Chapter 7

Clapping and cheering erupted when Luke stepped into the changing room, causing him to stop in the doorframe with his eyebrows raised.

The game was still to be played, and he wasn't looking that good today.

"Congratulations!" Jake sprang forward and patted Luke on the back. "What an honor to have such a star among us!"

Something was up. A half-naked baseball player normally thought twice before touching another one.

Luke shook off the hand on his back and walked to his spot, in front of his locker. "What's up? Anyone care to let me in on the joke?"

Ray, who was already wearing his jersey, shook his head and stepped forward. "Dude, you really never read the papers, do you?"

"Why should I?" He got his share of lies, allegations, and speculation from all sorts of sources, so who would he open a newspaper to get more of those?

"Here. That's why." Ray pulled a magazine from his locker. From the cover, his own face grinned at Luke.

The winner: this is our bachelor with the worst taste in women

"What the …?"

"Page 43," Ray murmured, before heading for the door.

Luke stared at his face for a moment, before he opened the mag at the page Ray had given him.

Baseball heartthrob Luke Carter (30) has been living the high life for years. It seems that half of America's cadre of starlets and itty-bitty it girls has shared a bed with him, but what's most conspicuous about that is the ultra bad taste he's shown again and again. Quite obviously, he has a clear penchant for bottled blonde and silicone. The Delphies player declines comment, but we've rounded up our cheeseball top ten of Carter's conquests for you anyway.

Luke flipped the page and scanned the ten photographs of his alleged date blunders. They were mostly blonde, kooky broads, pouting at the camera, puffed with conceit. Brittany, who was still harassing him with her phone calls, was one of them.

Luke crumpled the tabloid mag in his fist, aimed, and threw it into the trash. With at least five out of the ten girls featured in their damn list, he was rather certain that while he had indeed been out with them, he hadn't slept with them. And he was also rather certain that he had in fact slept with the other five, but those ‘dates' had taken place at least four years ago.

Shit. It was really unbelievable!

He took off his t-shirt and threw it into his locker with an angry huff.

He was finally being a good boy in public, and what did the press do? They dug up his past to find more crap they could print, so he was still on their front pages.

Wes would be thrilled. Luke was actually surprised that his manager hadn't called yet. Maybe he was busy with his upcoming wedding.

‘The Delphies player declines comment' – what a bunch of fucking baloney!

Luke would have loved to provide comment. Preferably with a punch to somebody's face.

Why was everyone so damned curious about his life anyway? Sometimes Luke had the feeling that his fans knew more about him than he did.

"Luke, don't sweat it." Dexter patted him on the shoulder. "Those vultures write whatever they want. Tomorrow it'll be someone else's turn again, and the world will have forgotten all about you."

The world, maybe. His management, not so much.

"Thanks," he murmured as he slipped his jersey over his head. "My taste is impeccable, by the way."

Dexter gave him a pitying look. "Your taste is abominable, dude. I'm really surprised that none of your lovely conquests has keyed your car yet."

"Oh, my car has been keyed several times. But as long as they scratch my itch before they scratch my car, I'm fine with that …"

"You know, I agree with Ray. Someone should punch you in the face one day!"

Luke smiled mechanically. "So tell me, Dex: How is your sister doing these days?"

"Maybe I'll take care of it myself, fix your face for you," Dex murmured. "I'd be doing a favor to all of womankind …"

***

"Let me guess, we're slaughtering our own cow, and then barbecue it in front of our car?"

Emma stood in front of her sister's car, frowning at Milla with her eyes narrowed. When Milla had suggested they should treat themselves, she had thought about a spa day, not … this.

"Not exactly, no."

Emma looked around. She spied at least a dozen men, doing an impromptu barbecue in front of their car, eating what looked like an entire cow. "Oh, okay. We're slaughtering our own pig then, putting that on the grill?"

Milla laughed. "Nope … we're going in there."

She pointed with her arm outstretched, at a gigantic building that Emma had identified as a stadium. Talk about foreboding.

"Please don't tell me we're watching some sports tournament," she begged, tilting her head back in despair. Emma and sports had met a few times before. They had smiled politely, shook hands, and decided that going their separate ways was the best strategy.

Watching a game or match was not what Emma would have filed under ‘relaxation.'

Her sister gave her a wide grin and threw up her arms in a V, which looked as if she was cutting a caper, without actually jumping. "We're going to watch a baseball game!"

Emma groaned loudly and put a hand over her eyes.

"Milla, I hate sports. Sports are boring!"

