Boys Of Summer: Sliding Home / Fever Pitch / The Sweet Spot. Leslie Kelly

could have gone my whole life without knowing that.”

      “Me, too,” she said, watching the way his lips pursed a little when he winced. Great lips. Incredible mouth. Lord, it had been a long time since she’d kissed a man.

      It had apparently been a long time since she’d learned how to hide her thoughts, too. Because suddenly Kelleher was pushing his sunglasses onto the top of his head, looking at her closely as if he’d caught her staring. “So do you volunteer here often?”

      Tearing her stupid fan-girl gaze off his mouth, she focused instead on his eyes. And was lost. Spring-green and heavily lashed, Riley’s eyes twinkled with humor and self-confidence. Not to mention knowledge. He knew how he was affecting her.

      Her face grew hot. “Not as much as I’d like to.”

      “That’s great of you. Not a lot of young people would give up their Sundays to make a bunch of strangers happy. I wasn’t kidding. My grandfather has mentioned you dozens of times.”

      So, he didn’t know Janie was also visiting her own grandmother. She didn’t volunteer the information, not certain why she didn’t want him to know. “Your grandfather’s a nice man.”

      “He’s a shark,” he said with a laugh, his admiring tone saying he meant it as a compliment. “Old school all the way.”

      “Old school?”

      “Tough, proud, honorable and honest.”

      Qualities Janie liked in a man. Qualities she wondered if Edgar’s grandson shared. The tabloids hadn’t made him sound like he’d lived up to the honorable and honest parts during his marriage. But in recent years he’d supposedly put his wild reputation behind him, and now took his game very seriously. Since he was a Kentucky boy who lived in Louisville year-round—unlike some members of the team—the local papers were always singing the man’s praises.

      “Anyway, sweetheart, I appreciate it. You’re an angel.”

      Janie was a modern woman and a strange man calling her sweetheart and angel would normally have set her off. But Riley’s soft, lightly Southern accent and nod of genuine appreciation made the words seem like harmless endearments. Which was why she melted inside again, going soft and weak, wanting to giggle like a kid, scuff her toes on the ground and simper.

      Who was this man and how was he turning her into a mutant?

      Whoever he was, she needed to get away from him. So without another word, she tore her gaze off his handsome face and broad shoulders. Still shaken, Janie swung around and bent down to pick up her blanket. It was only after she’d doubled over that she realized she was practically wagging her butt at the guy. A quick glance over her shoulder revealed he’d noticed. He’d definitely noticed, and was staring. That sparkle was still in his eyes, and he made no effort to hide his amusement. And maybe…just maybe…a hint of appreciation.

      She shoved the pleasure that thought gave her into the recesses of her mind. She’d take it out and play with it later, when she was alone. Not now, when Louisville’s favorite son was probably thinking she was some sex-starved groupie like the ones who threw themselves at him every day. She’d probably imagined the appreciation, anyway, because no way should her tiny self in baggy jeans have inspired a reaction from a hunky superstar.

      Quickly dropping to her knees, she rolled the blanket into a sloppy, lumpy ball that she clutched to her chest. Yanking her satchel, which contained this week’s newly priced sports items, she rose to her feet and offered him what she hoped was an impersonal smile. “Nice meeting you. I’ve got to go.”

      He just stared, saying nothing. A long silence stretched out, during which Janie could have whirled around and marched to her car, confident that she’d just made a fool of herself in front of the sexiest man she’d ever seen.

      But her feet wouldn’t move. The longer he stared—so intent, so silent—the heavier her limbs felt. The laughter of the children faded into the distance, until she heard only the buzz of a passing bee…and the sound of her own breath. Finally, unable to stand the tension, she whispered, “What?”

      “I’m trying to figure something out,” he murmured, still focused entirely on her face.

      “What’s that?”

      With an unapologetic shrug he admitted, “Which I want to see more—your pretty brown eyes without those awful glasses? Or your magnificent ass in something other than those hideous jeans.”

      Janie’s jaw dropped open and she sputtered something. Her heart pounding in her chest, she tried to fathom it—he was flirting with her. Riley the Rocket flirting with her?

      Before she could say anything, the man with the magic hands on the field reached out and tilted her mouth closed. His touch was warm, the scrape of his fingers on her skin electric.

      “Don’t worry, darlin’.” His voice sounded thick, less flirtatious, as if he didn’t like what he had to say. “I may have a reputation, but I don’t go after innocent little coeds like you.” With a shrug that looked mournful, he muttered, “Damn, I know I’m gonna regret this. Someone musta shined my halo today.”

      And turning on his heel, he walked away, striding toward the building without a single look back.

2

      Five weeks later, mid-April

      RILEY KELLEHER had known from the age of seven that there was nothing he wanted more in the world than to play baseball. Well, in the fall of 1981, he might have wanted the brand new Pac-Man game for his family’s Atari system more, but in terms of what he wanted to be when he grew up, there’d been no other career for him since that day. October 21. Yankee Stadium. Game Two of the World Series, Yankees vs. the Dodgers.

      He’d walked in a typical kid who sighed whenever his talkative grandfather started reminiscing about his days in the minor leagues. He’d walked out a complete baseball junkie.

      Before the first pitch, going to a World Series game hadn’t seemed as exciting as getting out of school for a couple of days to take an impromptu trip to New York City with Gramps. The man had scored a pair of tickets in some magazine contest, and no one had been more surprised than Riley when he, the youngest grandson, had been the one chosen to fill the second seat.

      Now, of course, he understood. Gramps had seen it in him long before Riley had recognized it in himself: he’d been born with the gene. The game was in his blood in a way some people would never understand.

      His grandfather had been thrilled. He’d told him so as they’d left the stadium, wide-eyed and full of excitement about the Yankees victory. Gramps had discovered the baseball gene in himself at the age of seven, too, when he’d watched Lou Gehrig oust Babe Ruth as the Yankees’ power hitter by nailing four home runs in one game.

      Riley’s relationship with his grandfather had changed right then and there. Even now, twenty-five years later, he could still close his eyes and recapture the sounds, the smells. He could also remember the sudden rush of a surprisingly adult realization about just how much the Second World War—and a Nazi bullet—had cost Edgar Smith. Not simply some of his mobility, but also, most likely, a place in the majors. A spot in history.

      Which was one of the many reasons Riley so loved his job. He was living the dream for both of them.

      “Now don’t you forget to ice that shoulder down,” his grandfather said as the two of them walked toward the entrance of the retirement home one Sunday in mid-April. Edgar had, as usual, attended that day’s Slammers home game, sitting in the private skybox reserved for players’ families.

      “I’m fine. That shoulder stretch during the bottom of the eighth was strictly to psyche out Rodriguez.”

      The old man’s eyes gleamed his approval. “We’re on again for Tuesday?”

      Riley