“Who here went to school every day this past week?”
Three boys raised their hands. Only three. Christ, there were probably twenty kids in the room. He beckoned the three forward and deposited a ball in each boy’s hand. “Well done, kids. Want to know who signed these balls? Barry Bonds, Cal Ripken Jr., and Ozzie Smith.”
The boys grinned—those were pretty famous names, after all. Trevor had been collecting balls like these for years, every spring training.
“What do you think these balls represent?”
One wiry Hispanic boy took a stab. “Bank?”
“That is true, they’re worth money because they’re signed by those particular players. Do you think those players woke up one morning with a million dollar swing and a big contract?”
They shook their heads.
“Damn right they didn’t. So what do those balls represent?”
“Hard work,” one boy called out.
“Mad skills,” said another.
“Yes and yes. Anything else?”
“Um . . .” The boys exchanged shrugs and confused glances. “Testicles?”
Everyone cracked up, the room filling with laughter. Trevor didn’t mind. Now the ice was broken and they could get down to real conversing.
“How about this.” He paced across the length of the room, tossing the ball in the air, rolling it on the back of his hand, flipping it behind his back. Kids had short attention spans, and it was important to keep them from drifting. “How about persistence? Know what that means? Means you keep on doing something even when it gets hard. Even if you don’t want to go to school, you go. Have a bad day? You shake it off and try again the next day. It means you don’t give up.” He spun the ball in the air, the red stitches forming a mesmerizing blurred pattern. “These balls were signed by people with persistence, and now they’re yours, because you guys went to school every day last week. That’s persistence.”
“Nah, man, my teacher, she’s hot.” A black kid with barrettes in his braids grinned, showing off a mouthful of braces. “I hate to miss a day.”
They all hooted, and Trevor winked at him. “Ladies’ man, eh?”
“Just like you, playa.”
He winced at the realization that his reputation had extended even to the Boys and Girls Club. “Gotta have respect, though. Respect is everything. Respect yourself. Respect the ladies. Respect the game. You know?”
“Respect, man, respect.” The boys murmured agreement with that concept. Trevor had found that particular word to be very powerful for kids.
“You want respect, you gotta give respect. I respect you guys for going to school even when it’s tough. Those of you who didn’t manage to get to school every day, keep on trying. Make it, and I’ll have a ball for you next time.”
The black kid raised his hand. “Mr. Trevor Stark, how’d you get so many balls? Did you steal ’em?”
He laughed along with everyone else.
“’Course he didn’t. He ain’t no criminal,” another kid scolded the first. “He ain’t like us.”
Trevor busied himself with zipping up the duffel. “No, I didn’t steal the balls,” he said tightly. If these kids only knew how much he was like them—except he was even worse. These boys hadn’t been sentenced to juvenile detention. “Those players gave those balls to me, to give to you. Those Hall of Fame players are out there rooting for you. Wanting you to do well. You remember that every time you think about quitting, or getting on a bad path. Got me?”
“Yes sir, Mr. Trevor Stark. Yes sir.”
He went around the room sharing low-fives and fist bumps. The kids might not all be rabid baseball fans, but every young boy he knew admired physical strength.
When he’d connected with every kid in the room—making sure no one was left out—he shouldered his gym bag and headed for his Escalade. A white Chevy Cavalier was just leaving the parking lot. As it turned on the road, the right front tire skimmed the curb. A white car, sketchy driving . . . He squinted at the brown-haired girl at the wheel. Nah, it couldn’t be her. Why would Paige Taylor be at the Boys and Girls Club? She was probably home pampering her one-eyed cat or working with Crush on new plans to torture him.
He smiled, thinking of those incredibly hot moments in the clubhouse. Why he and Paige had such intense chemistry, he had no idea. They had nothing in common. She was the daughter of a sports legend, while his father was a drug addict. She was protected, sheltered. People, including her famous dad, cared about her. He, on the other hand, was on his own and had been for years. No one had his back, and he didn’t need anyone to. Paige was warm and alive, while he was nothing but ice inside.
