Sliding Home: A Baseball Romance

by Lynsey M. Stewart

  Sliding Home

  A Baseball Romance

  Lynsey M. Stewart

  Edited by

  Duckman Proofreading

  Sliding Home

  By: Lynsey M. Stewart.

  Copyright© 2018 by Lynsey M. Stewart

  All Rights Reserved

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without prior written permission of the author of this book. The only exception is brief quotations to be used in book reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, brands, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events or locales is purely coincidental.

  The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Editing: Abbie Lee at Duckman Proofreading

  Proofreading: Abbie Lee at Duckman Proofreading

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  About the book - Sliding Home

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Lynsey M. Stewart

  About the book - Sliding Home

  I was flying high with the Florida Falcons until an injury completely changed my life. Playing baseball had been my dream since I was a kid and, America couldn’t get enough of the Brit who’d made it to the big leagues. The game was my world, but suddenly I couldn't do it anymore. I was bored. I was frustrated. So I filled the void.

  Sex was an easy answer for a pro ball player with an English accent, and soon my misdemeanours were splashed across the tabloids. Now I was a bad joke, a sleazy internet meme, a washed-up third-baseman who enjoyed playing with women more than playing the game.

  I was given an ultimatum: go home to England and turn things around, or face being dropped. My reputation had been knocked out of the park for the final time. I needed a lifeline.

  And then she showed up. An obstacle in my path struggling with a suitcase.

  Jess tempted me before I’d even left the States. But there was something more. She intrigued me. Could the actress with the knockout smile help turn my life around?

  I offered her a business arrangement she couldn’t refuse. No complications. No distractions. What could possibly go wrong?

  Please note - Sliding home was originally featured in Rounding Third: a Baseball Anthology which is no longer in publication.

  Sliding Home is a Novella.

  1

  ‘You screwed the mascot in the goddamn dugout, Brad!’

  ‘Allegedly,' I shot back. Jesus, he could be uptight at times. Most of the fucking time.

  I sat back in the old leather chair in my PR manager’s office, hands behind my head, feet crossed on the table. Carl Logan had been in the business for years. He was a whizz at PR, could turn the public opinion of disgraced baseball players in one morning’s TV interview slot. He was good but a complete stereotype; he even kept a box of cigars on his desk just like in the movies I used to watch when I dreamed of making it big. He was so good that when one player he represented was caught in a compromising situation with the wife of his field manager—a photo of her straddling his lap in the back of a Mustang was splashed all over the National Enquirer—Carl managed to get a written apology and convince her husband it was a ploy to ruin the player’s career. A fruit basket and bottle of champagne were delivered to Carl’s office the next morning. Scandal forgotten. I swore he’d soon be drafted in to sort out the White House.

  ‘Allegedly, my ass!’ Carl shouted in frustration as he turned his computer screen to show me a picture of a cute blonde in a Florida Falcon’s mascot outfit—the white furry pants pushed down to her ankles, the bird’s head tossed to the side—riding me like a cowboy at a rodeo. I tried to think of a strategy to get myself out of this: a case of mistaken identity, maybe a strenuous warm-up session, but when a voice full of ecstasy came through the speakers shouting Home fucking run; Brad the baseball Brit! I found it hard to come up with anything other than a humorous one-liner.

  ‘I’m going to need a copy of that.’

  ‘Jesus Christ!' he said, dragging his fingers down his forehead, widening the worry lines like he was playing the concertina. ‘We’re not fucking around with little league here, kid. This, in case you have forgotten, is the majors, the big league. You’ve been given a once in a lifetime opportunity. Do you know how many British players have made it this far?’

  ‘No, but I’m sure you’re going to tell me.’

  ‘’The answer is not fucking many.’ I grinned at his response. He didn’t know; had no fucking idea. He represented tons of baseball players but hated the game, knew nothing about it apart from the amount of money he could earn from fixing shitstorms. ‘Your reputation is catching up with you. We managed to stop this before it got too far, but God only knows what else is out there, kid. I need the truth.’

  I hunched over, trying to mentally go through what had happened over the last few months. There was potential for more videos along similar themes. In the last week alone, I'd received a blowjob at a film premiere and fucked a blogging sensation who’d only asked for a selfie. ‘There’s probably more,’ I replied truthfully.

  ‘We can’t keep doing this, kid,’ Carl said, sitting on the edge of his desk.

  ‘That's funny because I thought that's what I was paying you for.' I winced at my sharp response. I couldn’t remember when I became such an ass.

  He laughed lightly as he folded his arms across his chest. ‘Kid, if you don’t get your act together, there will be no money to pay me.’

  ‘I'm on the disabled list, Carl. They're still paying me.'

