Drive You Wild: A Love Between the Bases Novel

by Jennifer Bernard

  “Paige?”

  “Yes, it’s Paige, and I’m just calling to tell you that if you’re going to be an icicle, you can’t be in my life. I should say, back in my life, since I don’t think you’re in it right now.”

  “I’m not?”

  She detected an undercurrent of amusement in his voice, which infuriated her. “No, you’re not! You can stay alone in your ice cave forever as far as I care.”

  For a moment, he was quiet. Then, “I don’t think I’m okay with that.”

  “What . . . what do you mean?”

  “Ice caves aren’t very comfortable. Especially when they don’t have you.”

  She yanked the phone from her ear and glared at it. A woman pushing a stroller down the sidewalk shot her a nervous look. “You’re confusing me, Trevor,” she said, the phone at her ear again. “Last time I saw you, you gave me the ice face. I don’t like the ice face.”

  “I’ll make it up to you.” The heat in his voice made the soles of her feet tingle. “Where are you right now?”

  “I’m . . . uh . . . at the corner of Pine and Courthouse Way. Waiting for the light to change. Where are you?”

  “I’m at the stadium in Sacramento. Game’s going to start soon. I’ve been thinking about you nonstop.” Oh crap. Just when she had everything figured out, he had to throw a grenade into the mix.

  “Really? That’s funny, because I haven’t been thinking about you at all. At all, you hear me?”

  “I’m going to take that as a personal challenge.” His voice reverberated through every cell of her body. “I have to tell you something, sweetheart. I can’t stop thinking about you or wanting you. I tried, because I know it’s best. But every time I close my eyes I see that amazing smile of yours, or your long legs wrapping around my hips. The way your whole body arches when you come.”

  “Stop that,” she said weakly. Slick from her sweat, the phone slipped in her hand.

  “I can’t. I keep picturing you naked against that saddle. You need to wear more leather.”

  “I’m not wearing any leather for you.” The light changed, and the woman hurried away from her.

  “Even if I begged? If I told you what it did to me? How hard I am right now just thinking about your nipples all hard and lickable? When you’re turned-on, they’re the color of cognac. Or grenadine. I could get drunk sucking them. Sucking all of you.”

  “Trevor!” She nearly ran into a lamppost as she reached the opposite side of the street. “I’m hanging up now. You’re giving me whiplash, and I’m too buzzed for whiplash.”

  “Don’t hang up yet. Not until you take back what you said before.”

  “What?”

  “The part about you not being in my life. You’re in my life, Paige Taylor. I’m not letting you out. I just have to figure some things out.”

  Thrills chased up and down her spine, a reaction that infuriated her. “It’s not fair! You can’t do this to me. You’re so hot and cold. In and out. Up and down.”

  “Just hot, Paige. Getting hotter every time. Bear with me, okay? Promise you’ll bear with me. I’ll be back in three days and I want to see you. I want to tell you some things you don’t know. Tell you how I feel.”

  Before he could confuse her any more, she stuffed the phone in her bag as if it were a burning coal. As if the hot feelings he’d conjured could be banished along with her phone. Her body throbbed all the way to her core.

  Bear with me.

  She didn’t know which was more confusing, the iceberg Trevor or the volcano version. She hated him. No, she should hate him. Would. Did. Didn’t. Gah!

  Paige was still reeling from that conversation—not to mention the one with Hudson—when she got back to the ranch and received another shock.

  Her mother sat in Crush’s living room, ivory linen-clad legs crossed, a glass of white wine cupped in one hand. Crush stood behind the bar as if it was a fortress and he was manning the defenses.

  Deal with Jenna Jarvey after all those margaritas? This was going to be interesting.

  “Mom. What are you doing here?” Paige bent to kiss her mother on her cheek—or rather, near her cheek, since in the past she’d ended up with smears of foundation on her lips.

  “I came because, clearly, your father is not performing his parental duties.” Jenna stood to give Paige a hard hug. Over her mom’s shoulder, Paige aimed wide eyes at her father. What’s going on?

  He responded by sticking his finger in his mouth and pretending to pull the trigger.

