Worth the Trade (More Than A Game) Read online

  Maybe he wasn’t too crazy about being traded once again. But now that he was here, he’d give it everything he had. For his teammates. For the fans. For the lovely Miss Hunter Collins.

  * * * *

  Since he couldn’t sleep, Marco pulled out his iPad. Good thing he’d kept it in his carry-on bag. After sending a quick e-mail to his mother letting her know he’d arrived safely in his latest temporary home, he decided to do some Internet research on his new team. Who was he kidding? He wanted to know more about his new owner. He hoped to satisfy his curiosity and move on. Instead, he became more and more intrigued by the woman as he watched her life unfold through a series of pictures, videos, and articles about the little girl who was raised by her single dad and the entire Goliaths organization.

  What was he doing? Hunter Collins was his boss. Hadn’t his family suffered enough at the hands of an employer who’d taken advantage of his employee? He couldn’t risk it. No matter how much he wanted her. He’d be a free agent at the end of the season, looking for a team he could finish his career with. He had to make a good impression. On the field. Only on the field. He didn’t need any distractions. Especially not one with the power to end his career right when he was hitting his prime playing years.

  Still, he went to a little extra trouble with his appearance the next day before heading to the ballpark. He put on his best semi-casual dress shirt. The one that made his eyes bluer than a summer sky. Or so he’d been told. And not only by the salesgirl who sold him the overpriced garment. He spent a good half hour debating whether to shave or go with the scruffy look. He shaved. Since he was starting with a new team, he decided his face needed a fresh start.

  Besides, it’s not like they were going to hop into bed right away. No. He liked to take his time. Get to know a woman. Draw out the seduction over a period of weeks. Some guys preferred the easy in, easy out approach to relationships. But a woman wasn’t a drive up window. He didn’t want to just toss her aside after a quick taste. He liked to savor a woman. Leave her with no regrets tainting the memories they’d made.

  He wondered what kind of memories he could make with Hunter Collins. She was different than any of the women he usually dated. For one thing, she wouldn’t be impressed by what he did for a living. She was around professional athletes all the time. She’d surely known too many ballplayers who thought they were God’s gift. He’d need to show her how he was different from every other man in that dugout.

  What an idiot. He probably wouldn’t even see her. It’s not like she’d be hanging out in the clubhouse. If she even came to the game, she’d be sitting pretty in a luxury box, looking out over her investment. He’d do well to remember she was an owner. She was only interested in him because he could make her money. He should only be interested in her signature on his paychecks.

  He needed to focus on getting ready for his first game as a Goliath. He needed to prove he was worth the trade. This was his fourth team since making it to the majors. He hoped it would be his last. He’d spent far too much of his life moving around. As a kid. Again in the minors. When he was drafted in the second round, he thought he’d finally found a home. Texas would keep him around. People loved the local boy makes good story.

  But he’d quickly learned that baseball was more than the national pastime. It was a business. Big, big business. Loyalty only went as far as the bottom line. And the investors were restless. Every team started the season hoping this would be their year. For the twenty-eight clubs who didn’t make it to the big dance, someone was to blame. Players were shuffled. Free-agents signed. Salaries taken on and dumped. All in the hopes of a share of the postseason pool.

  Marco had been called up, sent down, brought back up, and traded three times in the last six years. In the process, he’d become somewhat of a streaky player. One who could turbocharge the lineup for weeks at a time. Then he’d hit a plateau. His average would dip. Run production taper off. And the pressure would get to him. He tried not to listen to the talk shows or read the blogs. But he knew what they were saying about him. Knew it was only a matter of time before someone else started looking better.

  He needed to make sure that for the last two months of this season, the grass was greenest in left field beneath his feet.

  * * * *

  Marco went about his usual pregame routine. He’d eaten two bananas, a peanut butter and honey sandwich on whole-wheat, and washed it down with a quart of chocolate milk. He filled his back pocket with sunflower seeds and put on his new jersey—number 9. After donning his new cap, and picking up his trusty glove, he headed out to the field.

