Ogling the Outfielder (All's Fair in Love & Baseball Book 4) Read online

  Ogling the Outfielder

  by Arlene Hittle

  All’s Fair in Love & Baseball No. 4

  Chapter One

  “That intern from the front office has been watching you again.”

  Sam Sloane jerked away from his teammate’s sharp elbow and slammed his locker. “Shut up, Rico.”

  “She’s hot. I’d tap that,” Jim piped up from his other side.

  Sam pressed his lips together. “Remember that harassment training we all went through last month? I’m pretty sure you just failed every module.”

  His buddy, the Condors’ starting catcher, rolled his eyes. “Lighten up, Sammy. We’re all friends here.”

  “Friends don’t let friends flirt with sexual harassment charges.”

  God, he sounded like a sanctimonious prick. But considering he was the reason they’d all been subjected to the course, he had to display a new-and-improved attitude.

  Like it was his fault those two fans had sneaked into the shower and stripped.

  The human resources flak’s voice filled his head. “A woman is never asking for it.”

  Ha. The encounter had been completely consensual, but it made the organization look bad. He couldn’t defend his actions without stirring up more bad press for himself and the Condors, so he’d spout the sensitive new-age-man dogma and stay away from women—especially ones who showed too keen an interest.

  Women like Alexa Brandon. He was far from oblivious to the way the Condors’ intern frequently checked him out. He also knew she was Trouble—with a capital T. Long red hair, bright blue eyes, strong as a friggin’ Clydesdale. He’d seen her wrangle boxes he’d have trouble carrying—and she did it with a perpetually cheerful smile.

  Alexa was the kind of girl his mother would love.

  “She’s definitely not my type,” he said to no one in particular. With Jim already halfway to the shower and Rico focused on untying his shoe, he didn’t expect an answer.

  But Rico raised his head. “Didn’t realize you had a type, Sammy.”

  “Everyone does.” He’d never admit to being offended by the dig, even if it did feel like a tiny stab in someplace unmentionable.

  “Last I checked, your requirements began and ended with the two Ps.”

  Sam winced. The Ps his buddy referred to were pulse and…er…a feline word for a certain part of the female anatomy. After the harassment lecture, even thinking the word seemed wrong. He freely admitted he’d been a jerk. Insensitive, at best; callous and uncaring, at worst. A guy could change, right? “That was the old Sam. Pre-reprogramming.”

  “If you ask me, the old Sam was a hell of a lot more fun,” Rico grumbled, slamming his locker shut.

  He, too, crammed his bag into his locker and slammed the door. The hell of it was, he couldn’t disagree. The new, rule-abiding Sam Sloane was…well…a self-righteous killjoy. Someone he didn’t like very much, for damn sure.

  ****

  Alexa Brandon sipped her pink cosmo and placed the glass back on the center of the coaster. Then she sighed. “I don’t know why I even try. Sam will never notice me.”

  Caroline snickered and plunked her pint glass onto the bar. She paid no attention to the beer that sloshed over the side. “He notices all right.”

  Alexa wiped up her friend’s spill. “Then why won’t he say more than two words to me?”

  “Maybe he’s shy.”

  “Sam? Shy?” Caroline knew as well as she did Sam was about as shy as one of the Kardashian clan. The guy’d just been at the center of the Condors’ biggest scandal since Greg Bartlesby got arrested in Vegas.

  Greg’s arrest happened before Alexa’s time, of course—but the legend lived on. Massive party in a penthouse suite. Enough booze, drugs, and hookers to fill two holding cells. The big Bartlesby blowout was the reason there was now a team-sponsored after-game bash. Attendance required. Hot dogs and beer optional.

  “You have a point.” Caroline grabbed her glass, again spilling some. “So what do you see in him, anyway? He’s a sleazeball.”

  “He is not!” Alexa mopped up again. Hopefully this time, Caroline would drink enough to stop the sloshing.

  “You can’t really think he’s misunderstood.”

  Alexa snorted. “Hardly. He was in the shower with two naked women. Hard to misunderstand.”

