For a Little While (One Strike Away Book 1) Page 2

  "Did we ever buy into the hype?" Nick Sanders asked, burrowing through Spencer's refrigerator.

  "Probably." From the other side of the room, Travis Forsythe chimed in his two cents worth, expertly sending a ball toward its target on the vintage pinball machine. "When we were starry-eyed rookies, and we were convinced that once we made it to the big leagues, life would be nothing but champagne and championship rings."

  "We have the champagne part." Nick held up a chilled bottle of Bollinger. "When the hell do we get the rings?"

  As he stood looking out at the shores of Lake Washington, Spencer asked himself the same thing. He was pushing thirty. For an athlete, an interesting age. In some sports—football most notably—he'd be heading into the twilight of his career.

  Baseball was a different animal. Spencer was in his prime. Barring any major injuries, he'd stay there for the next four or five years. He could easily remain productive while pushing forty—or a bit beyond.

  All of which was great. Terrific. Spencer loved the game. During the season, it drove his waking hours. Off-season, he spent a major chunk of his time getting his body ready for the next grueling one-hundred-and-sixty-two game campaign. But that didn't change one overriding fact.

  Spencer wanted his team to win the World Series.

  Three years straight—every year since Spencer signed his free agent contract—the Cyclones had made it to the postseason. Three years running, they came away empty handed.

  Some athletes fell into championships during their first year or two. Others toiled a whole career without a sniff at the brass ring. A point came in every baseball player's career—after the money, the fame, the personal glory—when a championship became more and more important.

  Spencer was lucky. Unlike some players who knew their team was flat-out bad, he was part of a talented crew. They had the pitching. The hitting. The speed. Their defense was second to none.

  Still, a baseball season was a marathon, not a sprint. Between April and October so much had to go right. At the end of the year, records and stats were thrown out the window. Often, the hottest team going into the playoffs won it all—not the one that looked best 'on paper.'

  Turning, Spencer looked at his teammates—his friends.

  "When do we get the rings?" he asked. "Do you want a cliché or do you want the truth?"

  Travis joined Nick by the refrigerator, pushing his friend out of the way. Grabbing a beer, he twisted off the cap.

  "I live for clichés," he said, eyes twinkling as he took a sip. "Hell, today I have on my big boy pants. Hit me with the truth, Yoda."

  Spencer's nickname hadn't come about because he was old, green, and wrinkled. The Yoda moniker stuck because—even when he was green as grass and playing his first full season—his teammates gravitated toward him for advice.

  The wisdom and mentoring came a little later. But they dubbed him Yoda then, and Yoda it would stay.

  "We may never get the hardware." Spencer held up his right hand, wiggling the ring finger. When Nick and Travis let out a stream of curse words, he grinned. "Injuries are mother fuckers. How close were we last year? One game away from playing in the Series. Carlos goes down with a pulled hamstring. Rodriguez cuts his finger opening a shitass can of chili."

  Nick groaned. "Don't remind me. One night away from pitching the biggest game of his career and he can't get somebody else to fix him a snack?"

  "The point is, shit happens. Shit that nobody can predict."

  "In other words, play the damn game and play hard. That's all any of us can do."

  Spencer didn't mind having his words thrown back at him. Though, technically, they weren't his. They belonged to his first minor league manager. Who heard them from his first manager. And so on.

  One of the many reasons Spencer loved baseball so much was the tradition. More than any other sport he knew, this one thrived on the tried and true.

  In a world filled with uncertainty and turmoil, he found something comforting in knowing baseball—and its clichés—was a constant he could count on not to change.

  "It's December and ESPN has already handed us the championship. I'm going to bask. At least for today."

  Grinning at Nick, Travis finished off his beer. "I know what that means. Which of your bevy of beauties will you choose to help you bask?"

  "I have yet to pare down the list." Nick took out his phone. "Feels like a smorgasbord type of night. Ten? Maybe twelve? A few shots of Kentucky's finest should help me narrow the field. Who's with me?"

