Out of His League. Cathryn Parry
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