Stealing Home: A Diamonds and Dugouts Novel by Jennifer Seasons Page A
Authors: Jennifer Seasons
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got to get your head in this game.”
Mark shoved his hand back into his glove and slammed his cage down. “Yeah, I got it. Let’s do this.”
Kowalskin reached out and smacked the top of his helmet. “Damn straight. Let’s do this thing.”
Nothing was sweeter for Mark than the time he spent behind home plate. Not even sex. And nothing pissed him off more when things were going bad.
Two up, two down. Top of the fourth. He watched as Kowalskin took the ball back to the pitcher’s mound and readied himself for the next batter. Mark assumed the position, muscles alert and ready for action. Adrenaline raged as he watched the batter stride to the plate and stop short of the box. A few swings, a dig of his cleat into the box dirt, and the Cub settled in for the pitch.
Mark signaled to Peter for a slider and narrowed his eyes when the pitcher shook his head, rejecting the pitch. Reassessing, Mark signaled for a curve and raised his glove when the pitch was accepted.
As he shifted his weight on the balls of his feet, his eyes zeroed in on the ball as it was pulled back like a rock in a slingshot waiting for release. He could feel it, almost see the play before it happened, knew a split second before the ball came flying high and fast on his glove side, just inside the strike zone.
He reacted instantly as the batter swung hard, hitting his knees in a butterfly stance. Reaching, he felt the sharp sting of leather hit his glove and heard the resounding thwack .
The umpire behind him yelled out, “Strike!” The batter swore and stepped out of the box.
Mark looked at his glove hand and opened it, the white leather of the ball bright in the early evening sun. The roar of the crowd echoed in his chest.
He was back, baby.
Mark stood and loosened his shoulders, rolled his head from side to side. Man, that felt good.
As the play began again, he finally tapped into the focus that made him one of the best catchers in the major leagues. As he called pitches and caught every ball, adrenaline tore through him, pumping him more and more.
When a ball whipped into the strike zone followed by a furious swing, Mark shifted forward and caught it.
As the crowd went wild, blood rushed to his head making him feel intensely alive. This was what the game was all about for him. The thrill, the total head-rush. It was him against them—a test of courage, skill, strength, and reflexes.
It was a fast-paced battle of brains and finesse. And Mark loved it like nothing else.
He shut down every attempt at home for the rest of the game, using his toned body and calculating mind to make out after out. Whereas the last game he’d gone to the field in a fit of temper and bad mouth, tonight the attitude from him was minimal. After a few initial bumps, he was totally, completely in his zone.
At the bottom of the ninth the Rush came out on top 4–3, ensuring them one game closer to solid season standings. Intense relief flooded him as he made his way down the line, shaking hands with his teammates.
He’d been able to play a winning game without his good luck charm. Part of him wondered why that was. The other part of him was afraid he already knew. Because there was only one thing different in his life, in his routine that could be attributed to the abrupt change of fortune. Only one thing it could possibly be.
Heading to the locker room still riding high on the Rush’s victory, Mark stopped at the edge of the field and glanced into the stadium seats. And there she was. Lorelei. Sitting with his younger sister, Leslie, their heads together, laughing like they were lifelong friends.
Suddenly Lorelei glanced up and their gazes locked. His chest squeezed tight around his lungs, making it hard to breathe. He dropped his gaze and stepped off the field into the dugout, heading to the locker room.
He didn’t want to think about her. Didn’t want to feel anything for her. She already spent too much frigging time in his head. But there was one
Mark shoved his hand back into his glove and slammed his cage down. “Yeah, I got it. Let’s do this.”
Kowalskin reached out and smacked the top of his helmet. “Damn straight. Let’s do this thing.”
Nothing was sweeter for Mark than the time he spent behind home plate. Not even sex. And nothing pissed him off more when things were going bad.
Two up, two down. Top of the fourth. He watched as Kowalskin took the ball back to the pitcher’s mound and readied himself for the next batter. Mark assumed the position, muscles alert and ready for action. Adrenaline raged as he watched the batter stride to the plate and stop short of the box. A few swings, a dig of his cleat into the box dirt, and the Cub settled in for the pitch.
Mark signaled to Peter for a slider and narrowed his eyes when the pitcher shook his head, rejecting the pitch. Reassessing, Mark signaled for a curve and raised his glove when the pitch was accepted.
As he shifted his weight on the balls of his feet, his eyes zeroed in on the ball as it was pulled back like a rock in a slingshot waiting for release. He could feel it, almost see the play before it happened, knew a split second before the ball came flying high and fast on his glove side, just inside the strike zone.
He reacted instantly as the batter swung hard, hitting his knees in a butterfly stance. Reaching, he felt the sharp sting of leather hit his glove and heard the resounding thwack .
The umpire behind him yelled out, “Strike!” The batter swore and stepped out of the box.
Mark looked at his glove hand and opened it, the white leather of the ball bright in the early evening sun. The roar of the crowd echoed in his chest.
He was back, baby.
Mark stood and loosened his shoulders, rolled his head from side to side. Man, that felt good.
As the play began again, he finally tapped into the focus that made him one of the best catchers in the major leagues. As he called pitches and caught every ball, adrenaline tore through him, pumping him more and more.
When a ball whipped into the strike zone followed by a furious swing, Mark shifted forward and caught it.
As the crowd went wild, blood rushed to his head making him feel intensely alive. This was what the game was all about for him. The thrill, the total head-rush. It was him against them—a test of courage, skill, strength, and reflexes.
It was a fast-paced battle of brains and finesse. And Mark loved it like nothing else.
He shut down every attempt at home for the rest of the game, using his toned body and calculating mind to make out after out. Whereas the last game he’d gone to the field in a fit of temper and bad mouth, tonight the attitude from him was minimal. After a few initial bumps, he was totally, completely in his zone.
At the bottom of the ninth the Rush came out on top 4–3, ensuring them one game closer to solid season standings. Intense relief flooded him as he made his way down the line, shaking hands with his teammates.
He’d been able to play a winning game without his good luck charm. Part of him wondered why that was. The other part of him was afraid he already knew. Because there was only one thing different in his life, in his routine that could be attributed to the abrupt change of fortune. Only one thing it could possibly be.
Heading to the locker room still riding high on the Rush’s victory, Mark stopped at the edge of the field and glanced into the stadium seats. And there she was. Lorelei. Sitting with his younger sister, Leslie, their heads together, laughing like they were lifelong friends.
Suddenly Lorelei glanced up and their gazes locked. His chest squeezed tight around his lungs, making it hard to breathe. He dropped his gaze and stepped off the field into the dugout, heading to the locker room.
He didn’t want to think about her. Didn’t want to feel anything for her. She already spent too much frigging time in his head. But there was one
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