  “Any weight loss? Weight gain? Both can be signs of postdivorce trauma.” Jenna inspected her, head to toe. Paige wondered if she had a scale in her lizard-skin briefcase.

  “Weight’s holding steady, thanks for your concern.”

  “Weight’s just one symptom. How about sleep? Are you sleeping okay?”

  “Mom, I’m handling it. Crush has been great. You didn’t need to airlift in here.”

  “I smell alcohol. Have you been drinking? Is the situation driving you to drink? I heard some nasty rumors from our sports intern at the station. What’s this about you and some minor league baseball player?”

  Her mother’s sharp blue eyes, the same color as her own, scanned her face. Paige resembled Jenna in some respects—brown hair, blue eyes, general face shape. But her build came from Crush; she towered over her petite mother. Jenna had a controlled quality that Paige would never achieve. It showed in the way she did her makeup, her precision bob, the tiny diamonds at her earlobes. And when Jenna interrogated her, she always folded like a house of cards. “Do you mean Trevor? What about him?”

  Crush intervened before her mother could pounce. “If it’s any help, he’s the Friars top prospect. Helluva slugger. Reminds me of a cross between McGwire and Bonds.”

  Jenna shredded him with a quick look. “When we divorced, you got baseball. Let’s keep it that way. Minor league, major league, that’s not the point. Rebounds are not healthy, Paige. It’s too soon. You need to give yourself time to recover from the pain of your divorce.”

  Paige pulled away from her mother and crossed to the bar. She tapped on the counter. “Hey bartender. You got anything back there for me? Any specialty cocktails for a recovering divorcée?”

  Crush tilted his head, a grin touching his lips. “Looks like you’re way ahead on that one.” He lowered his voice. “Did you know she was coming?”

  “No, those margaritas were just a coincidence. Don’t worry, I walked most of it off before I drove home.”

  He nodded and poured her a root beer. “Consolation prize of champions.”

  Paige took a long sip before turning back to her mother, who stood with her arms crossed over her chest. “I don’t need a lecture on who I see and when, Mom. Crush already tried that. Right, Dad?”

  “Right. It was a very humbling moment in parenting history.”

  Jenna tap-tapped toward them, high heels clicking on the slate tiles. “Well, I did a little research on this one, and I really think you must have lost your mind, Paige. I don’t believe you’re thinking clearly. He has a police record. A record! My daughter with a criminal. I’m shocked that you would let this happen, Crush.”

  “Excuse me?” Paige waved her glass of root beer at her mother. “Crush doesn’t have a say in it. Neither do you.”

  “Someone has to! How many divorces do you want to fit in before you turn twenty-five?”

  Paige sucked in a breath. Growing up, she’d hated disappointing her mother more than anything. But it seemed to happen no matter what she did.

  “Jenna,” Crush said softly. “Take it easy.”

  “You’re going to take her side, then?” her mother said. “We’re right back to the old days, when Paige would come here and run wild. No rules, no discipline, no common sense.”

  Paige was starting to think that margaritas weren’t nearly enough for this kind of conversation. She should have ordered bourbon.

  “Do you know that Stark isn’t even his real last name? It’s Leonov.
What does that tell you?”

  “Jenna, you’re out of line,” said Crush sharply. “Paige can make her own choices. What exactly do you suggest we do?”

  “Fire her.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Stop giving her work with the Catfish. Send her away from here. If she leaves Kilby, she won’t even remember that guy.”

  She turned to Paige, who gaped at her. Fire her? Send her away? She wasn’t thirteen anymore. But those margaritas had slowed her reaction time, and she couldn’t find her voice.

  “I got you a ticket to Philadelphia. Come home with me. If you must date someone, we’ll find you a nice Main Line lawyer or doctor. I know several who would be perfect choices. But I’d really rather you focused on finishing your degree.” Jenna adjusted her tailored fawn jacket over her hips, as if everything was settled. “You’re not making good decisions right now. It’s understandable, after such a public humiliation. Anyone would lose her head. And from the sounds of it, this Trevor person is quite attractive. It all makes perfect sense and I should have seen it coming. But enough is enough. I know Crush feels the same, that this ballplayer is very wrong for you.”

