The Catch

by K. Bromberg

  “What the hell is it, Manny?” All this build-up and he’s still holding on to it.

  “You’ve got a hot-headed temper sometimes. I can only imagine how long you stood in that batting cage last night, breaking bats and smashing balls, to try and calm it some.” I chuckle and open my palms face-up so he can see how right he is. The blisters are cracked and swollen. “I know you better than you think, Wylder.”

  “True.” And it makes me sad how well he does, and how much I’ll miss seeing his ugly mug every day. “But what’s on the paper?”

  “Maybe you shouldn’t be so tough on her, huh?”

  “How do you know I was tough on her?”

  It’s his turn to chuckle then raise his eyebrows at me. His expression saying, I know you better than you think. I roll my eyes as he glances toward the closed door of the locker room before holding up the paper and clearing his throat. “Thank you, gentlemen, for your time. I’d like to give you a rundown of Mr. Wylder’s progress to date . . . ” Manny continues reading Scout’s prepared speech for Cory and with each word, each sentence, the horrible things I said to her last night come trickling back. Yes, I was drunk. Yes, I was angry. But was I really that stupid to think if I pushed her away she wouldn’t look too closely and find the truth?

  Hell no. It’s Scout. She’s gotten to me. Like head-over-heels gotten to me.

  “. . . And so it is my professional opinion that Mr. Wylder is more than ready to return to the active roster. Not only do I think he’s over the fear of reinjuring it, but his dedication to his physical wellness is unrivaled by any other player I’ve rehabilitated thus far in my career.” Manny looks up from the paper and meets my eyes. He doesn’t say anything else, just hands it to me and nods before patting my shoulder.

  I glance down to the paper written in Scout’s penmanship. The all-capital style I’ve gotten used to seeing on her notes.

  “It’ll be the first time in my career I don’t have a ‘Wylder’ on one of these,” he says with a sadness I feel in every bone in my body. He slides the nameplate out above my locker and hands it to me. “It’s going to be strange.”

  No shit.

  And without another word, he walks out of the locker room and leaves me alone. I study the nameplate, turn it over in my hand a few times, and then look at the letter in my other hand.

  I stare at the words on the page until they blur together and my eyes burn.

  What the hell have I done?

  I made a deal with the devil.

  It’s the only thing that repeats in my head. Over and over. Each step on the sidewalk pounds it into my brain. I compromised my morals, gave up a piece of myself, and signed a probationary contract with the Austin Aces and Cory Tillman.

  A man I don’t trust as far as I can throw him and with a team who just screwed over Easton.

  All for my father. To fulfill his desire to end his career with a contract in every major league clubhouse.

  But what about me?

  At what point do I do something for me? When do I face the harsh reality that I’m the one who’s going to be left here all by myself, and family loyalty or not, I still have to live. And he still dies.

  With each step, each thought, I feel more and more alone. My emotions whirl in a kaleidoscope of frenzied thoughts. I feel weak. Cheated. Complicit. And there’s nothing I hate more than a woman who doesn’t stand up for herself . . . and yet I’ve done just that. I’ve sold my soul to the devil, and my heart’s not in it to make it work, even when I know I have to. Family first.

  Add to that, I have no clue how to fix things with Easton. I don’t have a mother or girlfriends to ask for advice, and everything I know about relationships I’ve learned from the male perspective. Unfortunately that doesn’t give me any more insight beyond ignore the person, go drink a beer, and shove the blame onto somebody else. It’s kind of hard to fight for someone when they’re locked in their guarded tower and leaving town soon.

  But he slayed dragons for you.

  And that thought alone has the tears I’m fighting back burning hot by the time I unlock my front door.

  Adding insult to injury, when I enter, everything in my apartment reminds me of Easton. More to the point, the layer of dust and the empty fridge is a stark reminder of how much I’ve been living with him even though neither of us have officially acknowledged it.

