Playing Without Rules: A Baseball Romance Page 6

  Ooops. Brock hadn’t counted on his spring training schedule when he’d made that rash promise. The teams played almost every day, sometimes twice. But Bianca had believed him, and now she was staring at him as if he was Santa Claus and Superman rolled into one.

  “I have to order the wood first. It might take some time.”

  “I have wood in the garage,” Uncle Ron said. “I already designed it, but my nail gun broke, and well, with running around after Binky here, I haven’t had the time to take out the power tools. I reckon with your saw and nail gun, we can have that thing set up in a few hours. Course, we’ll need a rope to pulley it up, and someone has to climb up there to anchor it to the trunk and branches.”

  “I have time end of next week.” He wanted to take Marcia out on the one day off he had this week.

  “Yay!” Bianca clapped.

  Brock and Ron served themselves pizza while Bianca prattled on and on, chattering about her preschool, animals in her storybooks, and what she wanted to be when she grew up—a policewoman.

  After dinner, she grabbed Brock’s hand and led him to her bedroom. “I want to show you my action figures.”

  Action figures? It figured Marcia wouldn’t buy her sister any dolls. She was training Bianca to be a strong woman already.

  “Hey, I used to have all the Ninja Turtles. Can you name them all?” Brock picked up Raphael, surprised how easy it was to talk to her. He could see why Marcia would want to protect her innocence against strangers. Except sometimes it wasn’t the strangers who were the most dangerous for children. Sometimes, the danger was much closer.

  Brock’s heart twinged at the thought of anyone hurting this precious child. Perhaps he shouldn’t encourage her to speak to strangers. Yet, the child was so delightful and trusting, and bright too, just like Marcia.

  “Michelangelo, Leonardo, Donatello, and Raphael,” Bianca announced proudly, pronouncing each name perfectly. “I like Donatello the best because he has a big stick. Mar-Mar says to speak quietly and take a big stick.”

  Brock couldn’t help chuckling. Sounded like Marcia could use some of her own advice.

  “Well, I like Michelangelo best.” Brock picked up the turtle with the orange bandana over his eyes. “Cowabunga.”

  “That’s because you’ve always been the charmer,” Ron said from the doorway. He turned to his daughter. “Now Binky, you can watch TV in your room if you’re not sleepy.”

  “Can Stranger play with me?” Bianca said. “Please?”

  “It’s late.” Ron patted the little girl on her head. “Let’s brush your teeth and say night-night.”

  “Good night, little one,” Brock said. “And Mar-Mar’s right, you shouldn’t talk to strangers.”

  “Except when Pappy or Mar-Mar are around.” Ron winked and punched Brock on the bicep.

  “Nighty, night, Brock,” Bianca said. “See? I knew your real name.”

  Smart girl, and she already had a sense of humor. He could really like this kid.

  While Uncle Ron got Bianca ready for bed a second time, Brock wandered around the living room staring at the pictures. His eyes kept going back to the family picture, the one with Bianca in her parents’ arms and Marcia standing at the side looking sullen. Why wasn’t she smiling? She had a defeated expression in her eyes. He read the tiny date imprinted on the bottom of the picture. It had been taken about a year after Marcia broke the engagement.

  Maybe she’d known her mother was pregnant and felt obligated to stay behind to help. He shouldn’t have assumed she’d travel with him. Had he been so pigheaded with baseball on his mind that he hadn’t been considerate of her situation?

  He sensed before he heard Ron standing behind him.

  “How old was Bianca in this picture?” Brock asked.

  “Hmmm … she was born in December 15th, so five months old.”

  Brock set the picture back onto the mantel. “Why was Marcia so upset?”

  “What did you come to talk to me about?” Ron pulled on his trouser legs and sagged onto a recliner. “If it’s about my daughter, I’m limited in what I can say to you.”

  “Why’s that?” Brock hooked his thumbs through his belt loops as a sour feeling clenched his belly. “You’ve always guided me before. I counted on you to help me. It was your idea that I take my anger out on baseball.”

