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  What had he said about the manager’s office? Down the hall somewhere. She hurried down the corridor, which smelled faintly of dirty socks. Forget the ballplayer. Had she learned nothing from her experience with Hamilton Wade? Rule number one: no spoiled, good-looking boys. Actually, make that no spoiled, good-looking, athletic boys. No boys at all would be the smartest way to go.

  The baseball player was no boy, however. He was entirely, one-hundred-percent man.

  Didn’t matter. He was probably one of the bad boy troublemakers who’d gotten her boss, Mayor Wendy Trent, and the Ladies’ Auxiliary of Kilby, so upset. She wasn’t here to ogle baseball players, she was here to do her job. A job she was extremely lucky to have. After Hamilton’s nasty smear campaign, no one had wanted to hire her. She’d fought tooth and nail for this job. Doing it well meant everything to her. Self-respect, sanity, pride . . . everything.

  She heard the distant sound of clapping and the occasional thump-thump of feet overhead. Spying a door, she cautiously opened it, only to encounter a warm rush of air carrying the summery sound of laughing male voices. Blinking in the sudden sunlight, she got an eyeful of green grass, dotted with a blur of white and blue uniforms.

  Oops, she must have taken a wrong turn. Everyone was running off the field, so the game had to be over. Quickly, she pulled the door shut and nearly ran in the other direction. The last thing she wanted was to run into that ballplayer again. That half-naked hunk of a ballplayer. Annoyingly, he hadn’t even smelled bad, despite his sweaty state. He’d smelled like sun-heated flesh and oiled leather. He’d radiated furious energy, a kind of restless power, as if he wanted to shake up the world and put it back the way he wanted.

  She felt exactly the same way.

  Finally she spotted a door marked MANAGER. It stood ajar. She knocked lightly, then stepped in at a “Yeah” that could have been the bark of a Chihuahua.

  The man at the desk scowled at her from under a Kilby Catfish cap. Geez, did everyone on the team have a bad attitude? This man, with the build of a bloated pit bull, looked nothing like the blue-eyed god outside the locker room.

  Actually, the god’s eyes had been more gray than blue, like the sky reflected off steel.

  Forget him. “Hi, I’m Sadie Merritt. I’m here representing a group of local residents who have prepared a petition.”

  “I don’t sign petitions.” He waved her off and turned back to the pile of papers on his desk.

  She set her teeth. Mayor Trent hadn’t sent her here to get dismissed like a pesky schoolgirl. “Well, sir, you definitely wouldn’t want to sign this one, unless you’re just as fed up with your team as the rest of Kilby is. If even half the stories are true, you must have your work cut out for you. How do you keep up? Do you read the daily police blotter?”

  His head snapped up. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  A-ha. Now she had his attention. “The petition. I work for the mayor of Kilby, who is quite concerned about your team.”

  “Did you say you work for the mayor?” A drawling voice cut in from across the room. She swung in that direction and saw a man in his late forties lounging in a chair, legs crossed at the ankles. She recognized him at once. Crush Taylor, legendary playboy pitcher and owner of the Catfish. He looked like he had a hangover.

  “Yes. I’m Mayor Trent’s assistant.”

  The manager surged to his feet. “Let me get a look at that thing. Petition, huh? This team is going to fucking kill me. Where are my goddamn glasses?”

  He fumbled around the desk until finally Crush said, “In your pocket, Duke.”

  He snatched them up, said, “Give me the highlights. It’s not like this day could get worse. Do you know what it’s like to lose by eleven runs? And to have your star pitcher set a record for a first-start shellacking?”

  “No.” She wondered if the baseball god with the killer ass was the star pitcher in question.

  “Start at the beginning. Who are you again?”

  “My name is Sadie Merritt. I work for the mayor.”

  “You know the one, Duke. Always looks like she’s chewing on ice cubes,” said Crush with a yawn.

  “What does this have to do with me? I’m running a baseball team here. Well, most days. Today I’m not sure what the fuck I’m doing.”

