Four
Joe’s teammates called him Zoo. He was aggressive, antagonistic, an animal at the stadium. Opinionated, too. No way were the Triple-A players taking over Rogue real estate in the locker room. Joe pulled the welcome mat, glaring at two Rebels until they retreated behind an imaginary line that separated the major and minor leaguers.
The Rogues’ starting lineup filled the row against the south wall. As a veteran player with seniority, he was given two lockers so he could spread out and be more comfortable. No elbow-crowding from his teammates. The coveted lockers put him adjacent to the lounge and food cart, with additional easy access to the showers. He could settle on a La-Z-Boy, put up his feet after nine innings, and enjoy a snack or an entirely catered meal. Rogues’ food. Not Rebels’.
He kept one eye on the side door. Dean Jensen had yet to arrive. The captain of the Rebels was late.
“Death stare, Zoo?” Jake Packer asked, amused. Pax claimed the neighboring locker. “Locker room is neutral ground, we’re not on the field.”
Joe cut his gaze to the back of the room. Watched as the minor league players talked, dressed, readied for practice. “I hate having them here.”
Pax understood. “So do I. I’ve heard the players are high-caliber this year. Any one of them could squeeze us right off the roster.”
“So you keep telling me,” Joe ground out.
Irritatingly rational, Pax added, “Rogues are a team unto themselves. The majority of minor league teams aren’t owned by major league clubs; they merely have affiliation contracts with them. But the Rebels are owned by the Rogues. A huge investment. Our team owner and the front office track their progress as closely as they do our own.”
His teammate’s reminder and intentions were good. Joe just didn’t take it well. Today the two teams would square off. Competition would be fierce from the onset. He would push himself, play as hard in spring training as he did during the regular season. He was fit, with strong arms, stronger legs. His focus honed. He ranked third of all left fielders in major league baseball.
Joe’s competition, Dean Jensen, was an up-and-comer on the Rebels squad. He had potential. Was damn good, actually. As a prospect player, he was on-site to gain experience and face tougher competition. He had a lot going for him.
Joe locked his jaw. Fisted his hands. No one had ever given him anything. What he had was his and nobody else’s. Left field belonged to him. The end.
Deep breath, and he cleared his head. Moved on, for the moment. He pitched his wallet and keys onto the top shelf of the empty locker that separated him and shortstop Brody Jones. Brody was a nice guy. A quiet, conscientious player. He got the job done. He’d injured his shoulder the previous season. Had undergone an operation. Extensive rotator-cuff surgery repaired the damage, but he’d yet to achieve full range of motion. He might start the season, but Joe doubted he’d finish. Retirement, sooner than later. He’d return to West Virginia with his wife and two kids.
Joe hiked his gray T-shirt over his head. Tossed it on the floor of his locker. He heel-toed his athletic shoes. No socks. Then unsnapped, unzipped his jeans. Shucked them. He stood in black boxer-briefs. Scratched his stomach, his hellhound tattoo.
Pax scanned the room. “Have you seen Will?” The starting pitcher. “I owe him fifty bucks. Bar game. We bet on the Blue Coconut jukebox, guessing what would be the next song played. Ten guesses. I lost, eight out of ten. The dude is fuckin’ psychic.”
Not psychic, but tall. Six-six and sharp-eyed. If they’d been standing anywhere near the Wurlitzer, Will could’ve seen the record drop. With little effort. Joe didn’t blow his cover. It was Will’s game.
“Will’s probably in the bullpen,” Joe returned. Pitchers and catchers began their workouts two weeks before the position players. Will was dedicated, perfection his goal.
Pax dropped onto the gray-enamel bench. Removed his socks and boat shoes. He’d recently purchased a sailboat. A forty-one-foot Morgan Classic decked out with two cabins astern. A third, larger cabin aft had a head and separate shower. Pax presently lived on the boat, which he kept anchored at Land’s End, a cul-de-sac off Houseboat Row. “Where were you last night?” he asked Joe.
“At Unleashed.”
Pax pulled off a worn and torn Rogues T-shirt. Frowned. “Not familiar with that bar.”
“Not a bar. A dog day care.”
“What the hell?”
Joe gave him the condensed version, from Turbo’s destruction of the hotel room to his decision to move into the Victorian.