  Caroline’s eyebrow arched. “Again I ask, what do you see in him?”

  “He’s fun to watch and listen to. It’s impossible to be in a bad mood when Sam’s around.”

  “Like you need help with your mood.”

  Alexa sipped her cosmo. Caro was her best friend in Phoenix, but she had no idea about Alexa’s struggle with depression. On good days, she forgot about it herself, since her high school days, when the illness was at its worst, were far behind her. “It doesn’t matter, since he doesn’t know I exist.”

  “You’re wrong. He watches you all the time.”

  “In my dreams, maybe.” She drained her drink and signaled the bartender for another.

  Caro narrowed her eyes. “Don’t drink too much. You’re in the Condor costume tomorrow.”

  “I know.”

  Truth was, Alexa loved dressing up as Connie the Condor and interacting with the fans at games. The interns took turns because the suit was stifling. But even at the peak of a Phoenix summer, with temps above 100 degrees, Alexa wouldn’t mind donning the Condor costume for every game. She fed off the fans’ enthusiasm—much like she did off Sam’s fun-loving attitude.

  Not that she’d ever admit her enjoyment to Caro, who took every opportunity to voice her dislike of the mascot assignment. No point trying to convince her of its upside. She flashed her friend her most confident smile. “Two tiny cocktails will hardly leave me hungover.”

  “They’d better not, because I won’t volunteer to take your place.”

  Sure enough, Alexa bounded out of bed at the first chime of her alarm. It was as if she hadn’t had a drop of alcohol the night before. Unlike some people, she knew her limits.

  She showered, pulled her hair into a ponytail, and dressed in as little as she could without exposing too much—a thin, moisture-wicking tank and black boy shorts, which she covered with a pair of baggier shorts to be left in the dressing room. They merely provided her with a little more coverage for her twenty-minute bus ride to the ballpark.

  Once dressed, Alexa made herself some toast with peanut butter and strawberry jam. Before she walked out the apartment door, a glob of melty peanut butter and jam dripped onto her shirt.

  “Doggone it!”

  She whipped off the top, intending to drop it in the hamper and replace it with another. But there, atop the pile of dirty clothes, was the other shirt she wore with the costume.

  That’s right. Tomorrow was laundry day. And she only had the two moisture-wicking tanks. She peered out her bathroom window. The sun blazed onto the pavement below. Definitely too hot for any of her long-sleeved high-tech shirts. And if she wore a regular cotton shirt underneath the suit, she’d end up with a rash.

  She shook her head and examined the peanut butter stain on her tank.

  “Maybe I can scrub it out.”

  Alexa ran cold water over the mark and scrubbed it with her finger. Not perfect, but the condor suit covered her clothes. And her other tank had a streak of mustard from the hot dog she’d eaten after the last game, so this was the lesser evil.

  Kinda sloppy for a neat freak, aren’t you?

  She brushed aside her conscience’s jab. Her table manners were impeccable, even when eating on her feet. It was never her fault when food fought back.<
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  After casting one last look at her appearance, Alex shouldered her backpack and headed to the bus stop on the corner.

  The bus was right on time, and it deposited her at the Condors’ field exactly an hour and forty-five minutes before game time. That gave her fifteen minutes to dress and start mingling with the crowd.

  Alex was dressed in ten. Connie the Condor’s giant foam feet flopped against the concrete with every step she took down the corridor. She stepped into the sunshine and scanned the field. Caro lurked in the shade near the visitor’s dugout with a gallon of water and a very long, bendy straw they could slip through the neck opening of Connie’s head.

  Good. With today’s temperatures nearing 115 degrees, she’d need the hydration.

  Alex raised Connie’s wing in acknowledgement of her friend, whose dark sunglasses covered no-doubt bleary eyes, and then started working the audience. She stood for pictures with one group of excited pre-teens, waiting patiently while each of their parents snapped a few shots.

