But when the first batter came to the plate, his knees shook a little.
He closed his eyes and rolled the ball around in his hand.
Focus on the familiar. You’ve been doing this practically your whole goddamn life, Garrett. This is as familiar to you as brushing your teeth.
You can do this.
He opened his eyes. His catcher, Sanchez, called for the signal. Garrett nodded, took a deep breath, got into his windup, then tossed a hard fastball that whizzed right by the batter and into Sanchez’s waiting glove.
Hell, yeah.
Sanchez called for a curve. Same thing, and the batter hit a grounder right to Gavin, who stepped on first base.
Out number one.
The next batter came up and Garrett smoked a fastball. The batter bit right away, a pop fly to right field.
Out number two.
Feeling a little more relaxed, he faced the next batter and tried out his sinker. First one was a ball, so he adjusted and threw a fastball.
Strike one.
Sanchez called for the sinker again. Garrett threw it again, and the batter fouled it off.
Strike two.
This time Garrett wanted to blow this guy out of the water. Sanchez called for a curve, but Garrett said no. When Sanchez suggested the fastball, Garrett nodded and wound up, threw the heat, and the batter swung.
At nothing but air.
Strike three and he was out.
The crowd roared and Garrett walked off the mound.
Easy first inning.
He stayed in his own head through eight innings, allowing only two hits and no runs. His arm was tiring and it showed. He’d walked two batters in the eighth and Manny told him he didn’t want him to stress out his arm. Though he wanted to pitch the whole game, he also didn’t want to hurt himself. Manny brought in Maloney to close it.
“You pitched one hell of a game, Scott,” Manny said as he took the ball from him. “Welcome back.”
Garrett couldn’t help the slight smile on his face. “Thanks, Coach.” He walked off the mound to a standing ovation from the crowd. That felt damn good.
They won the game four to nothing. His teammates celebrated the victory in the clubhouse after. The media asked him how it felt to be in the starting rotation again.
“It feels pretty damn good,” was all he could say, while giving a lot of credit to his teammates for their batting and fielding, and Maloney’s stellar job as a closing pitcher.
After the game, he met up with Alicia in the parking lot. She threw her arms around him and kissed him. “I knew you could do it.”
He kissed her back, long and hard, holding tight to her for an extra few seconds. “Because you believed in me, even when I didn’t.”
She squeezed his arms when she pulled back. “How does your shoulder feel?”
“A lot like overcooked spaghetti.”
She laughed. “That’s normal, given that’s the first time you’ve pitched so many innings. I’ll give you a massage tonight.”
“Naked massage?”
“See, that’s your problem. Always thinking with your cock.”
“That’s a problem?” he asked, arching a brow. “Usually it results in an orgasm or two for you.”
“Hmm, you make a valid point. But we’re supposed to meet my parents and aunt and uncle for a celebratory dinner.”
He sighed. “Okay, dinner first. Naked massage later.”
He wound his arm around her and walked her to her car, unable to remove the smile from his face.
He’d had a great game tonight. He was a starting pitcher again, and he had an amazing woman by his side. His life couldn’t be any more perfect right now. He didn’t know what he’d done to get so lucky, but as he pulled Alicia close to him and kissed her again, he thanked whatever fates had brought her to him. She’d saved his career and filled the hole in his heart.
She’d made him believe in love again, and that was more important than anything.
“I love you,” he said, brushing his lips across hers.
She smiled up at him. “I love you, too, Garrett. Now let’s go get this dinner thing over with so I can get you naked.”
He grinned. Like he’d said . . . just damned perfect.
* * *
TURN THE PAGE FOR A SNEAK PEEK AT JACI BURTON’S NEXT PLAY-BY-PLAY NOVEL
ONE SWEET RIDE
COMING IN JUNE 2013 FROM BERKLEY SENSATION!
* * *
THERE WAS NOTHING THAT GOT GRAY PRESTON’S motor running more than a well-running engine, a fast car crossing the finish line in first place, and a hot, willing woman waiting for him at the end of a great day.
Too bad a blown engine had sent his car into the wall three laps shy of the finish line in Michigan. He’d been in second place and coming up alongside his competitor in a hurry, certain he’d be able to wrestle first place from Cal McClusky before the checkered flag.