High Heat

Chapter 1

GUT INSTINCT

They were a force to be reckoned with.

I could feel it.

Activity churned on the baseball field in front of me, my fingers hooked through a metal gate, my focus solely on the pitcher and the first baseman.

Cash Barlow and Sawyer Knight. Two pillars of absolute control, both poised on the very brink of movement.

The sun was relentless, the crowd antsy and eager for drama. I was in the middle of rural Pennsylvania, two weeks into following the Lehigh Liberty. The minor league team had been slaughtering other teams up and down the coast — thanks to the finely-honed machine that was Cash and Sawyer.

There was a runner on first base attempting to steal second. His feet danced lightly, taunting the two of them. Except they refused to take the bait. Cash was calm but aloof on the mound — one eye trained on the runner, the other on the batter.

Sawyer leaned on one leg like he was waiting for the bus, so careless I half-expected him to whistle. He was ease and grace. Cash was steel and ice. And they let that runner dance his little heart out.

It was like watching a predator toy with its food. Anticipation coiled low in my belly, my lips tugging into a smile.

The Philadelphia Sentinel had hired me as a sports reporter right out of college, and they’d had me toiling in the minor leagues for two years now, an assignment the other writers scoffed at.

But I had a soft spot for the players out here — scrappy and hungry, their ambition a tangible thing.

There was a bare-bones spirit that reminded me of sticky summer nights and backyard baseball in the neighborhood.

Of the precise moments just before a big event occurs — the weighted pause, the charged limbo.

And no one embodied that more than the two players on the field that held the audience captive in the palms of their hands, toying with us as much as the runner trying to steal.

That very runner was four feet off the base now, beaming like an idiot because Cash and Sawyer appeared to have forgotten about him.

He took another step. Then another, bent low.

Cash’s arm struck like a bolt of lightning toward first base. Sawyer crouched to the ground seamlessly. He scooped up the ball and glanced it off the runner’s shoulder.

And the grin he flashed back at Cash was as wicked as the sun above.

I was dialing my editor before the audience had even stopped cheering. Sam’s cigarette-stained voice crackled through the phone.

“You missed a deadline this morning,” he said.

“That’s because I’m currently staring at major league baseball’s next big thing,” I replied, shoving a hand through my curls. “Cash Barlow and Sawyer Knight. They’re currently playing for the Lehigh Liberty but they’re about to get called up.”

Sam sighed like I was breaking his heart. “I don’t know who the hell you’re talking about, Darcy. Which means they’re not gettin’ called up.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I watched them jog off the field and back to the dugout. Cash hooked an arm around Sawyer’s neck and tugged him close.

“When they do get called up, I want their feature story,” I continued. “They’ve been best friends since they were sixteen. Two South Carolina boys, one a star student and one a troublemaker. Handsome, charming, and they play like they share the same brain. Readers would eat it up.”

“As usual, you’re jumping way ahead of yourself,” Sam said. “But sure, what the hell. If these two get called up, I’ll shit a brick and you can have your precious story. Now get me that piece you missed this morning, you got it?”

“Sure thing. And thanks for just barely believing in me,” I said. “Your mentoring is the stuff of legends, sir.”

He called me a smart-ass and hung up.

Bolstered by the call, I hung around the parking lot after the game, hoping to catch Cash and Sawyer alone.

I chewed on my thumbnail, my eyes tracking each player as they loped toward their cars.

When I finally spotted Sawyer — tossing two gym bags into the back of a beat-up red truck — I strode across the asphalt before my nerves could get the best of me.

“Great game today,” I called out. “You make playing first base look easy.”

Sawyer turned at the sound of my voice. He wore sweatpants and a faded tee-shirt, his dark hair still wet at the ends from his locker room shower.

Tattoos roamed his forearms, peeked out of the collar of his shirt.

Scruff covered a strong jaw and his nose looked like it’d been broken one too many times.

It was his crooked smile though — the one that screamed temptation — that sent an actual shiver up my spine.

“Thank you, ma’am. Happy to know I had at least one person in the audience fooled,” he said, his smoky Southern drawl making me shiver again.

“You can’t fool me.” I held up my press badge. “I’m a reporter. I’ve got a thing for spotting the truth.”

