The Hot Streak Read online

  He grinned. His hair was damp from a shower and a cowlick made it curl loosely on his forehead. “Hi,” she said, suppressing the urge to reach out and push that hair aside with her fingers.

  “Now we’ll see if the bullpen can make Doggy’s dinger stand up,” he said to Missy.

  Casey blinked. “Is everything baseball players say obscene?”

  He and Missy laughed. “I’ll translate,” she said, putting her hand on Casey’s forearm. “Doggy, that’s my husband. A ‘dinger’ is a home run, I guess because in the old days they rang a bell when you hit one. And to make a score ‘stand up’ means making sure it’s enough. So if they win the game two to nothing, then two runs will not have been knocked down by the other team scoring more.”

  Tyler smirked. “You’re as smart as your husband.”

  “I still think it sounds dirty,” Casey said.

  He shrugged. “You really don’t know anything about baseball, do you?”

  “Well, I know there are three outs in an inning and that Babe Ruth was the greatest player, but that’s about it.” She crossed her arms.

  But he looked delighted. “Let’s get out of here. You deserve a nice dinner out for sitting through all this.”

  Casey was about to say no. She should have said no. But she hesitated a little too long.

  “I’ll get us a private table at Blu. Come on, it’s on me,” he emphasized, as if she might have declined because the place was too expensive for her. Which it was.

  “I’m not dressed for… ”

  “Did you miss the part about the private table? Besides, it’s summer. You look fine.”

  The approving look Missy was giving her clinched it, though. “Oh, all right.”

  “Excellent!” He jumped like a little boy, took Casey’s hand and pulled her up the aisle while she waved goodbye to Missy.

  * * * *

  Simply put, dinner with Tyler at a ridiculously fancy restaurant wasn’t anything like Casey expected it would be.

  He’d driven them from the ballpark to the Ritz-Carlton downtown in his sports car— it was the first time she’d considered there was a connection between “sports” and sports cars— and she kept thinking if he was really going to put a move on her, they’d have champagne on ice and caviar brought to their private dining room while a white-gloved staff, silent and discreet, served the courses and swapped out the correct forks and knives.

  But when they got there, the first thing that happened at the doorway to the restaurant was the maitre d’ began to chew Tyler out. “Mr. Hammond, nice to see you as always, but what were you thinking plunking Campbell like that?”

  Tyler just shrugged. “What’s the score?”

  The man pulled his phone out of the breast pocket of his jacket. “Three-zip.”

  “How’d we get the third run?”

  “Go in the bar and watch it on ESPN if you want the details,” was the reply. Then he looked at Casey. “Or would you like a table for two?”

  Tyler glanced at Casey as well. “Up to you.”

  “Me?” That came out far too much like a squeak for Casey’s comfort, and she told herself to calm down. “Um… ”

  The maitre d’ was a broad man, but couldn’t have been more than twenty-five. He addressed Tyler again. “They’re about to quit serving in the main dining room, actually. But the bar’s dead. Tuesday night in the summer, you know.”

  “Sure. I’ll keep Hojo company. The bar all right with you?” he asked, one hand hovering behind Casey’s shoulder blade.

  Maybe this really was just a casual thing. She wasn’t sure if that was a relief or a disappointment. “Sure. The bar sounds great.”

  Tyler and the beefy maitre d’ exchanged hand slaps like they were teammates and Tyler steered her toward the artfully lit modern-art style bar. Down at the far end, a bartender was watching the game on a widescreen TV. There was a single businessman sitting near the door; otherwise, the place was empty.

  “My man!” The bartender said as Tyler and Casey approached. He reached over the taps and they exchanged a fancy handshake. He was a wiry fellow with horn-rimmed glasses. “Here a bit early, aintcha?”

  “Not really,” Tyler said. “You know they would’ve yanked me after the seventh anyway.” He slid onto a stool. “Hojo, this is Casey.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Casey said and extended her hand for a perfectly normal handshake.