  Standing on the sidelines, hat over his heart, he took in the sights and sounds of the ballpark as the national anthem rang out over the loudspeakers. He closed his eyes, letting the words and the music fill him. He knew how fortunate he was to be standing here instead of on the street outside the stadium. He could easily be the guy cleaning up after the game, instead of the guy hitting cleanup.

  When the song ended, he happened to glance into the stands. Hunter Collins sat behind home plate. She caught his eye, held his gaze for a moment, and then tried to busy herself with the scorebook on her lap. But she dropped it. He was close enough to notice a blush creep across her cheeks.

  He’d gotten under her skin. And she was now in his head. He just hoped he could get her out of it before he came up to the plate.

  The top of the first inning went quickly, with the first three batters striking out. In a way, Marco was glad nothing came to him in left field. But the longer he went without making a play, the more nervous he got about making a good impression. On the team, the fans. And of course, on Hunter Collins.

  The Goliaths leadoff man got a base hit. He stole second and avoided a double play when the next batter grounded out. Shortstop Bryce Baxter stroked a double down the left field line, scoring a run. Could be a rally. It was up to Marco to keep it going.

  Too bad he struck out on three pitches.

  He shook his head, feeling the shame of letting her down. No it wasn’t just Hunter, he’d let the whole team down. Not to mention the forty thousand fans in the stands and the countless others catching the game on Bay Area Sports Net or listening to it on the radio.

  Shake it off. It was only the top of the second and they had a one run lead. Marco grabbed his glove and took his place on the field. With a runner on second and one out, the next batter hit a deep fly ball, heading for the gap in left-center field. No way was he going to let it get away from him. He dove, snagging the ball inches from the grass. The crowd roared and he felt a little better about his blunder at the plate.

  He finished the night hitless, with two strikeouts, a pop fly, and finally, grounding into an inning-ending double play. Way to make a good impression.

  At least it hadn’t come with a loss. Johnny Scottsdale had pitched a gem and Baxter hit two home runs and an RBI double to clinch the win and draw media attention away from him.

  Marco had done part of his job. He made some good plays in the field. He hadn’t committed any errors and he’d saved what could have been a run-scoring double. The night hadn’t been a total loss. But it hadn’t been anywhere near what he wanted to accomplish in his first game as a Goliath.

  Chapter 2

  He’d gone zero for thirteen. Hunter couldn’t believe Marco Santiago was hitless after three games. Was he doing it on purpose? To let her know he really didn’t want to be here?

  No. Of course not. He was a professional. He might not have been enthusiastic about the trade, but surely he wouldn’t sabotage his career because of it.

  Still. She felt like there was something personal about his performance. Like she was somehow responsible for his lack of focus at the plate. Because he looked like a man who had something other than baseball on his mind every time he stepped into the batter’s box.

  He’d look over at her. His damn blue eyes boring into her, then he’d shake his head and dig in. He was distracted. Frustrated. And since he was her first
official player acquisition, she took his struggles at the plate personally.

  Hunter wasn’t too surprised to find him in the batting cages before the game the next afternoon. He was doing the right thing. Trying to work his way out of his slump. She had to give him credit for that. She watched him take cut after cut. His swing looked good. No major flaws in his mechanics. It didn’t appear to be a physical problem. So it had to be at least half mental.

  Hunter settled in to watch his extra batting practice. He was starting to look a lot more comfortable as the session went on. She relaxed a bit, enjoying the simple pleasure of watching a talented athlete hone his craft. He really did have a beautiful swing.

  Until he caught her watching him. He shook his head and completely missed the next pitch. He fouled off a few more balls, and it became clear that he was rattled. No more clean contact. No more smooth, easy swing. No more poetry in motion. She was in his head.

  She should go. Her presence was only making things worse. For his game and for the sexual tension that surrounded them like fog whenever they were near each other. But she couldn’t quite make her feet move. Couldn’t quite tear her gaze away from the way the muscles in his arms and shoulders flexed as he swung the bat. The way the thrust of his hips added power to his swing. Not to mention the way his ass looked in those almost-tight white pants.