"Humbug." She locked her car and linked arms with her sister. "We have great seats, way up front and with a view of the home plate. It's going to be fun."

Emma didn't share her sister's confidence.

She didn't understand why people enjoyed running after a ball or whatever – and who was the idiot who'd had the idea of paying them for doing that?

"You can file it under research," Milla laughed as they crossed the street together.

"Research?" Emma grumbled and shook her head. "What sort of research?"

"Well, you're organizing this charity thing tomorrow, and today you have the chance of getting to know the hosts, the Delphies."

Emma snorted. "Getting to know them? I'm going to see them from several hundred yards away. I wouldn't exactly call that getting to know people."

"Alright then, let's say I'm giving you the opportunity to memorize a few celebrity faces, so you won't have to ask everyone if they're famous tomorrow. Because that would sound stupid."

Granted, that sounded rather clever. She was really a little scared she would make a total fool of herself the following day.

They reached the security gate, were asked to open their purses and show their tickets. The bouncer nodded at Emma, and she was allowed to pass.

"You owe me one after this," she grumbled and craned her neck. The stadium was gigantic. It had several floors. She and Milla stepped into an elevator, rode up to the third floor, and found themselves in the midst of a crowd of hot dog, pretzel, and fan gear hawkers. Every other person who crossed their path was wearing a red-and-blue jersey with a name and a large number on the back. Emma felt as if she had landed in the inner circle of a cult, one that worshipped the colors red and blue, and really liked caps.

"Don't make such a grumpy face," Milla complained. "I thought you might be thrilled to see your one-night stand again."

"Shut up, Milla."

"Oh, come on, it's going to be fabulous! Don't you think it's funny?!"

Yeah, a killer of a joke! She might literally laugh her head off. It was so funny that she felt a little sick at the thought of potentially seeing Luke again, even if it would be from far away. The night they had spent together seemed so surreal now. Not only because it was the only one-night stand in her entire life, but also because Luke had clearly been out of her league, and yet he had ended up next to her. Now that she knew he was famous, she felt even more uncomfortable. The man had his own bobblehead figurine, for mercy's sake!

And of course he had never called again. Not that she had wanted him to. Not at all. Alright, maybe a little. A tiny little bit.

Emma blinked several times, trying to banish the memory of that night, and then stuck out her tongue at her sister. "Okay, Miss Wisenheimer. You'll stop talking about that, and I'll do my best to get something out of all this."

Milla mimed locking her mouth and throwing away the key. "Gotcha. Let's go sit down then."

"Yes, by all means. We don't want to miss the game, do we."

"Oh," Milla waved her hand dismissively, "who cares. Most people don't even arrive on time. They only go to baseball games to eat hot dogs and pretzels anyway."

The interior of the arena looked like a Quidditch stadium. Some of the tiers were so high up that they could only be reached by elevator – climbing the stairs would probably have killed some of the more corpulent patrons – and the seats were incredibly narrow and tightly packed. Seated in three overlapping tiers, the spectators could admire the green diamond below. Or maybe they couldn't, for Emma doubted that you could discern anything at all from the topmost seats. She secretly wished the players would sail in on brooms, because then this game might even get really interesting.

At least Milla had been right about their seats, for they were pretty good. Emma was able to see the field, which had a strangely jagged form, as well as the giant screen, which showed everything that happened. If she had strained her eyes, she might even have been able to discern the faces of the players, who were already down there on the green, warming up, she guessed. But she didn't want to do that. Nope, not recognizing any faces was her motto right now.

"Isn't the atmosphere amazing?" Milla demanded Emma's agreement, gesturing around the tiers, which were almost completely filled. "Imagine how many people are here right now!"

Emma imagined it, and wondered what would happen if all those people would join Greenpeace, or better yet, give her a dollar each.

"Yes, cool atmosphere," she admitted reluctantly, and found herself clapping with the rest of the stadium, when the start of the game was announced through the speakers.

The Philadelphia Delphies were running against the Detroit Tigers. Emma thought that the latter name sounded impressive, but what did she know.

And then the game began. At least that was what the announcer had said, but in Emma's opinion, nothing happened for a while. The screen showed the face of a player, and a bunch of numbers, but that was it, as far as she could tell.

She leaned closer to Milla, whose gaze was directed at a small mound, where a single man stood with a ball in his hand. "What happens now?" she asked, following Milla's gaze.

"Now they throw the ball. That's called pitching."

"And then?"

"Then the other guy tries to hit it. That's called batting."

"And then?"

Suddenly the fans started screaming, and Emma looked around in confusion.

