Chapter 4

Carter was no stranger to people coming up to him and asking for autographs and photos. When he’d first started playing for the Seattle Orcas, he’d always been surprised whenever someone had actually recognized him. But in the years since he’d first been drafted, he’d gotten used to the attention. It came with the territory of being one of the best ballplayers in the league.

“Can I take a selfie with you?” a boy who looked maybe ten years old asked. He already had his phone out.

“Sure,” said Carter. He draped his arm over the boy’s shoulder, took his phone, and snapped the photo for him. That resulted in the crowd growing larger, with more and more people asking for photos.

“When are you going to play again?” a man about Carter’s age asked him. “The team’s playing is shit without you pitching.”

Carter’s good mood vanished at the reminder of his injured shoulder. “That’s all the autographs and stuff for today. Thanks, guys.” He waved and stepped around the perimeter of the crowd. Luckily Hazel Island simply didn’t have enough people here to mob him, and they were too polite to follow him—except for the same guy who had asked him about his return.

“Do you think you won’t ever play again?” the man asked, clearly on a mission to get an answer. “I’ve heard rumors that you tore your rotator cuff so bad that you won’t ever throw again. Is that true?”

Carter, refusing to be baited despite his great desire to punch this guy in the face, said, “I know as much as you do.”

“So is that a yes? Or a no?”

Carter stopped, the man almost bumping into him. “How about I tell you that it’s none of your damn business? Does that clarify things for you?”

The man blinked. He finally nodded; he didn’t follow Carter when he stalked away. Anger bubbled inside him: anger about his injury, about how he really didn’t know if he’d ever get to play again.

Baseball was his life; it was in his blood. It had gotten him to where he was today. Without it, he would’ve been just some poor kid struggling to survive in a broken family. He’d probably be some alcoholic bum like his father—the father that had also seen the talent in his son and had pushed him to play baseball in the first place.

Carter had walked a block when he saw Lucy Younger. Based on her expression, she’d seen and heard everything that had just happened.

Putting on his easy grin, Carter approached her. “Following me, spitfire?” he quipped.

She shot him a confused look. “If I am, I’m obviously not very good at it.”

She looked up at him through those absurdly long eyelashes she had, and it almost made Carter forget his anger. He didn’t know what it was about this woman, but she was like some fairy creature he wanted to bottle for himself.

“Admit it, you’re obsessed with me,” he said.

“Good Lord, you’re amazingly arrogant.” She shot him a strange look. “What was that all about?”

“You’ll have to be more specific.”

“That guy following you. You looked like you were about to deck him.”

“So what if I was?”

“Do you always answer a question with a question?”

That made him genuinely smile. “Only with you.”

Lucy ran her finger along the spine of a book she was carrying, catching Carter’s attention. He snagged the book from her grasp before she could protest. He laughed as he read the title.

“Is this what you’re into? I’m surprised,” he said. “Isn’t ‘wicked virgin’ an oxymoron?”

Lucy tried to grab the book, but Carter dangled it over her head. She growled like an angry cat. “Give me my book back.”

“Only if you ask me nicely.”

Her green eyes sparkled, which only further improved Carter’s mood. He hadn’t had this much fun with a woman since…well, he couldn’t remember. He’d always preferred that his women be beautiful and not much else. And there were always plenty of beautiful women around when you were an athlete. Carter had gotten to the point that he hadn’t cared if a woman wanted to share in his fame or had been attracted to him because he had more money than God. They’d always had arrangements that had suited Carter’s nomadic lifestyle.

“I’m not asking you nicely. Give me my book back,” said Lucy. She put her hands on her hips.

Carter considered. Feeling generous, he finally returned her book to her. “You’re welcome,” he said.

“Yes, thank you so much for returning the item you stole from me. You’re the height of chivalry.” Rolling her eyes, Lucy waved a goodbye and headed in the opposite direction.

Carter took in her lithe figure, the way her slim hips swayed as she walked. Her hair was the color of autumn, he realized: golden tinged with red. It was such a ridiculously maudlin thought that he snorted. She’d tear your eyes out before she’d let you touch her anyway.

