“Ryan Reynolds?”
“I think I’ve had about enough Ryans today. No more Ryans.”
She nodded. “Okay…Chris Pratt?”
I gave her a look. “He’s married.”
“George Clooney?”
“Nice, but the age difference would really get in the way.”
Then, she got all serious and looked me right in the eyes. She slowly reached forward and took my hand in hers. “Please, please for the love of God tell me it’s Jason Statham.”
I huffed in offense. “Do you really think I’d be here with you right now if I had Jason Statham in my bed?”
She blew out a relieved breath and sat back in her chair. “Okay, I was just checking. I’d have to kick your ass to Canada and back if that were the case.” She wracked her brain for a few more seconds and then said, “At least give me his first name.”
I started to second-guess myself but stopped. “Parker.”
She closed her eyes, her forehead scrunching up in concentration as she thought about it. “Parker, Parker, Parker…well, unless you forgot to tell me you were gay in the last five years, I think I can eliminate Parker Posey.”
“Love her, but not like that.”
She opened her eyes and they immediately locked on something over my shoulder. Her eyes about jumped out of her skull and she looked back at me, then back at the TV and then back at me. Then, she just started babbling. “Parker…ball…youreinlovewiththatguyontv.”
“What the hell are you saying?”
She pointed behind me. “P-Parker Cruz! You’re in love with Parker Cruz!”
Thank God that had been a whisper scream and not a real scream.
I turned around and saw his face appear on the television that was hanging up behind the bar. They were replaying the World Series on ESPN and he was giving a post-game interview after Game 3. The one where he hit two home runs and won the game for the Red Sox. His smiling face was filling the whole screen, his wavy hair sticking out underneath his cap. The short beard he had back then just made him look sexier.
How could I miss something so bad that I’d had so briefly?
Apparently, Norah saw the look on my face and freaked out. “Oh my God. Holy shit. Mother of Pearl. You are in love with Parker Cruz. I can’t believe this,” she said as she fanned herself with her hand.
“Are you okay?”
“I don’t know. Where’s my drink?”
I glanced down. “In your hand.”
She looked down as if she really had forgotten it was there. “Right.” And then she chugged the rest of it. She seemed to gather her wits after several seconds and looked back up at me. “So wait, what are you going to do? About being in love with him?”
“Stop saying that,” I hissed, massaging my temples as I felt a headache coming on. “I’m not in love with him. And there’s nothing to do. We’re friends now.”
“Friends…” she said slowly, doubt clear in your voice.
“Yes, friends.”
“And what if he wants to be more again? You’re telling me that you would tell him no?”
For a pretty tipsy person, she was asking some rational questions, ones I didn’t particularly want to deal with tonight. “I don’t know. He said he’s fine with being friends. He knows how much he hurt me years ago. And to be honest, I don’t know if I would want to be more. I don’t think I could go through that all over again if he left me a second time. Once is one thing. I was young and it was a learning experience for me. Letting it happen twice, that’s just stupid.”
She blew out a deep breath and tipped back her glass for a drink but forgot she had already finished it. “I’m going to need much more alcohol before I can process this. Where’s our server?” she asked as she frantically looked around. “Where’s Rachel? Rachel!”
“Her name is Donna.”
“Same thing.”
Donna got to our table and smiled patiently, no doubt she was used to dealing with drunken idiots. Norah laid her hand on Donna’s shoulder with a look on her face that made it seem as if she were in a confessional. “Madonna, we are going to need four shots of the best whiskey you have right over here.”
Donna was off before I could object. “Oh, no. We’re not doing shots. I’m not calling Uber again. You remember what happened last time.”
She leveled a glare at me. “You’re in love with a millionaire baseball babe who totally wants you. We’re drinking whiskey.”
“He doesn’t want me,” I argued.
I wasn’t sure if the eye roll was intentional or if the alcohol made her suddenly lose control of her eyeballs. “I may be tipsy but I heard every word you said. He wants you.”
“I’m not calling Uber, Norah.”
She pounded her fist on the table and scowled at me. “Blasphemy! Rome wasn’t built in a day!”
We so had to call Uber.
Chapter Ten
Parker
Metallica pumped loudly through the gym speakers as I finished my set of bicep curls. One, two, three, four more reps and I dropped the dumbbells on the mat, shaking my arms out.
“Hitting up The Green Room with us tonight, Cruz?” Corbins, one of our relief pitchers, asked from the bench press station across the room.
I walked over to my towel and water bottle, taking a drink and wiping the sweat from my face. “I don’t think so. Not feeling up to it tonight.”
Our right-fielder, Rodriguez, groaned. “What the hell, man? That’s the same answer you’ve given us for the past two months. What’s going on?”
“Maybe he’s sick of going out and getting trashed all the time with you fools. And the same bevy of easy women that cling to you morons.”
That was our catcher, Moberly, the most veteran still-active player on the team. He was also one of the few straight-up family men we had. Not that I blamed him for that. Hell, I was jealous of him. The guy had a beautiful wife and daughter and a two-month-old son at home.
“What are you talking about, Moberly?” Corbins scoffed. “That’s the best part of being a baseball player!”
