Out of His League

CHAPTER FOUR

ELIZABETH PUSHED A grocery cart down the frozen-foods aisle, only halfheartedly paying attention to the waffles and pancakes in the gluten-free breakfast section. Most of her concentration was on the videophone in her hand.

On the small screen, she saw Jon Farell sitting on the couch beside her nephew in Mrs. Ham’s apartment, the child calm, dressed in his pajamas and leaning against Jon’s shoulder. Brandon read the book aloud in a halting, unsure voice while Jon patiently encouraged him.

Tears sprang to her eyes, unbidden. Jon didn’t know it, but he touched a lode of emotions buried deep inside her.

She quickly wiped her eyes, glancing up to make sure that nobody saw her. It was obvious that this man was dangerous to her sanity. There was a reason she had been so harsh with Jon.

But now everything had flipped around, and she did not want to like him. This public, professional baseball player was so easy with people, while she was so uncomfortable. She certainly did not want to feel these emotions she was feeling—the tenderness toward a man who seemed to have given her fatherless nephew a role model who treated him with respect. How had this man—this man she’d been so inexplicably attracted to—ended up being more good-hearted than she ever would have guessed?

Any man she chose to speak with outside of the work environment—and for her, that was a rare occasion—had to be dispassionate and private.

Jon Farell was the opposite of that kind of person. He was far too outgoing. He didn’t seem to have any boundaries—he was the take-charge type. Being drawn to him at all had to be a tragic mistake of her DNA.

As soon as she got home, Elizabeth would shake off her tender emotions and make sure to bar the door to Jon. Brandon wouldn’t be happy, but he was going home to his mother tomorrow, after breakfast. Then Elizabeth would have her ordered world back to herself, and all would be well.

By the time she finished up her transaction and drove home, Elizabeth was ready to say goodbye to Jon, once and for all.

Steering her Prius into her numbered spot, she parked and then grabbed the grocery bag from the seat beside her. The carton of eggs wasn’t packed properly—she’d been distracted at the checkout counter by staring at her cell phone, watching Brandon reading the book to Jon—and hadn’t paid close enough attention to the bagger. Disgusted with herself, she reached over to her purse and shut off her phone inside without looking at it. It was obvious by now that Jon wasn’t a predator, just a guy who was extraordinarily good with kids.

She would lead Brandon upstairs to her condominium and then send Jon on his way. She’d picked up a hot takeout pizza for Jon, as a thank-you, from the supermarket’s prepared foods section, as well as a frozen gluten-free pizza to heat up and feed to Brandon—something that Brandon’s stomach could tolerate. Brandon was allergic to anything with wheat in it. The kid just didn’t have a lot of luck in the health department. But, he seemed happy enough—his prior illness and her ineptness about how to deal with him notwithstanding—and she was thankful for that.

Elizabeth shoved her key into the lock and elbowed open the main door to the building. She knocked on the door to Mrs. Ham’s unit. She heard the thump of a cane on hardwood floor before Mrs. Ham opened her door.

“He went back to your unit a few minutes ago.” Mrs. Ham had a beatific smile on her wrinkled face. She looked ten years younger. “Brandon was drifting off to sleep, so he carried the boy upstairs.” She sighed. “I really do like Jon Farell.”

“You let him into my apartment?”

“Yes, lucky you.”

Elizabeth groaned inwardly. “Thank you, Mrs. Ham.”

Then she took the stairs two at a time. When she came to her unit, she tested the knob. The door opened easily, no key needed.

A shot of panic went through her. Jon had neglected to set the dead bolt? Then again, he was a big man. Six foot two, one hundred ninety pounds—she’d seen his electronic medical record. If she thought rationally, it should be comforting knowing that somebody capable was inside with her nephew, keeping him safe and holding down the fort. He had to be fairly responsible to be part of a professional team, didn’t he?

The New England Captains were followed by many children. It wasn’t like they were disreputable.

Calm down.

She dropped her keys on the hall table and set the grocery bag down on the kitchen counter. The television was on, the volume low. Jon sat on the couch. Head back, legs stretched out and relaxed.

He was asleep.

Her breath exhaled as she studied him. His eyes were closed and his lashes rested against tanned skin. A lock of hair fell across his cheek. His chest rose and fell softly.

Her chest felt warm and fluttery, which was not rational. She should feel threatened—he was in her space, after all. But everything about her feelings for Jon made little sense to her.