What had happened? As far as she could tell, none of the players had fainted. Had someone taken off their t-shirt? "Why is everyone screaming?" she yelled at her sister over the ruckus.

"The ball hit the outfield!"

Emma guessed that that was a good thing. She shrugged her shoulders and cheered with the rest of them.

Aha. The giant screen showed a man, who looked incredibly ridiculous with the wooden bat leaning casually on his shoulder now. He had brutally hit the ball with his bat, and it had landed somewhere on the lawn far out. She could also see the players of the opposite team rushing after it, trying to hit the player with the ball. Or maybe they were throwing the ball to the members of their own team, and then for some reason they beat the ground with their palms. Emma didn't follow what that was supposed to achieve. Why would you put your hand down on the ground, right before another player came running? What if he stepped on your fingers?

"You look skeptical," Milla laughed, her eyes already on a large green mascot, who came running across the green part of the field, doing a rather dumb-looking dance.

"Not skeptical. Perturbed, I'd say. What happens if such a ball hits a player in the head?"

"I guess then he needs a hospital."

"Oh. And if it hits a bird?"

"Then you have a dead bird."

"And if it hits a spectator?"

"Then you have a home run, an injured spectator, and a lawsuit against the team."

"Ah."

And who exactly would be running home?

Ninety minutes later, Emma still had no idea why the players beat the ground, but she knew that a game lasted nine innings, and they were only in the fourth one. Several players hat hit and caught and pitched and batted the ball, and the score was three to two for the Tigers.

But now it was the Delphies' turn again. Emma didn't know why exactly – something with offense and defense, and a switch after three outs … Milla seemed relatively well-versed in the confusingly many rules of the game.

"So was that an out?" Emma asked, watching a row of men run across the sandy part of the field, pulling a wide rake. So there were Zen gardeners, too, in this game.

"What was an out?"

"Well … the thing that happened just now. One guy batted, but didn't hit the ball, and then they switched."

"Yes. He missed the ball three times in a row, even though the pitcher threw him a nice ball, so that means he's out."

Emma nodded, pretending to pay attention, though she couldn't memorize all of those rules anyway.

One hot dog each later, the players came out on the field again and took up their respective positions. And stayed put, for the most part, while nothing much happened. One player pitched the ball, and the man who stood behind the guy with the bat caught the ball.

How could this even be called a sport?!

Most of the time, the players seemed to rest, looking bored out of their minds, but when their moment came, they sprinted off to wherever they needed to go, and then stood around once again.

Emma thought that even in curling or golf, there was more going on. At least the giant screen was fun. During each break, the audience was asked to do something. Do the robot dance, do the freaky dance, kiss for the Kiss Cam. Whatever it was, it was always funny. Americans had no problem making fools of themselves, just to be on TV for a second, or at least on camera, as the case might be. But that wasn't an American prerogative, she thought, more of a global phenomenon.

The crowd was screaming again, with people jumping to their feet. Emma craned her neck and looked up at the sky, which had gotten rather dark by now. "I don't see the ball at all."

"Yeah, sometimes it's hard to see it, since it's so white."

"So where is it now?"

"Back there. Reynolds has it."

Who was Reynolds?

"The one in the team's colors," Milla said with a private grin, reading her thoughts.

Emma rolled her eyes. "Why, thank you."

"I can't believe it!" Milla yelled suddenly. "Jake Braker was in with his foot. That was plain to see! No way he was out!"

Emma gave her sister a perplexed look. Milla's face was reddened, and she was all but hanging over the railing. The only times Emma had seen her this emotional was at Monopoly.

"Are you fucking blind, umpire? The ball reached Reynolds after Braker!"

***

"Is he fucking blind? Jake had his foot on the base!" Luke yelled and rose from the bench. "He was first!"

"Out!" the umpire insisted, before admonishing the Delphies' main coach to calm down. The man had started to scream cholerically. "Send out the next one."

Luke began swearing in German, and the umpire threw him an angry look, but he couldn't reprimand him. For all he knew, Luke might have recited his shopping list. The umpire could only speculate.

"Go on, Carter," Coach Thompson barked, all but foaming at the mouth, "show the blind mole that this team deserves a victory."

Luke was a pitcher, which meant that his batting practice wasn't on par with that of the actual batters. Most of the time, pitchers were bad at the home plate. Most of the time.

"Aaaand we have Luuuuuke Carter on the diamond, with the number fourteeeeeen,"the exuberant voice came over the speakers, and then Luke's face appeared on the giant screen. Immediately her heart started beating a little faster.

