The Catch

by K. Bromberg

  Her pinky stiffens in mine and I know she’s following my train of thought—because it’s her—but she lets my comment settle before speaking. “Felt what?”

  I clear my throat and second-guess myself, but I come up with the same answer I had driving back from my mom’s. “There was a moment before the cameras turned on when I was sitting in that booth looking at the field before me. The energy in the air . . . and that magic—the feeling I thought was isolated to being on the field as a player before a game started—I felt it, Scout.”

  “The magic,” she whispers as she steps into me and slides her arms around my waist.

  And after the day I’ve had, this, her, is what I need. The way she understands me. The way she doesn’t push me but does. The silent reassurance. We stand like this for a moment. Me breathing her in and coming to terms with the fact that she’s one helluva woman, and I do deserve her.

  “There’s more,” she murmurs and presses a kiss to my shoulder. “What are you not telling me?”

  And there she goes again. Stealing my thoughts when I believed it was only my heart she’d stolen.

  “What if I blew my one shot, Scout? I’ve never thought of life after baseball—it’s always been the focus of everything—but when it ends, do you know what I’d give to have a career where I can still feel that magic? To have the opportunity to remain a part of baseball? What if being a sportscaster is that chance and I just fucked it up because I can’t read?” Frustrated that I’m not explaining myself very well, I step away from Scout and pace to the far side of the room before turning and facing her. “God, that sounds pathetic, but—”

  “No, it doesn’t,” she says as she takes a step toward me. “It sounds mature and intelligent.”

  “You’re making me sound like an old man.” I chuckle, suddenly uncomfortable. It’s one thing to think about life after baseball, but it’s another thing to actively consider it. When there is no more showing up to the ballpark. No more locker room bullshit with the guys. No more jogging onto the field with the feeling of my gear clinking together at the knees. No more figuring out how to get my opponent at the plate to strike out.

  “I think it’s brilliant actually.”

  That comment stops the hand running through my hair. “What do you mean?”

  “Fox Sports is still looking for their postseason commentator. What if you asked for another shot?”

  This time my laugh is long and rich. “You actually think they’d give me another shot? You have seen the fallout on social media, haven’t you?”

  “Yes, I have. But what if Finn goes to them, explains the truth or if you’re uncomfortable with that makes some reasonable excuse, and gets you a second chance.”

  The thought of having to tell Finn the truth, let alone the powers that be at Fox Sports, makes me want to choke on the air I’m breathing. I can stand in a stadium full of sixty thousand fans and not flinch, but this—people knowing my truth—makes my stomach churn.

  “You’re missing the biggest point of all.”

  “And that is?”

  “I still can’t read. I still can’t decipher as quickly as the teleprompter scrolls, and it would just end up . . .” Jesus Christ. The thought alone drives me to walk into the kitchen and grab a beer from the refrigerator.

  “Then Helen and I can spend double time teaching you. Trying to train your brain into seeing the words straight.” She follows me into the kitchen, her voice insistent and tinged with optimism. “We practice, and we ask for the script ahead of time, and we make it work, Easton. Because you were hiding this before, you were only getting minimal studying in, but now, with me knowing and with you having downtime with your recovery, you don’t have to hide anymore in your own home. And then once you nail it—because I have faith you will—you can choose whether to explain the truth to people about what happened the first go-round. Those kids, the ones who are scared to death they’re going to be made fun of, will realize it’s going to be okay. Their hero is just like them.”

  “Scout, I don’t know . . .”

  “I know you don’t. And you might not see it for a while . . . but I can’t imagine the pressure you’ve felt, having to hide this for so long. Can you imagine what it would feel like if you didn’t have to hide anymore? The pressure to be something you’re not would be gone.”

  I hate that the idea both excites me and scares the ever-loving shit out of me. I appreciate her unwavering faith in me. But more than anything I hate hearing the hope in her voice when I know I’ll most likely let her down. But . . . she loves the parts of me that no one else has known how to. Is that enough?

