Time Out & Body Check. Jill Shalvis

called out. “We’re all in sports bras and spandex.”

      “From now on,” he grated out, “you change inside. Always.”

      “Prude,” someone muttered, probably Sharee.

      Prude his ass, but swallowing the irony, he risked a peek and found them all suitably dressed. “Ground rules,” he said. Now he sounded as anal as Rainey. “No ripping or cutting the sleeves off, no tying the shirts up high, no bras showing, and all shirts need to be neatly tucked in. And no sagging. There will be no asses on my field.”

      “We’re not allowed to say asses.” The timid voice belonged to the same girl who called him sir. “We’re not supposed to swear.”

      Mark slid her a look. “Pepper, right?”

      She gulped. “Yes.”

      “Well, Pepper. No swearing is a good rule. Tuck your shirts in.”

      More grumbling, but there was a flurry of movement as they obeyed. So far so good. “I want to see how you hit,” Mark said. “Later, I’ll get someone out here to videotape you so we can analyze your swing. We’ll get stats both on you and also on the teams we’re going to be playing so we can strategize, not just for your season but for the big fundraising game between us and Santa Barbara.”

      They were all just staring at him, mouths agape. Pepper raised her hand.

      “Yes, Pepper.”

      “We don’t have a video camera. Or stats.”

      “You have them now,” Mark said.

      “We’re going to play Santa Barbara?” someone asked.

      “We’re going to beat Santa Barbara,” he said. “The boys’ teams too.” He pulled a clipboard from his duffle bag. “Come on, move your asses—” Shit. “Butts. Move your butts in close so you can see.”

      “You need a swear jar,” one of the girls said to him. “By the end of the season, you could probably take us all out to dinner.”

      There were some giggles at this, and he looked at the amused faces. “How about this,” he said. “I’ll put a buck into a swear jar every time I swear, and you ladies have to put in a quarter every time you don’t give me your all. Deal?”

      “Deal,” they said.

      Mark spent the next twenty minutes outlining what he wanted to see, and then lined them up for drills. He started with them quick-catching the pop flies he sent out. Or theoretically quick-catching, because he didn’t have much “quick” on his team. Three of the twelve could catch. Well, four if you counted Pepper, who tended to catch the balls with her shins, which made him doubly glad he’d brought shin guards. He had five or six who could hit, and a bunch more who tended to keep their eyes closed.

      And then there was Sharee, who’d already dropped and given him push-ups for being rude and obnoxious to her teammates.

      Twice.

      He put them out in the field for field practice next. “Wait for your pitch,” he told the first girl up. “Take two, then hit to the right.”

      “Huh?”

      “Sharee’s pitching, right?” he asked.

      “Yeah. So?”

      “So she gives it her best from the beginning, but she’s only got two good ones in her.”

      “Hey,” Sharee said from the mound. “I can hear you.”

      “Good. Learn from it.” Mark turned back to the batter. “Take the third pitch and hit to the right.”

      “Why the right?”

      He gestured to their first baseman and right fielder, both engaged in a discussion on what their plans were for the night. “They’re not even looking at you. If you get any ball at all, you’ll get all the way to second.”

      Which was exactly what happened.

      Sharee threw down her glove in disgust.

      “There’s no temper tantrums in the big leagues,” Mark told her. Which was a lie. There were plenty of tantrums in the big leagues, all of them, and you only had to watch ESPN to see them. “Here’s a strategy for you, too. Watch the signs from your catcher instead of winging it. She’ll be getting a signal from me on which pitch to throw. If you listen,” he added as she opened her mouth to object, “you’ll be a great pitcher. I can promise you that.”

      “And if I don’t listen?”

      “Then I’ll bench you and put in Pepper.”

      Pepper squeaked, and he smiled at her. “You have an arm and you know it. You start practicing more, and you’ll be ready to pitch at the game this weekend.”

      “I’m pitching at the game,” Sharee said.

      “Maybe. If you listen.”

      “Hmph.”

      At the end of practice, Mark gathered the girls in and looked them over. Bedraggled and hot and sweaty. “Decent effort,” he said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

      They all made their way toward the building. He turned to gather his gear and found Rainey sitting on the bleachers, watching him.

       CHAPTER SIX

      MARK HADN’T SEEN her since the night before when he’d left her looking dewy and sated and pissed off at the both of them.

      Today she was wearing a sweat suit, beat-up sneakers, and a ball cap.

      The Ducks again.

      Shaking his head, he walked over to the bleachers and sat. Stretching out his legs, he leaned back on the bench behind him and stared up at the sky.

      “Long day?” she asked dryly.

      “Hmm.”

      He slid her an assessing look. She was laughing at him, which should have ticked him off, but for one thing, he was too tired. And for another, she looked pretty when she was amused, even if it was at his expense.

      “Should I drop and give you twenty?” she asked in a smart-ass tone.

      Rainey humor. But he’d rather she drop and give him something else entirely. No doubt that, along with everything else he was thinking about doing to her, wasn’t on the agenda for the day.

      A tall blond guy wearing a suit poked his head out of the building and waved at Rainey. She smiled and got up, walking over to meet him halfway, where he handed her what looked like a stack of tickets. Rainey gave him a quick hug, which was returned with enthusiasm and an expression that Mark recognized all too well.

      The guy wanted a lot more than the hug.

      “Keep the top one for yourself,” Mark heard him tell her. “That’s the seat right next to mine.”

      A date. She had another damn date. His eye twitched. Probably due to the new brain bleed.

      Rainey came back to the bleachers. “Lena’s neighbor,” she said. “Jacob works at the district office and brought tickets to the ballet tonight at the San Luis Obispo Theater for everyone here who wants to go.”

      He held out his hand.

      She stared at him. “You want to go to the ballet.”

      Okay, true, he’d rather be dragged naked through town, but hell if he’d admit it. “Yes.” And if he had to go, so did James and Casey. “I’ll take three, unless this is a private date.”

      She slapped three tickets into his palm, and it did not escape his notice that she took them from the bottom of the pile. “It’s not a date date,” she said defensively. “And he’s