  “That was a long time ago, Brock, before you and Marcia started dating. You hurt her when you left. You broke the engagement when she got, I mean, when she decided not to leave town with you.”

  A web of chills froze over Brock’s scalp. “With due respect, that’s not how I remembered it. I asked her to come with me, but she was disappointed I was being sent to the minors. She told me to leave and never look back.”

  “Why would she do that when she needed you?” Ron’s face blanched and his jaw tensed.

  “Maybe she didn’t want to marry a loser.”

  “She’s missed you. That entire first year, every time a motorcycle roared outside, she’d stop what she was doing and wait.”

  Brock’s mouth went dry and rocks churned in his chest. She missed him? Wanted him to come back? But why had she cut him off?

  He threw up his hands. “I don’t understand. It’s like a guessing game and I’m always wrong. What am I missing here?”

  Marcia’s father turned toward the fireplace and rubbed both sides of his jowls. “I think you’d better talk to her.”

  “I reckon so.” Brock paced to the mantel and glared at the picture. Something was horribly wrong. “Would it be okay if I asked what Aunt Nanny died from?”

  “She had an embolism. A blot clot in her leg broke loose and lodged in her lung. Marcia got up in the morning and found her mother on the kitchen floor.”

  Air hissed through Brock’s teeth. “That must have been hard on her.”

  Ron sighed and wiped his eyes. “It’s been two years already. Hard to believe.”

  “I’m so sorry.” Brock bent and took Ron’s hand, pressing it. “So sorry.”

  “So am I, but Nanny always believed you’d be back. She never lost faith.”

  “I always planned on coming back,” Brock said. “I thought Marcia would be proud of me someday. But I guess I have to make the roster first.”

  Ron clasped his hand and stood. “You don’t have to do a darn thing but talk to her. She has a lot to tell you.”

  # # #

  Marcia yawned as she slid the clean wineglasses into their place above the bar. The loud music and constant stream of traffic was great for business but multiplied the pounding headache in her temples.

  Every beat of the drum and crash of the cymbals rang in her head, “Brock, Brock, Brock.” She wasn’t a lovesick teen, far from it. So Brock hadn’t called her after their insane night of pleasure. She was a big girl. One night didn’t mean giving her heart, did it?

  Except he’s already locked up my heart and thrown away the key.

  Marcia watched her staff clean up the spills and wipe off the tables. At least he hadn’t been here tonight with the Rattlers Cheer Squad. The girls had put on an exhibition of cheers, splits, and simulated pole dances.

  Good for business. But the cleanup. Wow.

  Conrad, her off-and-on-again date, dragged his way toward her. “Ready for a nightcap at my place?”

  She shrugged off the icky chill that slithered down her spine whenever he implied there was more to their relationship than she’d allowed. “Why don’t we have it here? On the house.”

  Conrad arranged his lanky form onto a barstool. “The chessboard’s back at my place.”

  “I’m not sure I want to continue the game.” Marcia sprayed off the counter and toweled it.

  “You’re worried you can’t get that pawn promoted, aren’t you?”

  “I’ve got your queen blocked.” Marcia couldn’t help pointing out. Her position was a league stronger than his, but right now, she had no heart to pursue it. Jeanine had all but accused her of playing games with Brock. One of games sh
e had to end was sitting in front of her.

  She took a chilled glass and shaker from the refrigerator and stirred Conrad a dry martini. He twirled the lemon twist between his teeth. “It’ll only be a matter of time before I weasel out of it.”

  “You’ll waste moves.” Marcia tucked her rolled up sleeves and folded her hands across the bar top. “Which is why I need to talk to you.”

  “Talk to me? That sounds ominous.” Conrad rolled the martini around his tongue.

  “Not really. We’ve both been wasting moves.”

  “How so?” His eyes narrowed, as if clued in to her resolve.

  “We’ve been convenient dates for each other for three years.” Marcia fiddled with a cocktail napkin as sweat ringed the back of her neck. “Maybe it’s time we moved on.”

  “More like move forward.” Conrad grasped her hand and caressed it. “When I’m with you, all I can think of is castling and developing mating combinations.”

