Peter opened one of the doors and poked his head inside. “Hey, guys. Cover up,” he yelled in warning. “I got a lady coming through.”

The laughter and chatter swelling out of the room ebbed for a moment. Peter waited, his head still around the edge of the blue door. Samantha smothered a laugh. He was as nervous as she was about all those naked bodies she might glimpse. Finally, he stood back, opening the door wide for her.

“Everything looks decent in there now, Miss James.” Peter chuckled as he ushered her through the door. “At least as decent as it gets in this place. Right this way.”

Peter led her through a maze of wood benches and metal lockers enameled the same shade of blue as the two front doors. A fine mist hung in the room, courtesy of the hot showers, and the smells were even more pungent inside. The wintergreen of liniment combined with acrid sweat made Samantha’s eyes sting. She tried not to stare as she passed the athletes in various states of undress. It was not easy. They were so large and…and muscular. The steam from the showers glistened on rippling biceps and washboard stomachs. Drops of water slipped down powerful chests and into the curling hair spread there. It was no different from being at the beach, she told herself. But she knew that was a lie. These men were professional athletes. They were paid—and paid well—to keep their bodies in top condition. Her uncontrollable fascination embarrassed her, though not enough to stop her from sneaking glances. This was better than any beach she had ever visited.

The men watched her pass through their midst with just as much curiosity—and, it seemed to her in some cases, with as much embarrassment. After all, it wasn’t every day that a woman strolled through this male domain. But Samantha expected to spend much more time here in the future, so they had better get used to her. She would have to get used to them, too. Peter led the way through the maze of maleness to a glass-walled office on one side. As she followed him into it, Samantha’s attention settled on the matter at hand. She widened her smile and stuck her hand out confidently.

“Coach Cummings, I’m Samantha James. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

JARRETT CORLISS WAS ONE of forty players that watched the woman weave through the room. Unlike some of his teammates, he was not embarrassed to be clad in only a damp towel, slung low across his hips, while a beautiful woman walked past. He was curious, though. The slim, graceful redhead had caused a hush to fall over the normally raucous room. More than one head had swiveled to follow the gently swaying hips beneath the navy-blue suit. And since they were looking in that general direction, they gave her legs a thorough assessment, too: long, luxurious legs encased in silk that looked like they lasted forever.

The fiery mane of hair wrapped into a neat roll at the base of her neck caught Jarrett’s eye first. He scanned down the rest of her body and back to her face, where his attention locked. From across the room he could see her straight nose, arched eyebrows and clear, peachy skin. What color were her eyes? They must be green to set off that hair. Jarrett narrowed his eyes, squinting as he did during his wind-up on the mound. What would she look like without the stiff business suit, he wondered. Just how far did that peachy skin go?

Jarrett absently rubbed his right shoulder, running his hand over the ridge of scar tissue as he stared at her back. And just how did a woman like that fit into management’s plans? With all the changes around the club, he wouldn’t be surprised to see them walk an elephant through this place. A woman made him more wary. He rubbed his shoulder harder and figured he would find out soon enough.

“Shoulder bothering you, Corliss?”

Jarrett turned to the pitching coach. “It’s a little stiff. A few more workouts, it’ll be fit as a fiddle,” he replied with a sure wink.

The coach didn’t smile in return. “Give it a good soaking in the whirlpool. And don’t overwork it.” Before Jarrett could answer, the coach was interrogating another pitcher.

Jarrett grimaced. Was the guy joking? As if he would take chances at this stage of recovery. He tried not to let the burning in his shoulder affect his temper, but the coach’s trite advice, coupled with the annoying pain in the joint, ate at him. There was not one inning, not one single practice, when someone wasn’t doubting him or fretting over his pitching or his shoulder. Well, let them worry. The satisfaction of proving them all wrong in the end would be worth the pain now.

In his better moments, Jarrett understood why everyone was skeptical. He could be as realistic as they were. Maybe more so. Few teams wanted to take a chance on a pitcher recovering from rotator-cuff surgery. When the injured pitcher was already twenty-eight years old and there were dozens of other hungry, younger arms begging for a chance, why bother with a has-been? But Jarrett had recovered, or at least he was on his way. He had proved himself a few times in practice this last week, so the coach’s fussing irked him. It also spurred him to work harder, to put more speed in his fastball, more curve in his slider, for himself and for the team. Mostly for himself. The Rainiers were his last hope.