition replaced the sadness, and he started shaking his head before he spoke. I’m not supposed to talk to you.

He took a step to bypass her, but Carmen was quick, moving right along with him so he would either have to stop or keep walking through her. From what she knew about him—nice Southern kid—she doubted he would plow her over.

As she’d suspected, he pulled up short, but now they were standing so close she could see how long his eyelashes were, and it was obvious his eyes weren’t actually brown like she’d thought, but rather a deep, deep blue.

I just want to talk. She offered him her warmest smile and hoped it didn’t look predatory.

Carmen had been told she was a bit intimidating.

She had also been called a trash-spewing bitch monster from Hell. Sometimes it was hard to know which compliments to believe.

Like I said, I’m not supposed to talk to you.

Evidently her smile could use some work, because Miles wasn’t even looking at her.

Miles, your story is important in this. And if you don’t talk to anyone, they’re just going to make up whatever they want about you. Don’t you want to control your own narrative?

Seems to me you do a fine job controlling people’s narratives for them, Miss Murphy.

Ouch.

He moved aside again, and once more she blocked him. His frown tightened, and she knew she was pushing her luck. If he sidestepped her one more time, she would have to let him go or risk getting a restraining order.

Miles, please. I don’t want to do you a disservice. What happened to you tonight was tough, and I think people deserve to know what that kind of a loss does to someone. You don’t need to pretend it doesn’t bother you. I just want to listen to what you have to say.

He stared at her, his expression cold. They were still standing much too close together, and when he sighed, the front of his shirt grazed her arm. She shivered in spite of herself.

Meet me at the hotel bar in an hour.

What hotel?

If you can figure that out, then I guess you get your interview, don’t you?

Chapter Three

Miles stared at his face in the bathroom mirror and hated what looked back at him.

A failure.

The guys had tried to talk to him after the game,

Reviews for High Heat

[Leena Aluru · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

It's ok. The plot is decent, but the excessive internal monologues that Carmen and Miles have s repetitive and boring.

Miles is really nice, it's Carmen. I've got a huge issue with her. She's unlikeable, It's unthinkable that she didn't apologise to Alex and Alice at the very beginning of the book. She cost Alice her job.

Through the entire series, the author has raised various hurdles women face in their careers. But she just glosses over the solution in a single sentence. I felt cheated. I want to know how they picked themselves up, especially Alice.
She's got great, male stars. All 3 are likeable, humble, and down to earth. One can relate to them. Alice is the most likeable. Emmy is the strong professional. I like how Tucker and Emmy keep their personal life off the field.
The series is ok. Decent to thin plot lines.

Recommended : ?

[Audrey Vuozzo · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

All 3 books from this series have got me so excited for baseball season to start! They were all so good!