On the other hand, Crush’s parenting style was one step away from “do it yourself, kid.” He’d tell her inappropriate road trip stories, take her to the stadium, let her run around and play with the vendors and the other players’ kids. His intense focus on baseball didn’t leave much room for a daughter. Sometimes she’d hated the game because it consumed so much of his attention.
She wished baseball would consume his attention right now, as a matter of fact. No such luck.
Crush shrugged. “I did you a favor. Now you don’t have to call her, though she invited you to see her as soon as you’re ready. You don’t have to worry, Jenna’s glad you dumped him too.”
“I didn’t dump him.” If she had, maybe she wouldn’t feel like such a failure.
He waved that off with a forkful of scrambled egg. “You should have. You would have, if you weren’t such a loyal, caring, and all-round spectacular human being.”
She nearly choked on her mouthful of French roast. Crush didn’t normally shower on the compliments unless he wanted something. And when he wanted something, he used every weapon in the arsenal. Carefully, she placed her mug on the table, preparing for battle. “About this plan of yours . . .”
“I’m glad you asked. Because if you don’t have a plan of your own—”
“I do. I want to finish my college degree. I had two years left when Hudson signed with Virtus Roma. I can get my credits transferred to wherever I decide to apply.”
Crush opened his mouth, but she forestalled him. “In the meantime, I was thinking of doing some volunteer work here in Kilby.”
Again Crush tried to interrupt, but she could have taught a course on “How to Handle Crush Taylor.”
“There’s something else too. I went to a counselor to help me deal with the divorce. Did you ever wonder why I chose to marry a pro athlete, when my own father is one? Don’t you think that just screams ‘daddy issues’? I was figuring we could work on that while I’m here. Together, like family therapy. What do you think?”
At his horrified expression, she wanted to high-five someone. Three marriages and three divorces had made Crush dread couples counseling. His hatred of therapy was no secret. Next, he’d mumble something and check his phone and find some important e-mail to answer. After that he’d leave her alone and let her grieve in peace.
But this time her father surprised her. “Fine,” he said, gazing at her coolly over the rim of his mug.
Her jaw dropped. “Fine? You heard me, right? The part about working through my daddy issues?”
“I get it. I’m a famous, eccentric, impossible, part-time alcoholic, full-time misanthropic prick. Why wouldn’t you have issues with me?”
“Bonus points for self-awareness,” she murmured into her coffee.
“I heard that.” He took the cast-iron skillet to the sink, adding it to the pile of other dishes awaiting the housekeeper. His domestic side only went so far. “Paige, I think my plan is going to suit you fine.”
“Okay then, lay it on me.”
He leaned his rear against the enamel sink and folded his arms. “As you know, you’re my oldest progeny and the only one who can stand me.”
She pulled a dubious “sometimes, maybe, I suppose” face that he ignored.
“The Catfish isn’t just my team. It’s your legacy.”
“My ‘legacy’?” Shouldn’t a legacy be something good, like an art collection or a kingdom? A Triple A baseball team with a wild reputation didn’t qualify, did it?
“I want you to work with me at the stadium, learn the ropes. You’ll be a sort of intern, going from one department to the next, watching, learning, helping out. No pay, but you will have full room and board here at Bullpen Ranch. And you’ll get lots and lots of daddy time.” He offered a wolfish grin, the sort that women fell for all the time.
She knew better. “I hate baseball.”
“No, you don’t. You sucked at it, but you didn’t hate it.”
“I broke my nose twice in Little League.”
“Your fielding needed a lot of work, that’s true.”
Paige stuffed a strip of bacon into her mouth to stop herself from arguing. After her fourth time tripping over first base, her mother had laid down the law about her Little League career.
“Anyway, it doesn’t matter. You won’t have to play. That’s what the players are for. It will be strictly front office stuff, behind the scenes. You’ll be sharing my world with me. The Wild and Wacky World of Crush Taylor.”
