Riley got up and skittered away, her brown hair covering her mortified face as she rushed out of the room.
“Brenna, sit,” Nina said, gesturing to the chair that Riley had vacated. I sat down too quickly and winced.
“Watch this, please,” Nina said. She turned her laptop toward me and pulled up a video, making it fill the entire screen. When she pressed play, I frowned.
“This is outside of Yankee Stadium,” I said.
Nina shushed me, holding a finger in front of her mouth. It was obviously surveillance footage – and for a few seconds, I wondered what she wanted me to see. Then I saw grainy figures – myself and Rhett Bradshaw – walk into focus. Nina turned the volume up, and Rhett’s screaming caused me to jump an inch off my upholstered seat. I’d never heard him raise his voice like that. To a woman.
And that woman was me.
“How the fuck do you sleep at night, knowing you’re trying to ruin my life?” Rhett yelled. I watched his on-screen face turn red with anger. “You’re not a journalist, you’re a bulldog.”
“It’s not like I made that up,” I yelled back. “You give me plenty of fodder for ruining your life. You make your own choices. You’re just lucky I leave most of it out. You force me to report about you.”
“You need to back the fuck off,” Rhett said in a huff, his hands flailing through the air. Then, he crossed his arms over his muscular chest. “Can’t you find a new hobby or something? Christ, find some other poor schmuck to rake over the coals.”
“None of them are as interesting as you,” I snapped. “You make it too easy, Rhett Bradshaw. As a journalist, you think I can walk by the low hanging fruit without snapping it off the vine?”
Nina reached down and paused the video. She looked at me.
“Brenna, I’m only going to ask you this once, and you better be honest with me. Have you been in a relationship with Rhett the whole time you’ve been writing hit pieces on him?”
I shook my head, shock and awe clouding my judgment. Even though my memory still hadn’t fully returned, seeing the video jogged something in my brain. I remembered that day. Hell, if I closed my eyes, I could practically feel myself there now. Rhett had confronted me after the first of many hit pieces came out…and here it was, caught on video.
“No,” I said. “I didn’t start…” I trailed off, blushing. “Nothing happened between Rhett and me until after my head injury.”
Nina nodded. She enlarged the video, then pointed to a date at the bottom of the screen. “This is the Yankees’ surveillance footage for the day after the piece was released,” she said. “And provided you didn’t stage this argument, it proves that Riley Buxton was lying about your involvement with Rhett Bradshaw.”
I nodded again.
“Trust me,” Rhett said. “It wasn’t staged.” He looked very sober, sitting there with a baseball cap twisted between his hands. He faced Nina, acting like I wasn’t even in the room.
“Okay,” Nina said. She sighed, closing her laptop and sitting behind her desk. “Brenna, I’d like to ask you to come back to Sport Taste.”
My jaw dropped. “What? Really?”
Nina nodded. “Yes. Although, I would like you to take some time for yourself first. Maybe take a trip, you know, I want that brain to be working again. I was thinking, how about if you start back up with us next month? You’ll be paid for the time you don’t work,” she added. “I don’t want you to feel punished. None of this is your fault. I’m sorry I wasn’t as understanding of the nature of your injury as I should have been as your boss. I hope you’ll forgive me.”
I nodded quickly. Tears welled in my eyes, and I blinked them away, not wanting to cry in front of my tough as nails editor.
Nina nodded again. “I think I can speak for all of us when I say that we’re glad to have you back. You’re an asset to this publication and to the New York Yankees. In spite of what anyone else might think.” She gave Rhett a pointed look.
“I…thank you, so much,” I said with a breathless sigh. “This is such a relief.”
“I can understand that.” Nina gave me a rare smile. “Now, why don’t you go get started on planning that trip for yourself, hmm?”
“Thank you again,” I said as I stood, wiping my palms on my skirt.
“Of course.” Nina glanced at her watch. “And if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a meeting to run to. Dani!” She grabbed a pen and a pad of paper and darted from the room, leaving a cloud of Yves Saint Laurent Opium in her wake.
When I got up to leave, I frowned. Rhett had somehow slipped out of the room while I’d been bemused over Nina’s sudden about face. Part of me felt relieved that he’d left me alone with my thoughts and emotions, but another part of me wished that he’d hung around.
