Chapter 13

LYNN

Seriously? My first day?

I knew there was a chance I'd run into Joey Martel at some point this summer, but God has a seriously fucked-up sense of humor to plant his hot ass on a treatment table on my first day.

I wasn't ready to see him. I hadn't had a chance to work up an ultra-smooth greeting that hit the ideal mark between aloof and look-how-happy-I-am.

Thank God he only required an ice pack for a few minutes before being discharged to the field to do whatever he does up there. I know from Wikipedia that a shortstop fields a lot of hit balls and throws a lot of players out, so I'm sure that's what he was doing—with great skill and agility if Mother Nature has followed through on her job where he's concerned.

"You can collect all the linens and drop them in the hamper," Amy suggests.

Of course, I take it as more of an order because I'm not stupid. I'm here at the whim of the staff, so I plan to make myself so indispensable that they'll ask me back next year. Turns out shadowing is code for gofer-slash-maid, but I don't mind. Amy showed me pictures of a gnarly contusion one of the players had last week, so I consider that payment enough for the day.

It's a skeleton crew here during the evening game, with only a team doctor and a PT assistant, but the head physical therapist, Nora, was here earlier today, and we had a chance to chat. I know I'm going to learn a ton this summer, but not if I let myself get distracted by a certain ballplayer. I truly hope he keeps his distance because I don't need anyone thinking I'm using my access to flirt with players. The Arrows' star shortstop holds way more value to the team than some chick who's following the PT staff around like a puppy with an unhealthy interest in gruesome sports injuries.

While things are quiet during the game, we get a couple players coming in for stretches and ice afterward. I keep busy doing whatever small task Amy wants until it's time to pack it in for the night and head home. It's almost midnight by the time I make my way to Priscilla in the parking lot. She's named after Priscilla Presley because that woman has been through it and is still truckin'!

As always, I grip my car key between my index and middle fingers as I walk, ready to stab any would-be kidnapper. But nobody bothers me, and I'm soon headed up the mountain toward Mama's house without incident.

It isn't until my tired butt is tucked into my childhood bed that I allow myself the tiniest bit of regret that Joey didn't try to find me after the game.

God, I hate it when I'm a cliché.

* * *

It's beena week since I started my new position as what I now refer to as a "rehab puppy," and it couldn't be going any better. Amy even let me touch a relief pitcher's elbow the other day to feel the sac bulging out of it from his bursitis. It was awesome.

But the team is back and forth on the road all the time, and they'll be away for the next few games—what I've learned is called a series—so I'm working at Blue Bigfoot whenever they're gone. I, understandably, don't get to travel with the team, despite volunteering to ride inside Nora's suitcase.

"Table in the corner needs busing," Cash says as he clomps by me on the taproom floor.

It's a weekend night, which means it's busy. It's also loud because of both the big crowd and Maisy's band playing up by the patio. She plays piano like a wizard, and the couple who sing are so good I keep telling them they need to make a record. Grady, the guitarist and lead singer, said cover bands don't usually make records, but whatever. I'd buy it.

"On it," I tell my brother. Cleaning up after drunk people is almost as glamorous as wiping sweat from treatment tables, but it pays my phone bill and keeps my car gassed up, so I can't complain.

Kelsie, a waitress with amazing purple hair and a killer tattoo of a dinosaur dressed like the pope on her left arm, scoots up beside me where my bus tub rests against my hip. "Do not look, but one of the Arrows players is checking you out by the back wall."

My eyes immediately swing to the far side of the taproom to find none other than Joey Martel watching me from under a nondescript blue baseball cap. Damn.

"I said don't look!" Kelsie practically screeches. "You're terrible at this, you know that?"

I glance at her before swiping up an empty pint glass from the table beside me. "We already know each other."

Her eyes widen before a smirk settles on her lips. "This just got interesting." When I roll my eyes, she only cackles and takes off to fill an order at the bar.

I knew this was a risk. After all, I've seen him here before. Did some part of my subconscious plan this? It's unlike me to take my brothers up on a job offer. In fact, last summer, I avoided this place like the plague. My ovaries start singing Ricky Skaggs's "I'll Take the Blame," and I steel myself as Joey rises from his chair and picks his way through the crowd toward me.

Well, shit.

He looks good. I mean, really good. His thigh muscles bulge under the denim of his jeans as he walks, and I'm pretty sure he's close to ripping the arms off his T-shirt with those guns. Dark hair peeks out from beneath his cap, his strong jaw carrying a new dusting of stubble that promises to offer some lucky girl's inner thighs quite the beard burn.

Come on! Exactly how strong does the universe expect this woman to be?

"Hey, Lynn." His familiar gritty rumble has my knees forgetting we disapprove.

"Hi, Joey." I shift my weight to my left hip so I can support the heavy bus tub.

He delivers one of his lopsided grins, and it's like those damn pterodactyls in my belly have taken memory lessons from my knees. They're dragging me right back under the stars at the side of a country road.

Even over the din in the bar, I can hear his deep rumble. "I swear I didn't know you'd be here tonight." He glances down at my tub, still grinning. "In fact, I had no idea you worked here."

Now that the cat's out of the bag, it's not like it's worth hiding anything. "My brothers own the place. I'm working for them part-time this summer."

His grin drops, and by his responding expression, I could knock him over with a pterodactyl feather (wait, do they even have feathers?). His eyes dart to the bar where Cash and Miller are waiting on customers. "Hang on." When his gaze darts back to me, every bit of white around his dark irises is visible. "Cash, Carter, and Miller are your brothers? The ones you told me about?"

Well, hell. I didn't see this coming. "You know them?" Exactly how often does he drink here?

"Yeah, I know them. I come here at least once a week in the offseason and maybe half that during the season."

I swear, this town is way too small.

I raise my voice to be heard over the music. "Well, that's…" I have no clue what word I'm looking for.

"Convenient." Joey chooses for me. I frown at him, but it only makes him laugh. "Or maybe not. Sorry."

It's obvious I need to get over myself because Joey and I are going to run into each other this summer, whether we mean to or not. And he's not a bad guy. Just not the kind of guy for me. And that's fine.

"It's good to see you, Joey. From what I hear, you guys are having a good season."

"Do I hear a hint of a developing interest in America's favorite pastime?" I gotta hand it to him; he gives good sarcasm.

"Let's just say I'm not petitioning Congress to have the sport banned."

There's that lopsided smile again. "The team looks good. My foot isn't causing even a twinge, so I'm all set there. Now if I can just improve my batting stats, I might still have a job next year." My brows lift in alarm at his words, and he coughs out a laugh. "I'm joking. Well, kind of. Players get traded all the time, but I'm fine." He throws a thumb over his shoulder toward his table. "Besides, our left fielder, Gunner Nix, said he'd stage a sit-in if they ever try and trade me. Not sure what that would look like, but it could be amusing."

My gaze flashes that way and I see a handsome bearded guy with short brown hair and an eye not so surreptitiously trained our way. Mother magnolia.

"It's good to have backup."

As if hearing my comment and taking it as an invitation, Cash appears at my side, both hands perched on his hips. "Table in the corner needs busing, Lynnie," he repeats. His voice is neutral, but his eyes stay narrowed on Joey to such tiny slits it's a wonder he didn't trip over a table on his way over here.

Sigh. Here we frickin' go again.