“I don’t know, Crush, baseball brings out very conflicting feelings in me—”
He held up a finger. “Daddy issue number one. Daddy was always busy with baseball. He was on the road, up late at night, entirely immersed in the life of a major league pitcher. Therefore, his child grew to hate baseball. That the gist?”
“I suppose.”
“Now you can immerse yourself right along with me. Daddy issue, solved.” He brushed his palms together, then spread them apart.
“It’s really not that simple.” But her voice trailed away, because in fact the idea sounded like just what she needed. She could spend her summer at the ballpark the same way she had as a kid, pestering the cotton candy vendors and running errands for the ballplayers.
The ballplayers.
The image of Trevor Stark, all intensity and power and clear crystal eyes, entered her mind. She shivered again.
As if he’d witnessed her inner movie screen, Crush held up a hand. “One condition. No fraternizing with the players. I don’t trust a single one of those guys. Maybe Mike Solo, but he’s gone. Maybe Jim Leiberman, because he’s harmless. The rest, no. Promise me.”
“Dad, do you think I’m nuts? I got divorced last month. You don’t need to warn me away from rowdy ballplayers.”
“So you’ll do it?”
“Yes.” She gave a slow nod and bit off more bacon. “Maybe it will help heal the abandonment issues that make it difficult to feel secure in my relationships.”
He groaned and dragged a hand through his hair. “You’re going to torture me with this crap, aren’t you?”
“You know it.” She grinned around her mouthful of bacon. Even though she was teasing, maybe it would be good to spend some time with Crush. Their falling-out had been horrible. She’d always been the “good girl,” anxious to please whichever parent she was with. When it came to grades, she’d done fine. Sports, not so much. Career obsession, even less. When she’d dropped out of college to marry Hudson, both her parents had been furious.
Working with her father could be interesting . . . or it could be a disaster. On the plus side, it would allow them to reestablish their relationship, as her counselor had suggested. On the minus side, Crush was . . . well, he could steamroll right over her if she let him. She’d have to start off on the right foot.
“I have a condition too,” she told him.
He raised a wary eyebrow.
“I don’t want to be just an intern. I’m twenty-four, I’ve been married, I’ve lived in a foreign country, I have half a college degree. I’m not a kid anymore. I’m familiar with athletes and their personalities. I want to contribute. I want to take on real, meaningful tasks, not just ‘pat Paige on the head’ jobs.”
Crush offered his hand. “Fair enough.”
They shook on it. Funny—Crush totally missed the fact that she’d made no promises regarding “fraternizing” with the players.
Oh well.
Chapter 4
“TREVOR STARK! CRUSH wants you in his office.” The clubhouse attendant broke the news with an evil grin on his face. “Sounds pretty bad. Three F-bombs and a C-word.”
Oh, hell. Trevor shoved his gym bag into the open wooden cubby of his locker. He should never have called Duke to report the BB gun incident. His protective instincts had kicked in and he’d finally decided to call it in for the sake of his teammates. While he could handle an armed asshole, most of these guys hadn’t grown up the way he had. “Right this second?”
&nb
sp; “Five minutes ago.”
The other Catfish, at varying points in their dressing process, perked up to listen.
“Thought you and Crush signed a mutual avoidance pact,” called Sonny Barnes from his locker.
Dwight chimed in as he wrapped an ace bandage around his wrist. “Heard it was signed with the blood of a virgin.” Trevor glared at him. The guy was supposed to be his friend.
“Isn’t being around Trevor automatically devirginating?” Ramirez wondered out loud as he pulled on his sliders.
“That’s not a word,” Trevor growled. He’d already changed into his jersey. He always put it on first to avoid showing his back any longer than absolutely necessary. But his legs were still bare, and he hadn’t put on his cleats yet.
“Riiiiight,” said Dwight, who had clearly gone over to the dark side. “I think they call it ‘Starkinating’ now. Saw it in the Urban Dictionary.”