  "Sure." Travis grabbed his jacket. "Tonight we bask. Tomorrow, it's back to the weight room. I need to put on another five or six pounds of muscle before Spring Training." As if holding a bat, he made a sweeping swing. Known as the league's premier defensive shortstop, this year Travis planned on upping his power numbers. "Mark me down for forty homers."

  "How about it, Spence? You up for some female companionship?"

  Not so very long ago, Spencer wouldn't have hesitated. He used to love a good time out with friends—the more beautiful women, the better. That hadn't changed. Exactly. Was it his fault that a certain redhead entered his thoughts more and more these days? At some damn inconvenient moments?

  When a man was having sex with one woman, he shouldn't see another's face. Or remember the feel of her lips. Or swear that her one-and-only scent had entered the room, swirling around him, intoxicating his senses.

  Spencer was annoyed by the intrusion. But he shouldn't be surprised. Blue O'Hara was an original. Always had been. As a little girl, she'd been impossible to ignore with her shock of bright red hair and expressive gray eyes.

  As Blue grew older, she dazzled in a different way. Seemingly overnight, she transformed from precocious and cute to a beautiful, desirable woman. Asking Spencer to resist her charms would have been like asking a lion to ignore a lamb, tethered and welcoming.

  The attraction was mutual. The affair had been intensely passionate. When it ended, the blame was all Spencer's. He hadn't been ready for anything serious. Dumping Blue—he wished he could think of a nicer way to say it—hadn't been easy. As arrogant as it sounded, he knew it had been the right decision. For both of them.

  Other than the occasional twinge—usually when he spotted a flash of red hair in a crowded room—Spencer rarely thought about Blue. She lived on the other side of the country. She had her own life. She was doing just fine—according to his sister.

  Four years Blue free. They hadn't seen each other or communicated in any way. Yet the second she moved back to Seattle, somehow, her spirit haunted him, reminding him of how they once were together.

  Spencer rubbed the back of his neck, trying to loosen the suddenly tense muscles. They ended a long time ago. And that was how he wanted it to stay.

  "I don't want her back," Spencer muttered.

  "What was that?" Nick asked, car keys in hand. "Something about a woman's back?"

  "That spot right at the base?" Travis made a humming sound. "So soft and warm. Damn." With more force than necessary, he shoved an arm into the sleeve of his jacket. "I've been spending too much time with you guys. Let's get going."

  Following Travis, Nick sent an inquiring look over his shoulder. "What about it? You coming?"

  Tired of himself—and his musings—Spencer nodded.

  "What the hell. We're only young once."

  Young. Free. With every intention of staying that way.

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE RESTAURANT WAS lit with the point of creating a warm, elegant, intimate setting.

  Candles graced every table, casting a romantic glow onto the sparkling silver, the pristine white china and—most important—the faces of the diners. From the view of Puget Sound to the background music—Rachmaninoff played by the softest of violins. The setting perfectly promoted romance.

  Blue smiled at her date. There were hundreds, maybe thousands, of women who would appreciate sitting across from a handsome man in such a setting.
Unfortunately, she wasn't one of them.

  Blind dates were problematic. They began with a great deal of anticipation. Sometimes good. Sometimes bad. Often the results turned out to be somewhere in between.

  In Blue's case, she was here under duress—the pressure applied firmly by her mother.

  The phone call came just as Blue was leaving for work. She had a meeting at nine-thirty and didn't want to be late. If she hadn't been rushed, she might have gently argued her mother out of the idea.

  Or not. Dorothy O'Hara had a will of iron—especially when it came to her children. She considered it her duty to make certain each was happily settled in a relationship. To give the woman credit, she didn't push for marriage. At least not in the first year.

  After that—if things were progressing to everybody's satisfaction—all bets were off. Wedding bells were in the not-so-distant future.

  So far, Dorothy was one for three in her efforts to watch her children travel through life two by two. In baseball, she would sport a stellar three hundred average. Mom being Mom, she wouldn't be happy until she batted a thousand.

  Blue almost didn't answer when she heard the ringtone. She loved her mother. Deeply. Most of the time, she was one of Blue's all-time favorite people. However, at the last two Sunday dinners—surrounded by Blue's snickering siblings—Dorothy had begun to hint—quite loudly—that she knew the nicest young man. He and Blue had so much in common.