  Staring at her expectant eyes, the panic I’ve lived with my whole life resurfaces with a vengeance. I can tell the minute she sees it because she smiles softly and presses a soft kiss to my lips.

  “I’m sorry. I know how capable and incredible you are. I know your fears are real and valid, but so is possibility. That’s all I’ll say. I won’t bring it up again.”

  God, I love this woman and her rose-colored glasses.

  Even at my worst, she still sees the best in me.

  What the hell is he doing here?

  I hang up the phone on Alec downstairs in the lobby and wait in my foyer for the elevator to ascend and the doors to open.

  And when they do slide open I’m greeted by the hulking figure standing there. The man I was intimidated by as a child when I went to work with my dad. The man I’ve grown to respect as an adult playing for his team.

  “Mr. Boseman,” I say as he walks off the elevator and gives a cursory look around before shaking my extended hand.

  “Easton. Good to see you.”

  “Likewise.” I hate that my hopes surge momentarily from his unprecedented house call, but know there’s no way in hell he’s coming to offer me my job back. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

  “May I come in for a moment?” he asks, already walking into the open space, a man not used to waiting for others.

  “Yes, please.” I follow him and wonder what’s going on.

  He walks toward the wall of windows and spends a moment taking in the sight as most do. His hands are in his pockets, his suit jacket pulled tight over his shoulders, and he wears cowboy boots on his feet. He looks every part the oil tycoon that he is, less the cowboy hat that has left an indentation on his salt-and-pepper hair but is nowhere to be seen.

  “Quite a view,” he says with a nod as he turns around and faces me. We look at each other for a moment before he speaks. “I’ve done a lot of business dealings in my time, Easton. Some I’m proud of. Some I’ve been extremely successful at. A few that didn’t sit well with me.”

  “Okay.” I draw the word out, knowing that Ted Boseman likes to set the stage when he’s working toward making a point.

  “How long have I known you?” he asks before answering it himself. “Most your life?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “I think of you like family. I think of all my players like family but you especially. In saying that, I hope you’ll hear me when I say that what Tillman did to you is one of those things that didn’t sit well with me.”

  “Thank you, sir.” What else can I say?

  “I was off pretending I was on Survivor in the Amazon trying to stave off a second midlife crisis, and he was here trying to screw up my organization.” He clears his throat and looks back toward the stadium below. “I hired him because of his reputation. I’ve been preoccupied with business the past two years and things got a little out of hand in the front office. I talked to some fellow owners and heard about Cory Tillman and how he was able to cut costs and streamline other organizations. Trimmed the fat, if you will, as is needed every so often when running a business. I ignored the pissed-off players he had traded—their talk of him being unethical—and chalked it up to them being angry at being uprooted.”

  “Understandable,” I say feeling like I need to participate in this one-sided conversation.

  “As you know, I hir
ed him. I gave him a budget I wanted him to be under and the authority to cut where he thought things needed to be cut to hit it. I even dangled a Texas-sized bonus for him if he could hit my budget by season’s end. But see, that was where I was shortsighted and preoccupied elsewhere. You don’t give a man carte blanche and then not expect him to cut your franchise player to make it easier to hit that budget in one fell swoop. Your salary is . . . was one of our largest. Our pockets are nowhere as deep as say, the Yankees, and so by trading you and bringing a catcher in at half the price, the budget becomes lower and that bonus a lot more attainable for Tillman.”

  “I appreciate you telling me,” I say but don’t understand why he’s coming forward now and saying all of this. What has changed?

  “Upon my return and hearing your agent’s numerous messages, I was enlightened on the many things Tillman had done in my absence. Things that my other managers should have caught but didn’t. Ethically questionable things. I called around to the other organizations he’s worked for, spoke to the players who had been traded, and their answers—the ones I should have listened to originally—pissed me off.” He runs a hand through his hair before taking a seat on the edge of the couch. “Why didn’t you come to me after he made you sign those addendums when you were first hurt?”