Shaking his head, Trevor decided to book it to Crush’s office right away and get it over with. Pants or no pants. That would teach the domineering owner to call him in so close to game time. He strode past the gape-mouthed attendant, ignoring the hoots from the other players.
Crush’s office was located on the upper floor along with the rest of the management offices, except for Duke’s, which was the same level as the clubhouse. The management wing was filled with private, glass-door offices, cubicles and computer desks, and a blur of faces that all swiveled in his direction.
Crush’s door was open, so Trevor stalked right in. He’d never seen Crush actually sit at his desk like a normal person. The man usually propped his boots on it, leaned one hip against it, or ignored it completely. Today he leaned one shoulder against the plate-glass window that overlooked the field.
Crush Taylor inspired respect in every ballplayer with a sense of history. That included Trevor, who knew every detail of his record. The man was a legend. A living icon. And now Crush was staring at him as if he were an earthworm crawling across the infield grass.
“I came as soon as I got your message, sir,” Trevor said in his most mockingly subservient voice, the one he’d perfected in juvie after one too many infractions.
He could have sworn that he saw one corner of Crush’s mouth lift in a smile. “No pants, I see.”
As always, they launched into a sparring match that rivaled Ping-Pong for speed.
“It sounded urgent.”
“So are pants.”
“I’m decent.”
“That’s not what they say.”
“Listening to gossip?”
“Listening to my manager. Apparently someone went after you with a BB gun.”
“I handled it.”
“According to the security tape, someone in a white car handled it.”
That made Trevor pause. If the mysterious Paige was on tape, maybe he could locate her. By license plate or something.
“This isn’t a problem.”
“Videotape says your arm got nicked. Your five million dollar arm.”
“Just a bruise.”
“Bend your elbow.”
Trevor tried, but truth was, he had some swelling and it wouldn’t close all the way.
Crush cursed freely. “One of these days someone is going to hit a vital organ.”
“I wear a cup.”
Someone snorted from the corner of the room to his right. He wanted to see who but was too locked into his glare-down with Crush to turn away.
“Paige, stay out of this,” said Crush, not looking away either. “Observation only today. I didn’t think you’d be observing someone without pants, of course.”
Slowly, the words penetrated. Paige. Trevor swiveled to the right.
Paige.
She sat with her long, long legs crossed, her wild hair in a ponytail, her eyes bright with laughter. True blue, deep and sweet, like the petals of a delphinium. She wore tomato red shorts, a T-shirt with some Italian words on it, flip-flops, and electric blue polish on her toenails. A composition notebook was propped on her lap, as if she was taking notes on this conversation. She wore a charm bracelet around one ankle; crescent moons alternating with stars.
Not that he noticed every detail or anything.
“That’s my daughter, Paige.”
Ho-ly. Shit. She was Crush’s daughter? He had a daughter? No one had ever mentioned a daughter. Especially one so . . . so . . . He tried to drag his gaze away from her but couldn’t.
Crush kept talking. “She’s going to be working around here for a while. Remember her face so you can make sure to leave her alone.”
Eye roll from Paige. From his brief experience with her, Trevor figured the chances of Crush being able to control her were pretty much zero. Her gaze traveled down his body, stalling somewhere around his bare thighs.
Right. No pants.
Well, now she’d seen just about the whole package—no shirt last night, no pants today.
“It’s costing me good money to fix the fence and install extra security cameras around the parking lot,” Crush continued. “For some reason, none of that was necessary before you came to Kilby.”
“Safety first. A wise choice.”
Crush rubbed the skin of his forehead as if smoothing out five decades’ worth of wrinkles. “I ought to report this to the Friars.”
As always, mention of the Friars gave Trevor a rush of anxiety. He knew a call-up was inevitable, but for his sister’s sake he wanted it to take as long as possible. “That ought to be a fun conversation.”
Crush ground his teeth. “Do you have anything to say that isn’t a waste of my time?”
Trevor maintained his stony facade. He respected Crush, unlike most authority figures. But there was no way Crush would believe he hadn’t done anything to merit being chased with a BB gun. “Sorry.”