  When Blue tried to evade the subject, her mother countered at every turn. She could hear her now.

  You've been back in Seattle for over a month. It's time to start socializing. It’s one dinner. What can it hurt? I've told Warren all about you. He can't wait for Saturday night.

  As Blue finished getting ready for her date, she wondered just how anxious Warren Miller really was. Had his mother pushed him to agree? Had he—like Blue—agreed because to do otherwise would mean more pressure, not less?

  What an encouraging thought. Blue selected a pair of sparkling hoop earrings from her jewelry case. They looked good with the simple teal-colored dress, her hair fashioned into a low ponytail at the base of her neck. If Warren had the same feelings of trepidation, it didn’t bode well for the success of the evening.

  On the other hand, perhaps they'd share a laugh over the whole thing and have a wonderful time.

  Now that Blue was in the restaurant, sitting opposite Warren, that tiny glimmer of optimism faded with each sip of her overpriced wine.

  It seemed that handsome, accomplished, well-heeled attorney Warren Miller had no sense of humor. Or if he did, he hid it under his fake tan and startlingly bright chemically enhanced toothsome smile.

  Blue liked to think she was an open-minded person. First impressions were important. But so were second chances. So, she waited patiently through the appetizer as Warren went on and on about himself. She tried to interject a few words as she sampled the excellent main course of beef tenderloin in a light mushroom sauce.

  As Warren ordered dessert—without consulting Blue—her viewpoint swerved from hopeful to philosophical. The food was excellent. Her dining companion? Not so much. However, if all she could complain about was a bit of boring dialogue, she could live with that. One night out of her life—to make her mother happy. Hardly the end of the world.

  "How about Tuesday night?"

  "Excuse me?" Blue asked when she realized that while her mind wandered, Warren continued his monologue. "I'm sorry. What about Tuesday night?"

  "The art exhibit that opened downtown? Would you like to go before or after we eat?"

  Another date? Well, crap. So much for hoping she and Warren were on the same page about how this evening was playing out. Blue wanted it to end as soon as possible. Warren wanted a second helping.

  For her mother's sake, Blue could endure an evening of one-sided, mind-numbing conversation. Two? Nope. No way. Not going to happen. Sorry, Mom. Nice try, but this time, you picked a dud.

  "I'm flattered, Warren. But—"

  "Is that who I think it is?"

  Warren's gaze moved across the room. Apparently, she couldn't hold his interest long enough to politely inform him that not only did she not want to go out with him on Tuesday. This would be their last date. Period.

  Like a three-year-old with a microsecond attention span, something bigger and brighter had caught Warren's eye.

  On a scale of one to ten, Blue wondered if making an excuse that allowed her to slip away before dessert arrived fell on the high or low end of rude behavior. She supposed it depended on who made the call.

  As the waitress returned, Blue thanked her, asking that she bring the check right away. With a smile and an understanding nod, the woman produced the already tallied bill.

  The bad date club. Every woman was a member, binding them into a universal sisterhood. No need for explanations. They had all been there at one time or another.

  Blue took a bite of tiramisu. Enjoyed a sip or two of coffee. Warren was too busy rubbernecking the possible celebrity across the room to touch his. That settled it. Time to thank her date, shake his hand, and call it an evening. At least she had the foresight to drive herself to the restaurant.

  "It is!" Warren whispered excitedly. "Can you believe my luck? I can't wait to tell my buddies that I had dinner at the same restaurant as Spencer Kraig."

  Spencer? Here? Blue almost whipped her head around to verify Warren's claim. Or, she could drop her face into her hands. Crawl under the table. Find the nearest exit. Run for the hills.

  She wasn't ready to meet him. Wasn't mentally prepared—if such a thing were possible. Meeting Spencer was a given. Eventually. Blue had hoped—foolishly—that the time and place would be of her choosing.

  "Are you a baseball fan?" Warren asked Blue without moving his gaze from the spot over her shoulder. "Spencer Kraig plays third base for the Cyclones. That's Seattle's team."