  Uncomfortable, I shift my feet. Do I tell him the truth? Admit that I can’t read for shit and so I pulled Finn from pursuing it with him? That doesn’t exactly make me look too bright. “You hired him so I figured you knew what was going on. It doesn’t exactly look professional to complain to the owner when you don’t like the new boss.”

  When I turn back around, his lips are pursed and he’s sitting with his elbows on his knees and hands.

  “I let Tillman go today. I had to pay a pretty penny to buy him out of his contract, but I couldn’t let him ruin my organization any more than he already has.”

  His admission may stagger me, but it’s a lot too late. For me, anyway.

  “I can’t say I disagree with your decision,” I finally say.

  His laugh rumbles as he shakes his head. “I didn’t think you would, son. I know it doesn’t change the fact that you’re still a Wrangler.” He spits the word out as if it’s almost hard for him to mention our rival. “And I apologize to you for that. But it’s important to me that you know if I ever get the chance to rectify that clusterfuck and bring you home, I will.”

  He rises to his feet and takes a step toward me, hand outreached to mine. I shake it. “Thank you.”

  “What I’d give to have you back and Santiago gone,” he murmurs as he makes his way to the door, “but contracts are contracts and I can’t force other teams to negate theirs too. I don’t think the Wranglers would take too kindly to me trying to steal you back, but God knows I’ll try in the future.” He turns to look at me one last time. “Sorry for the house call, but I thought you deserved this apology in person.”

  I’ve said thank you enough times I feel like a broken record, so I don’t say anything at all. Rather, I nod my head and accept an apology I never expected to get.

  It takes a lot for a man to face his mistakes head-on.

  I should know.

  Holy shit.

  Boseman really did it. That’s my recurring thought as I lean against the wall outside the locker room to gather my thoughts after the phone call I received. Sure I need to call Easton—let him know if Boseman hasn’t already himself—but first I need a few seconds to process the ramifications.

  What this might mean for me and what it means to Easton.

  A crowded clubhouse is not exactly the place I can do that. And as if on cue, hooting and hollering rings through the closed door as it opens and closes. The sound startles me into action. I need to get my things and head home so I can celebrate with Easton this come-to-Karma moment with him.

  Right when I grab the handle to pull open the locker room door, I’m startled to see two sets of shoulders hunched over, as they talk about something in hushed tones. Cal and Santiago. What the? Cal sees me first—wide eyes and mouth shocked into an O—and before he can say a thing, I slip into the locker room, uncomfortable and confused about whatever they’re talking about. Again.

  It’s none of your business. Just grab your bag and phone and head home.

  But I can’t stop thinking about them and what they could be discussing. Then again, Cal works for the Aces. He could be telling Santiago the same news I just received. Tillman is gone, and he better watch his back.

  But the thought doesn’t sit right with me. Wouldn’t Cal wait and let Santiago find out once Boseman makes an official announcement?

  “Boys, let’s hope like hell the Tampa score stays where it is because then it’s a done deal.” JP whoops, getting a rise out of the guys and shocking me from overthinking something that’s probably nothing to begin with. Wondering who Santiago talks to doesn’t deserve another second of my time.

  “Playoffs, here we come,” Riddell shouts to a raucous set of cheers.

  “Great game tonight, guys,” I add to the conversation as I enter my office, grab my backpack, and head out as quickly as I went in.

  “You gonna come watch the rest of the Tampa game with us at Sluggers? Let’s call East to meet us there, and we can celebrate.”

  “I’m not sure what his plans are,” I say, although I know damn well he’s not ready to face the public yet after the Fox debacle. Then again, maybe he’ll want to celebrate with his ex-teammates after I tell him the good news. “I’ll check when I get home.”

  “You know when she says it like that,” Drew teases, “it means bow-chicka-wow-wow time.”

  “Oh please.” I roll my eyes and laugh.

