The Catch

by K. Bromberg

  The Catch

  By K. Bromberg

  Copyright © 2017 K. Bromberg

  ISBN: 978-1-942832-05-8

  Published by JKB Publishing, LLC

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or establishments is solely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT

  PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF K. BROMBERG

  OTHER BOOKS BY K. BROMBERG

  DEDICATION

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  EPILOGUE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF K. BROMBERG

  “A homerun! The Player is riveting, sexy and pulsing with energy. And I can’t wait for The Catch!”

  —#1 New York Times bestselling author Lauren Blakely

  “K Bromberg does it again! The Player is everything you want in a romance; sexy, sweet, and amazingly perfect.”

  —USA Today bestselling author KL Grayson

  “An irresistibly hot romance that stays with you long after you finish the book.”

  —# 1 New York Times bestselling author Jennifer L. Armentrout

  “Captivating, emotional, and sizzling hot!”

  —#1 New York Times bestselling author S. C. Stephens

  “Bromberg is a master at turning up the heat!”

  —New York Times bestselling author Katy Evans

  “K. Bromberg is the master of making hearts race and pulses pound.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Jay Crownover

  “Sexy, heartwarming, and so much more.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Corinne Michaels

  “Super charged heat and full of heart. Bromberg aces it from the first page to the last.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Kylie Scott

  OTHER BOOKS BY K. BROMBERG

  Driven

  Fueled

  Crashed

  Raced

  Aced

  Slow Burn

  Sweet Ache

  Hard Beat

  Down Shift

  Sweet Cheeks

  Sweet Rivalry

  UnRaveled

  The Player

  To the hopeless romantics:

  Someday you’ll find someone who will love the parts of you that no one else knows how to love.

  What did I just do?

  My hands tremble.

  Not only to Easton, but to me too.

  I clasp them to hide it from the men before me.

  To the promise I made my dad.

  Chills tighten my scalp. Pull on my hair. Twist my heart. My stomach churns and bile claws its way up my throat.

  The clock. The hand keeps moving. Minutes pass by. But I feel like time stopped with my heart when I spoke those words. Easton isn’t one hundred percent ready to return and be reinstated to the lineup. He’s not going to meet your deadline.

  The shocked expressions. The wide eyes. The sudden scooting out of Cory’s chair as he left the room, fingers dialing his cell, leaving me with nothing but hope that I did the right thing when every part within me riled against it. Told me I was wrong. That I misinterpreted what I saw.

  And yet I knew what I saw.

  Then the questions began.

  Each minute that passes causing more doubt to break through and crack my certainty.

  The damn unending questions.

  The list of people I’m letting down growing with each passing moment.

  Having to talk about Easton when all I want to do is get to him. See him. Explain to him. Touch him so I could soothe the discord.

  Having to explain why I failed. Why Doc Dalton’s team failed.

  The hands on the clock continue to tick. Seconds turns into minutes. Minutes I want to take back.

  Minutes I can’t get back.

  Cory, back in the room now, whispers with the man next to him while the others around the table stare at me. Waiting. Gauging. Wondering.

  The door shoves open. The sound of it banging against the wall ricochets around the room but has nothing on the slamming of my heart against my rib cage.

  He already knows.

  For a split second our eyes meet. I see the hurt. The anger. The questions.

  And he doesn’t even know I’m the one who caused this to happen.

  “Easton.” His name is a shocked plea asking for forgiveness when my guilty conscience screams at him that it’s my fault, but just as soon as our eyes meet, he shakes his head.

  “Don’t.” It’s all he says, the warning is as clear as the disgust in his expression.

  I’m shell-shocked. From the events. From seeing him. From having to face what I just did. And before I can process what to say to him in front of these men, he speaks.

  “A trade? A fucking trade?” His voice reverberates in the small space and commands the attention of the men sitting at the table. He’s standing there, his warm-up gear still on, and his expression a mask of disbelief. “I gave my career to this organization. I’ve turned down bigger deals, flashier contracts to go to other teams, and this is how you repay my loyalty?” His laugh holds anything but amusement. “Well, fuck you, Cory. Fuck you and whatever you’re trying to do here.”

  “I’m just trying to run a team, Mr. Wylder.” Cory’s voice is calm and even but the hint of condescension in it scrapes over my skin.

