Carly Phillips - Hot Number

Damian lived to play ball. He loved the game and after devoting his life to his career, the game was all he had. Hell, he knew he was in the twilight of his playing years, but damned if he wouldn't extend it as long as he was able.

Darla batted dark lashes over her blue eyes. "It's been fun treating you," she told him as the team physician strode into the room, chart in hand.

"Life's too short not to enjoy." He repeated the mantra he'd lived by all his life, although lately living up to his reputation had become more of a job than playing center field. He wouldn't admit it to a breathing soul, but Damian was beginning to feel every one of his thirty-five years.

"So what's up, doc? I'll be back swinging tomorrow, right?"

The older man shook his head, but the minute the guy used the term disabled list, Damian tuned out the rest. There was never a good time for the DL, yet he wondered why the hell fate had chosen now to piss on him. Now, when Ricky Carter, the rookie with an attitude, was angling for a chance to prove he could outdo Damian on the field and at bat. It looked like Carter was about to get the opportunity.

Damian walked out of the emergency room and, within minutes, his sister Rhonda pulled up in her Honda minivan. He could have called a car service, but with three sisters and parents within a half hour's drive, and all of them probably aware of his injury by now, not calling them wasn't worth the hassle. Besides, he liked how his sisters pampered him.

"Hi, Ronnie," he said, climbing into the passenger seat. A loud farting sound greeted him and he winced. After reaching beneath him, he pulled a rubber duck from under his' ass.

She cringed. "Sorry. The kids were throwing the baby's toys around and I forgot to put that one away."

He laughed. "Anything my nieces do is fine by me." He shifted and finally got comfortable surrounded by the mess in the car.

Each sister was married. Being the youngest sibling, Ronnie had three girls under the age of ten, all of whom adored their uncle Damian. His other sisters also had girls, continuing the tradition only Damian's birth had broken. Growing up around females had taught Damian how to treat a lady and more importantly how to have patience with one, too-the constant questions, the prying into his feelings, the way they invaded his personal space in general.

All of which explained why he never brought the women he took out home with him. Why should he bother? He never dated anyone he could get serious about; he couldn't risk losing the focus he needed for his career.

"Want to spend the night at my place?" Ronnie asked. The guest room's yours if you want it. Dave'll keep the girls out of your hair," she said as added incentive.

He shook his head. "Much as I appreciate the offer, I think I’ll just go home."

"How long are you out for?" she asked, correctly reading the source of his mood.

"Fifteen days. Longer if the tendinitis doesn't clear up."

She didn't turn his way. "Not so bad."

"Oh really?" He snorted. "It's July, we're in first by three and a half games. Atlanta's breathing down our necks and Carter's aiming for my position on the field and in the lineup. Now he's got a solid two weeks to make an impression. You're right. It's not so bad."

"I'm sorry."

He flexed and unflexed his good hand. "Don't be. It's my headache." Just like his age was his headache, as was the way his body didn't always cooperate the way it used to.

All he'd done was catch a damn fly ball and he'd overextended his wrist. He supposed there was a lesson to be learned here but he wasn't ready to heed it. Damian was convinced he still had a few good years left and he wasn't about to quit.

"Are you going with the team on your next road trip?" Ronnie asked.

"Yep." He had to keep an eye on Carter and an ear out for his big mouth. Besides, he never missed a game unless he had no choice. "This Tampa trip is the one where Gordon sponsors the one-day camp for autistic children. The kids spend a day with their favorite player," he said of the Renegades owner's pet cause.

Because Joe Gordon's son had been diagnosed with the disease, he did all he could to brighten the lives of kids with the same ailment. All players were required to show up, but none minded. Beginning with his nieces and nephews, Damian loved kids, and each year he participated in the camp, he learned something from the determination and guts of the children involved.

"Maybe the publicity and PR will help take your mind off not being able to play" Ronnie said, as his Gramercy Park building came into view.

Publicity and PR immediately brought his thoughts to the one person he'd been unsuccessfully trying to avoid thinking about since he'd last seen her.

Micki Jordan. Before his injury, she'd definitely been his biggest problem-a woman who invaded his thoughts when he ought to be focusing solely on the game. Even in clothes that covered up her curves, she stood out in a crowd, never mind a locker room. Pretending not to notice her took more energy than ignoring Carter and his big mouth.

With those unruly blond curls, baby-blue eyes and soft skin, Micki had an innocence that made her an unmistakable contrast to the women who came in and out of his personal life. Women who knew the score. Women who wanted a fast lay and who wouldn't get hurt when he walked out later that same night. But most importantly, women who didn't linger in his mind after he'd taken them to bed.

One drunken kiss wasn't supposed to have knocked him on his ass, Damian thought. He clearly remembered her dragging him outside, insisting he needed to sober up before his agent or the media noticed his condition. One minute he'd been insisting he wasn't drunk, defending himself to the one niece of Yank's wearing pants not a skirt, and the next he was kissing her senseless.

Micki had aroused more than just desire and left him wondering if alcohol had heightened his perception of the night or if she was really the hot little number he remembered.

Every time he'd seen her since, she'd piqued his interest more and more. And the last time he'd spoken with her on the phone, he'd realized he was talking to the woman he remembered-a husky-voiced Micki who teased him and made him want to get his hands on her again. Which wouldn't and couldn't happen with a woman who distracted him so strongly. At this stage of his life and career, he couldn't let anything or anyone distract him from the game.

"Hello?" Ronnie said, waving her hand in front of his face. "We're here. Are you sure you're okay? I can come in if you need me."

He leaned over and kissed his worrywart sister on the cheek. "I'm fine."

"You wouldn't tell me if you weren't," she grumbled.

"Go home to the kids before poor Dave is taken away in a straitjacket." He forced a grin to relieve her anxiety and let himself out of the van.

"I'll call and check on you later," Ronnie yelled as he shut the door.

To prove she didn't have to worry, he waved with his injured, braced hand before heading inside, Micki Jordan still on his mind, Nothing about Yank's niece should appeal to him and yet everything did, which was why he had no choice but to continue to ignore the attraction and deny her appeal. The distraction was too dangerous. In exchange for keeping his focus, he knew he came across as a first-class, womanizing jackass, which at times he probably was. As long as Micki kept that negative view of him, it'd make it easier for him to keep his distance. Thank God, her sister Annabelle was the publicist in charge of Joe Gordon's camp next week.

Yank paced his office, a room he'd learned by sense of feel and touch. He knew how many paces from the door to his desk and where the sunlight hit during the day. For now, he could see most things just fine. It was the peripheral that did him in. But he knew his days of complete independence were numbered, no matter what Sophie or those so-called specialists claimed.