Forced Play for Libby (Men of Baseball #3)

by Hayley Faiman

  “Does he seem genuine?”

  I think about her question and then about yesterday afternoon and evening, along with this morning. He seemed very genuine, but do I trust that? Is this some kind of weird game of his? Maybe he likes having a woman at home to take care of his shit while he does whatever the hell he wants? I don’t know what his thought process is, and that is what is more confusing than anything. It’s also plain fucking frustrating.

  “While your initial reaction may be to terminate your marriage to Peter, I implore you not make any rash decisions for a while. Focus on your health and let him care for you. He may have changed, Elizabeth. It has been known to happen in times of turmoil. Perhaps he has seen the error of his ways. You said he’s even kissed you,” she points out. I grind my teeth together and wish I wasn’t so damn talkative today.

  “There’s a reason, I’m sure.” I cross my arms over my chest again and look off to the side.

  The buildings of the city surround us and I adore the view. The color of the buildings, the beautiful glass; it looks like a picture, gorgeous on the outside. I do wonder how many of the insides of those offices, apartments, and buildings are ugly as hell? Broken, like me. Pretty on the outside and just rotten on the inside.

  “Perhaps the reason is that he almost lost his wife and he has discovered that he cares deeply for her,” she suggests. I snort at her words.

  Cares deeply, my ass.

  “Don’t say anything else. Write in your journal, Elizabeth. Be open to accept the kindness he is showing you, for it is exactly what you have been wishing for. Do not assume he is giving you this from a toxic place. Embrace and accept. Let the cards fall where they may. A clear head will do you good and you cannot make judgments until you are aware of all the facts,” she says, her voice softening even more.

  I want to tell her to shove her bullshit up her ass and leave me alone, but I don’t. She’s been a good doctor and just because I’m emotional, angry, and confused doesn’t mean she’s necessarily wrong about anything.

  Maybe Pete has seen the error of his ways?

  Maybe he’s just some fucktard and he’ll hurt me again?

  I watch as Julia gives me her all too familiar sad smile of pity. Then she hugs me before she opens the door so that I can be left alone with my thoughts and this fucking journal. I stuff the leather bound book in my oversized Birkin bag and head back to my hotel. I need to make a decision. Do I stay or do I go back to the apartment? I have no doubt that Pete will be knocking on the door to the suite if I stay.

  I have no clue what I’m going to do.

  “Would you like some lunch, Mrs. McGrath?” The butler asks as I walk into the suite at The Plaza. The room has been cleaned spotless and I wonder what the maid staff thought of all the bottles of booze and desserts I inhaled.

  “Call me Libby, please.” I smile at the older man and walk toward the bar to grab an expensive water in a glass bottle. I’m sure they’ll charge me quadruple for it.

  I feel a hundred and fifty years old.

  “Yes, ma’am, I’ll try.” He looks wounded and I feel bad, but I hate being called Mrs. McGrath— especially since I haven’t done a fucking thing to earn the title.

  “I’m not all that hungry, though. I’ll just have a coffee.” He looks at me and shakes his head.

  “You need some food, Miss. You don’t have enough meat on those bones to feed a starving man,” he offers with a slight smile. I can’t help myself. I start to giggle at his words, and it turns into a full on belly laugh.

  “I’ll have a lean hamburger patty, some cottage cheese, and a fruit cup, please,” I say, still giggling. Then, for some reason, I feel the need to call Pete and tell him what’s just happened. The Butler leaves and I pick up my cell to call Pete.

  “Everything all right, Libby?” He asks, his voice sounding panicky.

  “The butler at The Plaza just told me that I didn’t have enough meat on my bones to feed a starving man. Is that true?” I ask, unable to keep from giggling all over again.

  “You weigh, what, like, ninety pounds? Fucking ridiculous. Of course he’s right. You’re eating lunch then? If you try to eat a fucking salad, I’ll spank your ass myself, Libby,” he growls. I gasp in surprise; not because he’s threatening to spank me, but because I want him to. I’ve heard a few of the stories the girls tell and I’m not completely naïve when it comes to sex. I would love a good erotic spanking.