I glanced at Moberly and he rolled his eyes, getting back to his leg presses. It was true that I had been a part of the “single guys group” on this team for the past few years. We were the ones going out to all the clubs and bars in every town we went to, throwing parties when we were in Boston, and almost always had some willing woman attached to our arm. There were some married guys on the team and some with serious girlfriends. But we’d often have a new member of our group if there was a break-up or divorce.
Lately, though, that scene wasn’t doing it for me.
I hadn’t been laid in months because the last couple of women I had been with I had wished were Kinley. In fact, I pictured her face while I was in bed with them. One time, I even almost called out her name. I felt like a dick, so I figured it was best if I waited until my head was in the right place before I took it out of my pants again.
“How’s that baby doing?” I asked Moberly as I began my third set of push-ups.
“Good but so much different than the first.” He quickly stood and moved to the leg lifts, added a few more weights, and then sat down to begin his reps. “He never sleeps through the night, has already had jaundice, and now he has colic.” Despite what he was saying, the man had a big ass smile on his face the whole time.
“That’s how Micah was when she was born,” said Pollock, our second baseman, as he walked over to us. He had a little girl with his long-time girlfriend, who he always seemed to be on and off with. “But the size of Heather’s tits for those nine months didn’t hurt,” he continued with a smirk. “Hell, I’m tempted to give her another one just to get those suckers back.”
Moberly and I laughed and he said, “The other day, I was changing his diaper and—”
“Whoa! No!” Corbins yelled, holding up his hands. “I’m fine with talking about women’s tits, but if you guys start talking about diapers and poop and forming your own knitting club, I swear I
’m going to the Yankees.”
We all laughed and Corbins shook his head in disgust.
It felt good to be back at the club gym, working out with my team, and getting ready for the ass-kicking that was going to be this season. As much as we all joked around, every single one of us was serious about winning that damn championship. We didn’t even want to talk about last season because it was the past. None of us would admit it, but being that close to the title and losing had been devastating.
It wasn’t going to happen again.
“That knee still holding up alright, Cruz?” Pollock asked as he started a set with the jump rope.
Subconsciously, my hand went down to my right knee, my fingers running over the raised scar that ran vertically down my knee cap. “All good, man. Hasn’t bothered me in a while.”
The season before last I had torn my meniscus and was out for two-thirds of the season. Truthfully, the injury had scared the shit out of me. I’d been lucky enough during most of my career that I hadn’t had to deal with an injury of that magnitude. For months, I had been afraid that my baseball career would end before I ever got to the top. Before I got that coveted trophy.
Before I was able to stamp my name into baseball history.
Nobody really expected me to be worth anything after I came back from surgery either. Nobody except me. I was thirty-two now, well past my prime, so everyone had pretty much dubbed my baseball career essentially over. The Red Sox had even contemplated trading me while I was going through my rehab. But our manager, Bill Cox, had thankfully talked the owners into keeping me for at least one more year. I don’t think any of the upper management had high hopes, though.
I’d sure as hell proved them wrong.
I wasn’t quitting before I got what I wanted. So, I worked my ass off in rehab, killed myself in spring training, and basically worked myself to exhaustion. But I had come back with a vengeance. I was now in the best shape of my life, playing twenty times better than anyone had ever anticipated I would.
I just wouldn’t be satisfied until I left my mark on the baseball world the way I wanted to.
I mean, I’d had a stellar career and I was proud of that. I’d become one of the best all-time third basemen in the game, had received eight gold gloves, and was a seven-time All Star. All the sportscasters said I pretty much had a guaranteed bid into the Hall of Fame, assuming I didn’t totally tank the last several years of my career. I tried not to listen to them, though. I didn’t need them in my head.
The Hall of Fame was one of my goals, sure.
But so was that World Series title.
I needed to be the best, at least once, before I hung up my glove.
Credence Clearwater Revival suddenly came on the stereo, the sounds of “Born on the Bayou” reverberating off the gym walls. “Aw, man! Who turned this shit on?” Corbins asked, walking over to the machine with purpose.
“Hey!” Moberly shouted, pointing his finger at the relief pitcher. “I may be an old man, but you turn off CCR and I will kick your ass.”
I smiled.
Yeah, this was our season.
##
Replacing the hardware on all of my kitchen cabinets and drawers was easy work but it kept my hands busy. Sam Masterson had taught me and Clay a lot about basic home repairs and improvements when we were growing up, something my own father should have been responsible for but couldn’t have cared less about.
Doing this type of work had been a therapy of sorts for me over the past fifteen years. Mason had his cars and motorcycles, Dawson had his kids, and I had this.
It made me feel good, to fix things. It soothed something inside of me that I would never admit actually needed soothing.
I bought the brownstone in downtown Boston about three years ago mainly because of its historic and aesthetic appeal. The building was built in the late 1800s and had only seen minor repairs and upkeep since then. I’d had my work cut out for me when I bought it but that was exactly what I’d been looking for. The realtor probably thought I was crazy since I could have afforded something bigger and nicer that I didn’t have to do so much work to.
But it was mine.