“Good move for your dog.”
Good move for him, too, Joe thought, recalling the previous evening. He’d packed up his clothes and belongings at the Driftwood, and taken up residence in the second-floor bedroom next to Stevie. She’d been cool, but cordial, closing herself off in her own room. She’d skipped Twyla’s lasagna supper. He’d eaten half the pan. Twyla had graciously allowed Turbo a few bites, too.
Afterward, the rottie went crazy in the backyard. Hiding in the doggy crawl tunnel. Climbing the wide, tiered deck platforms. Playing his heart out. Free.
Stevie’s friend Lori had arrived just as he was helping Twyla clear the table, load the dishwasher. She stood in the doorway in a skimpy turquoise bikini top and cutoff shorts. Sunburned, smiling, and surprised to see him. Greetings all around, before she made a pot of coffee and requested the particulars. He was happy to oblige.
He’d filled her in as they sat around the kitchen table. She seemed extremely pleased. He swore Lori and Twyla exchanged a sly look when he raised his mug and sipped his coffee. An unspoken female exchange. He hated secrets, and hoped theirs didn’t involve him.
Twyla yawned shortly thereafter. The day had worn her out. She called it an early night and left them to their second cups of coffee.
Joe eyed Lori. She had a nice body. Firm and athletic. “What’s with the sunburn?” he asked. She would peel, could possibly blister.
“Testing out my new bikini.”
“On men at the beach?”
“On one man only.”
“And . . .”
“He took me in, and I took him out. He liked what he saw. First time ever. We went from childhood friends to possibly friends with benefits.”
Her breasts swelled in the tiny top. High, front and center. Hell, he appreciated them. “You’ve known each other awhile, then?”
She sighed heavily. “Since middle school. He’s never paid me any attention.”
“Today? ”
“A party at Sand Bar brought him around.”
He knew the place. An enormous stilt chickee hut built offshore, on a solid, submerged ridge of sand and coral. Customers walked through thigh-high waves to reach the watering hole, then climbed a wooden ladder to get up on the raised platform. A palm-frond thatched roof covered a round center bar. Not much shade. No boats. No wake. Swimsuits. Bare feet. Relaxed atmosphere. Beer and wine.
Joe preferred coastal air-conditioning. Or at least a ceiling fan. “The two of you hung out?” he prodded.
“All day.” She lowered her gaze to her arms and chest. Kicked out one leg. Winced. “I slathered on sunscreen, but I should’ve gotten out of the sun.” She heaved a sigh. “I just couldn’t leave him. It was my moment. My chance. I don’t regret it for a second.”
She might have a few regrets by tomorrow, when her entire body felt like it was on fire, and her clothes scraped her skin. “What about the guy? Sunburned, too?”
“He had a light tan to begin with, but he got a lot more color.”
Color, as in red.
The two soon finished their coffee, then went their separate ways. Lori off to take a cold shower. Joe to toss a tennis ball to Turbo in the backyard. He wanted his boy tired out. To sleep through the night. Turbo had.
They’d awakened at the butt crack of dawn. Jogged two miles. He’d promised Stevie a calm Turbo. Although still somewhat antsy, the rottie had greeted her with a tail wag, not the knock down of the previous day. Joe hoped Turbo would behave himself.
He glanced up as Sam Matthews strolled into the locker room next. Wearing dark sunglasses and looking slightly disheveled, Sam wore the same clothes as he had the previous day. He clutched a large coffee in one hand, a bottled water in the other. “Hydrating,” he managed.
Joe shifted his gaze between Sam and Pax. “Where’d you land last night?”
“Started at the Blue Coconut,” said Sam. “Moved to the Lusty Oyster. By midnight, Hurricane’s. It was recommended, but turned out to be a real dump. Flat beer and dirty glasses. Broken mirror over the bar. Most of the tables tilted. Slanted wooden floors.”
“Drunk-tilted and slanted?” Joe asked. He figured his buddies were likely red-eyed and staggering by that late hour.
Pax held up his hand, palm out. “I was buzzed, but not bombed. Took a cab back to my boat before two.”
“You?” Joe eyed Sam. “How’d you finish the night?”