Carter wandered downtown for a while before he finally ended up near one of the cliffs that overlooked the water. Waves lapped against the shore far below while seagulls screeched and dove into the water. A boat sat in the water not far off from the cliffs’ edge, most likely a fisherman.

No one else was around; the silence enveloped him, forcing thoughts to the surface that he’d prefer to bury deep underground.

The day that he’d injured his shoulder was branded into his memory forever. He was one of the best pitchers in the league. With a throw of ninety-eight to one hundred miles per hour, there were few who could manage to hit a ball with him throwing. But Carter had always wanted to be better, faster, stronger. He hadn’t been able to surpass one hundred miles per hour, and it drove him insane.

It didn’t help when a newbie pitcher drafted into the Los Angeles Bears made the news when he’d thrown faster than Carter ever had. Carter began to practice harder than ever before. His trainer had cautioned him that he would hurt himself if he didn’t let up, but Carter hadn’t listened.

He wished he’d listened. Christ, he’d been so fucking stupid.

It had been at practice. Carter had thrown multiple pitches at his average speed, over and over and over. Frustrated over the article about the damn Bears pitcher, Carter threw what would end up being his last real pitch.

He remembered the popping sound the most, even more than the searing pain. He’d thrown that damn ball with all of his strength—and then a pop, a tear, and so much pain that he’d fallen to his knees in agony.

Carter rubbed his aching right shoulder. It always ached these days, especially when it was damp. Ironic, given that he lived in one of the dampest regions in the United States.

He’d done as his orthopedic surgeon had told him and had let his shoulder heal. He’d taken it slowly with physical therapy. He’d played by the rules for a year, but during his last checkup, his surgeon had shaken his head and told him that it wasn’t looking good for his return.

I’m giving it another few months. We’ll see how you keep healing. But I doubt you’ll be able to throw like you used to.

Those words haunted Carter. His career, his livelihood, everything—over in the blink of an eye. Over because he’d been arrogant and pigheaded and had thought he was invincible.

A burst of anger made him pick up a rock and throw it into the water. But since it was using his left arm, it wasn’t nearly as satisfying as he’d hoped. He threw a few more and felt slightly better. But then his right shoulder started aching more, reminding him that if he wasn’t careful, he’d end up right back where he’d been a year ago.

Carter nursed his third beer of the night. It was the only way he was going to get through this cast party, where Hayden Masterson was the main attraction. The entire cast and crew were gathered around him like he was the second coming of Christ. He was surprised no one was drooling or weeping at the actor’s feet. Then again, the night was young. He’d give it an hour before someone burst into tears.

If Carter was honest, his eyes weren’t so much on Hayden but the little spitfire hanging on his every word. Lucy Younger wore a little black dress that somehow managed to be both modest and sexy at the same time. It showed off her toned arms and legs, and the black set off the creamy paleness of her skin. A light blush colored her cheeks, and when Hayden said something, she threw her head back and laughed.

Another actress said something that made everyone laugh again. Lucy was the one standing the closest to Hayden, her head tilted back as she drank in his every word. When Hayden touched her arm and leaned down to whisper something in her ear, Carter only realized a moment later he was clutching his drink so hard he was liable to shatter the glass.

He didn’t care who Lucy or Hayden slept with. He didn’t care if Hayden worked his way through every woman on this movie. Carter hadn’t come here to sleep around, mostly because he’d gotten bored with the one-night stands and the inevitable mornings where his date for that night would try to stay longer and he’d have to charm them into leaving.

Lately, though, the women knew he wasn’t in it for anything but a night. Maybe two nights, if he needed the distraction. His last escapade had ended when his date had orgasmed, then she’d kissed him quickly and gotten dressed. She’d left as soon as she’d arrived. Carter hadn’t been sure whether he should’ve been relieved or annoyed at how quickly she’d bounced.

He finished off his beer and was about to get another when his least favorite person sidled up to him. Jim had somehow managed to tame his hair tonight, but after each drink, it seemed to get bigger and bigger. By the end of the night, Jim would probably look like Albert Einstein after a bender.

“Look at him,” said Jim. “I don’t know how he does it. He comes into the room and everyone notices.”

Carter didn’t need to ask who “him” was. “Huh,” he grunted.