He unlocked his Escalade and tossed the duffel in back. His phone buzzed as he slid into the stifling heat of his vehicle, which had been sitting in direct sun for the past hour. As always, he checked the number before he answered. When it came through as “unknown,” he stiffened. He’d changed his last name when he got out of juvie, and there should theoretically be no trace of his former self out there. But you never knew.
“Yeah,” he answered brusquely.
“Trevor?” The light female voice on the other end was so muffled he didn’t recognize it. But he relaxed. Why did he always have to imagine the worst possible scenario? This wasn’t a call from Detroit. It was a girl who’d managed to find his number. Maybe—maybe it was Paige.
A grin split his face, and his spirits lifted. A sparring session with Paige Taylor was just what he needed. “I just saw your rental car,” he said. “Are you stalking me?”
“Trevor, it’s me, Nina. Do you really have girls stalking you?”
“Nina?” Panicked, he looked around, as if one of the Wachowski gang might be eavesdropping. He slammed the door shut and jabbed the button that closed the window he’d left partially open. “Is something wrong?”
“No, nothing’s wrong. This is a disposable phone, so relax.”
“Relax? You promised to call only for emergencies. Do you need money?”
“Trevor, that’s insulting. I don’t need your money. I want to come see you, that’s all. I miss you.”
“You can’t come here. It’s too risky. We’ll do our usual visit after the season’s over.” Every year, they met somewhere different, someplace nowhere near Detroit, Tucson, or wherever he was living.
“No.” His sister’s voice thickened. “I’m sorry, but that’s months away. There’s something I want to talk to you about. I’m going to come see you.”
“No!” He punched his fist against the steering wheel. “Nina, listen to me. Don’t do anything crazy. Just stay where you are. Can’t we talk about it over the phone?”
“You said the phone’s only for emergencies.”
“Okay, then, can’t it wait until after September?”
“I don’t want to wait. Are you mad? You sound mad.”
Terrified was more like it. “I’m not mad. I promise. But we should hang up now. What if someone heard you?”
“You’re so paranoid, Trevor.”
If Nina knew what had happened three years ago, she wouldn’t say that. A Wachowski underling had spotted him at a nightclub in Syracuse. That’s when he’d acquired the scar on his cheek, along with two broken ribs. The bright side was that those injuries had kept him off the field for a week, and he was traded to the Friars after that. He didn’t think the Wachowskis had yet realized that Trevor Stark, baseball player, was Trevor Leonov from Detroit. But he didn’t want to take any chances.
“Better safe than sorry, that’s my motto. At least when it comes to you.”
“What about lonely. Where does lonely fit in?”
“You have Mrs. Shimon.” The woman he paid as a bodyguard slash housekeeper.
“She’s not you,” Nina said simply. “She won’t hit fungoes with me.”
He couldn’t help laughing at the image of the stern Israeli, a former paratrooper, goofing around with a ball and glove. “There are more important things than baseball.”
“I want to see you play. Please.”
The determination in her voice gave him chills. If she came to see him play, and let something slip, and it got back to the wrong people, they’d both be in danger. He didn’t care about himself, but Nina was not going to get hurt.
But what if she took things into her own hands, the way it sounded like she might?
“I’ll think about it,” he finally said. “We’ll figure something out.”
“Are you happy I called?”
“I’m furious, and I’d fire Mrs. Shimon if she didn’t have so much special weapons training.”
“You can’t blame her. She’s a very good prison warden.” The bitterness in Nina’s voice made him feel like a total shit. He hated that it had to be this way. Even the wistful sound of her voice made him ache with missing her. She was the only family he had left.
“Yes, Nina, of course I’m happy you called. Just be careful, okay?”
“I will. And you start making plans for that game. Please?”
“I’ll try, sweetheart.”
