Scoring. Kristin Hardy

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      3

      EARLY-MORNING SUN SLANTED across Becka as she helped Joe tie the last of her kitchen chairs onto his pickup. The final amalgamation looked a lot like something out of the Beverly Hillbillies, but it all fit, even the bed picked up that morning from her girlfriend Ryan’s house.

      “We’re ready to roll,” Joe called, dusting off his hands as he walked over to stand with his wife. “Everybody in.” Blunt-featured and stocky, he seemed to adore Nellie beyond reason. And like Becka’s father, he was endlessly patient. Maybe patient enough to be in a relationship in which his sweetheart always knew best—or at least thought she did.

      As for Becka, she’d go down kicking and screaming before she’d let someone control her, particularly a lover, she thought, squeezing next to Nellie in the cab. She wasn’t, however, always as quick to notice if they were so self-absorbed like her ex-boyfriend Scott had been. Having a boyfriend was a relatively small part of her life, all things considered. Except for the sex, of course. Still, no one she knew had died from doing without, she thought, trying not to count how long it had been. The image of Mace Duvall popped into her head and she pushed it away with baffled irritation. One thing was for sure, next time she had a lover, he wasn’t going to be a playboy.

      “So how’s the new job going?” Nellie asked, her hand on Joe’s knee. “It’s sort of like what you used to do for Dad’s team, right? I always envied you, running off with Dad to the big games all the time.”

      Becka smiled as she thought about all the Saturday evenings she’d spent volunteering for the college basketball team her father coached. And getting up at the crack of dawn even on the weekends. “It wasn’t all fun and games,” she said. “Those weight rooms and locker rooms smell like something died in them.”

      “Couldn’t bother you too much if you’re back in one.” Nellie winked at Becka. “So, have you walked in on any of the players in the buff yet?”

      “Hey,” Joe protested good-naturedly. “You’re a married woman, you shouldn’t be thinking about guys in the buff.”

      “No guys in the buff at all?” Nellie asked coyly, running her fingertips up the inside of his leg.

      Joe shifted in his seat. “You’re gonna feel real funny if you make me run off the road,” he said gruffly.

      With a delighted giggle, Nellie bussed him on the cheek until a flush bloomed up his neck and across his face.

      They were good together, Becka thought suddenly, looking at them. In some indefinable way they’d melded since she’d last seen them. The thought warmed her. Okay, so maybe their type of marriage would send her to the nut-house within five minutes, but the important thing was that it worked for them.

      “So, your team any good?” Joe asked, cheeks still stained a faint pink.

      “Oh, so-so,” Becka admitted. “These guys aren’t going to be in the majors any time soon. They’re just a step up from high school.”

      “Still goofballs?”

      “I wouldn’t say that,” Becka said protectively. “They’ve got talent, some of them. They’re just still figuring out how it all works. We have lots of instructors coming through to give them hitting clinics and stuff.”

      “Anybody famous?” Joe asked, linking his hand with Nellie’s.

      “We’ve got a big name in now. Mace Duvall, used to play shortstop for the Braves.”

      Joe whistled. “Hey, I saw him play in the World Series on TV a couple of times. Guy swings a hell of a bat.”

      “You think that’s big, you should see his ego.”

      “It ain’t ego if you can back it up,” Joe said thoughtfully. “I read an article on his training routine one time. That’s one guy who works his butt off. And that was in the off-season. I’d hate to see what he does when he’s playing.”

      Becka hesitated a beat. “He doesn’t anymore. He got hurt. That’s why he’s here instructing.”

      “Oh, yeah, that’s right.” Joe drove for a moment. “Boy, what a drag.”

      “What happened?” Nellie asked.

      “Car accident.”

      “That’s so sad.”

      The tug of sympathy Becka felt caught her by surprise. It was sad, she realized, both for the sport, which had lost one of its superstars, and Duvall himself, who had so nearly lost everything. However much he might annoy her, a huge part of his life had been snatched from him, she thought slowly. What did a person do after that? What else could possibly come close?

      HE LIKED MORNINGS best. Perhaps it came from growing up on the farm, getting up before dawn to feed the stock. Perhaps it came from his early playing years, when the morning was the only time he had to himself. Maybe it was purely constitutional. In any case, he had always woken up chirping with the birds.

      Mace leaned an arm on the cracked red vinyl seat of the diner booth, looking across the Formica tabletop to where Sammy Albonado sat hunched over his coffee cup. It was hard to be sure, but he thought that Sammy’s eyes had actually opened a fraction now that the caffeine was hitting.

      Some people were morning people and some people weren’t.

      The waitress sauntered up to refill their mugs. “You’re a goddess, Bernice,” Sammy said without looking up.

      “Don’t mention it.” She set down the pot and pulled out her order pad. “What’ll it be, boys?” she asked, pen poised.

      “Three eggs over easy, fried ham, and a bagel,” Sammy ordered.

      Bernice didn’t write, she just stared at him.

      Sammy shifted in his seat. Seconds passed by. “What?” he burst out pugnaciously.

      “Your wife called. Reminded me your last cholesterol test was 290.”

      “She what?” he yelped. “Oh, come on, it was a little high, but give me a break. The woman gives me porridge for breakfast. Porridge.” Sammy gave a pained look, whether over the idea of the cereal or over actually opening his eyes, Mace couldn’t tell. “Now she’s cutting me off at my favorite diner? I should never have brought her here.”

      “So you’re telling me that after the doctor’s warnings and all the worrying your poor wife is doing, you’d rather order the heart attack special than eat what’s good for you?” Bernice folded her arms over her chest and gave him a disapproving stare.

      Tinny honky-tonk music played on the mini-jukebox a few tables down. Gradually, Sammy’s belligerent look faded into sheepishness. “No.” He cleared his throat. “I’ll just have orange juice, toast, and uh,” he flinched at Bernice’s stare. “Oatmeal.”

      Bernice kept a straight face. “There’s hope for you yet, Sammy Albonado.” She patted him sympathetically and turned to Mace. “How about for you?”

      “Three СКАЧАТЬ