Joanne Rock - Sliding Into Home

“You really mean it?” She was shaking like a leaf as he held an irreplaceable piece of jewelry close to her hand like an offering.

“I’m crazy about you, Delaney. I love you and I would like you to think about a future with me.”

Maybe her jaw dropped. Or maybe it was the tears that were rolling down her cheeks all of the sudden, but something must have tipped him off that she was completely overwhelmed because he cupped her cheek with infinite tenderness.

“I know this might seem sudden to you, but it’s been a long time coming for me. And a wise woman I know taught me life is too short to wait for happiness to find us.”

“Oh, Rick!” She clutched his hand, hardly daring to believe her dreams could come true simply by daring to act on them. “I’ve loved you since your very first line drive to right field that brought in—”

“Dwight Wrigley for the win against Florida.” He grinned. “And I’ve loved you since the first meet and greet after spring training when you took me on a tour of the trophy room without ever once making eye contact.”

Laughter burst through the emotions lodged at the base of her throat. “I’m no good at flirting.”

His grin turned wolfish. “You sure got my attention when you were ready.”

Warmth tingled through her.

“I would be so honored to spend my future with you, Rick Warren.” She waggled her fingers at the diamond in his hand. “And I’m proud to wear your ring.”

As he slid the piece onto her finger, he bent to brush a kiss along her lips.

Without question, Delaney knew they were sealing a bargain to last a lifetime.

Three months later

“SO HOW DO YOU LIKEthe taste of humble pie, big guy?”

Ozzie, the new lead disc jockey on Big Apple Sports Radio grinned as the fax came across the news wire listing the year’s Gold Glove winners.

His morning-show partner had gotten demoted from the drive-time show to a late-night slot after ticking off a few too many of the game’s fans with inaccurate information and all-around lazy commentary. The program coordinator had given the top spot to Oz, citing his vast baseball knowledge and appeal to listeners.

“He’s not the only one shoveling it down,” Scott, Oz’s new color man, appeared over his shoulder to check out the Gold Glove winners on the list. The kid was sharp and outspoken, but he never took the low road. “If you’d asked me last summer, I probably would have predicted these guys going down in flames.”

“Baseball players are young,” Ozzie remarked, tearing off the printout in preparation for the 6:00 a.m. show. “And they live every second in the spotlight. You think they’re the only guys who make an occasional misstep? But no one predicts we’re going down in flames when we mess up.”

Oz had never liked the way public figures ended up as punching bags so often, and he hoped his show would be different.

“Brian Marshall went down in flames,” Scott observed, picking up the coffeepot for his morning java.

“Watch your step, kid,” Oz threatened without any heat. He wasn’t sorry to see the loudmouth off the a.m. airwaves, but he kept that opinion to himself. “All I’m saying is that these guys deserve a break. They play more games than any other professional athlete and they work in a highly competitive field.”

“Some work harder than others,” Scott observed, pointing to the mug shots of the players taking home fielding honors this season. Virtually every player Brian Marshall had pegged as a thug had proved instrumental for his team this season and every last damn one of them had copped the trophy for his respective position.

“It was so damn cool to see Rick Warren lead a team to the World Series.” Chalk one up for the old dudes. It had taken Warren a decade, but he’d proven that you didn’t have to be a showboat to bring your team to the playoffs.

“Plus, he married Blair’s daughter. You know they’ll tap him for a coaching slot in another season or two.” Scott shook his head, as if to suggest some guys had all the luck.

Oz knew better. The guy had served his time in the trenches. Baseball was fortunate to have him around as a counterpoint to the young studs that focused solely on their batting average. The rookies could learn a thing or two about the game from a guy like Warren.

“You know,” Scott continued, glopping cream cheese on his bagel and coating half the printout with what he splattered around. “Now that I think on it, all these guys took up with women this year.”

Ozzie thought back to the news bits that had come in over the last few months. “That’s right. Montero is still courting the singer.”

“I’m in love with Jamie McRae, man,” Scott declared. “Let’s invite Montero on the show and ask him to bring her along. She can sing that baseball song of hers.”

“What are we, Entertainment Tonight? ” Ozzie swiped off the cream cheese. “We’re getting back to serious baseball around here, remember?”

Although Jamie McRae was the bomb.

“Hey, I’ve got it.” Scott snapped his fingers. “We invite Javier Velasquez and Brody Davis on the same show and see if they go at it again.”

“Not interested. Besides, it’s old news. Those two have been buds since, like, a week after their brawl.” Oz had read a feature piece on them a few weeks ago. Apparently their new girlfriends had become fast friends while comparing notes during the playoff games.

“Fine.” Scott ripped a paper towel off the roll and swiped the rest of the cream cheese away. “So you’re saying we just talk about the news. No theatrics.”

“Maybe just this once.” Oz clapped his new commentator on the shoulder then made his way toward his seat at the microphone. “You know as well as I do, there’ll be a whole new batch of hotheads and heartbreakers next spring to get everyone all fired up again.”

“Right.” Scott tromped behind him, trailing news printouts and crumbs. “Until then, thank God for football season, right, boss?”

ISBN: 978-1-4268-3772-2

SLIDING INTO HOME

Copyright © 2009 by Joanne Rock.

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario M3B 3K9, Canada.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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