Long Relief (Hardball 1)

"Hey, sorry, I tried to use the elevator, but it was locked because they were delivering your new desk. So, I took the stairs down and met the delivery guy, then I realized your office was locked, so I had to wait for them to wrestle the desk in so I could ride up with the keys, but the desk is teak, and we crazy overloaded the car and it alarmed. So, I had to get back off and run all the way up the stairs, unlock the office, and I wasn't about to get back into the elevator. With my luck, it would have gotten stuck. I'm Molly Simmons, by the way, I'm Maggie's assistant." When she finished her breathless explanation, she stuck her hand out expectantly to Thorgerson, who looked like he would rather bite his own fingers off than touch her. Molly's bright smile, translucent white skin, and close-cropped black hair made her look like some demented pixie who would not be denied a new and exciting friend. Thorgerson quickly shook her hand and turned away.

"We'll move on to the umpires' locker room, which has just been remodeled," he said, motioning ahead of them. As they transitioned from the cool April air of the field to the even colder cinderblock corridors of the stadium, Maggie's phone vibrated. She checked the screen and gave Thorgerson an apologetic look. "I'm sorry, I have to take this. I'll only be a moment."

She answered, but the reception in the basement wasn't the best and the call dropped. Holding her phone in front of her like a dowsing rod, she kept her eyes trained on the little row of bars

She left Thorgerson with Molly to follow the signal down the wide cinderblock hallway, occasionally tilting her phone up, then down. The call had long since stopped ringing in, but since it was the only thing offering her a momentary reprieve from Thorgerson’s mind-meltingly boring tour, she’d gladly call whoever it was back. If she could only get a damned signal. The service indicator spiked near a set of double doors, so she pushed the handle down with one hand and shouldered her way in. The little right triangle filled up solid. With a hissed “yes!” of triumph, she slid her fingers over the missed call symbol.

And then a totally naked guy strolled right into her peripheral vision.

Jolted from her singular focus on her phone, she realized with crashing horror that she’d entered the clubhouse. The warm, copper-toned wood of the lockers gleamed under the inset can-lights. Stuffed leather rolling chairs, each embroidered with the team logo, stood sentry before each locker. Above a wide table with a navy tablecloth, a huge television hung on the wall, blasting Fox Sports to what would have been an entirely empty room, if she and Mr. Naked hadn’t blundered in.

He hadn’t noticed her. He’d gone straight to his locker, towel slung over his shoulder instead of over parts that should be shielded from view, and hummed to himself while he dug through a black bag. Maggie noticed the name over the locker, and froze. It was Chris Thompson.

Back when her father had still been the coach, Maggie had spent plenty of time watching Chris from the stands. He’d been brand new, sinuous and tanned, called up from the minors at twenty, and the only pitcher who hadn’t been rocking a truly heinous mullet. She’d spent her days in the park pretended to be reading or doing homework, but she’d always had one eye on him. Her girlhood crush had been a legend in the Harper household, and not entirely secret to the object of her affection, either. And now, that object stood, completely naked, not thirty feet away.

I thought he got traded to the Comets. What the hell is he doing here?

And he had no idea she was there. This was not how she had wanted to reintroduce herself as the new team owner. This was not the way she had envisioned her first day on the job.

Chris turned slightly, and she did the only thing she could think of. She dove beneath the table.

Once she was under it, her plan didn’t seem so great. What if he sat down to watch tv? How long could she reasonably hide? And the longer she was under it, the harder it would become to explain her presence.

Peeking out from beneath the tablecloth, she got a great view of Chris’s ass. She’d spent plenty of her hormonal teenage years ogling his behind, but this wasn’t quite as innocent. It was a lot more creepy. When he turned around to look at something on the television, she let the tablecloth swiftly drop. Not before she’d gotten an eyeful. The snug pants of the Bengals uniform had certainly hinted at something sizeable in the groin region, but she’d assumed that was down to a cup. Unwrapped, things were...impressive. Further north, he sported an amazing, l-shaped curve of muscle over his hip, and his legs were very toned for playing the only position on the team that didn’t have to run.