  I toss my purse on the couch and wonder how I’m possibly going to accept the outcome of the past twenty-four hours. Can’t I just rewind them? Do them over? I’d gladly welcome the panic I felt when Easton asked me to move in with him instead of this frantic feeling of everything being out of control.

  The ringing of my cell breaks my train of thought. I have a ridiculous glimmer of hope it might be Easton, that he’s calling to tell me he wants to see me before he leaves, but the thought dies quickly as I recall the things he said to me last night.

  But it’s the caller’s name on the phone that freaks me out and has me answering as quickly as possible.

  “Dad?” I’m breathless and chills race over my skin, as the bone deep fear that something has happened to him hits me.

  “So?” It’s all he says and the sudden rush of panic I had turns into a tickle of irritation at the back of my neck.

  “So?” I mimic with a healthy dose of disdain. Why is he calling me? Was yesterday all an act? The don’t talk to me until you get the contract and all that?

  “Did you get the contract?”

  “A probationary one until—”

  “That’s not a contract.”

  Seriously? That’s all he has to say? I grit my teeth and bite back the smartass remark on the tip of my tongue.

  “I’ll be in charge of the Aces’ PT until the end of the season, and then the organization will determine if they want to give me next year’s contract. I’m sorry if that’s not good enough for you.” There’s an unexpected bite to my tone but it’s been a rough few days, and he’s being an ass trying to make me feel like I didn’t fulfill my responsibilities.

  He makes a noncommittal sound on the other end of the line and it only serves to fan the flames of the anger I harbored on my walk home.

  “What’s that sound supposed to mean?”

  “Just disappointed is all.”

  There’s that word again.

  “So what? You’re going to hang up on me now? Not talk to me until late October to see if I get the contract?” Sarcasm laces my tone but everything else is one hundred percent anger. And hurt. I’m so sick of the mind games. So over feeling guilty. So tired of always not feeling good enough.

  “You didn’t fight hard enough.”

  My temper snaps.

  “Fight hard enough?” I screech. “I just made a deal with the devil, Dad. You’ll get your wish. No worries there. You’ll get your contract, but when you’re gone, I’m the one who will have to live with it. Not you. I’m the one who’ll have to work for a total prick who seems to dirty every decision. So you may win, but I’m the one getting screwed.”

  “Ahh, so this does come back to the player after all.”

  “You’re damn right it does. And his name is Easton, not the player. How is it he got screwed over twice in the same situation?”

  “He’s a big boy, Scout. He can take care of himself. Besides, trades are a part of baseball.”

  “A part of baseball?” I shout, throwing my free hand in the air as if he could see it. “That’s the line you’re going to take when it interferes with your damn contract? Because this isn’t the baseball I know. Trading franchise players because they didn’t recover in time isn’t right. It’s shady. And that isn’t the game you taught me. It’s nasty and unfair. It’s—”

  “You know what they say about life and it being fair.” His chuckle rumbles over the line but all I hear is condescension. All I feel is his mockery.

  “This is a person we’re talking about. Someone’s life. It’s not some game.”

  “But it is a game. Clear mind. Hard heart, S
couty-girl.”

  And there’s something about the mantra I’ve heard my whole life—the one repeated to toughen me up, the little girl without a mom in a world full of boys—that doesn’t sit well with me for the first time in as long as I can remember.

  “What if I don’t want a hard heart, Dad? What if I want a full one?” I let my question hang on the line with the rattle of his breathing the only sound. “That may have worked for you. And it may have worked for me growing up to help deal with not having a mom and then again when Ford died, but now . . . now, I want to feel. I want to love. So you can have your hard heart. You can shove your daughter away so you don’t have to see her upset over the fact that you’re dying and you’re all she has left, but that’s crap. You’re denying us both time and moments and memories and laughter. It’s complete bullshit. It’s so selfish on your part that I can’t keep my mouth shut about it any longer.” My voice breaks as I try to catch my breath.