Sport Taste buzzed with loud conversation when I emerged from Nina’s office. As I walked through the cubicle farm, a couple of people stood up and clapped, or patted me on the shoulder. I smiled self-consciously. It felt good to be back home, even if I wouldn’t be returning to work for another month or so.
I felt dazed as I walked out of the office and waited for the elevator. Almost surreal, like a dream that wouldn’t allow you to wake up before it’s over. I even pinched myself – as embarrassing as that was to admit. It hurt too, so I grinned. This is all going to work out. Finally!
Just as the elevator doors dinged open, the door to Sport Taste opened. I frowned – was Nina going to come running after me and tell me that she’d made a mistake? That she just didn’t want to fire me in front of all those people?
When I spun to look, I saw Riley carrying a cardboard box of her things while flanked by two beefy security guards. When she saw me, her cheeks flushed red, and she dropped her gaze to the floor.
“Hi, Riley,” I said casually, not able to resist the barb that she so richly deserved. “Taking a leave of absence?” I cocked my head to the side and gave her an innocent smile. Direct hit. “Need to get a few things straightened out in your head?”
Riley’s brown eyes blazed angry fire. “Fuck you,” she muttered.
Just then, the elevator doors opened, and the guards hustled her inside. One of them held his hand between the doors. The bitch didn’t even have the good grace to look resigned to her fate or sorry about what she’d done. Piece of garbage. I hoped she’d rot as a waitress in a cheap diner and never work in journalism again.
“Hey, you coming?” the guard asked with a sweep of his hand inside the car.
I grinned at Riley. “No thanks,” I said with a smile. “I’ll wait for the next one.”
As the doors pinged closed, I didn’t wish her well.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Rhett
“Okay, listen!” Don grabbed me, Andy, and Ernie in the dugout. “We have to win this game, you hear?” His face turned red with anger. “We’re the fuckin’ laughingstock of the MLB right now. We have a legacy to uphold. And you’re fucking it all up. The front office keeps calling me and riding my ass. Just last night, some little bastard fan came up to me and said I’m getting so old that soon I’d die and my autograph would be worth something. Do you nimrods want me to die without a damn World Series?”
I clamped my eyes shut against the onslaught because I knew it was a rhetorical question.
Don glared at me. “Whatever issues you got goin’ on, Bradshaw, you gotta work that shit out!”
“I know.”
Don clapped Ernie and me on the back. “Knock ‘em dead,” he hissed as we jogged out onto the field. Ernie and I made eye contact, and he gave me a little salute. If nothing else happened today, Ernie would call and catch my pitches as well as being my major partner in crime and support on the field.
I took a deep breath as I reached the pitching mound. I knew I had to pull myself out of this slump and start pitching like the MVP of the fucking league.
But that proved impossible with Brenna Sinclair still bouncing around in my head.
The crowd cheered and went wild as I swung my ar
m back, getting ready to pitch a curve. It was the top of the first inning, in the first series of games with the San Diego Padres – normally an incredibly easy opponent. You can do this, Bradshaw, I told myself, gripping the ball so tightly that the feeling drained out of my fingers. Just a little curve – you got this, man.
I held my breath as I wound back and lifted my leg off the mound, throwing my body forward and using all of my energy to hurl the ball toward Ernie’s open glove. I imagined the perfect curve that I wanted the ball to follow.
Crack!
The Padre had smacked the ball into the outfield, and he was currently running around the bases, grinning like a smug fool. Anger swelled in my chest, and I cursed, kicking the mound until my ineptitude became hidden in a cloud of dirt and dust.
“Fuck!” I yelled again, kicking the ground even harder, knowing the television cameras had probably captured my f-bomb, and I’d be featured on the bloopers reel for ESPN. Don’s stepping up from the dugout, all flailing limbs and flapping lips set the fear of God into me. Shit, I thought. Now, I’m really in for it.
After getting out of the inning with only the solo homer, Ernie whistled and jabbed me in the arm with his elbow as we ran toward the dugout. He raised his eyebrows and smirked as he threw a blanket over my shoulder to keep it warm. I appreciated the effort but since Don was about to send me to the showers, who gave a shit if I stayed loose?
