the door to hold it in place. “I’m not letting you go until you tell me what this is about.”
She shook her head. “Don’t you see? I can’t be the next Christina Caputo. I’m sorry you hit Gutierrez and got stranded in this hick town. You should have thought better of it before you did it.”
“I didn’t think at all.” His eyes shuttered, not meeting hers, and she had the feeling he’d gone from being the inquisitor to the defendant.
“What do you mean?”
“It was an accident. I didn’t mean to hit him.” He shrugged and rubbed his elbow absentmindedly. The tiny gesture gave him away.
Her eyes flew to his face, which was still. Impassive. “Your elbow?” When he didn’t answer, she reached out to touch him, her fingers tangling with his and skimming over warm skin and unyielding bone. Her breath caught. Oh, no. “You’re hurting again?”
He pulled his arm away and straightened it, breaking their connection. “It’s a little fatigue. No big deal. I haven’t pitched in a game situation in more than a year. I’m knocking the rust off.”
“Tom, how can you say that? You might be right, but what if you’re not? You need to see a doctor.”
His eyes turned dark and resentful. “What, and have them tell me I need to take it easy? That I’m not quite ready, that I need to spend another six months in rehab, tossing simulated games and lifting weights while I wait for some egghead doctor who has never thrown a pitch in his life to decide that I’m ready? I
know
I’m ready.”
“What if you’re not?”
“I am!” He let go of the door so abruptly she nearly lost her balance.
“Tom, the White Sox have a great medical staff. It can’t hurt to drive up to Chicago for the day. They can do an ultrasound, see if you have a problem with that ligament. You’ll be in and out before you know it.”
Her words were a waste of time. He was such a competitor. Even if he suspected he was hurt, he wouldn’t admit it.
“Yeah, and word will be out on ESPN and Deadspin before I know it too. ‘Tom Cord suffers setback in rehab, future uncertain.’ No thanks.”
He climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine so quickly she had to scramble to get in. The car was backing up before she could even fasten her seat belt. His fingers drummed the gearshift console, beating out a staccato rhythm of annoyance.
“But you said you didn’t worry about the future,” she said.
“I don’t. I leave that to other people.” He gave her a long look as he headed for the park exit.
People like you.
He didn’t say the words, but he didn’t need to. The implication was clear. He was one kind of person, and she was another.
As if she didn’t know that already.
Chapter Eight
The call came as she was on her way into the office, slurping at her daily indulgence—a tall latte from the Ladybird Café. “Damn.” She shifted the giant cup to the cup holder and groped in her purse for her cell phone, never taking her eyes off of the road.
It was Tracy.
“Have you looked at TMZ lately?” Her assistant sounded worried.
Sarah frowned. “I never look at TMZ unless I can help it. Why?”
“Christina Caputo was arrested on a DUI yesterday. It’s her second and she’s looking at jail time.”
She rolled her eyes. Tom sure could pick ’em. “So? They’re broken up.”
“She’s going to do an interview on ESPN.”
“ESPN?” The only possible reason a sports channel would want to talk to Christina Caputo would be to get dirt on Tom. “God.”
“Yeah.” Tracy sounded sympathetic. “I thought you might need to do damage control.”
Her lip curled as she slowed to a stop at one of Plainview’s few traffic lights. God, Tom had showed some abysmal judgment where women were concerned. As soon as she started to take him seriously, something happened to remind her of what a playboy he’d been for years.
“Thanks for letting me know. I’ll look into it.” Christina and Tom were a thing of
She shook her head. “Don’t you see? I can’t be the next Christina Caputo. I’m sorry you hit Gutierrez and got stranded in this hick town. You should have thought better of it before you did it.”
“I didn’t think at all.” His eyes shuttered, not meeting hers, and she had the feeling he’d gone from being the inquisitor to the defendant.
“What do you mean?”
“It was an accident. I didn’t mean to hit him.” He shrugged and rubbed his elbow absentmindedly. The tiny gesture gave him away.
Her eyes flew to his face, which was still. Impassive. “Your elbow?” When he didn’t answer, she reached out to touch him, her fingers tangling with his and skimming over warm skin and unyielding bone. Her breath caught. Oh, no. “You’re hurting again?”
He pulled his arm away and straightened it, breaking their connection. “It’s a little fatigue. No big deal. I haven’t pitched in a game situation in more than a year. I’m knocking the rust off.”
“Tom, how can you say that? You might be right, but what if you’re not? You need to see a doctor.”
His eyes turned dark and resentful. “What, and have them tell me I need to take it easy? That I’m not quite ready, that I need to spend another six months in rehab, tossing simulated games and lifting weights while I wait for some egghead doctor who has never thrown a pitch in his life to decide that I’m ready? I
know
I’m ready.”
“What if you’re not?”
“I am!” He let go of the door so abruptly she nearly lost her balance.
“Tom, the White Sox have a great medical staff. It can’t hurt to drive up to Chicago for the day. They can do an ultrasound, see if you have a problem with that ligament. You’ll be in and out before you know it.”
Her words were a waste of time. He was such a competitor. Even if he suspected he was hurt, he wouldn’t admit it.
“Yeah, and word will be out on ESPN and Deadspin before I know it too. ‘Tom Cord suffers setback in rehab, future uncertain.’ No thanks.”
He climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine so quickly she had to scramble to get in. The car was backing up before she could even fasten her seat belt. His fingers drummed the gearshift console, beating out a staccato rhythm of annoyance.
“But you said you didn’t worry about the future,” she said.
“I don’t. I leave that to other people.” He gave her a long look as he headed for the park exit.
People like you.
He didn’t say the words, but he didn’t need to. The implication was clear. He was one kind of person, and she was another.
As if she didn’t know that already.
Chapter Eight
The call came as she was on her way into the office, slurping at her daily indulgence—a tall latte from the Ladybird Café. “Damn.” She shifted the giant cup to the cup holder and groped in her purse for her cell phone, never taking her eyes off of the road.
It was Tracy.
“Have you looked at TMZ lately?” Her assistant sounded worried.
Sarah frowned. “I never look at TMZ unless I can help it. Why?”
“Christina Caputo was arrested on a DUI yesterday. It’s her second and she’s looking at jail time.”
She rolled her eyes. Tom sure could pick ’em. “So? They’re broken up.”
“She’s going to do an interview on ESPN.”
“ESPN?” The only possible reason a sports channel would want to talk to Christina Caputo would be to get dirt on Tom. “God.”
“Yeah.” Tracy sounded sympathetic. “I thought you might need to do damage control.”
Her lip curled as she slowed to a stop at one of Plainview’s few traffic lights. God, Tom had showed some abysmal judgment where women were concerned. As soon as she started to take him seriously, something happened to remind her of what a playboy he’d been for years.
“Thanks for letting me know. I’ll look into it.” Christina and Tom were a thing of
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