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appeal and lively sense of fun. Unfortunately she had trouble taking no for an answer. She still drunk-dialed him occasionally, despite his giving her no encouragement.
    Better not to share that bit of info with his agent. It would send him nuclear in no time.
    “PowerJuice is going to cancel your endorsement contract if you have another PR debacle like the Caputo thing, and your other sponsors won’t be far behind. Remember that. They weren’t happy with the drunk-tweeting the other night. Don’t give sports reporters any more grist for the ‘debauched big leaguer sullies the virtuous girls in a small Midwestern town’ stories that they’re dying to write.”
    “Fine. I’ll be as pure as the driven snow while I’m in Plainview.”
    Brandon snorted. “I’m not asking for an act of God. Just a little effort on your part.”
    “Will do.”
    He ended the call and switched away from the Marlins game he’d been watching before his agent called. The Marlins were up three runs over the Royals, and nothing pissed him off as much as seeing his former team win a game. He’d spilled a ton of blood and sweat to get them to the World Series, and what had they done? They’d blown the lead he’d left them with in game seven when he had to be pulled because of his injury. Then they’d lost the game, he’d gone out for surgery, and, two months later, they’d let his contract expire.
    Insult to injury, literally.
    No wonder he could not
wait
to get back to the majors and win that ring.
    No other ball games were on. He might as well flip around and see what was on the other channels. Nothing else to do.
    If it weren’t for his cute housemate, he’d say Plainview, Indiana, had absolutely nothing to hold his interest.
    Sarah Dudley, however, was proving fairly interesting, which was weird. She wasn’t his usual type. He liked ’em busty, blonde, and giggly, not athletic, brunette, and sharp-tongued. The kind of girls he liked wore tiny tops and tinier skirts, not prim trousers and neat little jackets.
    Still, sparring with her sharpened his senses and made his heart beat quickly, like when he faced a tough hitter in a tied ball game, with runners at first and third.
    Obviously he had issues. Why should a woman who stood toe-to-toe with him and gave him what for make him want to suggest a few better uses for that overactive, lush mouth of hers?
    The doorbell rang. He didn’t think anybody knew where he was staying in town, except for Sarah. Could it be his favorite neighbor?
    He peered through the glass of his old-fashioned front door. “Paul!” He threw open the door and high-fived his buddy, clapping him on the back.
    “How you doing, man?” Paul held up a six-pack of beer. “Is this a good time? I brought refreshments.”
    “Come in. Have a seat.” Paul sat on the overstuffed couch in front of the big screen.
    “Got a bottle opener?”
    “Sure.” Tom hadn’t spent much time in the kitchen since he’d taken possession of his half of the duplex, but he had found that particular implement. Paul opened a couple of bottles and handed him one as they sat down.
    “Cheers.” They clinked their bottles together, and Tom took a long swallow as he wondered about the reason for his friend’s visit.
    He’d seen Paul a few times since his rehab assignment started, mostly glimpses around the stadium and in the office, but never for very long. Thanks to Sarah, he knew why.
    Paul’s girlfriend didn’t like him hanging out with a “troublemaker” like Tom. That told him this girl didn’t know Paul any better than she knew him. They’d made more than their fair share of trouble together back in the day.
    Paul gestured to the TV, which had settled on a
Seinfeld
rerun. “No ball games on?”
    “Just the Marlins, and I’m not counting that.”
    Paul shook his head. “Don’t blame you. Man, they screwed you over.”
    “Yep. Doesn’t matter though. I’ve got my fresh start that I wanted. Things are going great.