  “Run a team . . . or ruin a team?” Easton takes a step closer, shoulders square, posture threatening. His finger pounds on the desk with each word he speaks. “You think this is how you treat players and then expect them to win a World Series so you can collect your nice little bonus? Think again.”

  “Good luck with your future team.” Cory gives him a dismissing nod.

  Easton seethes. Understandably. His anger s
o palpable it suffocates the room.

  I wait with blood on my hands and guilt in my heart.

  “You’re a heartless son of a bitch, you know that?” Easton sneers as his hands fist at his sides.

  “Then you’ll be happy you won’t have to work for me anymore. Good day, Mr. Wylder.”

  No one in the room moves as the two men glare at each other. One a picture of calm arrogance and the other a ball of restrained fury.

  Several tense seconds pass where I question whether Easton is going to unleash that fury on Cory. Just when I’m convinced he will, Easton shakes his head ever so slowly as he meets the eyes of everyone else in the room but mine, before he turns on his heel and stalks from the room.

  My heart leaves with him.

  My feet desperately want to as well. I fight the urge to do just that—get up, run after him, explain—but I can’t. I have to be a professional—one who is the face of a business and not a woman who fears she just screwed over the man she loves.

  Loves?

  Loves.

  Holy shit. I really do love him.

  “Sorry about the interruption, Ms. Dalton,” Cory says distracting me from my revelation and pulling my attention back to the matter at hand. In their eyes I didn’t fulfill my contract and therefore failed to achieve my father’s final wish.

  Cory keeps talking but I don’t hear him.

  I see the hurt in Easton’s eyes.

  I hear his voice in my ears.

  What. Would. You. Do. Scout?

  The answer, Easton?

  I’d sacrifice me to save you.

  I just did.

  I can only hope he sees it the same way.

  The opening notes of Guns N’ Roses fill the stadium above me and the song’s introduction—the music I’ve heard every time I’ve hit this field during my career—are like salt in the wound.

  Welcome to the jungle . . .

  What the hell is happening?

  I need to get the fuck out of here.

  I can’t breathe.

  I want to punch something.

  I can’t think with the song reminding me where I should be right now—on the field—or of the team’s jersey I’ve worn since I was a kid that I won’t be wearing anymore.

  I jog down the empty corridors desperate to be free of what suddenly feels like a concrete prison trying to hold me back and deny me the things I love.

  “It’s true then.”

  His words stop me in my tracks. “Did you know?” Accusation owns my voice and I don’t give a fuck, because every part of me is begging him to say no and for me to believe him.

  “No.”

  I got the answer I wanted. I stare at him, wanting to believe him. Needing to know that for once I was bigger than the game to him, and yet I ask him again. “No?”

  “You don’t believe me?” The pitch of his voice escalates.

  “Yes. No. Fuck.” I walk a few feet from him, lift my hat to run a hand through my hair, and exhale for what feels like the first time in the last hour. I turn around to face him, hands out, eyes pleading. “What the hell, Dad?”

  It’s an open-ended question asking how this happened. I know it and yet I want him to answer it because I’m at a goddamn loss and haven’t even begun to process my new reality yet.

  The national anthem begins to play and for the first time in my life while wearing a uniform, I don’t remove my hat and put my hand over my heart. I just don’t have it in me.

  “What team?” His voice sounds as solemn as I feel.

  “No clue. Finn’s on his way to get answers.” I chuckle but it sounds empty.

  “Why wasn’t Finn in there?” His eyes narrow to match the confusion in his voice.

  “Your guess is as good as mine.” I walk a few feet and then turn back around to face him. “They traded me, but we have no goddamn clue to what team yet . . . so what does that tell you?”

  His brow narrows, and he continues to watch me, his mind running over the same shit mine has on an endless loop. “That Cory didn’t expect to initiate a trade.”

  “Bingo,” I shout, smacking my hands together. “So what the fuck is going on, Dad?”

  “It’s going to be okay, Easton.” His sounds less than convinced.

  I glare at him with so much to say, but with a mind so messed up I can’t find the words to express it.

  The crowd roars in my heaven above and echoes down to the hell I’m currently in. The wall looks so damn tempting to punch.

  Even though it’s made of cinderblock.

  I pace back and forth as the soundtrack to my life plays in the stadium around me. A place I no longer belong.

  I’ve gotta get the fuck out of here before I do something I’ll regret.

  Fuck this.

  “I’m outta here.”