  Tyler proceeded to rattle off what he wanted to eat, punctuated by occasional questions to Casey. Did she eat shrimp? Was she okay with fried things? Allergic to anything? Hojo went to put in the order.

  “I take it you eat here a lot,” Casey said.

  “Yeah, you could say that. This is the hotel where our team stayed when I played for the Blue Jays, and I liked it, so when I moved into town, I kept coming back.” He stood halfway on his barstool, reached behind the bar for two glasses and the beverage gun, and filled one glass with club soda for himself. “What do you like?”

  Casey had her hand over her mouth. “You’re allowed to do that?”

  “Why not? What’re they going to do, throw us out? Hojo’s a friend, we’re doing him a favor doing his job for him.” He waved the gun impatiently.

  “Oh, uh, sure. Club soda.”

  “You got it.” He filled her glass.

  When the bartender came back, Tyler scoffed. “What kind of a place is this? No ice in the drinks!”

  Hojo rolled his eyes and scooped a couple of cubes into each glass. “So, you guys want cocktails, too?”

  “He’s the best mixmeister in the… aw, damn!” Tyler broke off as the image on the television showed a home run leaving the ballpark.

  “It’s cool, man, it’s cool,” Hojo said. “Just a solo shot. Rigney will nail it down.”

  “Who’s Rigney?” Casey asked, sipping her club soda and watching Tyler’s face, as his eyes were now glued to the screen.

  “He’s our stopper,” Tyler said, and Casey pictured a cork, bobbing on a pond of water. “Always pitches the ninth inning, and only when we have a lead,” he clarified.

  “Rig’s cool,” Hojo said. “When you bringing him around here again? I got balls for him to sign.”

  “Ah, you know him.” Tyler took a sip of his club soda, then rolled the glass in his hand, picking up condensation on his fingers. “Doesn’t drink. Tell him there’s a Bible meeting here, though, and he’ll be first in line.”

  They chuckled at that.

  The food began arriving then, and the game ended with the Robins winning. “Nice,” Tyler said, as the final score flashed up on the screen. “That saves my bacon.”

  “How?” Casey asked, eating another piece of delicately fried shrimp wrapped in sliced mango.

  “You know, I got myself tossed from the game. If we lost, it’d be my fault for losing my head. But Javy and the guys held it together, didn’t they? They can take all the credit, too. I’ll probably still get fined, though.” He licked his fingers.

  “For fighting?”

  “And for leaving early. Although I did go up to the press box and give the writers all the quotes they wanted before I came down to get you.”

  “You talked to the press?”

  “Oh, yeah. Normally I’d wait around down in the clubhouse and after the game, they’d swarm me.” He shrugged. “But I was hoping you were there.”

  He said it so casually, Casey could almost dismiss it. “How much are they going to fine you?”

  “Dunno.” He took a piece of shrimp in his fingers and popped it into his mouth. “Probably a couple thousand dollars.”

  “A couple thousand dollars?” She knew her eyes must be as wide as the TV above them. He’d basically just admitted that he’d paid a few thousand dollars just for the chance to go out with her.

  “Yeah,” he said. “So, isn’t the food here amazing? Try this thing here.” He pulled over a plate they hadn’t started on yet, another appetizer that seemed to have cucumber rounds heaped with some kind of sushi. He held one
between his fingers, which Casey noticed were very long and thin, his nails perfectly trimmed. “Try it.”

  She hadn’t eaten from a man’s hand since she was in college, probably. The guys she normally went out with were always trying so hard to impress her with how grown up they were— and she did the same to them. Almost thirty, not yet married, she was tired of men whose goal in life seemed to be to prove they could act like her Dad.

  She took the cucumber into her mouth. It had a cool crunch, which offset how the fish seemed to just melt with tangy spices. “Damn, that’s good,” she said, one hand over her mouth as she was still chewing.

  “I know! It’s awesome. They only have it when the tuna is fresh caught.” He put one into his own mouth, tipping his head back and groaning with pleasure as he chewed. It was a nice sound, Casey thought. Well, a naughty sound, really.