He hung up before she could press him further. Plans? No. Not happening. If only Nina was right, and the Wachowskis had filed him under Ancient History.
But they hadn’t. At least they hadn’t three years ago, and what would have changed since then? An attack on a member of the top echelon had to be avenged. Would be avenged. A three-year stint in juvie wasn’t enough. The scars on his back and the one on his cheek were a constant reminder. The Wachowskis would demand more if they found him. And if they learned the whole truth . . . if they learned about Nina . . . He shuddered.
Now that was never going to fucking happen.
Chapter 6
CRUSH TOLD PAIGE to start her “internship” in the marketing and promotions department, since his battle against the Wades required extra ammunition.
“We need to get the town on our side. Part one will be to win the championship,” he told her as they headed through the management wing to Marcia Burke’s office. “But we need more than that. We need to recreate ourselves. Perception is everything.”
“Are you saying we need to put the Catfish on the map?”
“I wish it was that simple. The Catfish are already on the map, but not in the way we want. They have a reputation. A bunch of wild and rowdy partiers who like to have a little too much fun.”
“Hm. I wonder who that reminds me of?” Paige scrunched up her face, squinting into the distance as if searching her memory. “I’m sure it’ll come back to me, along with every time I got sent off the ranch for All-Star weekend.”
“Funny.” He chucked her under the chin, a gesture left over from her childhood. “You know those parties were no place for a child.”
“I wouldn’t know. I never got to attend one. Maybe now that I’m grown up I’ll finally get a chance.”
Crush snarled like some sort of bossy lion. “Absolutely not. I don’t want you hanging out with the players.”
“Dad, that’s ridiculous. How am I supposed to help market the team without hanging out with the players?”
He scratched at his chin. “Good point. Okay, maybe a few ground rules, then. Don’t smile at them. Don’t bring them food. Feed them and they’ll be like puppies following you everywhere you go. Never, ever, buy them a beer.”
“No food, beer, or smiles. You drive a hard bargain. Any wiggle room on the smiles? Because I didn’t smile for the last three months I was with Hudson.”
Sympathy flashed in her father’s hazel eyes as he held the door to the marketing department open for her. “Smiles, but no laughs. Don’t get a big head, but your laugh is irresistible.”
“Aw, Daddy. That’s such a nice thing to say.” She beamed at him, and he groaned.
“Damn it, I might have to change my mind about the smiling.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Crush. Have you seen the girls who hang around the ballplayers? I think they can withstand an ancient, jaded old divorcée.”
Marcia Burke, who headed the Catfish marketing and promotions department, had retired from a high-powered New York advertising job but still wore nothing but black. She wore square black eyeglasses and kept her silver hair in a bob that bisected her ears.
She rose to her feet and put her hands on her hips, scanning Paige from head to toe. Literally, she was about half Paige’s height. “So. You ready to work hard?” Her raspy voice reminded Paige that she’d come back to Kilby to battle throat cancer.
“Yes ma’am.”
“I need ideas, brilliant ones, and I need them yesterday. We need to make Catfish synonymous with . . .” She cocked her head at the baseball field. “. . . impact. Glamour.”
Crush muttered something under his breath, something that sounded suspiciously like “bullshit.” He told them, “I’ll leave you to it, then,” and hauled ass out of the room.
As soon as he was gone, Marcia plopped back down at her laptop and started jabbing at the keys. “Impact,” she muttered. “Glamour. Social media, we need something on social media, something that’ll really make a national splash. Viral, we want viral. Grab a chair, brainstorm with me.”
Paige scanned the office for an extra chair but didn’t see one. There were plenty of Catfish posters and piles of T-shirts and little key chains and pens, all in bright Catfish blue. The infamous poster of Trevor Stark hung next to the window that looked out on the field.
