Rules of the Game by Nora Roberts

seconds—that impressed her. It also disconcerted her to discover that her pulse was racing. If she closed her eyes, she could still hear the cheers from the fans, smell the scent of sun-warmed beer and see, in slow motion, the strong, sweeping moves of Parks’s body. She didn’t need an instant replay to visualize the leap and stretch, the shifting of muscle. She knew a ballplayer had to be agile and quick, but how many of them had that dancerlike grace? Brooke caught herself making a mental note to bring a camera to the next game, then realized she had already decided to come back again. Was it Parks, she brooded, or baseball that was luring her back?
    â€œHe’s something, isn’t he?” Lee leaned over Claire to give Brooke a slap on the back.
    â€œSomething,” Brooke murmured. She turned her head enough to look at him. “Was that a routine play?”
    Lee snorted. “If you’ve got ice water for blood.”
    â€œDoes he?”
    As he drew on a cigar, Lee seemed to consider it. He gave Brooke a long, steady look. “On the field,” he stated with a nod. “Parks is one of the most controlled, disciplined men I know. Of course—” the look broke with his quick smile “—I handle a lot of actors.”
    â€œBless them,” Claire said and crossed her short, slim legs. “I believe we all agree that we hope Parks takes to this, ah, alternate career with as much energy as he shows in his baseball.”
    â€œIf he has ten percent of this skill—” Brooke gestured toward the field “—in front of the camera, I’ll be able to work with him.”
    â€œI think you’ll be surprised,” Lee commented dryly, “at just what Parks is capable of.”
    With a shrug, Brooke leaned on the rail again. “We’ll see if he can take direction.”
    Brooke waited, with the tension of the crowd seeping into her, as the game went into the bottom of the ninth inning. Still tied 1-1, neither team seemed able to break through the defensive skill of the other. It should have been boring, she mused, even tedious. But she was on the edge of her seat and her pulse was still humming. She wanted them to win. With a kind of guilty surprise, Brooke caught herself just before she shouted at the plate umpire for calling strike three on the leadoff batter. It’s just the atmosphere, she told herself with a frown. She’d always been a sucker for atmosphere. But when the second batter came up, she found herself gripping the rail, willing him to get a hit.
    â€œThis might go into extra innings,” Lee commented.
    â€œThere’s only one out,” Brooke snapped, not bothering to turn around. She didn’t see the quick grin Lee cast at Claire.
    On a three-and-two pitch, the batter hit a bloop single to center. Around Brooke, the fans went berserk. He might have hit a home run from the way they’re reacting, she thought, trying to ignore the fast pumping of her own blood. This time Brooke said nothing as the pitcher was pulled. How do they stand the tension? she wondered, watching the apparently relaxed players as the new relief warmed up. Base runners talked idly with the opposition. She thought that if she were in competition, she wouldn’t be so friendly with the enemy.
    The crowd settled down to a hum that became a communal shout with every pitch thrown. The batter hit one deep, so deep Brooke was amazed at the speed with which the right fielder returned it to the infield.
    The batter was content with a single, but the base runner had eaten up the distance to third with the kind of gritty speed Brooke admired.
    Now the crowd didn’t quiet, but kept up a continual howl that echoed and reverberated as Parks came to bat. The pressure, Brooke thought, must be almost unbearable. Yet nothing showed in his face but that dangerous kind of concentration she’d seen once or twice before. She swallowed, aware that