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year. This could be his chance to finally show Dan Thomas that the son was the equal to the man.
    If he could just focus on the goddamn game. Let the distraction of this Summer Queen bullshit burn out.
    Right. Like he was going to forget about Samantha Winger. Like the guys in the front office were ever going to let him forget that he’d made an idiot out of himself, out of the team. Pop would roar when he saw the footage on that pissant TV show, that ridiculous bouquet the suits in the front office had made him deliver.
    If DJ had been allowed to choose his own peace offering, he would have gone with something totally different. Wildflowers. Some color , maybe even one of those sunflowers his mother had loved so much.
    But he had to admit, the damn flowers had done their job. At least the TV guy had been impressed, and the dragon-lady who had glared from the back of the room. And Samantha seemed to have liked the flowers, too. At least, he hoped she did. He hoped that’s what it meant, when she’d looked up at him through those ridiculously long eyelashes, her green eyes glowing like he’d actually managed to pay her a compliment.
    He’d been such a jackass, making those comments on live TV It wasn’t like he’d meant anything by them. He’d thought he was being funny, making a joke, like Pop used to do after his best games. “Miss America” was just a symbol. “Summer Queen” could have been anyone.
    But she wasn’t just anyone. She was Samantha Winger. And now that he’d met the Summer Queen, he couldn’t imagine ever tossing off a derogatory comment about her again.
    “Okay, Loverboy. You’re on.”
    He looked up to find Braden Hart smirking at him. Even with that shit-eating grin on his face, the ailing pitcher still looked a little green around the gills. The flu was bad that way. Could keep you down for a week or more, before you were really back to full strength. Hart might miss his next start, too, and DJ was more than happy to stay in the lineup. “Hey, man,” he said to Hart. “You’re the one who got me into this.”
    “ I got you to the mound. You put your foot in your mouth all by yourself.”
    DJ companionably called him a name that would never be repeated in the family-friendly newspapers that covered the Rockets.  
    “Hey!” Hart called as DJ headed over to the steps that led out of the dugout. “Leave your jacket behind. The cameras love a guy in uniform.”
    DJ shot him the middle finger but shrugged out of his windbreaker. The batboy appeared from nowhere, eager to help in any way possible. DJ resisted the urge to ruffle the kid’s hair. That wasn’t Trey, after all. Trey wouldn’t be old enough to serve as a batboy for four more years. Candy-ass rule.
    “Mr. Thomas?” The question came from the top of the steps. He looked up to find one of the runners who helped coordinate the top of the game, getting guests on and off the field, helping coordinate the ceremonial first pitch, instructing the color guard where to take their mark.
    And guiding the singer of the national anthem.
    DJ fell in line beside the guy. The front office had commanded this dog and pony show, and who was DJ Thomas to refuse their demands?  
    And just like that, he saw her. Samantha Winger. Summer Queen. She stood in the shadows of the tunnel that led to the warren of rooms beneath the field. Even in the dim light, her hair gleamed like polished copper. She was dressed a lot more casually than she had been in that godforsaken conference room—dark jeans and an official Rockets jersey.
    His breath caught as he realized someone had given her number 45. His number. His name would be arched across her back.  
    Of course, he’d seen his name on T-shirts and jerseys before. He’d never given a second thought to the men and women who honored him, who expressed their support for the Rockets that way.
    But there was something different about this jersey. Something different about this woman. And it wasn’t