Leslie Kelly - Boys Of Summer - Sliding Home / Fever Pitch / The Sweet Spot

She shoved the pleasure that thought gave her into the recesses of her mind. She’d take it out and play with it later, when she was alone. Not now, when Louisville’s favorite son was probably thinking she was some sex-starved groupie like the ones who threw themselves at him every day. She’d probably imagined the appreciation, anyway, because no way should her tiny self in baggy jeans have inspired a reaction from a hunky superstar.

Quickly dropping to her knees, she rolled the blanket into a sloppy, lumpy ball that she clutched to her chest. Yanking her satchel, which contained this week’s newly priced sports items, she rose to her feet and offered him what she hoped was an impersonal smile. “Nice meeting you. I’ve got to go.”

He just stared, saying nothing. A long silence stretched out, during which Janie could have whirled around and marched to her car, confident that she’d just made a fool of herself in front of the sexiest man she’d ever seen.

But her feet wouldn’t move. The longer he stared—so intent, so silent—the heavier her limbs felt. The laughter of the children faded into the distance, until she heard only the buzz of a passing bee…and the sound of her own breath. Finally, unable to stand the tension, she whispered, “What?”

“I’m trying to figure something out,” he murmured, still focused entirely on her face.

“What’s that?”

With an unapologetic shrug he admitted, “Which I want to see more—your pretty brown eyes without those awful glasses? Or your magnificent ass in something other than those hideous jeans.”

Janie’s jaw dropped open and she sputtered something. Her heart pounding in her chest, she tried to fathom it—he was flirting with her. Riley the Rocket flirting with her?

Before she could say anything, the man with the magic hands on the field reached out and tilted her mouth closed. His touch was warm, the scrape of his fingers on her skin electric.

“Don’t worry, darlin’.” His voice sounded thick, less flirtatious, as if he didn’t like what he had to say. “I may have a reputation, but I don’t go after innocent little coeds like you.” With a shrug that looked mournful, he muttered, “Damn, I know I’m gonna regret this. Someone musta shined my halo today.”

And turning on his heel, he walked away, striding toward the building without a single look back.

Five weeks later, mid-April

RILEY KELLEHER had known from the age of seven that there was nothing he wanted more in the world than to play baseball. Well, in the fall of 1981, he might have wanted the brand new Pac-Man game for his family’s Atari system more, but in terms of what he wanted to be when he grew up, there’d been no other career for him since that day. October 21. Yankee Stadium. Game Two of the World Series, Yankees vs. the Dodgers.

He’d walked in a typical kid who sighed whenever his talkative grandfather started reminiscing about his days in the minor leagues. He’d walked out a complete baseball junkie.

Before the first pitch, going to a World Series game hadn’t seemed as exciting as getting out of school for a couple of days to take an impromptu trip to New York City with Gramps. The man had scored a pair of tickets in some magazine contest, and no one had been more surprised than Riley when he, the youngest grandson, had been the one chosen to fill the second seat.

Now, of course, he understood. Gramps had seen it in him long before Riley had recognized it in himself: he’d been born with the gene. The game was in his blood in a way some people would never understand.

His grandfather had been thrilled. He’d told him so as they’d left the stadium, wide-eyed and full of excitement about the Yankees victory. Gramps had discovered the baseball gene in himself at the age of seven, too, when he’d watched Lou Gehrig oust Babe Ruth as the Yankees’ power hitter by nailing four home runs in one game.

Riley’s relationship with his grandfather had changed right then and there. Even now, twenty-five years later, he could still close his eyes and recapture the sounds, the smells. He could also remember the sudden rush of a surprisingly adult realization about just how much the Second World War—and a Nazi bullet—had cost Edgar Smith. Not simply some of his mobility, but also, most likely, a place in the majors. A spot in history.

Which was one of the many reasons Riley so loved his job. He was living the dream for both of them.

“Now don’t you forget to ice that shoulder down,” his grandfather said as the two of them walked toward the entrance of the retirement home one Sunday in mid-April. Edgar had, as usual, attended that day’s Slammers home game, sitting in the private skybox reserved for players’ families.

“I’m fine. That shoulder stretch during the bottom of the eighth was strictly to psyche out Rodriguez.”

The old man’s eyes gleamed his approval. “We’re on again for Tuesday?”

Riley nodded, already back in his routine for this season, which included his grandfather in the stands during every home game. His parents and brothers had flown in from Texas for Opening Day a couple of weeks ago—and would probably do so a few more times this summer, but Gramps never missed a home game.

Riley didn’t want to think about what would happen if the team moved.

Signing with the Slammers and moving back to Louisville from Houston—where he and his family had moved when Riley was in high school—had been the perfect way to take care of the old man, who’d refused to move with them. Riley had never regretted making that choice, though he missed his parents and brothers. Still, being a successful ballplayer had a few perks…not the least of which was the money to buy a lot of airplane tickets for a lot of loud, boisterous family vacations.

A sharp spasm shot through his shoulder, which did, indeed, desperately need some work. Riley flinched a little, then surreptitiously rotated it, planning to head back to the Slammers complex as soon as he left here. If he’d gone for a rub down immediately after the game, his grandfather would have insisted on taking a cab back home, something Riley would never allow.

Gramps obviously noticed. “‘Psyche out’ or not, you take care of that arm, boy,”

“I’m fine,” Riley insisted

“You’re no twenty-year-old, anymore.” Gramps’s blue eyes twinkled, so Riley knew he was trying to get a rise out of him.

Keeping the laughter out of his voice, he gave it right back. “And you’re no eighty-year-old, anymore.”

His recently-turned-eighty-one-year-old grandfather gave a phlegmy chuckle. “Like they say, there may be snow on the roof, but there’s still a fire in the hearth.”

Riley didn’t point out the obvious: the “roof” was almost completely bald.

“Ah, look who’s here,” Gramps said, sounding pleased.

Riley followed his stare to see an elderly woman standing at the door, a smile of greeting on her face. He recognized her instantly…Gramps’s girlfriend. The one who read him sex books.

Closing his mind against that image, he couldn’t help looking around, thinking of the pretty volunteer he’d met here a little more than a month ago. He had no idea why a petite, twentyish young woman would so occupy his thoughts, but she had. Every time he’d come to visit, he’d kept an eye out for her.

He’d never asked Gramps about her. As if Edgar knew Riley was interested, he’d been closemouthed about his young friend. Gramps had never completely abandoned the idea that Riley was an off-the-field playboy. He’d likely have panicked at the thought of his grandson targeting an innocent young volunteer.

Riley wasn’t targeting her. He just wouldn’t mind seeing her again, without the glasses. And in a much tighter pair of jeans.