  As if he knew her observation wasn’t entirely professional, he set the bat down, grabbed a towel, and approached her with a scowl on his face. A frustrated, yet incredibly sexy scowl.

  “What are you doing down here?” His blue eyes blazed with annoyance. And desire. “I’m trying to work.”

  “I thought I’d take a look and see if we can figure out how to get you back on track.” She tried to keep her voice as professional as possible. To not betray the fact that a few minutes ago, she was simply admiring the view. “There’s a reason I traded for you and I think if we work together, we can get this team to the postseason.”

  “Oh yeah? And what can you do, besides distract me, to get me hitting again?” He gripped the towel around his neck.

  “I distract you?” Her heart tripped, stumbling over his intense stare. “How do I distract you?”

  “I think you know the answer to that.” He stepped closer, making the space seem entirely too small. They were in a large, underground facility, with room for batting cages, pitching mounds, and weight rooms. Yet she felt like she was trapped in an elevator whenever she was near this man.

  “Is it because I’m a woman?” Her hackles rose. When she was little, her gender hadn’t mattered. She was Henry Collins’ kid. Always at his side. She was as much a fixture at the ballpark as the left field bleachers. It wasn’t until she got older that she realized she was the only girl in the clubhouse.

  “Yes. You’re a woman.” He said that last word in such a way that every single one of her womanly parts tingled. “And you’re my boss.”

  “You don’t think I can do my job. Simply because I’m a woman. I may not have ever played professional baseball, but I know as much about this game as anyone. My father trusted me. He listened to me. Valued my insight and instincts.”

  He’d never made a trade or signed a free agent without asking her thoughts on a player. She used a combination of sabermetrics and instinct. Going with her gut when the two offered conflicting advice.

  “I grew up in this clubhouse. I’ve played catch with more Hall of Famers and all-stars…” She fisted her hands on her hips. “I actually do know what I’m doing.”

  “I’m sure you do.” He was mocking her. His eyes twinkled. His dimples teased. His lips curled in a half-smile. “I’ll bet you’re very good at your job. But that’s not the problem.”

  “So what is the problem?” She folded her arms over her chest.

  “You’re my problem.” His smile faded. “You’re my boss. I shouldn’t want you…but I do.”

  Their eyes met. The connection between them impossible to deny. Pure, physical attraction.

  “And that’s why you’re distracted at the plate?” She wished he was joking. That he was only toying with her because he knew it wouldn’t lead anywhere. Couldn’t lead anywhere. It was all part of his game, and once he realized he was out of her league, he’d let it go.

  Except it didn’t feel like he was playing her.

  “Yes. You sit there in the front row, taking notes.” He dropped his gaze to her blouse, and the way his eyes blazed, she wondered if she’d forgotten to button it. “In your buttoned up suits. And your pulled back hair. It’s like you don’t want anyone to know what’s underneath. But it’s all I can think about.”

  “My suits?” She could feel the heat rising in her cheeks. “You think about my suits?”

  “What are you hiding?” His voice was deep, rich, and way too sexy.

  “I’m not hiding anything.” Her pitch was too high, making it sound like she was indeed covering up something.

  “So you’re naked underneath all that black and gray?” A grin teased his lips.

  “No. Of course not.” Her cheeks weren’t the only part of her to flush. “But that’s none of your business, anyway.”

  “I know. It is none of my business.” He closed his eyes and exhaled in frustration. “Yet I can’t help but wonder.”

  What did he want her to do? Show him? Do a little strip tease right here in the batting cage?

  “It’s driving me crazy.” He opened his eyes and stared straight at her. Through her. “You’re driving me crazy. I can’t… I can’t get my head in the game because you’re there, taking up space.”

  “Why?” She hadn’t meant to ask the question aloud, but since she had, she continued. “I mean, I’m not the kind of woman men fall for. Never have been.”