“It took fucking forever to get his damn agent to agree to the contract. He wanted more and more money, even though this isn’t some huge Hollywood project. The budget is good, but it’s not huge. You should’ve seen his list of demands for his trailer: bottled water from the Alps at an exact forty degrees, no warmer or colder. He has to have organic açai shakes every morning along with platters of some other shit I’d never even heard of. It was ridiculous.” Jim sighed happily. “But we got him.”

Carter was tempted to remind Jim that Carter was a huge baseball star and had been famous way before Hayden Masterson, but he refrained. It wasn’t worth antagonizing the man—at least not right now. Maybe tomorrow, when Carter was feeling up to it. Besides, he’d used up most of his Antagonizing Other People Energy on Lucy. He needed to recharge those batteries or he’d end up being a nice guy or something.

Speaking of Lucy—she giggled at something Hayden said. Carter caught Hayden sneaking glances at Lucy’s cleavage and he wanted to punch the guy in the face. He could at least be subtle about checking her out. Then again, Lucy seemed to be reveling in the actor’s attention. Carter wouldn’t be surprised if Hayden took her back to his place that night and fucked her from here to Sunday.

The thought of Hayden’s hands on the little spitfire made Carter want to punch him even more than he usually did. It was stupid, considering that Lucy wasn’t his in any sense of the word. The only thing she was to him was a woman he enjoyed baiting.

Sure, he found her attractive—those green eyes that reminded him of a cat’s; the way she blushed when she was irritated; how she tried to seem tall when she was small enough that Carter could probably fit her into his duffel bag. Not that he was into shoving women into duffel bags—God, he needed to stop drinking. His mind was thinking about weird shit.

“He’s going to make this movie big. Maybe bigger than any of us could’ve imagined.” Jim leaned against the wall and sighed again. “Hayden Masterson. I can’t believe it.”

Carter shot Jim an ironic glance. “He’s not a guarantee the movie will do well, though.”

“He’s pretty good fucking insurance. Nobody else in this movie has his draw.”

Hayden moved toward the bar, Lucy following him. They’d rented out the one nice bar here on Hazel Island for the cast party, although compared to the parties Carter had attended during his career, this was practically like having a get-together in someone’s basement. The most expensive liquor was probably some shit from Portland. No bottles of Macallan Scotch whiskey, Carter’s particular favorite, that cost over seventy-five thousand for a single bottle. Carter was pretty sure the beer he’d been drinking had been bought on sale at Costco.

Lucy had sat down next to Hayden at the bar, her dress inching up her creamy thighs. Hayden was all wide-toothed smiles, and he gestured at the bartender to bring Lucy another drink. Was he going to get Lucy drunk before he took her back to his place? Carter gritted his teeth. What a slimy asshole he was.

Carter looked away from the scene. It was none of his business. He was here to—what, work? When he’d asked Anthony what he’d actually be doing on this movie, Anthony had been vague. Make sure things don’t go to shit. Make sure the producers and writers don’t fuck things up. Make sure things stay on budget.

Carter had looked over the documents Anthony had sent him regarding the budget and scheduling, making notes where necessary. He wasn’t remotely qualified for this job, but Anthony hadn’t seemed overly concerned with that little detail. If Anthony didn’t care, then neither did Carter. Anthony had seemed more interested in giving Carter something to do that didn’t involve partying, drinking, or sleeping around.

Jim had left Carter’s side to talk to some other poor sucker about how much he loved Hayden Masterson. Carter watched in amusement as Jim interrupted Hayden and Lucy’s tête-à-tête at the bar.

Soon other cast members, including a leggy blonde, moved toward the bar. Hayden’s attention turned to the blonde, who was not at all subtle about throwing herself at him. Lucy, for her part, attempted to get his attention again, but she’d already been forgotten.

Lucy’s gaze collided with Carter’s. Instead of looking away, she lifted her chin in defiance. Carter chuckled. He raised his glass to her in a salute. She scowled and went to a table in the corner to talk with one of her castmates.

Carter considered going back to the bed-and-breakfast, but he decided he’d prefer another beer. If he was going to act like he gave a shit about this movie or Hayden or anything in his life that wasn’t baseball, he’d need a lot more alcohol in him.