  “You’re an asshole,” I spit back at him, ignoring the tingling between my legs.

  “No shit. Anything else?”

  “No,” I grind out between clenched teeth, gripping my phone so tightly I fear I will break it in half, no matter how weak and pathetic I am.

  “Ok ,then. Well, I gotta go, baby. I love you,” he says softly, seriously, and way too sexily.

  I hang up the phone and huff out a breath of air, glaring at the device like it will tell me something, anything—explain to me what the hell is happening around here.

  A few moments later, the butler returns with my lunch and I thank him with a smile. Even if I’m irritated with Pete, I can’t be mean to this man. He made me laugh, after all. There’s a knock on the door and the butler starts to walk toward it, but I wave him off.

  “I’ll get it,” I hold up my hand as I slowly stand. Jesus all of this emotional crap is making me feel old.

  It’s the girls. I already know. It’s like they have radar when I’m feeling confused, scared, and just plain terrified.

  “Hey, guys,” I mutter with tears pooling in my eyes. My friends rush me. All of them lightly and gently wrap around me and hug me. It feels good, too. So good. The last time they were here, I was still a little drunk and a lot hung over. Totally out of it.

  “Will you tell us, Libby? Will you tell us everything?” Maggie’s voice is soft and I look over to her and smile softly. She looks bigger, her stomach rounder, and I can’t help but smile. However, when I look into her eyes, I notice they are as assessing me, as usual. And as usual, it makes me slightly uncomfortable.

  “I’m leaving Pete. But now, all of a sudden, he’s acting as though he gives a shit. It’s confusing as all hell,” I admit.

  I know that I told them everything the other day, but that was before Pete made his declarations of winning me back, throwing me completely for a loop. Honestly, I thought he would be relieved that I left and that I was the one initiating the divorce. Maggie doesn’t say anything at first, but she’s assessing me. I squirm under her penetrating gaze.

  “Jackson confessed something to me. I’ll probably be punished severely for telling you, but I like his punishments and you need to know,” Maggie confesses.

  “Well, spill that shit,” Victoria announces. I hold my breath waiting.

  “There was a contract. A contract between your father and Pete. I don’t know details, but apparently if he married you then he would get a spot on the team. He had to stay married to you for ten years to keep it valid,” she admits with pity in her eyes. Fucking pity toward me. I thought I had already hit rock bottom. I didn’t think I could feel shittier about myself until now.

  I don’t blame Maggie. I can’t. I blame my family and Pete; but mostly—I blame myself. Now that I have left, Pete is buttering me up so that I won’t leave him. He wants to secure his spot on the team. I feel sick.

  My dad would do it, too. I know all of this is real. It makes so much sense. My dad supplies the donated cars for the MVP’s when they win the Series. Hell, in the past three years he has donated two, not including other donations—sponsorships and incentives he throws their way.

  My dad loves baseball, but he also loves having his name as a big sponsor for the world to see. He wants to be important—it is a huge need for him.

  He wants everybody to be envious of his self-imposed fabulousness.

  He is a narcissistic asshole.

  “Well, that explains so much,” I say almost robotically.

  “Are you okay, sweets?” Amalie asks, placing
her hand on my knee. I look over to her. Shit, she is beautiful.

  My eyes glance at all three of my gorgeous friends. Pete has never wanted me. Pete wanted a way out of the ghetto and struggle. I was his meal ticket. No wonder he doesn’t want children with me. No wonder it sickens him to even be in my presence. He has never loved me—ever. He is using me, my father, and his connections to further his career.

  In three short years he is going to divorce me and probably marry that skank from the photo. They will have children and live happily ever after and I will be an old divorcee heiress, who lives all alone, in some museum apartment where I will just keep growing old. Then I will probably become a drunk and die, unloved, after swallowing booze and pills. I can feel my heart racing as panic ensues my body.

  “It’s going to be okay,” Maggie murmurs next to me. Her arms wrap around my body.