  “Maybe I’d better just read the petition,” said Sadie. Before either man could object, she raised the page to eye level. “ ‘Whereas we, the below-signed residents of Kilby, are shocked and appalled by the reprehensible behavior of the Pacific Coast League baseball team known as the Catfish, we hereby demand that the team relocate to another city or prove their fitness to reside in Kilby.’ ”

  Duke held up a hand to stop her. “Hang on. You’re saying Kilby wants us out? That’s stupid. Kilby loves us.”

  “Not all of Kilby loves you.” She rattled the paper at him. “We have hundreds of signatures here.”

  “And I have thousands of people at the games. I got every business in town wanting a promotional night. Know what today is?”

  She shook her head.

  “Kilby Fire Department day. We had a fireman throw out the first pitch in full turnout gear. This town loves us. The whole county does. Kilby’s the smallest town in the country with a Triple A team.”

  “I know that. Maybe it’s time the team moved to a bigger city, one that won’t mind the unruly—”

  Duke flung one arm toward a whiteboard positioned in the corner of the room. “Baseball is all about numbers, Ms. Merritt. My guys are here to put up numbers that will get them to San Diego. The team could play in Pig-Fuck, Nebraska, for all they care. What matters are ERAs, slugging percentage, on base percentage, RBIs . . .”

  “I’m not here to argue, Mr. Ellington.” Truthfully, she couldn’t really argue. The petition was pretty ridiculous. Who didn’t love baseball? Sure, the Kilby Catfish were a little rowdy. But she used to love coming to the games, and she’d mourn if they actually left town. Not that her personal opinion mattered.

  She turned to Crush Taylor. He was the team owner, after all. “A portion of the Kilby community is appalled by your team’s behavior. You know, if they cared about their reputation, they shouldn’t have detoured the team bus to that nude beach. Or maybe they should stop holding player meetings at Charlie’s Showgirls. Or—here’s a thought—maybe they shouldn’t have filled an entire hot tub with beer for some guy’s birthday.”

  “St. Vincent,” Crush Taylor muttered.

  “What?”

  “Nick St. Vincent. Best young prospect I’ve seen in thirty years. Guy like that turns twenty-one, you gotta celebrate.”

  She stared at the owner. He didn’t seem too concerned about this situation, and it was starting to irritate her.

  “Mr. Taylor, this is a petition to ‘Can the Catfish.’ I think you should take it a little more seriously. Don’t you think it’s going to be a little embarrassing to the San Diego Friars when this story gets out?”

  Can the Catfish. The words seemed to echo through the cluttered room. The two men stared at her for a long moment. Someone let out a gurgle of a laugh.

  Just then the man from the hallway poked his head around the door. He must have showered. His damp, slightly shaggy, tawny brown hair clung to his temples, setting off a strong-featured face with the sort of cheekbones that belonged on a billboard somewhere. Those steel-blue eyes held a troubled, stormy expression.

  His big hand wrapped around the edge of the door. When he caught sight of her, his knuckles whitened.

  “I can come back,” he said, and made to withdraw.

  “No,” Crush said quickly. He rose to his feet and ambled toward the door. “Come in, Caleb. Duke has a job for you.” The owner stuck out his hand for Sadie to shake. “Ms. Merritt, I appreciate you coming in today. We’re going to work on finding a solution to this . . . uh . . . dreadful impasse. Is your number somewhere on here?”

  “Yes, it’s on the press release attached to the petition.”

  “Good
. I’m sure we can find a way to make the mayor happy.” Smoothly, he dropped a pair of designer aviator glasses over his eyes and made his exit, while the baseball player stepped inside the office.

  Duke clutched his head as if it were about to explode and clenched his teeth. “Ms. Merritt. Would you mind very much if I spoke to my pitcher for a moment? We’ll be in touch. Guaranteed.”

  “Of course. Thank you for your time.” She got to her feet, offering both men a wide smile.

  The baseball player—Caleb—held the door open for her exit, and she ducked under his arm. She shivered as she passed by, as if some sort of force field surrounded him. Something electrifying and confusing and . . . Sigh.

  She headed for the parking lot and looked for her old Corolla. As requested, she called Mayor Trent to let her know the deed was done.

  “Did you speak with Crush Taylor or just the manager?”

