support my ex-wives somehow.”
Unlike her game partner, she didn’t need the money. At times like this, she was almost embarrassed to have a great job with more work than she could handle. Besides loving the game, she had another ulterior motive for umping . Sometimes she just had to get away from all the demands of her job as a computer tech and breathe in the fresh tropical breeze and feel the earth under her feet. Still, why had she let the UIC talk her into umpiring games for this league? She should stay far away from Trey, to guard her heart.
* * * *
Trey stepped up to the plate, gave a couple of practice swings and tapped his favourite Louisville Slugger against the plate. His muscles were tight so he rolled his shoulders. He hadn’t had time to warm up before the game, and he knew he was going to regret it come morning when his joints screamed at him to stay in bed and ditch work.
For the thousandth time in the past two hours, he cursed the I-95 traffic. He should have travelled the extra ten miles to take I-75 which was a much wider expressway lacing the edge of the Everglades than that slithering, slow snake of a road that cut through the middle of Miami and Fort Lauderdale simplistically called I-95. But he believed in miracles and had accepted the traffic announcements that the roadway was clear of fender benders.
He inhaled deeply, shook off his nine-to-five stress and narrowed his gaze on Chad the pitcher. He wondered why Chad, like so many pitchers, dug a hole by the mound then tried to fill dirt in with his foot.
A wry grin twisted his lips when he realised that was the most curious, interesting thing he’d ever noted about Chad. He’d dated him a couple of times and had decided Chad was a far more exciting ball player than lover. He had a wicked drop-curve pitch, however, and one of the fastest arms in the league so Trey took him very seriously—as a pitcher.
Chad blew him a kiss then sizzled a whopper down the middle of the plate.
Trey drooled over the beautiful ball. It was fast, hard and straight, just the way he liked them. He ached to make it his. His muscles corded. He glared at it and hoped the ball wouldn’t drop or curve at the last second. Then he swung, made contact and heard a ferocious crack. His jaw slacked as half his bat flew into the field.
“Damn!” he muttered glaring at the broken handle he still held. Disgusted, he threw down what was left of his Louisville Slugger and shook his stinging hands.
One of the umps yelled, “Time out!”
Clay trotted up to Trey with his usual glare. He handed a different bat to him then picked up what was left of the busted one. “You okay? Can you continue?”
Trey didn’t suffer any illusions. He knew Clay considered him a tool that he hoped wasn’t broken. He nodded but his lips thinned. He didn’t like the count—two strikes and no balls. And now he held a strange, shiny bat that reflected the sun into his eyes.
He tested the weight of the new bat. Not liking the balance any more than he liked the glare, feeling uncomfortable with someone else’s equipment, his nostrils flared. He tucked in his chin, wiggled his hips and dared Chad to throw him a drop-curve.
He wanted revenge for his bat. He could taste the hit and drove a solid line drive down third base that bounced off the plate and skipped over the fielder’s head. He longed to take second base, but Clay thrust out a firm hand to stop. Wishing he could run over Clay, he settled for running over first base, then sauntered back.
From here, he had a good view of the home plate umpire. The chest protector didn’t hide the fact she had tasty curves—small breasts but a small waist and a round ass. She was taller than most of the batters who came up to the plate, which was no mean feat as some of them stood more than six feet. And her feet were twice the size of many women.
Why he couldn’t stop staring pestered him. Why he noticed so much about a stranger in the
Unlike her game partner, she didn’t need the money. At times like this, she was almost embarrassed to have a great job with more work than she could handle. Besides loving the game, she had another ulterior motive for umping . Sometimes she just had to get away from all the demands of her job as a computer tech and breathe in the fresh tropical breeze and feel the earth under her feet. Still, why had she let the UIC talk her into umpiring games for this league? She should stay far away from Trey, to guard her heart.
* * * *
Trey stepped up to the plate, gave a couple of practice swings and tapped his favourite Louisville Slugger against the plate. His muscles were tight so he rolled his shoulders. He hadn’t had time to warm up before the game, and he knew he was going to regret it come morning when his joints screamed at him to stay in bed and ditch work.
For the thousandth time in the past two hours, he cursed the I-95 traffic. He should have travelled the extra ten miles to take I-75 which was a much wider expressway lacing the edge of the Everglades than that slithering, slow snake of a road that cut through the middle of Miami and Fort Lauderdale simplistically called I-95. But he believed in miracles and had accepted the traffic announcements that the roadway was clear of fender benders.
He inhaled deeply, shook off his nine-to-five stress and narrowed his gaze on Chad the pitcher. He wondered why Chad, like so many pitchers, dug a hole by the mound then tried to fill dirt in with his foot.
A wry grin twisted his lips when he realised that was the most curious, interesting thing he’d ever noted about Chad. He’d dated him a couple of times and had decided Chad was a far more exciting ball player than lover. He had a wicked drop-curve pitch, however, and one of the fastest arms in the league so Trey took him very seriously—as a pitcher.
Chad blew him a kiss then sizzled a whopper down the middle of the plate.
Trey drooled over the beautiful ball. It was fast, hard and straight, just the way he liked them. He ached to make it his. His muscles corded. He glared at it and hoped the ball wouldn’t drop or curve at the last second. Then he swung, made contact and heard a ferocious crack. His jaw slacked as half his bat flew into the field.
“Damn!” he muttered glaring at the broken handle he still held. Disgusted, he threw down what was left of his Louisville Slugger and shook his stinging hands.
One of the umps yelled, “Time out!”
Clay trotted up to Trey with his usual glare. He handed a different bat to him then picked up what was left of the busted one. “You okay? Can you continue?”
Trey didn’t suffer any illusions. He knew Clay considered him a tool that he hoped wasn’t broken. He nodded but his lips thinned. He didn’t like the count—two strikes and no balls. And now he held a strange, shiny bat that reflected the sun into his eyes.
He tested the weight of the new bat. Not liking the balance any more than he liked the glare, feeling uncomfortable with someone else’s equipment, his nostrils flared. He tucked in his chin, wiggled his hips and dared Chad to throw him a drop-curve.
He wanted revenge for his bat. He could taste the hit and drove a solid line drive down third base that bounced off the plate and skipped over the fielder’s head. He longed to take second base, but Clay thrust out a firm hand to stop. Wishing he could run over Clay, he settled for running over first base, then sauntered back.
From here, he had a good view of the home plate umpire. The chest protector didn’t hide the fact she had tasty curves—small breasts but a small waist and a round ass. She was taller than most of the batters who came up to the plate, which was no mean feat as some of them stood more than six feet. And her feet were twice the size of many women.
Why he couldn’t stop staring pestered him. Why he noticed so much about a stranger in the
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