  ‘You’ll be out if you keep this up. You may be injured, but you’re doing a damn good job of getting yourself suspended.’ He heaved a giant sigh, the kind that portrays frustrations so fucking clearly. ‘I know you’ve struggled to come to terms with your injury, but after five months, Brad, you should be back on the field. Not being back on the team has nothing to do with your knee.’

  The man had a point, but my defences were already up and I wasn't ready to accept that I was fucking up my life, pressing the self-destruct button with my ass. ‘Carl, I appreciate the pep talk but you're talking shit.'

  ‘Do you know how many national newspapers have been on the phone this month? You're hot property, but not because of your skills on the field or because you’re the Brit who followed a dream and made it a reality. No, it’s because there are rumours you held a party at your house and you were so fucking drunk that you failed to notice one of your guests stealing your car, not to mention the two women who tried to sell their story. We got it stopped at the last second. The headline was: He Kept His Leg Brace On As We Blew His Mind.

  ‘That’s not true,’ I replied, smirking. ‘I don’t need the leg brace anymore.’

  ‘I’m glad you thi
nk this is fucking funny.’

  ‘Carl, I don’t see how my behaviour off the field should have anything to do with what happens on the field. I’m good at what I do.’

  ‘You were good!’ Carl shouted. ‘Not anymore! I got a report from your physical therapist. You missed your last two sessions. You haven’t been near training. The league is concerned, kid.’

  ‘I wasn’t feeling well,’ I replied, shifting in my seat.

  ‘Hangover?’ Carl asked as he stood up to open the door to a guy I recognised but couldn’t quite place.

  ‘Peter, welcome. Please take a seat. Brad, this is Peter Winkleman; he’s from the Office of the Commissioner of Baseball.’

  Fuck.

  ‘Nice to meet you, Peter,’ I smiled, taking his hand firmly.

  ‘Not today,’ Peter replied, completely blank in expression.

  Fuck.

  ‘This is serious, kid,’ Carl said as he sat at his desk.

  ‘We’ve been concerned for a while now, Brad. Obviously your injury couldn’t be helped, but the lack of progress in your recovery, the constant stream of misdemeanours that we’re trying to keep out of the press, and the lack of commitment you’re showing to the league are totally unacceptable,’ Peter said formally.

  ‘I guess this isn't good news.'

  ‘We’re suspending you as of today.’

  ‘What the fuck? For how long?’ I asked.

  ‘Until the new season. We’ll expect you at spring training if all goes as planned,’ Peter replied, looking over at Carl, who nodded in agreement.

  ‘What plan?’

  ‘The plan to revive your career. I'm talking strength training, cardio, physical therapy, laying off the booze and keeping away from women who are only blowing you to get their names on the internet.'

  Ouch.

  ‘I can get game fit ready for next season. I’ll hire personal trainers, a chef—’

  ‘Getting game fit isn’t our biggest concern,’ Carl replied. ‘It’s your reputation we need to work on. The partying needs to stop. We need you to be more wholesome. I can get you a fucking ad campaign for kids’ baseball gear. We'll even get you a stint volunteering at youth baseball camps, for Christ’s sake. You need to be someone the kids can look up to again. You used to be a fucking inspiration. Now you’re nothing more than a bad meme.’

  ‘A bad meme?’ I asked as he typed on his phone screen and handed it to me. An image of my face flashed up with Baseball Brit Can Only Hit Tit written across it. ‘That’s catchy.’

  ‘Don’t be a smartass. I’m trying to save you from going under,’ Carl boomed.

  ‘So you’re trying to help my reputation with the public by suspending me for bad behaviour. How is that going to help?’

  Peter took some papers out of his briefcase and handed them over to me. ‘Your suspension will be kept out of the press; Carl will see to that. However, this might be hard to make disappear.' One of the papers he handed me was a screenshot of a post by the blogger I'd fucked. It detailed my skills in oral sex and said I was hugely blessed in the cock department.

  I read the blog entry title. Brad the Baseball Brit Keeps a Bat Handy in His Pants. I looked at the two stony-faced men and I just couldn’t resist. ‘At least it’s complimentary. We’re starting the positive spin campaign trail early.’ Their mouths didn’t twitch.

  ‘We want you to lie low for the next few months. Go back to England, see your folks, start working with a trainer, quit the booze and stay away from women,' Peter said, completely ignoring my sarcasm.

  ‘This is ridiculous,’ I sighed.

  ‘Not ridiculous. Let me ask you one question to try to hammer home how serious this fucking is.’ Peter sat forward. ‘Do you want to be on the team next season?'

  I swallowed hard. ‘Yes, it’s what I love. It’s all I know,’ I replied, sensing the weight of what would inevitably be his next words.

  ‘We don’t believe you,’ he replied, slamming his briefcase shut. ‘You seem to enjoy fucking more. You certainly enjoy partying. If you love baseball as much as you say you do, you would be doing everything in your power to get back to it.’