She tore her gaze away, shook off the feeling and tiptoed across her small apartment. She’d told Brandon he could sleep in her bedroom tonight because she didn’t have a guest bed for him—she used her second bedroom as an office. Later, she would set up an air mattress for herself there. For now though, the door to her bedroom was open and light from the overhead lamp shone across Brandon’s head. He was sleeping on his stomach, cocooned under the covers.

Snug as a bug in a rug, she thought, the phrase a remnant of a short, rare time of stability in her and Ashley’s childhood.

A lump in her throat, she shook under the force of her memory. Maybe that was the source of her mixed-up emotions toward the baseball player on her couch. Swallowing, she slipped off her shoes and crept back into the living room in stocking feet, crossing the cool hardwood floor to the couch where Jon was still asleep.

She felt an inexplicable longing in her heart.

Who was this man? She didn’t understand anything about him. Why would he bother with them? It couldn’t be just the shared worry of a cancer diagnosis.

His bandaged hand was flung carelessly across the couch. She’d never heard of a patient so unconcerned with himself. Jon had undergone surgery today; he should be at home recovering from the trauma to his body. Where was his sense of self-preservation?

Crowd noise erupted from the television behind her. The baseball game was in full swing. She never paid any attention to the sport, but now...what if she watched, like Mrs. Ham had said? Just until Jon woke up and she could send him on his way.

She pushed aside her magazines and sat quietly in her armchair. Studied the action that so consumed Jon’s life.

The image of a broad, commanding player filled her television screen; he toed white rubber on a dirt pitcher’s mound. Elizabeth knew that much about the game from long-ago required-attendance gym classes, like any public school kid. She watched the player—the pitcher—stare down the batter. Shake his head slowly to one side, then to the other.

“He’s shaking off the catcher’s signals,” the television announcer said. “It’s a full count. Three balls and two strikes.”

Elizabeth nibbled her lip. From what little she remembered, if the batter swung and missed a pitch, or did not swing on a pitch that was thrown within the specifications of a “strike zone”—the space over the home plate from batter’s knees to his chest—then a strike was called. Three strikes, and the batter was out. A “ball” was called if the pitcher’s throw went outside of the strike zone and the batter did not swing at it. Four balls, and a batter advanced to first base.

A walk is as good as a hit.

Elizabeth froze. That voice inside her head was an upsetting blast from her past, from the earliest days of her childhood, when she was younger than Brandon. She never thought of her mother’s boyfriend.

Elizabeth’s biological father.

Never, ever did she allow herself to think of him as Father, because he most assuredly was not. Anger consuming her, she gripped the arms of her chair. He had followed baseball like a religion. Why hadn’t she thought of this before?

On television, the camera angle swung to the pitcher, a look of concentration on his face. Elizabeth pressed her hand to her throat and forced herself to focus on the pitcher on her TV screen. He had a look of intelligence about him.

“We have a classic dilemma,” the television announcer said. “It’s the bottom of the ninth inning. Two outs. The tying and winning runs are on base, and it’s a full count.”

“The question is,” a second television announcer said, “does Martinez do the predictable and deliver his trademark fastball in the strike zone, or does he risk throwing the changeup that Bates has already smashed over the right field fence?”

“He shouldn’t risk it,” Elizabeth muttered.

“Martinez is shaking off his catcher’s call,” the first announcer said. “His hand is inside his glove. What we’re seeing here today is a showdown of baseball’s top ace versus the leading home run slugger. If the ace wins, his team wins the series and moves on to the Eastern League finals. Otherwise, they’re out until spring.”

“Martinez is a pitcher’s pitcher,” the second announcer said. “Better than anyone in the game today, he throws the batters off their rhythm. As a batter facing an ace, you never know what he’s going to do. Is he going to speed up your rhythm or slow it down?

“The thing about Martinez is that he’s developed his technique, his windup, such that the batter can’t see his grip position on the baseball. He has no clue whether to expect a curveball, a fastball, a changeup...until the ball is right in front of him and it’s too late. Very few pitchers have the skill to do this, and it’s what makes Martinez great. Barring any unforeseen scandal, he’s a future Hall of Famer.”

“A legend,” the first announcer agreed.

“What will it be?”