Crooked grin from the man. “Biker chick got me back to the Driftwood. Her Harley hauled ass. I thanked her the next four hours for the ride.”
“You were missed, Zoo,” Sam told him, as he removed his street clothes, put on his uniform. “Major disappointment. More ladies asked about you than were into me.” He went for his wallet, removed scraps of paper. “Phone numbers.” He passed them off. “Call them.”
Joe pitched them onto a shelf in his locker, saving them for later.
“Your party posse pouted all night,” added Pax. “Girls threw their own pity parties. I tried, but couldn’t cheer them up. It was you or no one.”
Joe grinned. It was good to be missed. But a different priority had kept him out of the bars the night before. He and Turbo had a new place to live. Being bedroom neighbors with Stevie had its perks. That very morning, she’d escaped the adjoining bathroom a mere second before he’d entered, seeking a shower after his jog. He’d knocked lightly. Had the water been running, she never would have heard him. The element of surprise. Sneaky. He’d glimpsed her bathrobe, pale blue, silky and trailing, before she’d slammed the door in his face. Good morning to her.
The locker room door opened once again. Dean Jensen eased inside. The man was so sunburned, he shone like a beacon. He had dark red hair, and this morning it was hard to tell where his forehead ended and his hairline began. He walked stiffly, slowly, across the room. His Triple-A teammates stared as he made his way to his corner locker.
Comments and concern reached Joe. He listened. “Bro, what the hell?” came from the minor league catcher.
“Too much fun, too much sun.” Dean was paying for it now.
The catcher shook his head. “Hope she was worth it,” he said, assuming it was a woman.
A hint of a smile from Dean. “Eye-opening.”
Eye-opening. Zoo’s ears perked up. Sunburns were a part of Southwest Florida, but the man was a mirror image of Lori. He wondered if the two knew each other. Had they hooked up? Had her sexy bikini turned Dean on? A distinct possibility.
He got his answer within seconds, when the catcher asked, “Beach or bar?”
“Sand Bar.”
Joe didn’t like his response. Down the road, would Dean and Lori start dating? If so, Dean would be coming by Unleashed, assuming the woman was, indeed, Lori. Joe’s stomach soured. There wasn’t room for both rivals at the dog day care. One would have to go. That would be Dean.
The side door swung wide, slammed against the wall, drawing Joe’s attention. Team captain Rylan Cates, third baseman Landon Kane, and right fielder Halo Todd strolled in. Their conversation drifted to Joe as they approached. Wives and off-season vacations were the hot topics. No wife for Joe. He and Turbo had spent the summer months in Richmond. He had nothing to contribute to the conversation. He gave each man a high five. Then kept to himself and dressed.
Baseball pants, belt, navy jersey. The Rogues would be wearing batting-practice uniforms for the duration of spring training. He dropped down on the bench and pulled on his logo crew socks. His cleats came next. Adidas Z. Z for Zoo. His personal brand insignia. He had a lucrative contract with the company. They kept him well-stocked.
He fitted a wristband. Superstitious, he nabbed his lucky baseball cap. The one worn only for spring training. Sunglasses in hand, he turned when Rylan called his name.
“Zoo, I heard you got bounced from the Driftwood.”
Townie grapevine. Word was out. Joe didn’t much care. “I was away for the day, and Turbo tried to chew his way out of the hotel room.” He didn’t share where he was now playing house. Later.
Halo rounded on him. “Was that Turbs at Unleashed?” he asked. Joe nodded. “I caught sight of your boy when I dropped off Quigley.” His and his wife, Alyn’s, black pug. Handicapped after an accident, Quigs had been confined to a canine wheelchair, but his nerve endings had healed over time. The pug now ran and fetched with the best of them.
“Was Turbo behaving himself ?” Joe hated to ask, but needed to know.
“Define ‘behaving himself.’”
Damn. That didn’t sound good. “He was supposed to hang out with two dogs today, two more tomorrow, and so on, until he’s fully acquainted.”
Halo frowned. “Stevie was in the office, cornered by a pet owner. The woman wanted her poodle groomed. Last-minute. Turbo was running the hallway. Not sure where he was supposed to be.”