“Don’t go overboard.” Crush stopped him with an upraised hand. “I don’t need you to grovel.”
Grovel? Trevor felt a muscle jump in his jaw as he fought to keep it clamped shut.
Crush turned to Paige. “Yesterday I stood in front of the entire sports media and announced that I intend to win the Triple A national championship.”
She plucked a pen from behind her ear and made a note in her little book. “There’s a championship in Triple A?”
“Yes, but there’s a reason you’ve never heard of it. No one cares. This year, I do.”
He turned back to Trevor. “If there’s one thing I hate, it’s looking like an ass. If there’s another thing I hate, it’s losing.” He ticked the items off on the fingers of one hand. “And if there’s yet another thing I hate, it’s watching a talent like you fuck up his life.”
“I’m not—”
Crush stopped him with another gesture. “Something else I hate. Getting interrupted. Know what else I hate?”
Paige spoke up. “Is this open for anyone, because I’ve been compiling notes all my life.”
Trevor glanced over and their eyes met, the sparkling sapphire of hers filled with sexy mischief. Once again the fact slammed him in the face. Daughter. She was Crush’s daughter. And he’d come on to her outside his hotel about ten minutes after they met.
Crush snapped his fingers to regain their attention. Just the sort of thing Trevor hated. “Now, I didn’t report this fiasco to the Friars. So I figure you owe me. And I know exactly how you can pay me back.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Yes, sir, what?”
“Yes, sir, I’ll help you. Win the championship. That’s what you want, right?”
Crush gave a brisk nod. “It’s a win-win, really. You play well and help the team, the Friars will be calling.”
That wouldn’t be a win for him, but no need to reveal that. In the meantime, he’d be here in Kilby. He’d get another season of anonymity. Nina would be that much safer. That was a win-win.
He’d also get to torment Crush for another season. Win-win-win.
“It’s what I would do anyway.” He called on every ounce of shit-eating me
dia experience he’d acquired. “I always give my best for my team. Every game. Every play. Every at-bat. Every pitch.” He could just imagine the blowjob gesture Sonny Barnes would be making right now.
Crush narrowed his eyes. “If you’re trying to impress my daughter, forget about it.”
“I never try to impress. It just happens.”
Paige rose to her feet, clearing her throat. She waved at the plate-glass window and the field beyond. “Um . . . not to interrupt, but it looks like the players are coming onto the field for the National Anthem.”
“Uh-oh, and me without my pants,” Trevor deadpanned.
He caught Paige’s suppressed giggle . . . and so did Crush. He pointed a finger at his daughter, then at Trevor.
“Paige, you and I are going to the owner’s box. Stark, take the next two games off. I want you to rest your elbow from that bruise. The championship is important to me, but the Friars own you. Your future comes first.”
Trevor’s heart plummeted. He needed that time on the field, time when he could block everything out and channel all his rage onto little cowhide-covered spheres of cork. “Duke has me in the lineup.”
“Not anymore.”
Trevor spun on his heel and stalked out of the office. Bullshit. There was absolutely no need to take him out of the game. Once again, every eyeball turned his way as he went marching past. Christ, it’s not like they could see anything—his jersey covered everything. Deploying his most intimidating, stony-faced look, he ignored the stares and headed for the clubhouse. He hated being out of the lineup. Damn Crush Taylor for being the most interfering team owner he’d ever seen. What was he supposed to do with himself now?
Footfalls raced after him. Paige. It had to be. Blood boiling, he stopped at the head of the stairs and intercepted her, grabbing her wrist and pulling her down the stairs after him.
“What are you doing?”
“Rescuing you,” he growled.
“From what? I’m perfectly fine.”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
“What . . . that makes no . . . sense . . .” She continued to squawk as he hauled her down the stairs into the clubhouse. He knew it would be completely empty during the National Anthem. Even the clubhouse attendant would be out on the field.
Drive You Wild: A Love Between the Bases Novel Page 4