She found herself holding her breath. The noise from the crowd was a buzzing hum. In the stadium, it would be deafening. She wondered which side the fans were on, the pitcher’s or the batter’s?

Elizabeth sat forward in her seat. She was concentrating so hard her focus had narrowed to a place where all that existed was the pitcher on the screen. His slow, careful windup. His arm stretched back, his leg in the air.

He fired the pitch like a rocket, with a skill that seemed superhuman. In a blur, the slugger swung hard and missed. The ball smacked inside the catcher’s mitt.

“Game over!” the announcer cried.

Elizabeth jumped up from her chair and squealed. She’d had no idea baseball was this exciting.

“I knew there was a reason I liked you, Lizzy,” Jon’s quiet voice said from behind her.

She gasped. She’d been so absorbed in the game, she’d completely forgotten about Jon.

Now he was awake. He had a faint smile and a twinkle in his eye. He wasn’t even watching the television screen, the commotion of celebration and the jostling of reporters crowding onto the field.

He grinned at her. “You were rooting for the pitcher.”

“I was not!”

He grinned harder. “Sure you were.”

She glanced to her grocery bag on the kitchen counter. She needed to get Jon out of here and on his way. “I brought you a pizza from the ovens at Whole Foods. You can take it home with you and eat it there.”

He cocked his head at her. “Why can’t you admit that you were enjoying watching the baseball game?”

“I wasn’t enjoying anything. It was strictly intellectual curiosity.”

“So you admit that you find baseball intelligent,” he said quietly. “Good. Because it is.”

“Whatever you say,” she snapped.

That seemed to deflate him. Touched a sore spot with him, maybe.

She felt angry at herself. Confused...and she was a woman who was rarely confused. But her actions made no sense. She should not be interested in Jon, or his sport—she had her own, critical business to attend to.

Stalking to the kitchen, she headed for the counter. “Here’s your pizza.” She pulled the warm, delicious-smelling box out of the bag.

Jon followed her. “Thanks.” But his face looked pale, and he seemed to be...wincing.

He put his hand on the tabletop to steady himself. “I’m...sorry I didn’t help you carry the bag upstairs,” he murmured.

She stared at his bandaged finger and saw the red stain. “Are your sutures bleeding?” she demanded.

His ice-blue eyes considered her. “I’m okay, Liz.”

“You are not okay. You’ve been through surgery and you need to take care of yourself.”

He winced again, and she remembered that he’d said he hadn’t taken painkillers. She opened a cabinet and grabbed some over-the-counter acetaminophen and wound-dressing supplies.

She hadn’t bandaged a patient since her rotation in emergency medicine, but she owed him that, at least. “Let me change your bandage as a thank-you. Then you should go home and rest. Surgery is difficult on the body.” She handed him a glass of water and shook out two tablets. “Take these. You’ll still be able to drive.”

He took them from her outstretched palm. His hands were...overly large for his frame. Long fingers, the nails groomed short.

“Do you ever watch baseball, Liz?” His voice was so low and warm it made her shiver.

But she shook the thoughts of him out of her head. Those pheromones were wreaking havoc again. “Never,” she said firmly, turning to the sink to soap up her hands, then she smeared them with Purell almost to her elbows, by force of habit. “I already told you that.”

He said nothing. Sat still, at her kitchen table. She bent over his splinted finger, and squinted into the light.

She could feel the steady rhythm of his breathing, she was so close to him, their heads almost touching. She was horrified to find that she was matching her inhales and exhales to his.

Stop it, she told herself. Switching into professional mode, she removed the bandages the surgical nurse had placed around Jon’s finger. The stitches beneath were small and even: expert. Typically, the residents stitched up the incision after the surgeon cut, but in Jon’s case, he had wanted to do everything himself, carefully and by the book; he’d even forbidden the team from playing music in the operating room.

“Do you have any idea how much money this guy’s hands are worth?” Dr. Morgan had remarked to Elizabeth. At the time, she’d had no clue. Now, after watching that clip on television, she had a better idea.

She kept her gaze on Jon’s finger, and on the sterile gauze and tube of antibiotic ointment she was opening. Jon said nothing, and that was worse than his teasing earlier in the night had been.

He wasn’t throwing roadblocks in her way now. So why was she delaying sending him home?