Stevie had promised a slow initiation. That Turbo had been left to his own introductions did not bode well. It was essential to know what was going on. Webcam. His iPhone had too small of a screen. He needed a computer. Fast. He glanced at his watch. Twenty minutes, give or take, before they took the field. He didn’t want to be the last player out of the tunnel. Rogues needed to set a precedent.
He quickly headed to the Media and Communications Center, where reporters gathered for coach and player interviews. The team had four high-tech computers at their disposal. Joe logged on. Located the Internet web page. Typed in his password. Unleashed was live. Six squares divided the screen, covering different areas of the dog care.
He leaned in close, and immediately saw Turbo, darting between the screens. Running, chasing, panting, he was everywhere all at once. He nearly knocked over the three-legged miniature pinscher. Fortunately, Triple Threat kept his balance. Turbo slowed down beside an English bulldog. Female, from what Joe could tell. Turbo sniffed vigorously, nearly inhaling her. She snapped at him. Not good. Misfit. Misbehavior. Major problem.
Stevie soon came on-screen with a short leash in hand. She hooked it to Turbo’s collar. Momentarily kept him by her side, restricting his freedom. Joe decided to call her. He kept his eye on the screen while he dialed.
Stevie slipped her cell phone from her shorts pocket. Eyed the incoming name and number. Visibly debated answering. Seven rings and a sigh. “Unleashed.”
“I’ve got you on the webcam.”
“Who is this?”
“Who do you think it is?”
“What do you want?”
“I’m waving.”
“I’m not waving back.”
So he noticed. Her expression was set. Narrowed gaze. Compressed lips. Her arm flexing as she held Turbo in check. The bulldog ambled by, and Turbo gave her his best smile. A smile Joe recognized—with one canine tooth showing—but it had no effect on the bulldog. Another snap his way. Stuck-up female.
“What’s with the snotty bulldog?” he asked Stevie.
“Etta is not a fan of Turbo.”
“Why the hell not?” His boy was likeable.
“She’s not into roughhousing. Or humping.”
“Turbo’s neutered.”
“Hasn’t stopped him.”
“What happened to his slow launch into the group?”
“Didn’t happen. He ignored my ‘sit and stay.’ Took off on his own.”
“Adventurous.”
“Troublesome.”
Turbo took that moment to stick his nose right into Stevie’s crotch. He inhaled the crease right out of her shorts. Joe couldn’t help smiling. Turbo was his boy.
“Stop smiling,” she hissed, sidestepping.
“How’d you know?” He wasn’t on webcam—she was.
“I know you.”
He wanted to know her better.
Another pass by the bulldog. Etta side-glanced Turbo. The rottie strained against his leash. “She’s flirting with my boy.”
“Not flirting. She’s making sure he’s secured.”
“Who’s her owner? Maybe I could set up a private playdate between the two.”
“Or not.” Pause. “She belongs to Dean Jensen.”
Shit. The Triple-A asshat. Of all the female dogs at the doggy day care, Turbo had to go after his adversary’s pet. Joe wanted them separated. It was irrational, perhaps, but that was his mind-set. It would not change.
“How well do you know Dean?” he asked.
“We’re . . . acquainted.” Slightly evasive.
“He and Lori, too?”
“She likes him.”
Stevie affirmed what he’d already guessed. They were sunburn buddies. Stevie apparently knew Dean through Lori. Bad news. He returned to his dog. “Can you keep Turbo and Etta apart?”
“What happened to their playdate?”
“The standard poodle is cuter.”
“Good-bye, Joey.”
“Later, Stewie.”
She hung up, and he signed off the computer.
“Zoo, you’re second to the last man out,” Pax called to him from the doorway. “Move it.”
He wondered who lagged behind him. “I’m there.”
A pass through the locker room, and he discovered Dean Jensen still getting dressed. He stood in profile to Joe. In his sliding shorts. White shorts. Red skin. Joe had never seen anyone so sunburned before. Stupid man. Hot for a woman, he’d lost track of time in the heat of the day. There’d be no sex in his immediate future. Despite his newly ignited interest in Lori.
Dean grunted, loudly, struggled to pull on his uniform pants. His breath caught. He closed his eyes, gritted his teeth when he drew on his jersey. Joe’s own skin felt sore and stretched just from watching Dean’s exertions. Even the man’s feet were bright red. He’d soon be agonizing over his socks and athletic shoes.