  I want to shove her off and tell her that, no it isn’t going to be okay. She has somebody who loves her; Victoria has Carlos who thinks she shits cotton candy; and Jarrod is so in love with Amalie he takes fucking pictures with her and plasters that love all over the fucking country.

  I have nothing.

  I am nothing.

  “I need some rest,” I choke out. Their eyes focus on me and they all shake their heads slightly.

  “I don’t think you do, sweets. I think we should all just veg out today.” Amalie and her fucking perfect self suggests.

  “I’m fine girls, honestly. I’m going to take my journal that my doctor gave me, I’m going to write, and I’m going to sleep. I’m okay, really,” I lie.

  “You should be surrounded by people that love you, Libby,” Victoria suggests. I want to throat punch her.

  God, I just want to be alone in my misery.

  “I really just want to eat my lunch and rest. I had my psychiatrist appointment earlier and now all this new information. I’m honestly just beat,” I say, adding a fake smile. Luckily, they all nod and begrudgingly give me hugs and promises of everything working out before they finally leave.

  “Maybe you should talk to your husband about that information, Libby…before you jump to conclusions?” Maggie advises softly. She then closes the door behind her.

  I ignore her suggestion. I just want to be alone. I want the silence to swallow me whole so that I might forget my sad existence. Sadness replaces the anger from earlier and I allow myself to give in to the tears that have been threatening to spill since Maggie told me the truth.

  The burger has lost its appeal, and all I can do it stare at the cheese melting over it, covering it, masking the flavor of the meat. God, Pete’s that fucking cheese. Masking his intentions, pretending to be thoughtful and sweet, pretending to want me. In a few years, he’s going to dump me like a fucking bad habit.

  I’m going crazy, I have to be. I’m comparing Pete to cheese.

  Maggie wasn’t wrong. What she said to me has to be true. Deep down, I know it is. I have known for years that something was definitely up, that something was always rotten between us, and that what Pete and I had was all kinds of fucked up. I wasn’t strong or brave enough to confront him about it, though.

  I have always hoped that things would change, but they never will. He is biding his time right now, playing nice until he can scrape me off onto the pavement and move right along with his life.

  What’s ten years of your time when you get the career you’ve always wanted?

  Priorities and patience.

  A few hours later, I am flipping the television channels in the dark bedroom when my light switch is flipped on. I shiver at the sight of my Grammy Lillian filling the doorway. How she just appears in my hotel suite, I don’t know; but I don’t put a damn thing past the woman. She is freaking terrifying.

  Her ice blue eyes scan me and I feel the weight of her stare as I take in her popped out hip. She is dressed impeccably in a soft cream skirt suit with a matching jacket and a dark teal, low cut camisole. Her jewelry is big and real. Every piece glitters under the light and I remember being in awe of her sparkles as a child. Her light greyish blonde hair is pulled back in a low bun and her makeup is as flawless as her low heal Jimmy Choo nude heels. Grammy Lillian comes from old money. Her family has been in the Lobster business for forever.

  “Grammy Lillian,” I say softly, sitting up a bit more in my bed. I am disgusted with myself for lazing around in the middle of the day.

  “What have you done to yourself, girl? You’ve fallen apart and let yourself go, to boot,” she admonishes, making me feel about two-feet tall.

  Grammy Lillian always says that letting one’s self go is as big a disgrace as white shoes after Labor Day. I usually agree, but today, I can’t find a fuck to give. My makeup has surely rubbed off on the pillow I have been lying on and my hair probably looks as though I stuck my finger in a light socket.

  “I have had a bad few months, Grammy. I apologize for my disheveled appearance.”

  “Bad couple of months, my ass. You’ve had a bad seven years and now that it’s all out in the open, finally, I’m not going to let my prettiest granddaughter slip further on the self-pity train.”

  I roll my eyes at her words. She has no fucking clue.

  “I just found out that the only reason Pete married me was because daddy gave him an in with the Yankees. He has to stay married to me for ten years to keep the contract valid. He’s never loved me. I should have seen it years ago. He’s never shown me he’s even liked me, let alone loved me.

