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about that? She shifted, pulling her legs up on the sofa and curling her feet under the soft throw she kept folded over the back. She paused in her channel surfing on the Mustangs’ game. The score was 2-1, in favor of the Mustangs. The score box in the corner of the screen said it was the bottom of the ninth. Christopher had made it his job to educate her on the basics, so she knew the game was almost over. This was Terminator Time, according to Christopher. Sure enough, the man who entered the field via a door in the outfield fence, was Jeff Holder – The Terminator.
    Megan watched as he strode confidently across the field, not too slow, but in no hurry either. The announcers gave him his due, confident in their assessment that the game was all but over now that The Terminator was in to pitch. They went on and on about inside heat. It took Megan a moment, but she figured out they were talking about a type of pitch – one Jeff apparently threw exceptionally well. She had a lot to learn if she was going to…
    No. She wouldn’t go there. Not tonight.
    The catcher strode out to the pitching mound. She would have known it was Jason, even if he hadn’t carried his helmet in his hand. Jason walked with the same stride as his brother, despite the protective gear he wore. They spoke, shielding their lips from the prying eyes of the television cameras with their gloves. The conversation lasted no more than thirty seconds, then Jason dropped the baseball in Jeff’s glove and returned to his place behind home plate.
    Megan dropped the remote and settled in to watch. Jeff made it look so easy, but if you looked closely, you could see the strong muscles in his arms and legs as he wound up and threw the pitch. It didn’t take a genius to know that kind of speed and pinpoint precision took skill and strength. Between pitches, the camera always returned to Jeff for a close-up. He never gave anything away. His face was a blank mask, but when he leaned in to take the pitch call from his brother, Megan could almost see the calculations going through his head. How to hold the ball, fingers here, adjust the grip, coil the muscles to the exact degree necessary to power the ball at a specific speed, and control. Control every muscle so that the end result would be a perfect pitch.
    The Terminator threw perfect pitch, after perfect pitch. He wiped sweat from his forehead with a shrug of a shoulder, replacing his cap with all the concentration of a surgeon. And that’s what he was, Megan realized. She’d seen enough steady hands in the hospital to know the absorption and command of body it took to wield a scalpel with skill, to deliver a perfect slice. What Jeff did wasn’t life or death, but it took as much physical control, and a lot more stamina.
    Jeff systematically removed the first two batters as efficiently as any surgeon. Megan couldn’t look away. His body fascinated her. His legs had to be all muscle beneath his snug-fitting uniform. The short-sleeved shirt revealed the long, corded muscles in his forearms. Her breath caught in her lungs as the camera focused in on the ball in his hand. Leaning toward home plate, he twirled the ball between long fingers, feeling for the grip he wanted. Strong fingers, fingers that could find the perfect spot without looking, fingers that had found her perfect spot in the darkness of a backseat, unhampered by her skirt and panties.
    The announcers expected no less from the Terminator. They praised his success and speculated on whether he would break records in his career. As the batters came and went, the cameras also captured the other half of the action, the man behind the plate. The man calling the pitches. The man cloaked behind pads and a mask. Jason might not have the pitching skill his brother did, but his contribution to Jeff’s success was obvious. Megan marveled at the amount of detail Jason must have memorized. He’d have to know every batter’s strength, as well as his weakness,