No reason to stay. Outta there. Joe ducked around a locker, knocking the corner with his shoulder. “Carl?” he heard Dean call out. Pathetically. He’d mistaken Joe for the custodian.
To respond or not? There was real pain in Dean’s voice. Joe could be a dick and disappear. He hated the guy and all he represented. Notwithstanding, there’d be entertainment value in seeing Dean on the field, sunburned and hustling. Cringing and hurting. Falling short. Not at his best.
Dean’s misery drew Joe’s smile. He reversed. “Not Carl. What the fuck do you want, Jensen?”
Dean was uncomfortable. Having Joe come to his aid was unbearable. He screwed up his face. His shoulders stiffened. He waved him off. “Nothing.” From you. Unspoken.
“It’s me or nobody.”
“Son of a bitch.”
Silence widened the gap between them, thick with animosity. Dean ran his hand through his hair. Cringed. Sunburned scalp. He gave up, gave in. “Cleats,” he mumbled. “I can’t wear my present size. Eleven. Too tight with socks. My feet are swollen, will bleed. I’ll need a half size larger.”
“I wear a twelve.” Joe’s tone said take it or leave it.
Mental debate from Dean. “I’ll make them work.”
Joe exhaled slowly and further offered, “Adidas supplied me with Superlite socks for spring training. Climacool ventilation. Not uniform-approved, but I wear them anyway, during practice. Cushioned and comfortable. They’ll take some pressure off your feet.”
Dean was skeptical. “You’d lend me both your socks and your shoes? Knowing I’m out for a spot on the team? ”
Not just any spot, either, but Joe’s position. “My sharing won’t help you today, dude. You can barely raise your arms. You won’t be doing a lot of running. I’ve got you hands-down. I’m still the star.”
“Twinkle, twinkle, while you can.” Dean smirked. “My sunburn will fade, and I’ll outshine your talent. I’m here to stay.”
Ungrateful bastard, Joe thought, as he retrieved the footwear. He dropped a new pair of Adidas cleats and complimentary socks on the bench next to Dean. “You’re late on the field, and you’ve made me late, too,” he stated. “I’m totally blaming you.”
Dean sucked air as he raised one foot, worked on a sock. “Expected.”
Joe snapped his fingers, as if just remembering something important. “Initiation. Last minor league player out of the locker room shaves his head.” Dean’s shaving his sunburned scalp would hurt like hell.
Dean jerked. The sock he’d been pulling on popped off. “Bullshit. Wasn’t in effect last year.”
“New season. New rule.”
“According to whom?”
“Rylan Cates.” Ry carried more weight than Joe. Especially in a lie.
Joe snickered. Left his rival. He jogged the short tunnel. Sunshine broke around him when he stepped onto the main field. A blue, cloudless sky. Four practice fields stood empty. Awaiting player assignments. The bullpens were beyond the fence in right center field.
The head coach wound down his morning introductions and briefing, which Joe had missed. He’d heard the speech before: Staying in good health, and getting the team to be competitive right out of the gate were the primary goals. The players soon spread out, warmed up. Muscles stretched. Mind-sets strengthened.
Four groups eventually formed for batting practice. The hitting coach joined the starters. The projected rotation would be established within a week. No later than two. Joe presently batted sixth, the middle of the order. He was aiming for second or third by Opening Day. Which meant bumping Halo Todd or Landon Kane down the roster. Difficult, but doable. Joe was determined.
He kept his eye on the visitors’ dugout, awaiting Dean Jensen’s arrival. How long did it take a sunburned man to finish dressing? Nearly thirty additional minutes by his watch.
Joe purposely shouted at Dean when he did show. “Nice of you to join us, Jensen.” Which drew everyone’s attention. “Must be sweet to sleep in so late.”
The coaches frowned. They cut him no slack. During scrimmage, they positioned Dean in the outfield, chasing down balls. To the best of his ability. He had limited range of motion. His guttural groans reached the dugout.
Joe had near-perfect placement at-bat. He intentionally airmailed Dean a fastball that sailed right over his head. On a good day, Dean would have run his ass off, snagged it. There was no run in him today. Barely a jog. He stepped out of his left athletic shoe—twice. The fit was too big for him. He made a poor showing. Too bad, so sad.
