The Mimosa Scorpions’ most valuable players.
And there was none more valuable than the superstar of 1997, number thirty-one, team captain William Palmer.
Whoosh, ping—that was a long ball—thud.
She trailed her fingers over the red paint of his name, then walked around the dugout, staying far enough from the chain-link fence to see him but not be in his field of vision.
Speaking of visions.
He wore nothing but hundred-year-old jeans, hanging so low she could practically see his hipbones and the dusting of dark hair from his naval down to his—
She forced her eyes up, only to stop on his chest, bare, damp with sweat, every muscle cut and corded as he took his swings.
Low, deep, and inside her belly, desire fisted and pulled.
He held the bat on his right shoulder and tossed a ball up—she spied a white plastic bucket full of baseballs next to him—then, in one smooth move, he’d grip the bat and take a swing, sending the ball high in the air or straight down the middle. There was a name for this practice. Fun something? She couldn’t remember, but the sight of him swinging took her back in time, when the same sensations of need and want had rocked her young body.
She’d nearly given in to them. What would have happened if Guy hadn’t walked in on them that night? How different would their lives be? Would they have made it in the long haul? Or would she still be living in L.A. and so, so alone?
Foolish even to think about it, she chided herself. The past couldn’t be changed.
Still, it could be remembered. For at least ten swings of the bat, she just stood next to the dugout and drank in the sight of Will at the plate, his swing a little different now, a little slower, a little less confident than when he’d been a cocky high school superstar. So much was different about Will now.
His hair had curled at the ends from sweat despite the black bandanna he’d wrapped around his head. His body had lost that sinewy look of youth, but had grown into broader planes, more mature muscles, even better shoulders to lean on.
Without thinking, she took a step forward, closed her fingers over the cool metal of the chain-links, and—
Instantly got his attention.
For about as long as it took a fly ball to reach the fence, they stared at each other.
“I brought you a peace offering,” she finally said, holding up the beer bottle.
He leaned over and picked up another ball, tossed it left-handed, then took a powerful swing. “That’ll go down nice after hitting infield fungoes.”
Fungoes. That was the word. “Haven’t heard that term for fifteen years.”
He smiled and slammed another, far and long, the ball bouncing along the ground until it came to a stop deep in center field.
That was no infield fungo. “Hitting ’em a little hard tonight, aren’t you?”
“There’s a glove in the dugout if you want to field,” he said.
A smile pulled. “You think I can catch those fungoes?”
“I’ll hit puff balls for you, Bloomerang.” He grinned and used the bat to gesture to the dugout.
Bloomerang. The girl who always comes back.
She stepped down into the dugout, set the beer on the bench, and grabbed the brown baseball glove. “They just leave this stuff out here?” she asked.
“My key still works the equipment room.”
That made her laugh. “Seriously? They haven’t changed the locks in fifteen years?”
“They haven’t changed a lot in fifteen years.”
As she stepped out onto the field, she slipped the mitt on her left hand. “But you have, Will.”
“We all have, Jossie.”
She trotted out to center field, her thin, flat sandals all wrong for baseball. “Hang on,” she said, kicking them off. “Okay, batter.”
She got into position behind second base, hands on knees, butt stuck out. “Bring it.”
He popped her a slow and easy grounder, rolling the ball so gently she had to walk forward to get it before it stopped. “You can do better than that, Palmer.”
“Let’s see your arm.”
Grabbing the ball, she straightened, held it up, and threw it straight into the dirt.
“Ah, the perfection of the female throw.”
“Screw you.”
From forty feet away, she could see him grin.
“Is this what you’ll do as a coach?” she asked.
“At fielding practice.” He hit another one, a little harder down the middle, and she managed to stop it.
“Ugly,” he said. “But you got the job done.”
She threw it back. “What about all those balls all over the outfield?”
“I’ll clean up when I’m done.”
“When are you going