  I stared at Peter, unable to think of a witty comeback because I knew he was right. ‘Do I have any choices here?’

  ‘Your choices are get your shit together and secure your place on the team, or carry on fucking up your life. No more chances, Brad. This is it.’

  2

  I pulled my suitcase behind me as I walked through Orlando airport, still not believing I was on my way back to England as a disgraced baseball player. The only way for me to sort this out was by pulling my head out of my ass and getting my act together.

  Life could be pretty shit sometimes. One minute you’re standing on the edge of a cliff taking in the sunshine, and the next minute you’re losing your footing and plummeting down to your death, landing at the bottom in a mangled heap.

  Ah, life. What a fucking rollercoaster.

  After leaving Carl's office, I went to the first bar I could find and drank until I couldn't hear the voices in my head. You’re a joke. A bad meme. A fucked up guy with a dream. A dream that went to shit after tearing a ligament in my knee. I recalled the day I’d had my accident. I'll never forget the loud popping noise followed by the snapping sensation that had forced me to fall onto the field. It should have been an injury that was fairly easy to recover from, but the pain was stubborn and wouldn't let up. Countless doctors opinions later, I found myself in surgery to rebuild the torn ligament. After the surgery, the pain lingered and the frustration of not being able to play was the hardest part to accept. I was restless. My life was baseball, but suddenly I couldn't do it anymore. I was bored. I was frustrated, so I filled the void. Sex was easy to find for a pro baseball player, especially one with an English accent. When I’d made it through the minor leagues and was picked up by the majors, I became the talk of America. I was soon given the nickname The Baseball Brit. And women wanted a piece of the story.

  I moved to Florida with my parents when I was a kid. At first, I found it hard to fit in and tried to hide my accent. I joined the baseball team at school to become one of the popular kids. I quickly picked up the game and never looked back.

  I didn’t completely lose my English accent and could turn it up when I needed to. Women loved it. Couple that with my newfound star status and it was easy to get caught in a spiral of quick and easy sex. I got a hunger for it. Every experience became more extreme than the last. Women would approach me in clubs, and eventually I would bypass the civilities of buying a drink and taking them home by just fucking them in a private room of a club.

  After my operation, sex made me feel powerful again. I was good at it, just like I had been good at baseball. I was able to make a woman come with ease and skill on the first thrust. Sex became my drug of choice, but I needed to quit.

  My parents had been back in London for the last two years and I had an apartment in England where I spent a lot of time between seasons. I told them I was coming back because my injury had led me to be out of the game until the new season. I’m not sure they bought it but I wasn’t about to tell them I’d been suspended for fucking the Florida Falcon’s mascot in the team dugout.

  Walking through the airport, I had no clue where I was going. I was usually taken to the airport by a driver and escorted through to departures, barely having to do anything apart from hand my passport over. I enjoyed having to think for myself for a change, planning my journey, doing normal things. Turning towards the nearest escalator, which was stationary with an out of order sign taped across it, my eyes immediately met with a huge white suitcase covered in cartoon style strawberries. The owner of the suitcase had long, blonde wavy hair spilling over her shoulders and she was wearing a very nice pair of denim shorts. She looked at the out of order sign and blew out her cheeks, holding her hands on her hips in protest. She spotted me looking as I scanned her toned legs, imagining what they would feel like skin-to-skin and wrapped around my waist. She
smiled warmly and proceeded to haul her suitcase backwards up the adjacent steps. Her smile was knockout. She was all white teeth and plump, full lips, and it was fucking contagious. I found myself smiling back at her broadly because I just couldn’t keep it in.

  ‘You enjoy watching a pint-sized girl struggling with her case?' she asked, her English accent adding to my smile. She set the case down and returned her hands to her hips. Fuck, those hips, those legs. She smiled again, waiting for me to speak. I shook my head to get some rational thinking space and practically sprinted up the steps to help her.

  ‘Sorry. Let me.’ I took the handle. My knee yelped. Jesus, it was heavy. I was trying to imagine what she had in there. A dead body sprang to mind. ‘You know there’s an elevator right over there,’ I said as she followed me up the steps.

  ‘Oh, I don’t do lifts. Haven’t you seen the video where a guy gets decapitated when the lift cable snaps and it plunges unexpectedly?’

  ‘Can’t say I have,’ I replied, flashing her the smile that always encouraged swift panty dropping.

  ‘Anyway, I was more than happy to haul it up the steps and didn't get a tiny bit furious when seven other people strolled past me without offering to help. Seven people! Can you believe that? It’s not like you can miss me. My strawberries are big enough,’ she said with a wink.

  I could tell this girl would be easy to like.

  ‘Seven people?’ I repeated, turning on my English accent to match hers. ‘Every one of them a wanker. How could anyone walk past you and ignore your…massive strawberries?’