Triple-A next went on the offense. The Rogues, on defense. The Rogues’ pitcher, Will Ridgeway, took the mound. First day out, and he took it easy, toyed with the batters, setting his own pace. He allowed hits. Left them complacent. The Rebels grew cocky. A significant smugness especially from Dean when he laid down a bunt. Their downfall loomed. Imminent.
An exhibition game was scheduled for Sunday afternoon. At the end of the first week. Promotion. The two teams would face off. Will would be ready for them. An ace force, he would dominate with his precision pitches. Firing strikes. Going for a shutout. The Rebels wouldn’t know what had hit them.
Joe wasn’t sure whether Dean’s face was sweating or if there were tears in his eyes by the end of practice. Six hours of scratchy material on sunburned skin had to have rubbed him raw. While he hadn’t played up to par, he’d survived scrimmage. He now staggered into the locker room and fell onto the bench, his chin dropping to his chest. He appeared ready to pass out.
“Hydrate, dumb-ass.” Joe grabbed a bottle of orange Gatorade from an ice cart directly inside the door. Drinks were available to the players after every practice. He tossed it to Dean. Dean barely caught it, he was so weak. Joe stood off to the side, waited, while Dean polished off half the bottle. He held up his head, and Joe moved on.
Pax trailed Joe to their lockers. “Fraternizing with the enemy?” he asked.
“People die from dehydration. We don’t need a Triple-A corpse in our locker room.”
“Here, I’d thought you’d gone soft.”
“Hard-hearted as ever. Dude’s on my shit list.”
“I snuck a peek at two coaches’ performance scorecards. Sunburn or not, Dean sucked,” said Pax. “He’ll be pressed to make our roster.”
Joe wasn’t a fool. Dean would heal. He gave the man two days to recover. He’d return stronger than ever, a left field threat.
Sam joined them, sweaty and stripping down. In need of a shower. “Plans for tonight? I’m up.” He left his comment open-ended.
“Parrot Pete’s?” suggested Pax.
Sam wrapped his naked ass in a towel. Slung a second towel over his shoulder. “Pete has two parrots now.” They perched on swings in a long, narrow cage that hung over the bar.
“I hate them both,” said Pax. “The parrots swear like sailors and spit sunflower seeds.”
“Quarter beer happy hour makes up for the cursing,” from Sam. “Your fault that Geraldo dropped seeds on you. He didn’t like being called Gerry.”
Pax grunted. “Like he knew the difference.”
“Parrot spit said he did.”
Pax was slow to agree. “Fine, but we sit at a table, not at the bar. An hour, max. Then we move on to the Blue Coconut.” He glanced at Joe. “Joining us?”
Joe debated. He had two hours before Unleashed closed for the day and Turbo became his responsibility again. He hadn’t signed up for evening care. He needed to hang with his boy. “Not sure, guys. Errands and Turbo take priority.”
“You know where to find us,” said Pax.
His teammates were easy to locate. Bars burst at the seams when the Rogues arrived. Crowds spilled onto the sidewalk. The players kept their fans happy with rounds of free drinks.
His thoughts turned to Stevie. He liked thinking about her. He owed her a new pair of panties. After a dozen phone calls, he’d also located a man who restored vintage carpets. Braided rugs weren’t George Eagan’s specialty, but he’d offered to take a look, late that afternoon. Joe would meet him at the dog day care at four.
He went on to shower, skipped the shave, and dressed. He left the locker room behind Rylan Cates. One foot out the door, and Dean Jensen called to Ry, giving him a thumbs-up. “Initiation. Shaved head tomorrow.”
Rylan’s brow creased in confusion.
Joe nudged the team captain out the door before Ry could address Dean’s concern. “Fine by Rylan,” Joe shouted over his shoulder.
He bumped into Ry two steps out. Rylan gave him the eye. “What’s fine by me?”
“It’s actually better for me than for you,” Joe admitted. He relayed what had gone down earlier. He ended with, “I hate that guy.”
“Yet you lent him shoes and socks and gave him Gatorade.”
Joe’s jaw worked. “How’d you know?”
“I’m here, there, and everywhere.”
