Stopping Short: A Hot Baseball Romance by Mindy Klasky

first, but he knew he’d be bruised by the end of the game.
    In fact, his back ached like a mother by the time he headed back out to the field. It wasn’t the worst he’d ever been hurt, not by a long shot. But the throbbing pain made him think about those other times, made him remember things he’d spent a lot of time and effort forgetting.
    He tried to stretch, tried to find a comfortable crouch as Philly’s eight-hole hitter struck out, and their pitcher stepped up to the plate. Drew’s muscles were tightening with every breath he took. He got his glove up in time to knock down the pitcher’s line drive, but his back seized up when he bent to scoop it to second. His toss was wild, and they blew an easy double play. Three errors in three innings. A record for him. Shit.
    Skip pinch hit for him in the third.
    Sure, Drew could argue this was all spring training. The team was trying different combinations at the plate, working on different defensive moves, testing the new guys. But the fact was he’d sucked.
    At least Jessica hadn’t been there to watch. For the past two weeks, she’d sat in the section with the other players’ wives, with their girlfriends. She’d balanced on the edge of her seat, clapping when everyone else clapped, cheering for him every time he came to the plate. And just like that, he’d gotten used to having her there. Even if she’d believed in his goddamn Backwards Run, that first night.
    He’d chosen the right day to distract her with the spa, to keep her from seeing how bad he could screw up.
    Now that he was out of the game, he could have gone back to the clubhouse. He could have taken a shower, changed into street clothes, put the goddamn game behind him. But he was a team player. He had to watch to the bitter end. He had to see the scoreboard change, hit after hit after Philadelphia hit. Run after run after goddamn Phillies run.
    In the end, the Rockets lost, eleven-zip. The numbers didn’t mean anything. They didn’t carry over to the real season. But Ordonez didn’t make any errors. And he got three hits, even if the guy never actually made it around to score.
    By the time Drew made it into the locker room, his entire back was throbbing. He winced as the needle spray of the shower set off a row of ball peen hammers beneath his skin. Back at his locker, he set his jaw before he tugged on his shirt, trying not to think about those other times.
    He seriously considered calling Jessica and telling her dinner was off. They could order in room service. Call it a night.
    But he couldn’t do that to her. She’d said it would be impossible to jump up his numbers in two weeks, but she’d done it with a day to spare. He owed her dinner—and a hell of a lot more, because she kept pulling off this bullshit engagement Sartain had thrown them into.
    He ignored the guys in the clubhouse and made his way back to the hotel. Just as she’d promised, Jessica was waiting for him beneath the portico.
    She was more dressed up than he’d seen her since that first day. No jeans or khakis, she was wearing some sort of black pants that fit like they’d been sewn just for her. Her blouse looked like it would slide against his fingers; it was green shot through with gold.
    She smiled as she slipped into the passenger seat, and he caught a whiff of something—shampoo, maybe, or some special soap. She smelled like the jasmine flowers that bloomed at night. He glanced down at her feet as she crossed her legs, and he saw she’d gotten a pedicure—her nails were painted pure red, bright against her sandals. The color shot straight to his groin, and for a moment he forgot all about the miserable day on the field.
    But then she said, “Good game?”
    “No.” Of course that wasn’t the half of it. But he wasn’t going to talk about it, not when they were supposed to be celebrating. He waited for her to buckle up her seatbelt, and then he gunned the car out of the hotel driveway.
    She tried to make