It was my work that I was putting into it that someone else would later enjoy down the road. And I was damn proud of that.
My phone started vibrating in my pocket. I set my beer down on the counter and pulled it out, answering it as soon as I saw the name.
“Hey, man.”
“Am I interrupting anything?” Clay asked.
“Just replacing some hardware.”
There was a long pause. “Is that some new euphemism that I’m not aware of?”
I laughed. “And you say I’m the one with the perverted mind. I’m just working on some kitchen stuff. What’s up, Mr. Mayor?”
He sighed. “I’ve been instructed to invite you to an event in my honor on the twenty-ninth. In D.C.” He was quick to add, “Don’t feel obligated if you’ve got stuff going on.”
I pictured a calendar in my head and wracked my brain. Then it hit me. “The twenty-ninth? Your birthday? Wait…is this your birthday party?”
Another sigh. “It’s not a birthday party. It’s just a banquet dinner to celebrate my new position. Gwen insists that you be there.”
I wasn’t buying it. “Will there be cake?”
He huffed. “Hell if I know.” A few beats of silence passed and then, “I mean, I may have heard some people around the office talking about one.”
“It’s a birthday party.” I laughed again when he groaned. “You know I’ll be there.”
“Great. Sorry, I can’t actually talk right now because Gwen and I are going to dinner. But she refused to go anywhere until I called everyone I knew to invite them. I’ll talk to you later.”
“Wait,” I said before he could hang up.
“What?”
“Do you prefer Spiderman or Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles wrapping paper?”
He hung up.
I smiled and finished putting the rest of the handles on the cabinets. After that call, though, a whole barrage of thoughts and memories of Clay and past birthdays at his house suddenly flooded my mind. Of course, any thoughts of Clay inevitably led to thoughts of Kinley, which was a little weird. Even the sound of the drill couldn’t block them all out.
I finally called it quits and decided I needed another shower, desperate for anything that would distract me from thoughts of the woman who I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about since New Year’s Eve. I hoped a shower would clear my head because all my mind wanted to think about now was seeing her at that birthday party.
If she was even going to be there.
Maybe I could ask her. We were friends now, right? Friends texted each other. They could casually ask about birthday parties, right?
As I contemplated this in the shower, I recalled the first time I ever felt something more than just sisterly love for Kinley. Out of all the thousands of memories I had of her, it was probably the most vivid because it was, in a sense, one of the most significant moments for me regarding my feelings for her. It had hit me like a brick wall, changing everything, and I’d never forget it. It was my senior year and Kinley was in eighth grade.
“Dude! Get that grenade!”
“He’s coming around the corner. Shoot him, shoot him!”
I was pressing the “X” button on my controller so fast, my finger was starting to cramp up. It was Friday game night over at Clay’s house, so us and a few of our buddies from the baseball team were surrounding the TV in the living room, sodas and chips covering every inch of the coffee table. For once, there weren’t any parties anywhere tonight, so we opted to stay in and game it up.
Clay’s dad walked in through the front door, briefcase in hand and tie askew. He greeted all the guys in the living room and turned to Clay.
“Your sister hasn’t left yet, has she?”
Focused on the game, it took Clay a few seconds to answer. “Uh, no. Mom’s still upstairs helping her ge
t ready.”
Sam nodded and headed upstairs, taking his tie all the way off as he went.
“Helping her get ready for what?” I asked.
“Um…,” Clay started, still distracted by the war breaking out on the television. “She has some dance to go to tonight.”
Must have been the Spring Formal. I remembered going to that when I was in eighth grade. I wore one of Clay’s suits and took Sally Woolford. And she had gotten on my last nerve because she had the most annoyingly high-pitched voice you’d ever heard. I hadn’t really noticed it when I asked her out because I’d been so nervous. We hadn’t gone out again.
“I’m going to get more soda,” I said, making my way to the kitchen. “Anybody want one?”
“Yeah, I’ll take one.”
“Grab me one, too.”
In the kitchen, I grabbed three Dr. Peppers and another bag of chips and started to head back into the living room. I was going through the dining room when she came down the stairs, turning in my direction.
I dropped the bag of chips when my eyes fell on her. The cans of soda almost went down with them.
It was Kinley…but not like I’d ever seen her before.
She was in a green dress, the color of her eyes. Her hair was curled and pulled off her shoulders, exposing her long, slender neck. And her long legs were on full display, the heels she was wearing making them look even more enticing.
Was this the same girl?
The freckle-faced little girl I’d chased around the yard, threatening to throw worms in her hair? The one I had taught how to hold a baseball bat properly? The one I relentlessly teased and pissed off so bad that she would ignore me for days on end? The little sister I never had?
Because she damn sure didn’t look so little anymore. And I sure as hell wasn’t looking at her like any big brother would.
Not that she ever needed it, but the makeup she was wearing made her look much older than her fourteen years, confusing the hell out of me.
This girl standing before me was…stunning.
I could hardly believe what I was seeing.
“Hi, Parker,” she said softly, drawing my eyes back up to her face.
Playing for Kinley (Cruz Brothers Book 1) Page 10