  “Nah. I doubt it.” Santiago’s voice rings loud and clear. He must have come into the locker room when I was in my office. I keep walking to the exit, determined to not let him ruin my good mood. “Easton’s too busy licking his wounds after making a royal ass of himself on TV the other night. Uh. Uh. Duh. Uh,” he stutters, mocking Easton.

  The ass. My feet falter. My anger riots.

  “Fuck off, Santiago.” I think that’s Tino. Or maybe JP. I’m not sure because I’m too busy seeing red.

  “You can’t hide stupid.” He follows the comment by a sarcastic laugh that grates on every one of my nerves. “That says a lot about your standards, Scout.”

  “Don’t,” I shout to Drew and his clenched fists. The last thing he needs with the playoffs looming is a team suspension for beating the shit out of Santiago.

  But I’m done. So fucking done with Santiago’s shitty comments. Good thing the suspension caveat doesn’t apply to me.

  “Hey, Santiago,” I say loud enough to draw attention and shock the shit out of the guys. Towels stop drying and shirts get yanked over heads as I step up onto the bench. “Does this shtick really work for you? How you keep bad-mouthing the guy who was here before you to distract others from the fact that your numbers will never match his? You could only wish to hold his stats. I mean, there’s a reason your contract is half the amount of Easton’s. Does that eat at you? You and your big-ass ego? How much longer do you think that’s going to fly? Do you think once Boseman finds a new general manager he’ll put up with this?” I love the shocked look on his face. The startled heads of the guys around me. I guess I just made the announcement myself. “Oh, did you not know that? My bad. I thought that’s what Cal was just warning you about in the hallway. Yeah. Your time is limited here. Boseman fired Tillman. Yep. The only person in your corner in this organization is now gone.” My smile is smug as I shake my head in disgust. “So if you want to talk about being stupid, you might want to look in the mirror considering you’ve gone out of your way to not make friends here. And oops, the one friend you did suck up to is gone.”

  He takes a few steps toward me, his shoulders proud, his body language defensive, his face a mask of indifference. I know damn well I got to him and his sensitive ego. “You’re a bitch, you know that?”

  The guys r
ustle around me with clenched fists. I don’t need punches thrown in here when reporters are right outside. Not on my behalf.

  I jump off the bench and step up to him. Sure he has a foot on me in height and an easy fifty pounds in weight, but I’m so sick of his shit, I don’t care. “I may be a bitch, but you’re a wanna-be,” I grit out. “It must kill you to want to be just like the man you’ll never hold a goddamn candle to. You’ve tried taking him out, you’ve tried taking his spot, and lo and behold he’s still better than you. That must really eat at you. His talent trumps your mediocrity any day.”

  The muscle in his jaw ticks and every part of him bristles at my words that hit a little too close to home. He steps into me, threatening me with his physical size. The guys take a step closer but I don’t move. I just stare at Santiago, refusing to back down. There are advantages to being raised among men, after all.

  “Touch me. Pretty please. I dare you to try it because I bet Boseman will forgive each and every one of them for beating the shit out of you if you lay a hand on me. He’s a gentleman like that.”

  He just stares, Adam’s apple bobbing as he reins in his temper and the buttons I purposely pushed before taking a step back.

  “Coward,” I mutter. One last button to press. The asshole deserves it.

  He ruined my good mood.

  “Scout?” He knows already. The excitement and all-around carefree sound in his voice tells me. “Did you hear?”

  He meets me with a glass of wine and swift kiss as I come into the kitchen. I laugh as his good hand tries to roam freely over my ass.

  “I did. I got the call right before I left.”

  “Son of a bitch deserves it.”

  “He does.” I nod and take a sip, hiding my own concerns. “And did.”

  We’re reviewing the moves Mr. Tillman made during his time in the position. He let a lot of people go and opened up the club to lawsuits, Ms. Dalton. Your position and probationary contract will be under review as well.