  “We need time to consider where your contract falls into play after this unexpected turn of events. Let’s reconvene tomorrow morning at eight, after I’ve conferred with my colleagues.”

  Numb.

  That’s all I felt during Cory’s hour-long inquisition on why Easton wasn’t at one hundred percent. Lies. My responses were all lies but they were the only things I could say to support my findings.

  Empty.

  Throwing up in the bathroom. The nerves finally winning. My struggle to hold on instead of upending the lunch I’d shared with Easton earlier onto the conference table.

  Bone-tired.

  Rushing through the maze of hallways in the stadium. Somewhere above the mass of concrete a game plays on. Little boys with their dads. Families on an outing together. First dates. Happy times.

  The game he was supposed to make his return in.

  All I can think about is Easton.

  Getting to him.

  Talking to him.

  Needing his approval that I did the right thing.

  I push redial again. His name flashes on the screen but it’s his voicemail that answers. Not him.

  I thought I was going to turn our lives upside down today but in a totally different way. He’d be traveling with the team on road trips. I’d be here rehabbing the injured guys. The everyday routine we’d gotten used to would be thrown up in the air and turned around. We’d have to figure out a new norm, but at least we’d be in the same place, working for the same team.

  Not in a million years did I imagine we’d be doing this from different cities.

  I’m startled by the bright sunlight when I emerge from the tunnels out to the gated parking lot for the players and staff. I’m so exhausted, so disoriented emotionally, that it feels like it should be midnight. Just as I reach my car, my phone rings. Desperate to speak with him, I answer without looking. “Easton!” His name is a rush of air.

  “What the hell happened in there, Scout?”

  He knows.

  “Dad.” Every part of me sags in defeat. While my dad is the one person I should be worried about the most, I’ve been furiously dialing Easton instead of calling him to explain what happened.

  “I’m hearing rumors. What the hell happened in there?”

  My feet and words falter knowing I have to tell him I’m not exactly sure. It feels surreal to me.

  “It’s a long story,” I begin as I climb into my car and continue to tell him the short version of it, knowing how damn ridiculous it sounds even to my own ears.

  When I finish, the line falls into an oppressive silence that weighs as heavy on me as the Austin heat beating through the windshield of my car.

  “I’m disappointed.” His deep baritone rumbles through the line followed by the frail wheeze of his breath.

  Strength covering the devastating weakness beneath.

  Kind of like how I feel.

  “I did what I thought was right.” My voice is barely a whisper when I speak, and tears threaten after hearing those two words every child hates hearing their parent say, I’m disappointed.

  “What was right, though?” he asks. “Right for you or right for Easton?”

  �
��Dad—”

  “People—men especially—will come and go in your life but family will always be there. You need to take care of what’s yours first. Always.”

  The sting of his words is brutal and right now I hate him for them. I hate him for making me question what I did. For questioning my loyalty to both men in my life.

  My stomach heaves, but I don’t say a word.

  “Lying is one of the quickest ways to ruin a relationship,” he says and has no clue how much those words squeeze my heart since I fear I just ruined two relationships. Easton’s and mine with the Aces.

  “It’s not what—”

  “I asked you for one thing, Scout. Don’t call me back until you tell me you’ve done it.”

  “What?” I screech as the panic sets in. “Wait! Don’t hang up. How? I mean—what am I sup—?”

  “You go back in there tomorrow and you get the damn contract. You fight for what’s ours and you don’t let them push you around,” he says with conviction before being overcome by a violent coughing fit.

  “Are you ok—?”

  “You mixed business with pleasure, Scout. You risked the contract by letting your emotions get in the way. Fix this and secure next year’s contract. Don’t call me until you have.”

  The line goes silent and I’m left sitting in my car with my phone to my ear, tears streaming down my face, and doubt owning my soul. I have no clue how to process the last two hours.

  Did I really just jeopardize fulfilling my dad’s last wish by putting Easton before him?

  “What did I do?” I whisper as I squeeze my eyes closed and drop my head back on the headrest to try and shut everything out for a few minutes. It’s futile. The look on Easton’s face when he barged into the conference room and the echo of my dad’s words in my ears are etched in my mind.

  And if rumors are already flying, I need to get to Easton and explain to him the what and the why before the wrong information gets to him. The adrenaline of the moment has worn off. It’s given way to the fear that I royally screwed everything up and no one’s going to forgive me.

  Get it together, Scout.