A rookie. A veteran. And the reporter sent to cover baseball’s hottest story. Bats, balls, pitchers, catchers all report to the field for a fun, sexy romp.
He's the hottest prospect in baseball and he has a name to go along with it: Burn, the hot young son of a fire chief, who only dreams of playing in the major leagues. When he's drafted by the New Jersey Skyscrapers, Burn Silva is sent to gain some experience playing for the team's Single-A team, the Suns. What happens when a sexy, alluring creature like Burn hits the Florida heat?
Max Castle is a veteran of the big leagues, but to prove he still has more to his game, he's accepted a minor league contract. His goal: get back to the show, and the only man in his way is Burn. Trouble is, the manager asked Max to teach Burn the nuances of the game, and their proximity leads to a shocking revelation.
Will South, the man sent to chronicle the young phenom's rise from prospect to star, knows almost next to nothing about baseball, and is about to get a fast education: not only about the game but what goes on behind the scenes, in locker rooms and hotel rooms during away games. For this sexually inhibited man, those discoveries will awaken a desire deep within him.
They were down 4–2, and while there was no way he could tie the game when he led off, sometimes you had to set the table, not deliver the meal. That’s what being on a team meant, you’d sacrifice your soul for a win…hell, a hit. But that would have to wait, they were in the field and what they had to do was shut the Hammers down, not allow their lead to grow. The first batter hit a weak grounder to third, which meant Burn had to rush it; he scooped it with his bare hand and threw it on target, the ball landing with a smack in More’s glove. Got the runner by two steps. Burn heard applause from the stands; they might be among the enemy but most fans appreciated a heads-up play like that. But all Burn was concerned about was the look on More’s face, a quiet nod of acknowledgment, as though he was deferring to Burn’s earlier words: that’s how you win ball games.
The next two batters went down quickly, just five more pitches were all it took, and soon the Suns were back in the dugout. Burn grabbed his batting helmet, his bat and was ready to head up the steps of the dugout when the manager pulled him back.
“Castle’s going in,” Harm said.
“What? Why?”
“We need base-runners.”
“Yeah, me. Pitcher’s up next, pull him and have Castle pinch-hit.”
Harm’s expression changed from genial manager to harsh disciplinarian faster than a shot goes out of the park. “You’re here four games, you’re telling me strategy?”
“No, I’m just saying, I want to win.”
“We all do, kid.”
“It’s Burn,” he said, a defiant tone in his voice.
Harm stood with his arms on his hips, not saying anything. They had the attention of the entire dugout, and for a second, Burn could see both More and Castle, the latter of which had his batting helmet on, too, each of them watching how this would play out. The umpire was yelling from behind the plate to get this game moving, and finally Harm backed down, but not before jabbing a finger against Burn’s chest.
“Fuck this up, it’ll haunt you your entire career.”
Burn just turned around, tightening his grip on the bat and made his way to the plate. In all the commotion in his own dugout, Burn hadn’t noticed that the Hammerheads had left their pitcher in for one more inning, and that’s when a wide smile hit his handsome face. Come on, bitch, he thought, send it here, lob it in. Doesn’t matter how fast, it’ll still be a lob and I’ll make you pay.
And when that pitch came, Burn turned on it and made contact, watching it sail far into the outfield. He wasn’t sure if it was hit hard enough to clear the fences, so he just tossed the bat and began to run ... run, rounding first base and approaching second, thinking slide, but then he caught the third-base coach waving him forward, and Burn thought holy shit, game four and I’ve got myself my first triple, so he turned on his engines. As he neared third, he saw the coach was still waving him on, waving him home. Fuck no, Burn thought, I’m not going for an inside-the-parker, the left fielder might be fumbling with the ball out there. But he’d come up with it and the last thing Burn wanted was to be thrown out at home. And so he screeched on his brakes and stopped on third, a standup triple. He watched the remainder of the play from the base, as the ball made its way to home plate in what might have been a close call.
“I told you to run,” the third base coach said.
“We’re down two, we need guys on base, not grandstanding,” Burn said.
“Fuck you, kid.”
But Burn had to trust himself, he knew these guys coaching in the minors were just relics, guys who couldn’t make it in the big leagues because they lacked the drive ... that gut instinct that separated good from great. And as it turned out, Burn’s decision proved to be the right one as Castle pinched-hit and got a double, Burn scoring easily. The lead-off batter, Sal Estes, walked, and then up came Ginger, who knocked a ball out of the park, a three-run homer, that had the Suns up 6–4, a score that would last till the final pitch. The Suns finally came up with a win, one to celebrate on the bumpy bus ride back to St. Lucie.
Burn was the last to board the bus, as he’d just had his ass reamed out by Harm behind closed doors.
“You’re lucky we won,” Harm said.
“Isn’t that why this team drafted me, because they need the wins?”
“No one does it single-handedly, kid.”
“Of course not, coach, if I believed that I would’ve taken my inside-the-park home run,” he said, “But by stopping I started a rally that eventually won us the game. My stats said triple, run scored, but the other guys got the RBIs, right? I took one for the team.”
“Get the fuck on the bus, Burn.”