Stupid, awkward heart!

It shouldn't feel anything. She didn't even know the man. Well, she knew his body, but she did not know the rest – and that was the part that was important!

But her heart ignored that fact, even though her head knew it. And her hormones ignored the fact that Luke looked absolutely ridiculous with his helmet.

Alright, maybe hot and ridiculous. But for the most part, hot … uh, wait, ridiculous! That's what she had meant to think. For the most part, ridiculous.

He looked like a … had he grown out his hair? Dark curls were visible under the helmet.

Emma noticed Milla staring at her, shaking her head. "I can't get over the fact that you had sex with this man and didn't tell me a single word."

Emma blushed and turned her face away. She was totally focused on the game all of a sudden.

The pitcher threw the ball and – Luke didn't even move his arm.

"Why didn't he swing the bat?"

"Because it was a ball."

"I know it is a ball; I can see it really well now."

"No, it's called a ball if the pitcher throws too high or too low. If Carter had batted that, it would have been his mistake."

"I see." Emma didn't understand a word.

The pitcher threw a second time, and once again, Luke let the ball said past him.

"Wow, he really has a sharp eye."

"Does he?"

"Yes, he does."

"Okay." Emma raised her hands apologetically. "I can't see his eyes from up here. But I'm sure he has two, not just one."

"Shh."

Emma rolled her eyes and looked back down at the field, where the pitcher swung a third time, and threw the ball again. This time, player number fourteen hit the ball. He hit it full force.

The white smudge flew across the sandy part, across the lawn, and then it rapidly approached the tiers.

Oh God! The ball came right at the tiers … or not really the tiers … it came straight at her!

"I'll get it, I'll catch it!" Milla squealed and rose from her seat.

But she didn't catch it. It flew right into Emma's legs, causing her to lean back in fright, but she couldn't evade the white bullet, nor the attendant bruises of the impact.

"You've got it!" Milla beamed and yanked up Emma's arm, while the other spectators around them sank back down into their seats, disappointed that they hadn't been the lucky ones. "I don't believe it. It's your first game ever, and you catch a ball. You're such a lucky duck!"

Emma picked up the white ball with the red stitching. "Apparently I am."

"Luke Carter reaches fourth base. This is his first home run of the season!" the stadium announcer yelled excitedly.

***

Luke brushed the hair away from his eyes and high-fived his teammates.

"See, I bet the press will have only nice things to say to you tomorrow," Jake smirked and knocked on Luke's helmet.

Luke socked him in the arm. "I sure hope so – and they'll say that your jersey clashes with your hair color."

"Bullshit," the guy with the number six on his jersey griped. "According to InTouch, I'm the one with the best taste in women."

Luke snorted. The stupid article wouldn't destroy his grand moment. "I haven't seen any stunners on your arm in a while."

"And now let's show the lucky girl once again who caught the home run ball!" the stadium announcer declared enthusiastically, and the crowd cheered in response.

"Her," Jake grinned and nodded at the screen. "I'd take her any day. Really cute. Wow … look at those eyes. I bet I could make them darken with pleasure."

Irritated by his bragging, Luke followed Jake's gaze …

"Her body may be a little too sturdy," Jake added thoughtfully, "but apart from that …"

"No," Luke murmured, dumbfounded. "Her body is perfect. The hottest thing I ever …"

What the hell was she doing here?

She lived in Germany after all! Sweet Emma, who wasn't all that sweet. The woman radiated pure sensuality, even over a stadium screen!

And Luke remembered everything about her. The way she talked, the way her lips moved while she yelled at him, how she waved her arms to get him to leave her apartment. Everything about her was … fascinating. Above all, the multiple personality disorder he'd diagnosed. She had possessed at least two selves, one in the bedroom, and one out of it. And the weirdest part was that he couldn't say which of the two had bamboozled him more.

His teammate stared at him, mystified. "The hottest thing you ever – what?"

Luke's head jerked up. "Shut up, Braker, and focus on the game, instead of ogling pretty women!"

Braker snorted. "Sure, if you can do the same!"

"I'm capable of multi-tasking," he murmured and glanced up at the screen again. The day was getting more interesting by the minute.

***

"Oh, look, you're on screen!" Milla squealed and pulled at Emma's sleeve. Emma turned her head and was startled to see her oversized self on the giant screen. She smiled and blushed.

All the other people around her might want to be on TV, but she really didn't.

Milla however loved every second of it. She beamed like a thousand watts and waved her arms wildly.

Then the image was replaced by another, and Emma sank back in her seat with relief.