  “What? Because you don’t dress in skimpy clothes and wear a lot of makeup, you don’t think men notice you?”

  “Not usually.” And she was fine with that. For the most part. She’d been just a girl, in a man’s world. But none of the players were ever bothered by her. They looked out for her, sometimes even teased her, like a kid sister. But they never took her seriously. Even when she came back from college, she was still Henry Collins’ little girl. Not even a consideration.

  “Idiots.” He clenched his jaw muscles. His fists, too. “Or maybe I’m the idiot. I know all the reasons I shouldn’t want you. But I do.”

  She felt a strange flutter in her chest. He wanted her. Even though they both knew it was a bad idea.

  “So if I wasn’t sitting behind home plate, you’d start hitting?”

  “Maybe.” He stepped closer. Close enough that she could smell the faint scent of soap and sweat. And pine tar.

  “If I move to the luxury box with the other owners, you won’t be distracted?”

  “It depends. Are any of the other owners men?” His eyes burned with suspicion.

  “They all are.” She was all too aware of that fact. “But Marvin Dempsey is old enough to be my father. And Clayton Barry? He doesn’t like me very much. I think he’s intimidated by a woman with equal power.”

  “He’s attracted to you.” He stepped even closer. Just short of touching her.

  “No. He’s married. With kids.” She laughed at the absurd idea. “His wife is a supermodel. He’s definitely not interested in me.”

  “Wanna bet?” He smiled, taking a step back.

  “Not really. Besides. We work together. And we never agree on anything. Even you.”

  “What about me?” His gaze narrowed.

  “He didn’t want to trade for you. Thought we should get someone flashier. With a bigger name. And a bigger price tag.”

  “Like who?” His ego had been pricked. Good. Maybe it would spark a hot streak.

  “It doesn’t matter.” She smiled sweetly. “I wanted you.”

  “Oh?” He raised an eyebrow. Flashed a dangerous grin. “And you always get what you want?”

  “Yes. When it comes to helping this team win.” At some point she was going to have
to admit she wanted Marco Santiago, the man. But she wanted the ballplayer even more. She needed him to be the player she knew he could be. “I want this division. I want the pennant. And I really, really want the World Series. I believe you can help us get there.”

  He nodded, serious once again. “I want all of that, too.”

  He lifted his cap. Raked his hand through his hair. Replaced his hat.

  “Typical female.” He shook his head, mumbling to himself.

  “Excuse me?” She couldn’t pretend she hadn’t heard him.

  “You only want a ring. One with a ridiculous amount of diamonds.” He grinned. A crooked, cocky smile that reached his eyes. “I’ll get you that ring. Don’t you worry about that.”

  “You’d better. I gave up my youth to get it.” She was referring to the pitching prospect and the rookie outfielder she’d traded, along with a veteran relief pitcher, to bring him to San Francisco. Those guys would probably make an impact in the next few years. She wanted to win now. She needed to justify her father’s faith in her. And this team.

  “I’ll do my best,” he promised.

  “I’ll be watching. From the owner’s box.” She would sit up there at the Club Level. Watch the game on the big screen. Make nice with Clayton Barry, even though he coveted her position.

  She would keep her distance from Marco. Treat him like every other player. He was just another part of the team. They were already a good team. Good enough to win the division. Marco could help get them there.

  She hoped.

  * * * *

  Damn. Was he really so hot for his boss that he couldn’t hit a freaking baseball in her presence? Even worse, he’d admitted it. At least he had the restraint not to take her right there in the batting cage. Barely.

  Today’s torture device—or conservative pant suit—was black. With another gray blouse buttoned to the neck. How he itched to undo those buttons, one at a time. Slowly revealing what he was certain to be hidden treasure. He couldn’t help but wonder if her undergarments were more of the same muted colors or if she was hiding a jolt of color. Bright red satin, for instance. Like those art films in all black and white except for the one colorful detail. A red umbrella, perhaps, or a woman’s sapphire blue eyes.