“A reporter, huh?” His eyes tracked across my face. “I’m sorry they stuck you out here in the minors. Tough gig.”

“Not for me. I love it.” I extended a hand for him to shake. He did, his fingers rough where they brushed the inside of my wrist. “Darcy Hale with the Philadelphia Sentinel. I’ve been covering the minors for two years now but nothing’s made me as excited as watching you and Cash play together.”

A breeze picked up and sent my chestnut-brown curls flying. I scooped them into a bun, wrapping the strands tight. Sawyer studied me like I was that same runner trying to steal. Like every micro-movement was fascinating to him.

But the moment was broken by the arrival of Cash, who was dressed just as casually as Sawyer but carried himself like the polite boy-next-door. Dirty-blond hair, freckled and tanned, with a smile so shy it made my chest ache.

When he gripped the back of his neck, I was briefly awestruck by the size and strength of his hand.

Though when I let my gaze drift back to Sawyer, I caught a glimpse of something similar to my own captivation.

A small spark of yearning for his friend that had to be a symptom of this sultry summer heat.

Because it vanished not one second later, morphing into a look of pleasant camaraderie.

“Sawyer?” Cash had that same accent. Softer though, like honey. “Is everything alright?”

Sawyer sent me a wink. “He’s always been protective.” To his friend, he said, “This is Darcy. She’s a reporter, following the minors.”

“Following the two of you specifically. I was just telling Sawyer — I’ve never seen players like you before, and I’ve followed a lot of them. You’re extraordinary. Effortless. Watching the two of you together is like watching a ballet, I get so excited every time—”

I stopped, feeling a flush crawling up my neck. But Cash’s eyes were kind and his cheeks were similarly pink. When he reached to shake my hand, my smaller one was absolutely engulfed in his.

“That’s nice of you to say, ma’am,” he murmured. “But really, we’re just out here for the love of the game.”

“Speak for yourself, Cash,” Sawyer drawled. “I’m out here for the constant attention and well-deserved admiration.”

Cash glanced at me, like we were in on a joke. “Trust me, Darcy. He doesn’t need a damn thing. Definitely doesn’t need one more admirer. He has plenty of those.”

Sawyer was leaning back against his truck, arms crossed, one eyebrow cocked. “I could always use one more.”

I raised my palms with my own smile. “Don’t look at me. Reporters can’t admire their interview subjects that way. It’s unethical.”

“Interview subjects?” Cash asked. “Are we gettin’ profiled or something?”

“Even better. I have a feeling you’re both about to get called up.” I tapped my press badge again. “And when you do, I’m getting your story.”

Sawyer let out a laugh. “Darcy, darlin’, I appreciate your optimism but there’s no way in hell that’s happening. No one even knows who we are.”

I shrugged. “That’s only a matter of time. Once the world sees what I see, you’ll be everywhere.”

Cash’s eyebrows knit together. “What makes you say that?”

I placed a hand on my stomach. “Gut instinct. You ever just feel something and know, immediately, without a shadow of a doubt, that it’s right?”

Cash and Sawyer exchanged a furtive look that lasted just a beat too long.

“Absolutely,” Sawyer finally said. “We know just what you mean.”

Three weeks later, Sam barged into my office and tossed a badge onto my desk.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“Your new credentials,” he scowled. “I hope you like god-awful humidity and the enduring stench of sweaty baseball players.”

“Um…why?” The badge read ‘Darcy Hale, The Philadelphia Revolution’.

“Cash and Sawyer got called up to the majors. Announcement just came through. Guess you were right after all.”

I couldn’t help it. The smile that broke across my face was so big my cheeks hurt.

“And per our deal,” he continued, “you not only get their story but the bosses upstairs want you embedded for the next month. Just you and America’s new favorite players, spending time together 24/7. As long as you think you’re ready for it.”

Just because I’d spent the past couple weeks thinking about the steel-like strength in Cash’s hand and his extremely kind eyes didn’t mean being together for four weeks would be an issue for me.

And just because I’d been haunted by the teasing deference in Sawyer’s voice as he called me ‘ma’am’ — and then offered up a grin that was downright sinful — didn’t mean I wasn’t ready.

I leaned back in my chair and kicked my feet up onto the desk. “Put me in, coach. I was born ready.”