“Man, you gotta get back in that thick head of yours,” Ernie said. He licked his lips and grinned. “Or else Ernesto Garcia is gonna find out what it feels like to be a star pitcher.” He accompanied his joke with a practice throw from his gangly arm.
I groaned. “You’re not tall enough, dipshit,” I muttered. “Your arm may be strong, but you need speed and power to pitch a three-digit fastball. I just need to get back in the game, that’s all.”
“Where the fuck you at, Bradshaw?” Don threw his clipboard to the ground where it clattered in angry skips across the dirt. “A fucking solo home run on a curveball? Cause you sure as fuck aren’t at Yankee Goddamn Stadium!”
“I’m sorry, I’m–”
“I don’t want to hear your fucking bullshit apology!” Don roared. “You make millions of dollars. Take this shit seriously, or you’re out! You hear me, Bradshaw? Out!”
“I know, I–”
“Don’t fucking patronize me,” Don hissed. “You’re out right now. But you’ll keep your pussy ass on the bench and support your teammates that can get their job done!”
I nodded and sighed, rolling my eyes as I slumped against the wall, favoring my pitching arm. Don called the bullpen, and one of the relief pitchers started warming up. I groaned as I watched him wind up and pitch a messy two-seam fastball.
“Tough luck, man,” Ernie said, his eyes losing their normal vivacity. He slid down next to me. “You okay?”
I rolled my eyes. “No,” I snapped. “I’m not fucking okay.” I can’t get Brenna out of my head, I added silently. I feel fucking terrible, and you’re the last person I can admit it to because you’ll just make fun of my whipped ass.
“You’ll be fine, man,” Ernie said. “Hey, after the game, let’s say you and me go out and pick up some girls, okay?”
I shrugged. “Nah,” I mumbled. “It doesn’t matter. I just want to go home.”
Ernie clucked his tongue against his teeth and gently whacked me over the head. “You gotta wake up, man,” he said. “I need my wingman back!”
“Yeah, yeah,” I mumbled. “Your wingman.”
The rest of the game didn’t go any better, even with me in the dugout. We wound up with an embarrassing loss of six to zero – a terrible score for the Yankees, and the biggest rout the Padres had managed to pull off yet in their young season. Great, I thought miserably as I watched the rest of the players shake hands. The Yankees are going to be the laughingstock of the MLB, and it’s my fucking fault.
I wished I could stop thinking about Brenna. For once, I wasn’t thinking about what it would be like to fuck her or to have her scream my name. I pondered the smug grin on Riley’s face, and the idiotic way I played along. I’d really fucked up, and everything bad that happened to Brenna laid on my shoulders. If only she hadn’t gotten hurt by the stupid ball that I threw. Then she’d still hate me, but at least she’d have her wits about her.
I stayed numb as I showered and dressed in street clothes after the game. Ernie and I walked across the street to Dugout, a dive bar that was a pretty popular pregame location. It was always packed after Yankees’ wins. But thanks to our spectacular loss, only a few tables contained diners, and the bar stools stood empty.
“Oh well, man, cheer up,” Ernie said. He rapped on the bar and yelled for the bartender. Maybe I’d have water. For the first time in ages, I didn’t feel like drinking. “This way, at least we can only go up.”
I glared at him. “Easy for you to say. Coach hasn’t been riding your ass all season.”
“I haven’t been sucking all season,” Ernie said and gave me a shit-eating grin. “You throw, I catch. My job’s simple. C’mon, man. Cheers!”
We clinked glasses, and I drank, not even caring that my water was room temperature.
“Man, you really gotta shape up,” Ernie said with a shake of his head. “What’s with you, Bradshaw? You’re not even tipping them back with me. Something crawled up your ass and died?”
Yeah, it’s called my soul.
I narrowed my eyes. Coming out with Ernie today had been a bad habit that turned into a bad idea. “What, my best friend is giving me shit now, too?”
“No way, man. Just concerned – that’s all. This ain’t like you. Not at all.”
I shrugged. “I’ll be fine. I was just distracted today.”