  “My self-esteem was just so low that I would take whatever he dished with a smile, thinking it was me that was the problem; that if I was better, prettier, skinnier, had bigger tits that he would finally love me.” The tears flow and my usually uptight Grammy sits down next to me and wraps her arms around my shoulders in a warm embrace.

  “The boy loves you, darling girl. I knew about the contract and I urged your mother to talk to your father about it, but you know how she is. I never agreed. The love that boy has for you is deep. That contract is nonsense and he knows it. He may be angry about the situation, but he isn’t angry at you. He’s angry at himself. Men don’t want anybody telling them what to do and they don’t want anybody to have any kind of power over them. The day he signed it, he gave your father, and in a way you, power over him. It made him angry and bitter,” she says perfectly rationally. I open my mouth to respond but she holds her hand up and I force my mouth to shut.

  “My first husband was the love of my life. He was poor and he was rough around the edges, much like your Peter. So when my father told him that he could work in the office instead of on the ships with the lobster traps, he felt as if he was being forced into a desk job. He took it and he became angry and bitter.

  “Before he died, he admitted this to me, apologized for not always being the loving husband he should have been. It takes a hit to their pride when they are basically told they aren’t good enough for the women they want. That is exactly what my father did. Exactly what yours did too, darling,” she announces. Suddenly, I see my Grammy in a new light. I take a gulp of air and rest my head against the pillow, my eyes slicing over to her.

  “Since we came back from our honeymoon, we haven’t made love. Not in seven years. He doesn’t love me, Grammy. He doesn’t want me and I know this because the paparazzi took a picture of him with another woman.” It fucking hurts to admit I’m a failure to my Grammy. The woman is ice—cool and polished like no other woman I have ever met. As I continue to cry, my Grammy wraps her arm around my shoulders again. Shen then slides up on my bed next to me, cradling my head against her chest.

  “Men think with their cocks, honey. If you thought he was being faithful all these years then I don’t even know what to say about that. What he did doesn’t make it right, but is this something that you can move past if he changes?”

  “Have you been in my shoes, then?” I ask curiously. She seems to have a strong opinion on this matter.

  “Your grandfather, my first husband, he cheated on me with a s
ecretary. He was angry and felt pigeonholed, so he controlled the only thing he could, his cock and his heart. He had sex with her and almost immediately admitted it to me, full of regret. I didn’t instantly take him back, but eventually he worked hard to prove to me that it was a mistake he made—a shameful mistake. We all make them. I didn’t trust him for a long time, but he gave me that. Eventually, we were happy again.”

  “He’s been forthcoming, admitting that he wants to work on us and that he loves me, that he wants a real marriage, but how do I know he’s being truthful? What if I give him everything and he divorces me in three years?”

  I have questions swirling around in my brain and they are all pointing to the possibility that he was just kissing my ass so I won’t leave him and void his precious contract.

  “My darling girl, what if you’re happy? What if you work on this marriage and it is the best thing that has ever happened? He wouldn’t be the first man to stick it where it doesn’t belong and realize what a mistake it was and want his wife back. It can work, my darling girl.”

  “I can’t risk it, Grammy,” I admit, sighing heavily.

  “Then you don’t deserve the blissful happiness you could have.”

  “Grammy, that’s mean,” I scowl, lifting my head.

  “You of all people should know I’m not one of those nice old ladies. I give you the truth when you need it, and right now, you need it. Your father is a selfish prick of an asshole and it doesn’t surprise me that he would try to lure some young boy with wild dreams by dangling a carrot instead of letting a relationship run its course. He has to control every little damn thing, and that includes your life, your sister’s, and mother’s. Talk to your Peter, darling. When all else fails, ride him until he can’t remember the contract even exists.” She smiles and I gape at my grandmother, my Grammy, saying these things… Now I know where I get it from.

  Crazy old lady.

  “Grammy,” I mumble, embarrassed.