  “That’s not what I’m—”

  “No. You don’t get to disagree with me,” I shout over him like I never have before. My hands tremble and I walk from one side of the room to the other, asking myself what the hell I’m doing, but the hurt is real and raw and I can’t hold it back anymore. “You’re the one robbing me of more so that you don’t have to feel. So that you don’t feel guilty. Screw that. I won’t accept that from you anymore. Death is selfish. And you’re being selfish too. I love you with all my heart. Everything I have is because of you. Everything I am, I owe to you . . . but you know what? Screw you.”

  “Scout.” It’s a guarded warning I don’t heed.

  What’s he going to do? Hang up on me? Probably. So I fight the urge to rein it in and leave the damage where it is. It’s too much, too fast, too out of control, and so when I suck in a deep breath and tell myself to apologize and leave well enough alone, I do the exact opposite.

  “I don’t understand what is going on with you. You’ve never had a selfish bone in your body, and yet now when I need you the most, you’re being selfish. So who do you want to be, Dad? The guy I remember or the one I resent because you were too busy caring about your empire and damn legacy that you didn’t once stop to think that I am your legacy. Me. Your blood. I’m the goddamn one who matters. So maybe you should think about that before you tell me what I did wasn’t good enough or that I didn’t put my family first. I’m only one person, and I’m so damn exhausted trying to make everyone happy. I need to step back and think about what will make me happy for once. Me! The only one who will be left.”

  I end the call and throw my phone onto the kitchen counter without a second thought. I’m so angry, so hurt, so overwhelmed that before I know it, the tears sliding down my cheeks turn into huge, heaving sobs I can’t control. It’s as if everything I’ve been holding in has been let go and the floodgates have opened.

  The worst part? I feel guilty for saying what I said but won’t take any of it back because it’s true. And doesn’t that make me selfish just like I accused him of being? For needing to get that all out so I can make myself feel better?

  I want Easton. The admission makes me cry even harder because I’ve never needed anyone, and now that I do, I don’t know how to get it back. Get him back. What if I can’t make us right again?

  So I cry harder and let all the suppressed emotion slowly slip out with each and every tear. Time passes. The tears slow but don’t stop.

  “Open up, Scout!”

  Easton’s voice rumbles through the closed door and even though every part of me jolts to life at the sound of his voice, it only manages to make the sobs resurface.

  He pounds harder, and I hesitantly make my way to the door. I don’t want him to see me like this and at the same time all I want to do is see him.

  When I swing the door open and see him standing there, I all but break. He looks so weary, so worn out, and the sheer sadness I see in his eyes probably rivals mine.

  “Ea-Ea-ston, I’m-so-sorry,” I hiccup out in an attempt to make this better. I know I can’t, the die has already been cast.

  “No,” he says. I don’t understand why, but I don’t have to because within a heartbeat, he has his arms wrapped around me and is pulling me against him. “No. No. No,” he continues to murmur as the tears come harder.

  I can’t stop them. I try, I really do. I snuggle deeper into him. Memorize the feel of his arms, the rumble of his voice through his chest, the heat of his breath on the top of my head, the sound of his heartbeat beneath my ear, and the scent of his soap. And knowing I somehow had a hand in pushing those everyday things I’ve become used to further away just keeps the anguish coming.

  “I’m so sorry.” I repeat it over and over as he just holds me tighter and keeps telling me no.

  When the heaving sobs have finally subsided some, Easton steps back and frames my face with his hands. Shaking his head ever so subtly, he looks at me with deeply saddened eyes and rubs his thumbs back and forth on my cheeks. The muscle pulses in his jaw. His lips part and then shut as if he’s trying to figure out how to say what he needs to say. Instead of saying anything at all, he leans forward and presses his lips to mine.

  He kisses me with a passion I’ve never felt before. It’s soft and sweet but there’s so much more to it.

  It’s a hello.

  It’s a goodbye.

  It’s an apology.

  It’s a declaration.