  She clowned around on third base. With the field still free of players, she picked up the base, held it over her head and took off running into left field. The third base coach, John Lincoln, jogged after her, and the crowd roared. Alex let Linc snatch the base away from her, and then mimicked hearty laughter—wings to Connie’s round foam belly—when he pretended the bag was too heavy to hang onto.

  It was a bit they did before every game, but she loved it. And so did the crowd.

  Finally, the loudspeaker crackled to life. “Let’s hear it for your Arizona Condors!”

  Fans cheered as the team took to the field for warm-ups, and Alex took Connie into the shadows for a short break.

  Caro had the straw ready. Alex took a long drink and then nodded her thanks. Trying to talk through the mask expended too much energy—energy she’d rather pour into her performance. She leaned against the fence beside her friend, watching the players limber up for the game.

  As always, Sam Sloane looked as if he’d been born in left field with a glove on his hand. His loose-limbed, fluid throws and catches were pure beauty. And when he bent to stretch his hamstrings, upending his perfectly shaped butt, desire spiked low in her belly.

  “Break’s over.” Caro nudged her. “Quit drooling over Sam and get back to work.”

  Alex started and then shoved off the wall. With another wave for Caroline, she danced out of the shadows and started mugging for the fans.

  Because she was nearer the visitor’s section, someone lobbed a drink cup at her. She dodged it. Then she picked it up, crushed the cup and tossed it in the trash. She gave the offender a shame on you wing shake before moving on to the next section of the stadium.

  By the bottom of the third inning, Alex had worked her way over to left field. Sam’s territory. Her favorite spot. If the crowd was less responsive, she could sneak peeks at him without guilt.

  However, today’s fans were lively. With two outs and the bases loaded, the Condors needed one more out to hold onto their one-run lead going into the fourth. Alex stood near the foul line, flapping her arms to drum up more applause.

  C-r-r-r-a-a-c-k!

  Focused on the fans, Alex had no idea the ball was coming straight at her—until a weight plowed into her. She dropped faster than a sacked quarterback and lay there, blinking up into the sun. She was only dimly aware of her tackler standing and the cheer that rose from the crowd.

  A moment later, Sam’s face floated in her field of vision. “Sorry about knocking you down, Connie.” He held out his hand and grinned. “But at least you didn’t get beaned.”

  Sam smiled at her. Her. No one else. All of a sudden, the condor suit was uncomfortably warm.

  She shook it off. “More importantly, you caught the ball.” Now that she’d recovered from the shock of being sacked, Alex knew that had to be the reason for the fans’ excitement.

  She slipped Connie’s wing in his outstretched hand. It’d be so much better if she could feel his skin against hers.

  Dammit. Of course the first time Sam said more than two words to her, she was trapped inside Connie the Condor. Story of her life.

  But when he tried to help her to her feet, her condor-suited butt remained in the dirt. Sam landed on top of her, and the crowd laughed.

  Her cheeks heated the inside of the mask to a temperature heretofore only found in the deepest pits of hell. She murmured, “Never knew the suit was so bottom heavy.”

  “No problem,” Sam replied. He rose to his feet with a grace she’d never possess and offered her more assistance—taking both Connie’s wings this time.

  Together, they got the condor upright.

  “Thanks,” Alex said, suddenly glad for the giant condor head separating them. It hid her flaming cheeks.

  “You’re welcome.” He turned away to bolt for the dugout but apparently had second thoughts. He turned back around and pointed at her. “When the game’s over, hot dogs and beer are on me.”

  Chapter Two

  Sam kicked himself all the way back to the dugout. With Caroline Carter propping up the fence by the visitor’s dugout, he knew Alex was playing Connie today.

  So what the hell had possessed him to volunteer to meet her after the game?

  It sure wasn’t the feel of her body underneath him. He couldn’t tell a damn thing about her underneath all that padding.

  Bullshit. You know.

  Okay, so maybe he’d taken notice of Alex out of the condor suit. Maybe she had mile-long legs and a rack perky enough for the Starbucks logo to envy. So what? Being attracted to her didn’t mean he had to act on that attraction.

