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“Then I’ll see you soon,” he said, confident in her as always.
Amanda chatted with her mother a few minutes and then hung up. She was forever grateful for her parents’ confidence and support.
It was time to earn that confidence. She was going to find the story behind every teeny-weensy towel in that locker room…even if she wasn’t allowed to remove any of them.
LATE FRIDAY AFTERNOON, Amanda sat at her desk jotting down potential interview questions for the locker room postgame, nerves working a number on her stomach. She had a lot of ground to cover. Tuesday’s game had gone so horribly for the Rays that the coach had shut the locker room to the press. Wednesday and Thursday had been off nights so there’d been no talking with the players for her second column. She’d gone with Riley’s Gypsy oil as her featured superstition but hadn’t gotten as deep into the topic as she would have liked. Tonight would be her first chance to find out Brad’s reaction to her story on him.
Brad.
He’d stayed on her mind far too much.
A loud thud jerked Amanda to attention. Kevin stood in front of her cubicle, having tossed two big bags on the floor. He pointed to one. “Fan mail.” Then to the other. “Hate mail.”
Amanda gulped. “Hate mail?”
“Attention is attention,” Kevin said. “Think Howard Stern. Keep this up and you might actually stay around a while.”
She couldn’t quite get past the hate mail. “Why do they hate me?”
Irritation flashed in his face. “It doesn’t matter. What matters is that you get that steroid story before Jack. Check out Tony Rossi. My source says Jack thinks he’s the user. My question to you is why does Jack know this and you don’t?”
“I—”
“I want that story, Amanda. Whatever it takes, get it.”
She was being asked to earn the team’s trust and destroy a player’s career all at once. It seemed as wrong as the hate mail. She’d signed up to be a reporter, not a destroyer.
“And another thing,” Kevin continued. “The team’s headed to Nashville. Jack’s not, so you’re not. That damn hotel room of yours is eating up my budget. Get a place to live before I find one for you.”
He wanted her to get the story, but he wasn’t letting her go with the team. That didn’t make sense. Shouldn’t she go because Jack wasn’t going? Wouldn’t that give her an edge?
She bit her tongue and focused on the solution she could give him. “I’m renting from Karen Tuggle. I move in next week.”
“Good. And how much longer do you have that rental car?”
She reminded him of their interview conversation. “We discussed me taking a few days after the Texas series to drive mine back.”
He grunted. “That’s several more weeks.”
His attitude was getting to her. They’d agreed to these terms before she’d started. “With the company discount, the rental came out cheaper than the cost to transport my car here.”
Reggie appeared. “Ready to hit the road?”
Amanda pushed to her feet. “I’m ready.”
Kevin fixed her with a level stare. “Get me that story,” he ordered before exiting, leaving her staring after him, feeling frazzled.
The phone on her desk rang and Reggie motioned toward the door. “I’ll meet you downstairs.”
She waved, sitting back down and reaching for the phone. “This is Amanda.”
“This is the star of your first column at the Tribune.”
Her heart beat like a drum in her chest. “I never had the chance to ask what you thought of it. Did you like it?” she asked.
“I told you not to make me out to be superstitious,” he reminded her, but his voice held no anger. In fact, his tone seemed flirtatious.
“I didn’t,” Amanda said. “I made you out to be sentimental. And the way I see it, I did you a favor.”
“A favor, huh? What exactly was the favor?”
“Well,” she drawled, picking up a pencil and tapping it on the desk, needing an outlet for the adrenaline coursing through her body. “You’ve had some bad press, what with the fight and being out for part of the season. The public needed a reminder that you may be more good ol’ boy than bad boy. I suspect your team did, as well.”
“My agent agrees with you on that point, even if I don’t see it. I guess I’ll cut you some slack on the superstition thing.”
“So kind of you. I was worried. Really, I was.”
“You really are a good smart-ass. I noticed that when you talked to Jack.”
“Jack,” she said, her lips thinning with the name. “Such a nice guy.”
Brad let out a bark of laughter. “Right. I could see how well you two got along. Now, back to the article and my thoughts on it. You left some unanswered questions. It felt a bit unfinished.”
She frowned. “What unanswered questions?”
“Who is the real man behind the ballplayer?” he recited the question she’d posed in her story.
“It wasn’t meant as a literal question,” she replied, wishing like hell she could answer it herself firsthand. Wondering why she wanted to so badly. She didn’t get distracted by such things. “It was meant to pique interest.”
“I think you owe it to your readers to find out.”
“Oh, really?” she said, forgetting Kevin and that hate mail. “I got the impression you wanted the ‘real man’ kept private.”
“Depends on who’s involved,” he said, his tone low, suggestive.
“You’re offering me an interview?”
“That’s right. Tonight. After the game.” He paused. “Strictly business, of course.”
If it was strictly business, why say so? “Of course,” she agreed, though she sensed there was more than that going on between them. And, damn it to hell, her fantasy image of him, gloriously naked and tied to her bed, chose that moment to flash in her mind.
“Goodbye, Amanda.”
She blinked away the erotic images, reprimanding herself for allowing them to surface. “Goodbye, Brad.”
The line was silent a moment, neither of them hanging up, their breathing soft, intimate, sizzling with promise. Amanda forced herself to set the receiver on the cradle.
What had just happened? She grabbed a piece of paper and fanned herself. She’d never been this tempted to stray from a goal. And her career represented an important goal. Yet, Brad had most definitely proven he could seize her attention and make her forget all the reasons she needed to avoid him. If the man could get her this hot on the phone, what could he do in person?
And there was the question she couldn’t help but want answered. Yet, she couldn’t—no, wouldn’t—allow herself to find out. Brad Rogers was off limits. She wasn’t about to compromise her journalistic integrity to discover if some ballplayer with a God complex burned up the sheets as much as his voice promised.
She pushed to her feet, and made herself repeat her vow. She would not be seduced by Brad Rogers.
And that was that.
She hoped.
5
SEVERAL HOURS AFTER Amanda’s little chat with Brad on the phone, she walked to the ballpark concession stand, Reggie by her side. “You enjoy your talk with the girls?” he asked.
“Actually, I did,” Amanda said, surprised at how much she’d learned from her powwow with some of the groupies. One in particular, a young girl named Laura, had taken to Amanda and been quite informative. She found herself giggling at all the dirty little details those women had shared.
“Okay, none of that,” Reggie scolded. “Must share all jokes with your wingman. It’s a rule.”
Leaning closer to Reggie, she lowered her voice. “I now know one of the players has a foot fetish. Another one likes a little bondage action. And you know the rookie pitcher, the one they just recruited?” She paused for effect. “I hear he’s watched a little too much Bull Durham.”
“Okay, I’ll bite. Meaning what?”
“Word is he’s so uptight about walking in Brad’s footsteps, he’s resorted to wearing a garter belt under his uniform.”
“Get out of here,” Reggie said, eyeing the sky. “What a flipping freak.”
“You haven’t heard the half of it,” Amanda declared, “but I’ll save the rest for later.”
“So which part of this are you thinking of using for your story?”
“The garter, maybe.” She inspected Reggie for a reaction. “What do you think?” Not waiting for an answer, she made her case. “It fits my superstition theme and it’s such good timing. You know, having written about the center fielder after Brad, doing a story about the new pitcher—”
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