Carly Phillips - Hot Number

"I must've been blow-drying my hair," Micki muttered.

"Well, apparently she's spotting and the doctor wants her off her feet." Sophie, true to her analytical nature, proceeded to describe the graphic details of Annabelle's problem in terms of color and amount until Uncle Yank cut her off with the swing of his gavel.

"I don't want to hear the gory details about female problems." His skin had turned green. "I just want Annie and her baby to be okay."

"And they will be," Micki said, placing her hand over his. "Right, Soph?"

"Right."

"Speaking of doctors-"

"Next subject," Uncle Yank said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Micki sighed. Sophie had been begging him to let her take him for an evaluation with a doctor who was performing a new procedure on patients with macular degeneration. But the big man who put the fear of God in everyone he knew-except his nieces and Lola-was afraid. Not that he'd admitted as much.

"Okay, with Annie out, our biggest problem is now the New York Renegades PR blitz she was scheduled to handle in Tampa this weekend," Sophie said, tapping her pen against her yellow notepad.

"Well there's a simple solution to that problem," Uncle Yank said, his gaze darting between Micki and Sophie.

Micki wasn't about to let him hand this assignment over to her. "There sure is a simple solution," Micki agreed. "Sophie, you head on down to Tampa instead."

Uncle Yank glanced from Micki to Sophie, seemingly torn as to whom he should push to go to south Florida.

Before he could choose a niece, Sophie shook her head. "Tsk, tsk, Uncle Yank. You can run but you can't hide and you know I made you a doctor's appointment next week with that specialist and I intend to be by your side to make sure you keep it."

Which explained why he would want to get Sophie out of town, Micki thought.

He scowled. "I don't need another doctor looking into my peepers." He slammed the gavel hard for emphasis, stunning them all into silence.

At that moment, an electronic voice spoke. "Nine thirty, a.m." Uncle Yank cursed and pressed a button on his newly purchased watch, designed so that the visually impaired didn't have to try to decipher small numbers.

"Divine providence?" Sophie asked sweetly.

"I was just testing the thing by wearing it" he muttered. "It doesn't mean I need it yet."

He might be telling the truth. Micki wasn't sure she understood what her uncle could or could not see, just that there had been some worsening since he was diagnosed a year ago. For all his denials about needing a specialist, he'd gone ahead and begun acclimatizing himself to the accessories and implements made for the visually impaired. It was almost as if he'd resigned himself to the inevitable without a fight, and that was so unlike her feisty uncle, it hurt her heart.

Despite how close Micki and Uncle Yank were, Sophie was the sister who understood conical things best and the sisters all agreed Sophie could handle him and his specialists.

Still, Micki could definitely stand in for Sophie this once. "If you go to Florida, I'll make sure he keeps that appointment," Micki assured her sister.

"I know you would, but I've done the research and I'd feel much better hearing everything the doctor had to say." Not to mention that after all her research, she'd better be able to understand the diagnosis and explain it to the rest of them, Micki thought.

The noose was tightening as she came closer and closer to becoming the chosen one to replace Annabelle in Tampa. Micki's heart began to pound harder in her chest at the thought of spending up-close-and-personal time with Damian, which would mean facing her inadequacies firsthand.

"I think Peter or Jamie can handle Tampa," Micki said, referring to the newest publicists who'd recently joined the firm.

Though the Jordan sisters prided themselves on their family-oriented agency, their client list had grown to the point where they'd had no choice but to expand. Regardless, they kept the weekly meetings limited to family only so the partners kept up to date on both the sports and PR aspects of the business. Micki and her sisters held separate meetings with their staff, which was why even as she'd suggested one of the new publicists take over the Florida gig, Micki knew she was just acting out of desperation. There were many reasons why the other publicists couldn't handle this job.

Sophie shuffled her papers, evening them on one side. "Even if Peter or Jamie could go to Florida, you know Joe Gordon insists one of the partners handle his team's PR. It's you or me."

"I know. I'd just forgotten," Micki said.

"Conveniently forgotten," Uncle Yank said.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Micki asked.

Her uncle shook his head. "Nothin' important. You can handle the team, Micki. There's nothing you can't handle, remember that."

If only he knew, Micki thought and sighed in resignation. "When do I have to leave?"

" After you get that painted gook off your face," her uncle said. "If Sophie hadn't been sitting next to me I'd have thought that was her running in late."

So Uncle Yank had noticed. "Why, thank you. I'll take that as a compliment" Micki deliberately fluttered her lashes at him.

"Compliment, my… Never mind. Just quit looking like a floozy, else I'll think you're taking lessons from Lola."

He'd noticed Micki's clothing overhaul, too. Maybe the eye specialist still could help him, Micki thought and met Sophie's knowing gaze.

And maybe they could get Uncle Yank to make an overture toward the woman he missed so badly. "Speaking of Lola," Micki began.

He slammed the gavel hard. "Meeting adjourned."

Micki rolled her eyes. The man could be as stubborn as a mule and she didn't envy Sophie's trip to the doctor with him. Still she'd rather deal with her surly uncle than cope with being around Damian Fuller in hot, steamy Florida. And that was saying a lot.

INTERLEAGUE PLAY. The fans loved it, Damian Fuller thought as he crouched in center field and waited for Manny Ramirez, one of the Red Sox's best hitters, to swing on a three-two pitch. Ramirez cleanly tackled a fastball and it sailed toward center. Damian ran back, back, and jumped high, snagging the ball at the same time he hit the wall. Regaining his footing, he immediately threw to his cutoff man, preventing the runner on base from tagging and running home, but the second he released the ball, a burning pain seared through his left wrist and he grabbed his hand in agony.

An hour later, Damian sat in a hospital room because, as luck was scarce at the moment, the X-ray machine at the stadium had broken. While waiting for the test results, he forced a smile and flirted with Darla, the attractive nurse who lingered in his room. She provided a nice distraction but he preferred to be alone.

Today wasn't the first time his wrist had given him trouble. Hell, every body part ached now and then, but it was the first time the burning numbness in his fingertips had lingered. And that couldn't be a good sign.

"Hungry?" Darla asked, obviously content to hang around and cater to needs he didn't have.

"Not for food, darlin'." He shot her a wolfish grin and she blushed a deep red.

"You really do live up to your reputation as a ladies' man," she said, laughing.

What choice did he have? Perception was everything. And in New York especially, the media shaped that perception, helping him reach the fan base that turned out to see the Renegades play. Damian needed them to want to see him play. And they would-as long as they had no idea that age was catching up with him.

His eligible-bachelor status and photographs of him partying with beautiful women cemented the impression that, at thirty-five, Damian Fuller was still going strong. That was a vision Damian needed his teammates and coaches to buy into as well. Throughout his career, the perception had helped him survive record-setting years and major slumps, making him an icon to the fans-untouchable, un-tradeable, a marquee player in a damn tough market.