  Wasn’t that the point of all the sensitivity training? He could hear the trainer’s admonition: “Women weren’t put on this earth solely to entertain you.”

  Not like he ever believed they were. He knew damn well they all had their own goals and agendas. Those chicks in the shower sure did: their goal had been to get their fifteen minutes of fame by posting pictures of a threesome with Condors outfielder Sam Sloane.

  Stupid him. He’d assumed they wanted a private piece of him—not a made-for-social-media tryst.

  Still scowling, he plopped onto the bench beside Jim.

  Jim rammed his shoulder into Sam’s. “What are you so pissed about? Looked like you had fun playing slap and tickle with Connie.”

  Sam ignored him. The comment wasn’t worth responding to.

  But Jim persisted. “Isn’t Alex suited up today?”

  “You know she is.”

  His buddy grinned. “That’s the only reason Caroline would be on the field and not dressed out.”

  The two girls were complete opposites—Caroline’s long, raven-black hair and heavy eye makeup easily made up half her body weight. She looked as if light desert breeze would toss her around like a tumbleweed. Alex was tall and solid, with the healthy build of an athlete—or one of the Midwestern farm girls he grew up with in rural Illinois. In a word, she was real.

  Too real. She was, he reminded himself, the kind of woman his mother would be thrilled for him to marry. Since he had no intention of settling down, meeting Alex after the game was crazy-stupid. Almost as stupid as assuming those women—who’d told him their names were Dee and CeeCee, a blatant lie—would keep what happened in that shower stall to themselves.

  Jim’s voice cut into his thoughts. “You make plans to finish what you started out there?”

  “Hell no!” Sam’s cheeks burned.

  “That quick answer says differently.”

  “We didn’t start anything out there.”

  Jim snorted. “If that’s true, I’m the Babe.”

  “You’re nowhere near the hitter Babe Ruth was,” Sam retorted.

  “Thanks for the confidence boost.” His friend grinned. “You do realize I’m on deck next, right?”

  Jim needed no fuel for his already oversized ego. Still, he didn’t want to be blamed for a Condors loss if Jim tanked out there. With a straight face and no eye-rolling, he delivere
d what he deemed a suitable shot of confidence. “You’re a decent hitter—just not the same caliber as the Babe.”

  “Decent, huh?”

  “Don’t push it, dumbass.”

  Jim grunted and rose to take his place on deck. Rico slid onto the bench beside Sam.

  Great. Now he’d have to deal with more shit. To avoid another conversation about his run-in with Connie the Condor, he focused on the game.

  Rico, bless him, remained silent—at least for a while. Sam pumped his fist when Jim’s base hit dropped in the pocket between the outfielders.

  “Nice one,” Rico murmured as Jim safely reached first. Still only one out, with two on base.

  “Yep.”

  “You’re up soon.”

  Not soon enough to avoid the conversation Rico apparently had in mind. Maybe if he stuck to one-word answers, Rico would realize a discussion wasn’t on his agenda. “Yep.”

  Rico took a deep breath. “So…you and Alex?”

  Sam didn’t even bother to ask how he knew. People thought women gossiped a lot, but that was nothing compared to the speed with which news traveled among his teammates. “There’s nothing to tell.”

  “Somehow I doubt that, but if you want to be stingy with the details…” Rico trailed off with a suggestive waggle of his eyebrows.

  “For God’s sake, man. I knocked her out of the way of a foul ball. Everything happened in full view of twenty-five-thousand people in the stands.”

  Laughter lurked in Rico’s eyes. “Nice catch, by the way.”

  “Thanks.” His friend’s praise generated almost as many feel-good endorphins as the stadium full of applause.

  “After the game?”

  “I told Alex the postgame hot dogs and beer were on me.”

  Rico chortled. “Big spender.”

  “It’s the least I can do after tackling her.”

  “You do realize the organization provides the food and booze, right?”

  “Yep.”

  “Maybe you should crack open your wallet and splurge on a Big Mac Value Meal.”

  “Hell no.”

  His friend’s nod was knowing. “Afraid to be alone with the big, bad intern, eh?”