  Ugh … stop it already with the chess innuendos. Marcia twisted her hand from his clammy grip. “I don’t want to hurt you, but I’ve always thought of you as a friend.”

  “But we’re so compatible.” He waved his hand toward the abandoned dance floor. “Unlike Jeanine and the ballplayers, we both bide our time. We’re safe for each other. You know that.”

  “I do know.” Marcia’s throat tightened. Conrad was perfectly safe, a real gentleman, witty and intelligent. But now that Brock was back in town, it was like the brilliance of the sun’s hot rays blinding out the cool dimness of the moon.

  “What is it? That man you danced with the other night? The ballplayer?” His voice sneered with disdain. “Surely you’re above the charms of a side of beefcake.”

  “He’s someone I cared about before I met you.” Marcia swallowed and bit her lip. There. She’d said it. Let it out. She cared about Brock. She loved him, still did, despite the darkness within and his fear of fatherhood.

  Conrad flicked the twist of lemon peel on the table. “He works for my father, and since my father leaves all personnel decisions to me, I’m running a background check on him.”

  “If it’s part of your job, it’s part of your job.” Marcia spoke in a measured pace, unlike her racing heart. Was Conrad threatening Brock? But why? It wasn’t as if he and Marcia had ever declared a relationship other than good friend.

  “It is, especially where you’re concerned.” Conrad tapped his fingers on the polished bar top. “I’ve waited long enough for you. You know I can provide the best education for Bianca and hire household help for your father. You’re aware that ballplayers spend most of their lives on the road among groupies and cheerleaders.”

  His implications were clear. Brock Carter and his priorities would not make him a good husband. But Conrad didn’t make her heart thrum with excitement the way Brock did.

  Conrad was safe. If she pinned herself to him, she’d never be content, knowing she’d thrown away the second chance Brock dangled in front of her. If he still meant it.

  “I’m not looking for a husband. I have everything I need.” Marcia swept her hand over her domain. “But I also need to make a clean break. I don’t want to lead you on any further.”

  Conrad emptied his martini like it was a shot glass and leaned across the bar. “That’s it? You’re throwing away our friendship for a sexual fling? I respected you. I never pushed and now this douchebag full of muscles blows into town and you’re dumping me?”

  Marcia collected the glass and placed it in the wash bin. “I’m sorry you feel that way, but I need time.”

  Jeanine was signaling to her to lock up, so she straightened a stack of cocktail napkins and stepped around the bar. “We’re closed, Conrad. If you want to finish the chess game, we can do it by email.”

  He huffed toward the door. Just before stepping out, he wheeled around and clenched his fist. “Brock Carter’s not going to win this one. Dig far enough and I’ll hit pay dirt.”

  Chapter Nine

  Marcia stretched and packed the sandwiches for her father’s fishing trip with Brock. It served her right that he was going out with her father instead of her. After all, she was the one who set the rule about him visiting Pappy only when both she and Bianca were out of the house.

  “Pappy, what kind of drinks do you want?” she called from the kitchen.

  “Nothing alcoholic. Did you put in some hotdogs?”

  “Got it all.” Marcia wasn’t big on drinking, even though she owned a bar. She poured ice into an ice chest and stocked it with fruit juices and water bottles.

  Her father gathered up the gear and set it on the porch. “Brock should be here soon.”

  Marcia glanced at Bianca’s door. She should still be asleep since it wasn’t even dawn. “Where are you guys planning on going?”

  “Salt River near Saguaro Lake.” He hefted a loaded backpack onto the porch.

  “When are you coming back?”

  “Whenever.” Her father checked his watch. “Weather’s going to be perfect today. A little nippy in the morning and not too hot. Can I borrow your sunscreen?”

  “Sure. You’ll need a hat too.” Marcia rushed to her room and grabbed a tube of sunscreen while her father dug through the closet for a wide brimmed safari hat, the kind with flaps to protect the neck.

  The doorbell rang. Marcia waited for her father to answer the door, hoping to avoid any awkward moments.

