Susan Crosby - Marriage On His Mind

His plastic cleats spun on the concrete stairs and he tripped just as he pulled within arm’s reach, calling out as he stumbled, and fell with a thud.

“Jack!” She dropped down beside him, her hands fluttering over him.

“You know my name,” he said in surprise, pain welling as he sought her eyes through the sunglasses she’d shoved back on to free her hands.

“Well, of course I know your name.” She growled the words impatiently. “I’ve been sitting in the stands for weeks. How could I not know your name. Where do you hurt?”

“My right ankle.”

A crowd migrated up the stadium steps. Jack grabbed her hand as she started to move aside when the first baseman, Scott, knelt beside him. “Don’t go,” Jack said to her. “I need to talk to you.”

“You’re in pain.”

“Please. You misunderstood.”

“How’re you doing?” Scott asked as he ran efficient hands down Jack’s leg and ankle.

“Go away,” Jack ordered. “I need to talk to Coach first.”

“Could be broken, buddy. We should get you to the hospital ER.”

“A few minutes’ delay won’t hurt. Back off, Scott. Coach?”

She hovered over him, her expression serious. “I’m really proud of you, Ponytail. You did great.”

“Not Ponytail. Jack.”

She swallowed. “Jack.”

“Now tell me yours.”

“Coach. It’s Coach.”

“I’m not going to see you again, am I?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

“I don’t know. It’s a small town.”

“So, we may run into each other, but you’ll still avoid anything more personal.”

“I have to,” she whispered. “I’m sorry. I can’t change it.”

He squeezed her hand; his eyes closed briefly as a wave of pain washed over him. He couldn’t decide which hurt the most—his ankle or the fact he may never see her again. “I can’t ever remember feeling like that about a kiss. And you...you pulled me back for more.”

“I’m sorry,” she repeated helplessly, and he gathered she meant for more than the kiss.

Scott knelt beside him again. “Let’s go.”

He sat up, wincing as his leg was jostled. “Stacy can take me. You go back to the game.”

“Who’s the doctor here?” Scott asked.

Jack’s brows lifted.

“Gynecologists are allowed to treat broken bones, you know.”

“I’ll go with you,” said the third baseman, Drew, leaning over Scott’s shoulder. “You finish the game, Scotty.”

“Oh, great,” Jack muttered. “Will you give me a sucker if I don’t cry?”

“It was patients like you that made me settle on pediatrics,” Drew said, shaking his finger at Jack.

Jack eyed the woman beside him suppressing a smile. “Don’t you dare laugh, Coach.”

She raised her hands, palms out, and shook her head solemnly, although the curve of her mouth belied the attempt at seriousness.

He turned back to the men. “Look, if two of us leave, we’ll have to forfeit the game. If only I go, the game’s legal. It’d be nice to have one in the win column.”

“One of your two entirely competent physician-teammates will accompany you,” Scott said, brooking no argument “Choose.”

Jack focused on Coach. “Fill in, will you?”

“Me?”

“Yeah. You can play, I gather.”

“Well, yes, but it’s been a long time—”

“Come on, sub for me. We can bring the outfield rover in to cover first for Scott.”

The umpire announced they had two minutes to get the game started again or he’d call a forfeit. All three men turned to the woman known only as Coach.

“The game’s forfeited if I play. This is a men’s league,” she said.

Jack looked at Scott. “Is that true?”

“I hadn’t thought about it. Yeah, I suppose it is.”

“Look, I was responsible. Why don’t I take him?” she asked.

Once again she was the focus of their appraisal.

“I don’t have my car with me, but I imagine one of you would let me borrow—”

“Mine,” Jack said. “We’ll take mine.” He wasn’t going to give anyone else the opportunity to offer.

After being assured that Scott would call ahead to the ER on his cellular phone, Jack was helped out to the parking lot and into his Jeep by two spectators. He rested his foot carefully on the floorboard and leaned back stiffly. Coach had disappeared while they had negotiated the parking lot, then reappeared beside him before the car door was shut. Carefully, she set an ice-filled towel over his ankle.

“Scott thought it would help,” she said, looking up at him. “Is it too heavy?”

“It’s all right.” Forcing himself to relax, he slumped as she scrambled around the front of the car, climbed in and adjusted the driver’s seat for her shorter legs.

“Can you handle a manual transmission?” he asked as she started the engine, then regretted the question when she turned a you’ve-got-to-be-kidding expression on him. “Sorry. Do you know where the hospital is?”

“On Allendale, isn’t it? Across the street from the minimall?”

“Right.” The question in her voice confirmed his assumption—she hadn’t lived in Gold Creek long. He winced as she hit a speed bump.

Mickey glanced at him after she heard his quickly indrawn breath. “Sorry. Does it hurt a lot?”

He clenched the dashboard. “Let’s see. Should I be a real man and say, ‘Aw, it’s nothing’? Or should I tell you the truth?”

“It hurts like hell?” she ventured, risking a quick look his way as she slowed for a red light.

He closed his eyes. “The ice helps. Thanks.”

She negotiated the streets as slowly as traffic would allow, wishing he would talk more. After all, she was a captive audience. He could ask all the questions he’d been dying to ask. He remained quiet. It drove her crazy.

“Are you furious with me?” she asked finally.

Jack didn’t open his eyes. His silence had accomplished what he had intended: the conversational ball was in her court.

“Should I be?” he asked.

She groaned. “I forgot you were a lawyer. Answer a question with a question. What a lovely tactic.”

He kept his voice deliberately calm. “Do I seem furious with you?”

“I don’t know, Jack. What do you look like when you’re furious?”

He laughed softly at her retort. “The ploy usually works, you know.” He opened his eyes to a squint and enjoyed the sight of her, so close he could touch her if he chose.

“Give it your best shot, Ponytail. I grew up with three exceptionally tricky brothers. I’m prepared for anything.”

“Did they teach you to play baseball?”

“Nope.”

“You said you were out of practice. Does that mean you used to play a lot?”

“Yep.”

One corner of his mouth twitched. Oh, yes, she was tough. And smart, and quick. She’d turned the tables on him very nicely.

Mickey grinned his direction, trying not to gloat. She’d managed to outmaneuver him, but he was being a good sport about it. “Jack—”

“Look out!” he yelled.

She hit the brakes, barely avoiding crashing into the car that had come to a quick stop in front of them. “Are you all right?” she asked hurriedly as he moaned and shifted. She knew he’d hit a phantom brake pedal instinctively, ramming his injured foot against the floorboard.

“Yeah.”

No, she decided, hearing the grittiness of the single word. “Real men can say ‘ow,’ you know.”

He rubbed his chest. “I think you inflicted more pain throwing your arm across me than I did myself with my foot. Are you used to a child sitting next to you or something?”

“No,” she said abruptly, not realizing she’d put an arm protectively, automatically, in front of him. Not anymore, she added in silence. “Once again, I apologize for causing you pain.”