  And I do the only thing I’ve ever been able to do when it comes to Easton. I acquiesce. I give him everything I have. Every piece of me. Every part of my heart.

  But this time there’s no panic. There’s no fear he’ll go away because we both know he will, but I’m beginning to feel secure that he’ll come back.

  It’s like in this sudden madness, I’ve found calm.

  I’ve found him.

  I kiss him back as tears slide steadily down my cheeks, the reasons behind them slowly transitioning from sadness over everything with my dad to acceptance and want for more with Easton.

  Our hands slide over each other’s bodies as our tongues dance. The pads of my fingers over his skin reassure. The brush of his thumb along my jawline comforts. The heat of his body against mine calms. The taste of his kiss soothes. It’s like every kiss we’ve ever shared before and nothing like it simultaneously.

  And as if we’re not close enough, Easton wraps his good arm around my waist and tries to lift me so I’m the same height as him without breaking our kiss. I slide my legs around his hips and revel in the feeling of this. Of him. Of the moment where we’re pouring everything we’ve been through over the past few days into this kiss instead of words that can hurt and scar and wound.

  When the kiss ends, he rests his forehead against mine and we stay like this—connected but silent—with my legs around him and my exhale his next breath.

  “East—”

  “No. Shh.” He shakes his head, his forehead moving ever so slightly against mine. “No apologies. No talking. I need you, Scout. Right now, I just need you.”

  I answer the only way I can, by leaning forward and pressing my lips to his. And I’m not sure why I expected there to be urgency between us, but there isn’t. Not when he walks me to my bed and lays me down. Not when we lazily remove our clothes while the sweet seduction of our lips on each other’s continues without pause. Not when he parts my thighs and slips into me.

  The room fills with soft moans and sweet praise as our bodies join and our hearts connect. My hands slide down the hard lines of his torso so I can feel the muscles in his backside as he moves in and out of me.

  No. There is no urgency. I let him take what he needs from me. Pleasure. Satisfaction. A claim. A tether to his life here to reassure himself he has a place to come back to. A home. Something of permanence.

  So we ride that crest, where pleasure burns into ecstasy and lust gives way to love. And with one arm braced on the side of me, Easton leans back and looks me in the eyes for the second time since I opened the door.

  “
I need to watch you,” he murmurs and then grinds into me in a way that feels so good my gasp turns into a moan. His eyes, hazy with lust darken even further. “Come for me, Scout.” Another drive of his hips. Another swell of pleasure. “I need to see what I do to you.” On this thrust he pushes as deep as he can go and pulses so the head of his cock rubs right where I need it the most.

  My hand on his ass digs into the flesh while my other grips tight on his forearm. My orgasm builds slowly, softly, teasing and taunting until there’s no way I can hold it off. So with his eyes on mine, and my body surrendered to his, I come in waves. One after another until all that’s left is the ripple effect of tingling to my fingers and toes.

  When he follows soon after, there is no wild groan I’ve become accustomed to. There is no crazy jerking of his hips. He keeps his eyes on mine as long as he can until he can’t fight it. His eyes close. His face pulls tight. My name is a shuddered moan on his lips.

  And as his orgasm subsides and he rolls onto his back pulling me and gathering me into him, all I can think of is while he may be taking what he needs from me, he has no idea that he’s just given me more than he could ever imagine. I needed this.

  Him.

  Security.

  Love.

  The prospect of having a future with someone.

  We lie there, our heartbeats slowing down, while I try to figure out how to address the elephant in the room that the sex didn’t erase.

  “I saw your comments to the reporters,” I finally say to ease us into the conversation we need to have but don’t want to.

  “And . . .”

  “I think it was smart. You set the tone and even though Cory held his press conference, it is your words that will be heard the loudest. You’ll negate any rumors by coming off as a complete professional who is in love with the city he’s always called home.”

  He chuckles. “Well, I’m glad you think I had that much forethought, but I was only reacting to the question. This city means a lot to me, and it’s going to be weird not wearing an Aces uniform anymore.”