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orgotten," Uncle Yank said.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Micki asked.

Her uncle shook his head. "Nothin' important. You can handle the team, Micki. There's nothing you can't handle, remember that."

If only he knew, Micki thought and sighed in resignation. "When do I have to leave?"

"After you get that painted gook off your face," her uncle said. "If Sophie hadn't been sitting next to me I'd have thought that was her running in late."

So Uncle Yank had noticed. "Why, thank you. I'll take that as a compliment" Micki deliberately fluttered her lashes at him.

"Compliment, my… Never mind. Just quit looking like a floozy, else I'll think you're taking lessons from Lola."

He'd noticed Micki's clothing overhaul, too. Maybe the eye specialist still could help him, Micki thought and met Sophie's knowing gaze.

And maybe they could get Uncle Yank to make an overture toward the woman he missed so badly. "Speaking of Lola," Micki began.

He slammed the gavel hard. "Meeting adjourned."

Micki rolled her eyes. The man could be as stubborn as a mule and she didn't envy Sophie's trip to the doctor with him. Still she'd rather deal with her surly uncle than cope with being around Damian Fuller in hot, steamy Florida. And that was saying a lot.

INTERLEAGUE PLAY. The fans loved it, Damian Fuller thought as he crouched in center field and waited for Manny Ramirez, one of the Red Sox's best hitters, to swing on a three-two pitch. Ramirez cleanly tackled a fastball and it sailed toward center. Damian ran back, back, and jumped high, snagging the ball at the same time he hit the wall. Regaining his footing, he immediately threw to his cutoff man, preventing the runner on base from tagging and running home, but the second he released the ball, a burning pain seared through his left wrist and he grabbed his hand in agony.

An hour later, Damian sat in a hospital room because, as luck was scarce at the moment, the X-ray machine at the stadium had broken. While waiting for the test results, he forced a smile and flirted with Darla, the attractive nurse who lingered in his room. She provided a nice distraction but he preferred to be alone.

Today wasn't the first time his wrist had given him trouble. Hell, every body part ached now and then, but it was the first time the burning numbness in his fingertips had lingered. And that couldn't be a good sign.

"Hungry?" Darla asked, obviously content to hang around and cater to needs he didn't have.

"Not for food, darlin'." He shot her a wolfish grin and she blushed a deep red.

"You really do live up to your reputation as a ladies' man," she said, laughing.

What choice did he have? Perception was everything. And in New York especially, the media shaped that perception, helping him reach the fan base that turned out to see the Renegades play. Damian needed them to want to see him play. And they would-as long as they had no idea that age was catching up with him.

His eligible-bachelor status and photographs of him partying with beautiful women cemented the impression that, at thirty-five, Damian Fuller was still going strong. That was a vision Damian needed his teammates and coaches to buy into as well. Throughout his career, the perception had helped him survive record-setting years and major slumps, making him an icon to the fans-untouchable, un-tradeable, a marquee player in a damn tough market.

Damian lived to play ball. He loved the game and after devoting his life to his career, the game was all he had. Hell, he knew he was in the twilight of his playing years, but damned if he wouldn't extend it as long as he was able.

Darla batted dark lashes over her blue eyes. "It's been fun treating you," she told him as the team physician strode into the room, chart in hand.

"Life's too short not to enjoy." He repeated the mantra he'd lived by all his life, although lately living up to his reputation had become more of a job than playing center field. He wouldn't admit it to a breathing soul, but Damian was beginning to feel every one of his thirty-five years.

"So what's up, doc? I'll be back swinging tomorrow, right?"

The older man shook his head, but the minute the guy used the term disabled list, Damian tuned out the rest. There was never a good time for the DL, yet he wondered why the hell fate had chosen nowto piss on him. Now, when Ricky Carter, the rookie with an attitude, was angling for a chance to prove he could outdo Damian on the field and at bat. It looked like Carter was about to get the opportunity.

Damian walked out of the emergency room and, within minutes, his sister Rhonda pulled up in her Honda minivan. He could have called a car service, but with three sisters and parents within a half hour's drive, and all of them probably aware of his injury by now, not calling them wasn't worth the hassle. Besides, he liked how his sisters pampered him.

"Hi, Ronnie," he said, climbing into the passenger seat. A loud farting sound greeted him and he winced. After reaching beneath him, he pulled a rubber duck from under his' ass.

She cringed. "Sorry. The kids were throwing the baby's toys around and I forgot to put that one away."

He laughed. "Anything my nieces do is fine by me." He shifted and finally got comfortable surrounded by the mess in the car.

Each sister was married. Being the youngest sibling, Ronnie had three girls under the age of ten, all of whom adored their uncle Damian. His other sisters also had girls, continuing the tradition only Damian's birth had broken. Growing up around females had taught Damian how to treat a lady and more importantly how to have patience with one, too-the constant questions, the prying into his feelings, the way they invaded his personal space in general.

All of which explained why he never brought the women he took out home with him. Why should he bother? He never dated anyone he could get serious about; he couldn't risk losing the focus he needed for his career.