  “Both.” Along with the sexiest man she’d ever witnessed. “Mr. Taylor didn’t seem too worried, but they said they’re going to call. My guess is that they will. I think I got their attention. What do you want me to do next?”

  “Come on back. They got the message, and that’s all I wanted. If we can reform the Catfish even a little bit, we’ll have done good work.” The missionary zeal in the mayor’s tone made Sadie chew on her bottom lip. Reform the Catfish? The testosterone-loaded men in that office hadn’t looked very reformable.

  But Mayor Trent hadn’t hired her to argue.

  Caleb reluctantly took a seat in the chair just vacated by the girl in the red cowboy boots. It was still slightly warm, and he beat back the image of her tall, slender body perched there.

  “Before you say anything, I already talked to Mitch. I’m going to throw a few bullpens so he can check out my mechanics.”

  “It’s not your mechanics,” said Duke bluntly.

  “I think I’m throwing across my body a little too much.”

  “It’s not that.”

  Caleb pressed the heel of his hand into his forehead. “It’s like someone cursed me,” he muttered. “That’s the only thing I can come up with. One day I’m throwing missiles, the next I’m a pinball machine. That game last season—”

  “We’re not talking about last season. Can’t do anything about that. You know what I thought when I heard they traded you here?”

  “How can I get out of my contract?”

  Duke let out a raucous laugh. “Hell no, you don’t scare me. How long have I known you?”

  “Five . . . six years.” Duke had been Caleb’s very first manager back in Double A. Back then he’d been a wild flamethrower with zero control and a bloodthirsty competitive urge.

  “I always knew you were a special player. And your family situation . . . well, that lit a fire under your ass.”

  “Is there a point here?” The last thing he wanted to do was talk about his family. Duke knew about his father because he’d had to ask for an advance on his signing bonus when both twins broke their legs playing ninja on the roof. No one else knew, and that’s the way he liked to keep it.

  “You always threw like your life depended on it. Whatever fueled you, it was working. Something’s changed inside your head. I don’t know what it is. But if you don’t figure it out, you can forget San Diego. Hell, you can forget Wichisaukee low A. Maybe you don’t need it anymore. Maybe you’re done with baseball and want to go race cars or something.”

  Caleb bolted to his feet. With this kind of bullshit coming at him, he couldn’t sit in that chair one more second. “I’m not done with baseball.” Even the thought made him sick down to the bone. “I’ll get it together, Duke. It’s a new team, new league. It’s a new day. You’ll see.”

  Duke popped a giant hunk of gum into his mouth, where it bulged in his cheek. “There’s nothing you want to tell me about your home life? Something that might shed a little light?”

  “No. Absolutely not.”

  Nothing he would ever, could ever, mention to his manager or anyone on the Catfish.

  Duke squinted at him. “Fine. We’ll see how it goes. I’m keeping you in the lineup. Work with Mitch. And call this girl.” He pushed the petition across the desk. “If you can’t be the pitching star you’re meant to be, at least you can do some PR for the team.”

  “Call her for what?”

  “Figure something out. It’s a bunch of ladies who have their panties in a wad over those nasty, rowdy baseball players. Pour on the charm. Use that smile of yours. Or come up with some charity thing that’ll make them happy.”

  “No.”

  “This’ll be a good distraction for you. Maybe you’re overthinking things out there.”

  Caleb ground his teeth. “It’s a waste of my time.”

  “You want in my lineup?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you’re doing this.”

  If Duke took him out of the lineup for too long, the San Diego farm director would be on his ass. His semi-big-money contract meant they expected him to produce at some point. But he didn’t need a feud with Duke, who was actually his favorite of all the managers he’d played for.

  “I’ll think about it,” he said, and to lighten the tension, gave a slight wink. “But not overthink it.”

  Chapter 3

  AS A LIFELONG resident of Kilby, Sadie knew its good points and horrible points. On the plus side, it was a lovely, family-oriented town known for its Spanish-mission-style architecture and plentitude of parks. The city had originated as a ranch owned by the Wade family back in the late 1800s, which brought her to the worst aspect of Kilby. The Wades still acted like they owned the place. Gossip ran rampant, and the Wades had their fingers in every pie.