She stared at it. Trevor Stark, man of mystery. The last person she’d expected to see when she’d stopped by the Boys and Girls Club to see if they needed any volunteer assistance from a well-intentioned student who had yet to finish her degree. They’d assigned her to a summer tutoring program, but the real revelation had been the sight of the enigmatic Catfish slugger putting on some kind of presentation for a group of at-risk youth. They’d been completely enraptured by whatever he was saying, but she was too far away to make out any of his words.
But the impact he made still reverberated through her. He’d worn gray trousers and a simple white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. The size and power of him was amplified in comparison to the kids surrounding him. Every so often he turned his head so she saw his profile. The fluorescent lights made caves under his cheekbones and turned his hair platinum. He was just so good-looking it was almost scary.
But then there was that scar on his cheek, that thin white line that took him from angel to badass.
In the poster, he had no scar. Pulling her gaze away from it, she looked out at the field, where the game was in full swing.
“Just wondering,” she said to Marcia, “if watching the game wouldn’t help us get ideas.”
“The game? Why?”
“Well, I’ve never been a fan of the game myself, so maybe we could talk to the real fans, see what they love about the Catfish and baseball. It might help to get some inspiration, that’s all.”
“You want inspiration? Two words: baseball pants.”
Though it was strange to hear that from a seventy-year-old, Paige had to admit that the players on the field wore the uniform well. Particularly Trevor Stark, who stood like a colossus in left field. For the first time, she actually got to see him in baseball pants, since he hadn’t worn them in Crush’s office. The memory of his long, bulging thigh muscles and light covering of golden hair would stay with her for a long time.
Then again, the addition of baseball pants worked too.
“Um, is that appropriate, really, talking about baseball pants like that? We’re supposed to be marketing, not pimping.”
“It’s a thin line sometimes,” Marcia said. “Sex sells, girlie. Always has, always will. Keep that in mind. There’s a reason they changed the design of the pants back in 1972. Got me and my girlfriends to the games.”
“I see your point.” She wrenched her gaze away from left field to the pitcher going into his windup. He delivered a fastball, a little outside. The batter fought it off, sending a high fly ball to right field. The runner on first dashed toward second, the infielders scurr
ied to cover their bases, and the right fielder leisurely tracked the ball. She’d never seen him before, but from her quickie research she knew his name was Shizuko and that he was half Japanese, half Brazilian, and had a worldwide following on his Tumblr page. He caught the ball easily.
With a graceful motion, Shizuko gunned it into first base; the runner had to dive to make it back in time. The center fielder yelled some encouragement and punched his glove. As she focused on the captain of the outfield, Paige’s eyes widened. The center fielder was pretty amazing looking as well. African-American, with absolutely chiseled forearms exposed by the warm weather uniform. Radiating charisma, he grinned at the crowd, making the “two out” sign, then prowled back to his position.
From the center fielder—Dwight Conner, she suddenly remembered—her gaze traveled to left field, where Trevor Stark, a blond Viking god, staked out his territory. He said something to Dwight, and they both laughed. Jesus Christ, the amount of sheer good looks in that outfield would make a modeling agency faint. “That’s got to be the sexiest outfield in baseball,” she murmured.
“Excuse me?”
“Oh nothing. Just appreciating the view from up here.”
“No, you said something. Something that caught my radar, but I wasn’t listening. Say it again.”
Paige tried to reconstruct it. “I think I said that’s got to be the sexiest outfield in baseball. But don’t listen to me. I just got divorced and I’m not completely myself yet. I’ve been doing and saying some strange things lately.”
Marcia jumped to her feet, sending her rolling desk chair spinning across the room. “That’s it. Baseball’s Sexiest—no . . . something with Texas—Outfields are Hotter in Texas . . . no . . . Outfields are Hotter than Your Fields.”
Paige sidestepped away from the runaway chair. “What the heck are you talking about?”
“The campaign that’s going to get everyone talking about the Catfish.”
“Baseball’s Sexiest Outfield? That’s how you want to market the team? I don’t think the players would like that.”
Drive You Wild: A Love Between the Bases Novel Page 6
