Hot Ticket by Deirdre Martin, Julia London, Annette Blair, Geri Buckley Read Free Book Online

some sort of short skirt—all he knew was that she had some of the shapeliest legs he’d ever seen.
    Shit. Now he had a freakin’ audience, like there wasn’t pressure enough just from his own bench. He had to ignore those legs, that was all. He had a job to do, and that job was to get his bat on Orsen’s pitch, no matter what. All he needed was a base hit to bring in one run and tie the game. Anything more was gravy.
    He stepped back into the box, adjusted his grip on the bat, and glared at his old pal Orsen.
    Orsen threw him a ball, much to the delight of the Mets crowd but much to Parker’s dismay. For once, just once, he needed the baseball gods to be with him and make Orsen throw his sinker. Just this once.
    Parker stepped out of the box, went through his ritual of adjusting his helmet and glove and knocking the dirt from his cleatsbefore stepping back into the box again. And even then, he took all the time he needed to get into position, hoping to shake up Orsen a little.
    It didn’t shake up Orsen in the least. The next pitch he threw was a slider, and Parker was stupid enough to swing at it. The ump signaled a strike, a groan went up from the crowd, and from the corner of his eye, Parker saw the club manager shake his head and say something to the batting coach.
    No, goddammit, he was not going down this time. He survived another ball, and another one after that as Orsen tried to throw another curve ball to make Parker swing. He had a full count now. He stepped out of the box and angrily knocked the dirt from his cleats. If Orsen thought he was going to walk him, he had another think coming, especially with Kelly sitting up there lapping this up like a dog. It felt like everything was riding on this full count. Everything.
    He adjusted his helmet and glove, gripped his bat, and stepped into the box, getting in position very quickly this time. “Come on, buddy,” he muttered through his teeth. “Come on . . . give me what I want.”
    Orsen wound up and uncorked a sinker. And by some divine miracle, Parker got under it. The ball went sailing high to right field. He dropped the bat, raced toward first, and rounded it like an old pro as a lusty cry went up from the crowd. The right fielder had missed it; the ball bounced off the back wall and away from him, and the go-ahead run was rounding third and headed for home.
    As Parker hit second base, the third base coach signaled him on, and Parker felt a burst of energy like he hadn’t felt since he was twelve years old. He was flying—his legs were moving under him, eating up great lengths of ground, his arms pumping like pistons. He did not break stride when he rounded third, flying over the base without knowing where the ball was. But as he came down the home stretch, he got the signal to slide and literally hurledhimself through the air, sailing headfirst into home, his hand outstretched, his fingers reaching the plate just ahead of the catcher’s tag.
    The crowd went absolutely wild as he jumped up and brushed himself off. The dugout emptied as the entire team rushed out to high-five him. Parker clapped hands with every teammate who could reach him, and as he trotted back to the dugout, he looked up.
    Miracle of all miracles, Kelly O’Shay was smiling. The girl was actually smiling and gave him a thumbs-up that made him feel lighter than air.
    He grinned through the rest of the game and made a couple really spectacular catches, if he did say so himself. The Mets won that night, breaking a two-week losing streak. Afterward, Parker had a few beers with some of the guys to celebrate but then headed home when they all continued on into the city to do more celebrating. Not him—he wanted to be up bright and early to hear Sports Day with Kelly O’Shay.
    The next morning, Parker awoke to the glorious sound of his radio alarm . . . but then frowned in disappointment when he was awake enough to realize it was Guido who was doing the talking.
    “Full count,