Ernie made his eyes big. “Oooo, Brenna,” he said in a high-pitched voice. “I can’t stop thinking about you.”
He’d hit it so close to the mark, my heart started pounding.
I rolled my eyes. “Fuck off, dude.” I drained the rest of my water and wiped the moisture from my upper lip with the back of my hand. “It isn’t just that.”
“Spare me the details,” Ernie said. “Look, Rhett, I’m not trying to bust your balls. You know that, man. I’m your friend. But I don’t wanna see you getting traded, either. I kind of like having you around. Partners in crime and all that.”
I groaned. “I probably deserve it at this point. Ever since this season started, I can’t pitch for shit.”
“It’s because of that nosy little bitch,” Ernie said with a snort that sent the foam on his beer floating through the air. “Can’t let a girl get under your skin, Bradshaw. Especially not someone as uptight as her.”
“She’s not uptight.”
“Oh yeah?” Ernie fixed me with a stare. “What, then? Tell me, Bradshaw – what the fuck do I have to do to make you interesting again?”
“What?”
“You know it’s true,” Ernie said. “Ever since you’ve started hanging around that little cunt, you’ve been a shit pitcher and a real wet blanket. I can’t even remember the last time we got told it would be best if we find somewhere else to drink.”
“Don’t call her that,” I said. The bartender raised an eyebrow, then slid another frosty mug toward Ernie.
Ernie groaned. “What, you some fucking feminist now? Christ, Bradshaw! Why not just give up and admit you’ve turned into a huge pussy? Shit, it’s like I don’t even know you.”
I took a deep breath. “Look, I feel bad, okay? I feel bad that I gave her that fucking concussion and ruined her life! She didn’t deserve that.”
Ernie burst out laughing. “That’s the richest thing I’ve ever heard, man! She was dogging you, trying to ruin your life. All that shit about you being some enemy of womankind, just because you like to have a good time!” He snorted again, drinking his beer and slamming the mug on the bar. Beer sloshed out over his fingers, but Ernie didn’t notice.
“So? Maybe she had a point.” I picked up my refreshed water a
nd took a swig.
“You shoulda let her lose her job.” Ernie snickered. “Woulda served that nosy little bitch right.”
Before I could think about what I was doing, I grabbed Ernie’s beer and dumped it over his head. He blinked, opened his eyes wide and stared at me. Beer dripped down his face and neck, soaking his shirt. The smell of hops wafted toward my flaring nostrils. I’d beat the shit out of my best friend if I had to.
“What the fuck is your problem?” Ernie growled. He got off the stool and swung his fist toward me. Shooting out my right hand, I grabbed his wrist and twisted it down until Ernie whimpered in pain.
“My fucking problem? My problem is that Brenna didn’t even lie about me!” I growled. “It’s not like she fucking made up all that shit – it was all true! I got into fights all the time. I acted like a complete shithead – and yes, a total fucking creep – all the goddamned time! And you encouraged me! All because some woman walked away with the remnants of your pussified heart back in high school? How the fuck does that make you any different.”
Ernie’s nostrils flared like a Spanish bull. For a moment, I thought he’d try to punch me again.
“She was just calling out the truth. Her fucking job,” I said, shoving Ernie backward into the bar. A couple of stools fell to the ground, clattering as they hit the hardwood floor. “And you don’t fucking know shit about me, Ernie. I’m gonna make that real fucking clear, right now. Except for on the field, we’re done!”
Ernie fell silent. He raised his eyebrows, then yanked his fist back from my grip.
“What?” I demanded. “What the fuck are you gonna say now, huh?”
Ernie jerked his head to the side and stuttered, his shaking hand pointing at the entrance door. He opened his mouth and then clamped it shut again as he rubbed his knuckles. Frowning, I whirled around.
Brenna Sinclair stood in the doorway of Dugout, her pale hands covering her mouth.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Brenna
Clearing my throat, I stepped forward. Rhett and Ernie both stared at me with wide eyes. Ernie’s face dripped beer, and a stale, yeasty smell invaded my nostrils. Yuck.
Sinker: Alpha Billionaire Romance Page 20