Joe believed him. Ry was uncanny. He kept his finger on the pulse of every player. He was aware of their daily and nightly activities—good, bad, or ugly. He reined in the Rogues before management fined them. Joe had always admired the man. Even though Rylan had spoiled his fun on occasion. What Joe considered a “good time,” Ry usually termed “ juvenile.”
Joe shoved his hands in his jean pockets now, and awaited Rylan’s censure. He expected the team captain to put a halt to Dean’s bald head. Ry took his time, finally saying, “Two seasons ago, you followed the trend when my personal assistant and later wife Beth, gave me a haircut and accidentally chopped it too short.”
Joe recalled the moment he’d seen Ry and Halo in the locker room with their asymmetrical cuts. The rest of the Rogues had fallen in step. Joe had gotten a Mohawk. Fans also filled the stadium with irregular haircuts and high spirits. A bonding preseason.
Ry rubbed his jaw, evaluated. “A shaved head will be painful for Dean.”
“Yeah, I know.” No sympathy from Joe.
“Not fair to Dean.”
“We want to be fair.”
“Don’t be a dick, Zoo.” Rylan’s tone sharpened. “You are your own worst enemy. Stop competing with Dean and compete with yourself. Don’t let him distract you.”
“Dean’s close to signing a major league contract.”
“Close, but he hasn’t arrived,” Rylan reminded him. “No one’s handed him an ink pen. Landing on the expanded roster is a long way from starting lineup.”
Joe released a breath. “Thanks, Ry-man.” He meant it.
Rylan ended with, “The front office in Richmond likes you, for whatever reason. I’ve heard Kason Rhodes is a fan.” He left Joe standing in an empty parking spot.
Kason was a legend. He’d played left field prior to Joe. He’d left his reputation on the field. Hard-ass, fierce, a warrior. Once retired, he’d moved into administration. Had been appointed senior vice president of international scouting. He carried a lot of weight, showcasing new, ambitious players. Which meant he also had to have his eye on Dean Jensen.
Joe focused on the positive. He crossed the lot, climbed into his Jag. The sports car fit him tight, like a hug. He needed one. He drove to Saunders Shores, the northern sector of the Barefoot William boardwalk. The two neighborhoods showcased very different lifestyles.
Barefoot William was as honky-tonk as the Shores was high-profile. Waterfront mansions welcomed the rich and retired. Yachts the size of cruise ships lined the waterways. Private airstrips replaced commercial travel. Forbes listed Saunders Shores as the wealthiest resort community in the country.
Joe preferred the carnival rides, amusement arcade, and specialty shops in Barefoot William. Tourists and townies packed the boardwalk during the day. Neon lights flashed at night, and music poured from the many shops. People danced down the boardwalk, free and uninhibited. Many played black-light volleyball on the beach. Glow-in-the-dark Frisbees were thrown along the shoreline. Kisses stolen under the pier.
This afternoon Délicieux was his chosen destination. An upscale boutique for women’s lingerie and undergarments. Joe knew the proprietress personally. Not as a lover, the way she would’ve liked, but as a friend. He parked off Center Street, which divided the two towns.
He left the cracked cement walkway of the Barefoot William boardwalk behind. Strolled the cocoa-brown bricks of the Shores. Here, there were no rickshaw pedicabs, in-line skaters, unicyclists, portrait painters, street singers, musicians, mimes, or vendors hawking hot dogs, nachos, or cotton candy. No one wore swimsuits or beach attire.
The patrons shopping the main city blocks were dignified and stylish. All but Joe. He’d tucked a gray T-shirt scripted with Together We Can Fight Blue Balls into white-seamed jeans. His attire was unsuitable for Saunders Shores, but when had he ever dressed appropriately? Never in this lifetime. He got a lot of female stares, and several suggestive smiles, even from the bejeweled and well-heeled. “A great cause,” one woman whispered in passing.
The owner of the boutique met him at the frosted glass door. Celeste held it open for him. She greeted him with a red lipstick smile and a manicured fingernail touch to his arm. “So glad you called ahead of time,” she said. “I’ve searched my designer collection and found a lovely selection for you.”
He nodded. He wasn’t at all sure what he was looking for. One replacement pair of underwear would suffice—he wasn’t out to fill Stevie’s panty drawer.