  Including the pie of Sadie Merritt, the only girl reckless enough to dump a member of the Wade family. After their breakup, Hamilton and the rest of the Wades had spread disgusting rumors about her, posted private things on Facebook, and convinced the entire city of Kilby she was a heartless, conniving slut.

  And then, the final mortifying blow—the “Birthday Sex Tape.”

  For weeks before Hamilton’s twenty-first birthday, he’d begged her to do a striptease for him. With real stripper clothes and music. She’d given it her best shot, dirty-dancing to “Don’t You Wish Your Girlfriend Was Hot Like Me” in nothing but a thong—even though she hated both the song and thongs. She had no clue that Hamilton had secretly set up a video camera and recorded the whole thing. Including what came after the striptease. The tape didn’t show everything, thank God. It ended with her naked on the bed, posing like a wannabe porn star, while Hamilton’s bare quarterback ass moved across the screen; people could pretty much imagine what came next. The tape made her look sleazy, porny, and also embarrassingly uncoordinated.

  She didn’t even know it existed until it started appearing in e-mail in-boxes all over town and someone forwarded it to her. Why would anyone believe that she didn’t do that sort of thing? That it was a onetime thing, a girl trying to please her boyfriend, with no clue it was being taped? Especially when Hamilton was also busy with the S****y Sadie Facebook page, filled with embarrassing photos and nasty posts. Mortified beyond endurance, she’d barely left the house for a month, afraid to face the mocking eyes of her former friends.

  Her mother, always teetering on the edge of depression, had taken a medical leave from her job at Kroger. Sadie moved back home to take care of her, which meant coaxing her mom through crying jags about the callousness of males. Only a combination of humor and stubbornness—and the need for a job—had pulled Sadie out of the pit.

  It had taken her over a year to land this position as the mayor’s assistant. Mayor Trent, a school friend of Sadie’s mother, had been elected on a platform that promised a fresh start while preserving the best of Kilby. Sadie was a hundred percent behind the “fresh start” part.

  When she got back to her tiny cubicle in the Kilby City Hall, with its ornate bell tower, it was nearly 5:00 P.M. and Mayor Trent was in her office with the door closed. Sa
die sank into her seat and pulled out the bottle of iced tea and tuna sandwich she’d grabbed at the 7-Eleven. Taking a bite, she logged onto her computer and scanned through the e-mails that had come in. The usual requests for appointments with the mayor, complaints about potholes in the roads, and invitations to charity events.

  Sadie loved working for the mayor, even though the job was easy—taking calls, filing, keeping track of her schedule. Mayor Trent had recently started giving her more responsibilities, such as drafting press releases and leading meetings. She woke up every day determined to prove herself and put the “scandal” behind her. By giving her a chance, Mayor Trent had won her undying loyalty.

  She still remembered how much her heart had pounded as the mayor, stern and blond, like a Norwegian ice queen with extra hair spray, silently examined her résumé while she sat in the “supplicant” chair, as she thought of it, slightly lower than the desk. “I shouldn’t even consider you for this job. You know how much heat I’ll get if I hire you.”

  “Yes. I know that, Mayor. But your whole campaign is about fresh starts, right? That’s all I want. A fresh start. A second chance. I made a mistake getting involved with Hamilton. But doesn’t everyone deserve a second chance?”

  “Not in the Wades’ view. That family knows how to carry a grudge.”

  “I know,” Sadie said miserably. “And no one wants to go against them. They’re too powerful. I have a college degree, with honors, and I’ve had exactly one job offer. Charlie’s Showgirls. They like scandal.” She saw the mayor’s mouth twist, and added quickly, “But I don’t. I despise scandal. I just want to find a job I care about, keep my head down and work my butt off. If I get this position, I swear I’ll pour my heart and soul into it.”

  “Well . . .” The mayor tilted her head, her smooth cheekbones catching the light like marble. “All right. I’m going to hire you. I despise the way the Wades are handling this situation. It’s shameful. And your mother and I are old friends. But I want you to keep a low profile. Your behavior must be impeccable. We can’t give them any ammunition.”