  The conversation ranged over many topics. Whether golf was a real sport and whether Casey would need to learn to play it if she were to become a manager at her company. Pros and cons of vegetarianism. Hybrid cars.

  Hojo brought more food. Tiny medallions of lamb, velvet soft and barely needing a knife to be cut, and some kind of fish filet rolled with crabmeat. Everything was delicious, and Tyler wanted to share it all, each of them eating bits from whatever plate struck their fancy. No, it wasn’t anything at all like what Casey had expected going to one of the fanciest restaurants in the city would be like.

  She was wiping up the sauce the lamb had come in with a piece of a whole grain roll when Tyler said, “Wow, I like you. You’re a real girl.”

  Casey chuckled and took a bite. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, just… you know… well, maybe you don’t know. I keep going out with these girls who are like, ‘oh, I can’t eat carbs because I’m watching my figure. And I can’t eat fat because it’s bad for my skin. And I can’t drink because I’ll bloat. And I can’t have ice cream because dairy gives me bags under my eyes… ‘”

  “What are they, supermodels?” Casey quipped.

  “Well, actually, yeah,” Tyler said with a shrug, reaching over the bar to snag the gun and refill his soda water. “Or sometimes not, but they act like they are. You seem like you know how to enjoy life.”

  “Funny,” she said, realizing he was not only complimenting her, he was being plain and honest. “I was going to say the same thing about you.”

  “And here’s the thing,” he said, taking a gulp of soda, setting the glass down, and turning his bar stool so his knees faced her. “You look just as fantastic, in fact maybe twice as fantastic, as any of those Botox diet bunnies do, and it’s not because you’re killing yourself for some kind of fucked-up beauty ideal. It’s because you’re just plain beautiful.”

  If they had been drinking something other than soda water, Casey would have blamed his candor on alcohol. As it was, she just blushed and smiled. “Are you high?” she joked.

  “High on life,” he said, knocking back the rest of the soda, the ice clinking in the glass as he set it down with a sigh. “You’ve got work tomorrow, huh?”

  Casey bit her lip. It was almost midnight now as it was, and attractive and thrilling and interesting as Tyler Hammond was— the image of the woman at the ballpark screaming “I love you, Tyler!” ran through her mind. “Um, yeah,” she said, while kicking herself for sounding so inarticulate. Here this guy had just said one of the nicest and most honest things she thought she’d heard a man say to her in years, and all she could muster in response were monosyllables. “Look, it’s not that I don’t like you, but I really do have a meeting at nine thirty.”

  “All right,” he said. “You pick the date for the next one. If you’re interested, that is.” He raised his eyebrow a little, as if challenging her to chicken out.

  “Fine.” She put down her napkin and smirked. “Make it Saturday, then. I’ll have no excuses.”

  “Saturday it is,” he said with a nod, standing up and reaching out a hand to help her from her stool. His hands were gentle and surprisingly soft on hers as he did, not at all what she expected from a jock. Her shoulder tingled where his fingers had brushed her as she stood.

  He drove her home, pulling up by the fire hydrant outside her building and putting the car into park with the blinkers on as he spoke. “Okay, so, just so we’re clear on things, I don’t want you to think I’m one of those guys who puts a last-minute move on a girl just to see if she’ll give in and invite me up. But I do want you to know that it’s totally okay if you don’t want a goodnight kiss, but I did consider this sort of a first date, you know, and so I’d really like one. But only if it’s okay with you.”

  He delivered the entire speech with both hands on the steering wheel, staring at the rim, but then turned and looked at her. Casey stared at him. “You say some of the oddest things,” she said.

  “Yeah, that’s what Mad Dog says, too. So was that a yes or a no?”

  “Um… ” Casey felt like she could hear her heart beating in her chest.

  “My Daddy always said if a lady isn’t sure, that means no.” His shoulders slumped a little.

  Casey snorted. “I’m not a lady,” she said. She realized she’d feel disappointed if they didn’t kiss, and that decided her. “Come here.”