The women’s shop immersed him in plush lavender carpet, pastel flowering plants in enormous ceramic planters, racks of lingerie, and mirrored walls. Celeste steered him toward a wide glass table against the far wall. Rows of neatly stacked undies offered diverse styles, colors, fabrics. Had he been shopping for any woman other than Stevie, he would’ve stuck his hand through a leg hole and spun it on his finger. Something held him back. Respect, maybe. He’d yet to fool around with Stevie. He wanted to play it straight.
Celeste stood beside him at the table. “Close your eyes and envision your lady,” she softly said. “Panties give a glimpse into the personality of a woman. They reflect how she’s feeling that day. Sexy, playful, teasing.”
Sarcastic, ornery, ungrateful was how he saw Stevie. She was not “his woman.” Far from it. Turbo had ripped red silk. Perhaps something similar would please her. Or not. He rubbed the back of his neck, strangely ill at ease. Indecisive.
Celeste sensed his struggle. She wanted the sale, and so she gave further suggestions. She held up pairs of panties, and described each style. “Thongs are jaw-droppers, leave little to the imagination. G-strings cause a guy to sweat, show him exactly what he’s getting. Bikinis are flirty, enticing. Boy shorts are seductive, playful. And never devalue the granny panty. Many men get aroused by full cotton coverage. Hidden fantasies.”
“Bikini,” he decided.
Celeste approved. “You can’t go wrong. A safe choice.”
Playing it safe was good with Stevie.
“Fabric?” she next questioned. “Silk, lace, nylon?”
“Silk.” Cool and slick against female skin.
“Color, pastel, solid, paisley, flesh-toned or see-through? ”
Joe went with, “Yellow.”
“Yellow-gold, lemon chiffon, canary, yellow crayon, mellow yellow, sunshine?” she read the color-coded tabs on the panties.
A corner of his mouth curved. “Natural-blond.”
Located at the bottom of the stack. “How many pairs should I gift-wrap?” she asked.
“One.”
Disappointment creased her brow. “Anything else that might interest you?” she inquired.
He looked around, noticed the wedding section. “A bridal thong.”
Her lips parted, surprise in her eyes. “I wasn’t aware.”
“Nothing to be aware of. I’m not getting married.”
She didn’t pry. Instead she shared a selection of the intimate apparel. Her favorites. Blush, cream, peach. Virginal to risqué. He made his choice. “Kiss the Bride.” Designer crystals sparkled on the white low riders. Perfect for the bridal shoot on Saturday.
“Excellent.” Celeste smiled. The high price tag pleased her. “A garter for the lady?”
Joe shook his head. “Got it covered.” Previously purchased. Something blue.
He paid, and Celeste boxed the items separately. Floral gift wrap for the yellow panties. Satin bow, tied and nicely scented with a sprig of berry. The bridal thong was enfolded in silver foil, and secured with gauze ribbon.
The boutique owner linked her arm with his, walked him to the door. “Always a pleasure, Joe.” He kissed her on the cheek. Then left.
He picked up his sports car, placing Stevie’s gifts in the narrow luggage space behind the seats. He then drove to Unleashed. He anticipated seeing her. Even for just five minutes.
He rounded the corner, a block from the dog care. What he saw had him downshifting, cutting the wheel, angling toward the curb. Hitting the brake. Hard. His upper body jerked against the seat belt. Son of a bitch. Once parked, he unhooked his belt, jumped out. He placed himself at the end of the sidewalk. Waved his arms. Wildly. Turbo barreled toward him in a full-out charge.
Stevie huffed and puffed behind him. Clutching a leash, holding her side, calling to the rottie. “Stop” did not faze his dog.
Joe put his thumb and forefinger to the corners of his mouth, whistled. Loudly. Catching Turbo’s attention. The big boy skidded to a halt near Joe’s feet. His sides heaved. He panted heavily, mouth foaming. Joe grabbed him by the collar. Held tight.
Stevie finally caught up. Her face was flushed, her legs so rubbery she could barely stand. Whether from fear or from exertion, he didn’t know. He released his temper on a low growl. “You’ve never had an escapee?” he accused. “Turbo’s on the run.”