She drew in her breath. “Thank you for watching Brandon for me,” she said crisply, “but I see no reason for our continued acquaintance beyond tonight.” Her heart rate was elevated again, but she forced herself to continue. “I understand that Brandon and you may have formed an attachment, and I think that’s wonderful, but tomorrow Brandon goes home, and tomorrow you can take up the matter with my sister if you wish.”

“I’m not interested in your sister,” he said quietly.

“Don’t say that until you’ve met her,” she said beneath her breath.

His ice-blue eyes seemed to bore into her. Seeing too much beneath the surface, more so than she was comfortable sharing with anybody.

She made as much noise as possible, tearing at the packaging for the sterile gauze. Anything to distract herself from his presence.

“Does she suck up all the attention, Liz?” Jon asked quietly.

“What? No!” She jerked her gaze to him. “Stop questioning me. You have the wrong opinion of us.”

“What’s wrong about it?”

“You would like my sister. Everybody does.”

“I’m not everybody.”

He did not understand. “You in particular would like her, I mean.” Elizabeth slapped the bandage onto his hand. Or, she wanted to slap it on, but years of training betrayed her. Be gentle with the patients. “I’m saying that because right now she is helpless and in need of assistance, and you seem to be drawn to helpless women, one of which I am not.”

He frowned, pulling back his hand. “You think you’re helpless with Brandon, don’t you?”

“Did I say that?” she demanded. “Don’t put words in my mouth!”

“You’re prickly.” He smiled. “I touched a nerve, didn’t I?”

She really did not like him sitting so close to her, seeing too much inside her life. And yet, she had finished bandaging him and he wasn’t pulling away, despite what he saw of her. She leaned the tiniest bit closer, into his space again. It had to be the pheromones.

She shook it off. Remembered why she was pushing him away. “You stayed here, Jon, and you took right over from me because you like being in situations where people are helpless. It allows you to be the hero. I can see it, and I don’t want that in my life. It goes against everything I’ve set up for myself.”

He stared at her. “You are so wrong about me,” he blurted.

Yes, she thought, that’s good. Get mad at me and then leave.

But at the same time she felt sadness. She didn’t know why. Maybe she’d hoped he saw beyond the prickliness of her delivery into the truth of what she’d observed.

She fought her own inner resistance. Pushed back from the table—from him—and grabbed the pizza box she’d bought him, which was quickly getting cold. She shoved it forward, against his chest. “Thank you for your assistance. Tomorrow I go back to my normal life and Brandon goes home to his. Please be careful driving home, and follow all the instructions on your postsurgical papers this time.”

“I didn’t come here intending to help you with Brandon,” Jon said, standing to his full height and towering over her.

“Maybe not,” she replied, looking up into his face, “but that’s the instinct that took over, isn’t it? Maybe subconsciously, that’s how you’re used to handling difficult situations.”

Real anger flashed in his eyes.

A textbook reaction—and she knew, because she’d completed a psychology rotation. Jon seemed to be experiencing classic denial symptoms.

“Excuse me?” he said. “You don’t know me at all.”

Perhaps, but she knew a textbook case. Psychology fascinated her. And why not answer his question? It’s not as if she would ever see him again after tonight.

“You’re a pitcher, Jon, right? You play in the major leagues. That took years of training to attain—I’m assuming it was as long and as grueling as it was for me to become a doctor. I’m also assuming that in order for you to make the major leagues, and stay there, you have to love your sport the same way that I love my job. So if that had been me tonight in your shoes, I would have been watching that game very closely, and not at all caring about somebody else’s reaction to it. And yet, you weren’t even interested in watching that guy—Martinez, the ace pitcher—seeing how he did it. You were just staring at me.”

“I’m friggin’ tired,” Jon said as he shoved the pizza box back at her, which was the first instance of hostility she’d seen from him. Maybe it was for the best. That meant he didn’t like her, either. That meant she had nothing to fear from him.

“I had surgery and I was pumped full of chemicals today,” he continued. “Your chemicals.”

She nodded vigorously, walking him toward the door. “And yet you came here to see us—to see Brandon. To help Brandon. As I said, you have a white-knight complex.”

Those ice-blue eyes bored into hers. “Lady, you have no idea who I am.”

Bull’s-eye, she thought. And it gave her no comfort to be right. That wasn’t why she was pushing him. Being prickly.

“Why are you always so prickly?” Ashley often asked her.

Because I want to be back on my own track away from everybody else, she silently answered.