  He leaned toward her then, and she slid her hands up his smooth cheeks. He must have shaved when he showered after leaving the game, she thought, as she pulled him forward a bit more so that she could press her lips to his. They were firm, and warm, and she breathed in that heady mixture of his cologne and the air he exhaled.

  She drew back. “Saturday,” she said.

  “Saturday,” he repeated, like it was a secret code word. He waved to her with a huge grin on his face as she backed out of the car, then, and even something about the way he drove off made her think, Wow, he really likes me.

  Chapter Two

  Casey found herself reading the sports page in the company cafeteria the next day. There were large photos in color of Tyler being tossed from the game, and many articles mentioning his name. Funny what you can learn from the paper, she thought. The articles helpfully pointed out certain things she hadn’t felt comfortable asking, like the fact that he was twenty-four years old, grew up in Kalamazoo, Michigan, and was the oldest of three brothers. The other two were baseball players, too, but neither one was as good or as famous as Tyler. She also found out that there had been exactly 42,018 people at the game the night before. Sports writing, she decided, depended on a lot of random facts to make up for the fact that the articles were mostly expressing some guy’s opinion about what had happened. For the hell of it, she cut out one of the pictures of Tyler and tacked it on the bulletin board above her desk.

  She combed the paper the next day for information about him but found it lacking. Mark from Accounting explained the pitching rotation to her: five different guys took turns being the starting pitcher, so Sunday’s paper would probably be full of stuff about him. She wondered if Tyler would ask her to come see him pitch again.

  It wasn’t until Friday that it struck her that if he pitched on Sunday, that meant that although Saturday wasn’t a “school night” for her, it was for him. But she got an e-mail from him late that afternoon confirming their plans, telling her to dress casually, so she decided not to say anything about it.

  Friday night was an utter bust, too, as she was talked into going out with a bunch of the girls from work to a big pool hall. That in and of itself wouldn’t have been so bad, except they were all younger than her, most of them met up with their boyfriends once they arrived, and Casey wasn’t really that interested in playing pool. She ended up drifting away from the group into the bar, where many televisions were playing baseball games and a few other sports. At least half the screens were showing the Robins, though.

  “They’re losing?” she asked a forty-ish looking man at the bar while waiting for the bartender to pour her drink.

  “Yeah, this’ll be four in a row they dropped,” he said, sounding disgusted
.

  “Really? I was at the game Monday and they won. It was really exciting.”

  He shrugged. “It’s still early in the season, but I’m not getting my hopes up.”

  She took the drink and sipped it, wondering about that. She knew in a purely academic way that there were people who were into sports. People who followed their teams like some kind of religion or family tradition. But she hadn’t realized just how ubiquitous it was. What other thing could she just walk up to a total stranger and make a random comment about? The weather?

  “What do you think of Tyler Hammond?” she asked, just to see what the fellow would say.

  He cracked a grin. “He’s a nutball, but he’s our nutball,” he said. “I picked him before the season to win the Cy Young Award. That was before he lost four straight starts last month.”

  “Ah,” she said, as if she knew what he was talking about. “He was doing well Monday until he got ejected from the game.”

  “Yeah,” the guy said, eyes on the screen rather than on her as he talked. “Maybe he’ll get on a hot streak now. That’d be nice.”

  He went back to watching the game, she went back to the pool table to watch politely for a short while, and then went home as early as was polite.

  * * * *

  Tyler picked her up at six thirty the next evening.

  “Did you get my e-mail?” were the first words out of his mouth as she slid into the bucket seat.

  “Other than the one I replied to?” she asked, puzzled.

  “Oh, right. Of course.” He smacked himself on the forehead, which gave her the urge to giggle but she suppressed it. “Yeah, so, I guess you did. Dress casually, I mean.”

  Casey was wearing a nice-looking warm-up suit her mother had given her for Christmas— along with a three-month gym membership that Casey had used exactly four times. And she hadn’t worn the warm-up suit once. It was far too nice to get all dirty on the floor in a yoga class. “Is this all right? Where are we going?”