  Already on edge, Blue wanted to reach across the table and slap Warren upside the head. Instead, reminded him—through gritted teeth—what she did for a living.

  "I work in PR. For the Cyclones." You narcissistic idiot.

  Warren wasn't listening. Surprise, surprise

  "Oh, my God." Warren straightened his shoulders, fiddling with his already perfect tie. "He's coming this way."

  Great. Just freaking great. Blue's shoulders drooped. She wouldn't be on this date—in this restaurant—if she weren't such a good daughter. That fact alone should have given her a pass for at least one night. Let Spencer walk by without stopping. Please.

  "I thought I recognized you."

  That voice. After all this time, it still had a way of sending chills of recognition up her spine.

  Bracing herself, Blue turned, raising her gaze. Green eyes, bright as emeralds, met hers.

  "Hello, Spencer."

  "Hello, Blue."

  To say Spencer looked good would be the understatement of this or any other century. Tall. Fit. He wore a dark-blue suit, crisp white shirt, and perfectly polished Italian leather shoes. Expensive and tailored to a T. She remembered well that Spencer had a thing for having his clothing and footwear custom made.

  When Blue dated him, his walk-in closet had been filled with row after row, shelf after shelf, of more items than he could possibly wear in one lifetime. She'd teased him. He'd grinned, shrugging it off.

  It's one of my few vices, he'd said. Taking Blue into his arms, he whispered in her ear. Clothes. And incredibly sexy redheads.

  Memories were dangerous things, Blue decided, biting the inside of her cheek to stop herself from letting out a breathy sigh. Damn the memories. And damn Spencer Kraig. It didn't matter that Blue had seen him on television just the other day. Experiencing him in person—especially after four years—was a whole different level of awareness.

  "This is a surprise."

  Inside, Blue was a mess. Yet her voice sounded calm and casual. Pleased, she gave herself an imaginary pat on the back.

  T
he smile on Spencer's lips was warm. Friendly. The woman on his arm radiated neither. Beautiful. Blue would give her that. But the blonde's expression held as much heat as Alaska in mid-January.

  "You know Spencer Kraig?" Warren managed to tear his gaze from Spencer long enough to glance Blue's way. "Why didn't you say anything?"

  "Gee, I don't know. I guess it slipped my mind."

  The sarcasm dripping off each word went right over Warren's head. But not Spencer's. For a brief second, his eyes met Blue's and the years fell away. Perfectly in tune, there had been a time when they communicated with just a look. The memory made her throat ache. And her spine stiffen.

  Regret was inevitable. But it went down a lot easier chased with anger rather than sadness.

  "Are you coming or going?" Blue asked, hinting for Spencer to move it along one way or the other.

  "We just finished," Spencer countered, knowing exactly what Blue meant. "I'm sorry. Where are my manners? Let me introduce you to my date. Blue O'Hara. Janelle."

  "I'm a model," Janelle said, apparently feeling the need to explain her one name moniker.

  Warren jumped to his feet, grabbing Spencer's hand, pumping it in a firm manly manner. "Warren Miller. It's a pleasure. I have season tickets."

  Nobody was as smooth as Spencer when it came to handling enthusiastic fans. Blue used to marvel at his patience. However, his seemingly endless good cheer did have its limits. There were lines that couldn't be crossed.

  The biggest no-no? Don't put Spencer's livelihood in danger.

  Warren had an iron grip on Spencer's hand—the one used to scoop up ground balls. Make dazzling defensive plays. Grip the bat. Crushed fingers meant he could do none of those things.

  Recognizing the glint of steel in Spencer's green eyes, Blue knew if Warren didn't let go, things could turn very nasty, very fast. Luckily, Janelle—tired of not being the center of attention—unwittingly solved the problem.

  "Spencer. Darling. You promised to take me dancing so I can work off that huge dinner."

  Huge dinner, my ass. Who was Janelle trying to kid, Blue wondered. Observing the way the waif-thin model clung to Spencer's arm as if in need of support, one had difficulty believing the woman had eaten anything substantial since before the turn of the last century.