  Brock hadn’t called or texted her since the morning she’d left his apartment. After the unpleasant words she’d had with Conrad last night, she’d been sorely tempted to call Brock, if only to hear his warm, rolling baritone. Sleeping in his arms would have been even better, but she couldn’t blame him for needing time to think or to step away from her.

  It was her fault, of course, for being antagonistic and accusing. Add that Jeanine practically clobbered him over the head with Marcia’s desire for children, it was no wonder he was keeping his distance. Her heartbeat sped as Pappy opened the door and welcomed Brock.

  Dang. The man was hotness redefined, wearing a white shirt, unbuttoned, over a pair of low slung khaki pants.

  “Good morning, Marcia.” His sexy, mellifluous voice had her insides quivering with desire, as his eyes twinkled and rolled over the contours of her body, undressing her.

  Great. At least he was still attracted to her, even if she was all wrong for him.

  “Hope you two have a great time,” Marcia squeaked. She hurriedly stuffed packets of trail mix into a bag and pointed to the ice chest. “I packed you guys enough to feed an army.”

  “I look forward to feeding off … all this.” His eyebrows raised and lowered as he lifted the ice chest. “Sure you don’t want to come?”

  Heat ignited on her overly sensitive skin, and blood pumped to the center between her legs. As long as he was flirting, she had a chance. Was his invitation a test to see how far he could push with the Bianca issue, or did he genuinely want her company?

  “I, uh, can’t. Bianca needs someone to watch her.” She wiped her hands on the back of her jeans. “Have fun with my father.”

  “Suit yourself.” He turned to the door, and Marcia’s heart plummeted to the floor, feeling like she’d missed the last stage call.

  The two men packed Brock’s truck, and when it was time to leave, her father hugged and kissed her, as if he were going on a long trip, then stepped into the house. “Put on your shoes, Marcia.”

  “Huh, why? I can wave from here.” Marcia stood just inside the door while Brock spread himself on the porch swing, his gaze fixed on her with an intensity she couldn’t read.

  Pappy stepped into the house. “Go ahead. He’s waiting for you to say goodbye.”

  She waved again. “Bye, have a great time.”

  “Not like that. Go, go sit on his lap.” Pappy pushed her out the door. The wooden floor was rough on her feet, but Brock stood and swept her into his arms, picking her up.

  “Wait! What’s happening?” Her questions were snuffed by Brock’s l
ips descending over hers.

  It was an ambush, but what a delicious one it was. Marcia opened her mouth and Brock sucked the breath right out of her. His lips surrounded her tongue and drew her in, and she was orbiting around him, clutching to his thick neck and molding her body to his strength. Her belly quivered with its own happy dance and a warm glow surrounded her.

  Dimly, she heard her father chuckle and the screen door slap. When she opened her eyes, she saw so much depth and anguish mixed with passionate desire in Brock’s face that her heart squeezed with pain. She’d hurt him when she flippantly left his apartment. She’d also hurt him five years ago. What a big heart he must have to be here now, giving her a second, no, a third, or fourth chance.

  “I’m sorry, Brock. So sorry about my attitude. You came back to give me another chance, and I acted as if I didn’t care.”

  “It’s okay.” He thumped down the steps of the porch to his truck. “The important thing is you do care.”

  “I do, a lot.”

  “Then, everything’s great.” He put her down and opened his truck door.

  She climbed into the passenger seat and noticed her shoes and hat were already inside the truck. The backpack her father had packed was laden with her clothes and accessories. That man had to be the sweetest father ever. She smiled at the thought of Pappy going through her closet and picking clothes.

  Brock went around to the driver’s side and started the truck. “Let’s go fishing.”

  She threw her arms around him again and kissed him. When had it felt so good and natural to kiss him? Maybe because he was her missing half, the man to complete her. She should focus on the positives—what he had, and was, and not what he lacked.

  “Whoa, wait.” Brock broke the kiss, his breath rasping. “We’re never going to make it out of your driveway at this rate. Bianca isn’t going to be asleep forever and next thing you know, she’ll be rapping on the window asking us to take her.”

  “You’re right.” She smoothed her hair and fastened the seatbelt. “We definitely don’t want her to come along.”