  They both looked at Crush, who murmured, “Not my first choice.”

  Paige glared at him. Thanks a lot, Dad.

  “You’ve never been a rebellious child, Hudson aside.” Jenna put a hand on Paige’s forearm, but Paige shook it off. “You’ve always wanted to make your parents happy and proud. Please think about what you’re doing. Take a break from Kilby. Come back to Philly with me.” Jenna put all the charisma and power of her on air persona into that speech. She made it sound reasonable and inevitable.

  Before the divorce, it would have been. And for a second, it was.

  But Paige had margaritas and a smokin’ hot phone conversation with Trevor under her belt. She should hate him after the way he’d treated her in his hotel room.

  But that’s not what she felt, not at all.

  Bear with me, he’d said. I’m not letting you go. I just have to figure out some things.

  Well, so did she.

  “Stop it, both of you.” She jabbed a finger toward her father. “You don’t really know Trevor.” She swung toward her mother. “And you’ve never even met him. You’re both crazy. However, I know I’m lucky to have parents who love me. Trevor had no one, and still he made himself into an amazing person. I’m going to keep seeing him no matter what either of you say or do.”

  “But Paige, another athlete, after the disaster with Hud—”

  “He’s Trevor to me, not just an athlete. Trevor. The man I . . .” She clenched her teeth to keep the word back, but it slipped out. “. . . love.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” exclaimed Jenna. “Love? That drama with Nessa Brindisi has scrambled your brain. I should have slipped her a mickey that time I interviewed her.”

  Paige flung up one hand in a stop gesture. “This has nothing to do with Nessa, Hudson, or either of you. This is about me and Trevor. No one else. Maybe it is a mistake. But I’m the only one who gets to decide that. Dad, if you want me to stop working with the Catfish, just say the word.”

  “I don’t.” Her father was watching her intently, his hazel eyes narrowed as if she were a batter he was trying to figure out. “I’m getting some pretty good free labor out of you.”

  “Thank you. I like it there. You know why I like it? Because I like talking to the players on a personal level. I like how they sign baseballs for kids. Some of them are practically kids themselves. I like how they work hard and try to make something of themselves. I like how much they enjoy the game. I actually like . . . baseball.”

  Crush grinned, as if she’d just handed him a huge victory. But that smile disappeared at her next statement.

  “It’s made me realize what I really want to do. I’m going to finish college as quickly as I can, then I’m going to work on a degree in social work. I want to be a therapist or a counselor.” She turned to her mother. “Maybe you’re right and I am soft. So I might as well make the best of it. I want to help people, and this is how I’m going to do it. And if you really think I’m soft, just try to change my mind. Either of you. About any of this.”

  Chapter 23

  TREVOR GOT THE news from Duke right before the team boarded the bus back to Kilby. The San Diego Friars had decided to release him. The official announcement would be made in the morning, but the sports forums were already buzzing with rumors.

  “Sorry, Stark.” Duke clapped a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “It kills me to tell you this. Fucking waste of talent. I told them they were making a mistake. They should be building an offense around you, not dumping you. If you could just keep your shit togeth—”

  “It’s all right, Duke. It’s baseball. Shit happens.” Trevor felt nothing. Or at least, nothing yet. He’d been anticipating this, dreading it, steeling himself for it. The reality was almost anti-climactic. Three words. They’re releasing you.

  No more baseball. No more Catfish. No more team buses. No more long road trips.

  Word must have spread in that mysterious way of baseball teams, because the bus was unnaturally quiet on the way back to Kilby. The team had crushed the River Cats, sweeping the series in their own stadium, in large degree thanks to Trevor’s six-for-ten performance. They were on top of the standings, nearly guaranteed to make the Pacific Conference finals.

  Even though, on an individual basis, each player would choose a call-up over a minor league championship in a heartbeat, the Catfish had gotten swept up in the excitement of a pennant race. They wanted to win, and without Trevor it would be a thousand times more difficult.

  Trevor put on his headphones and stared out the window at the flat countryside slipping by, the metronomic flicker of telephone poles, the intermittent smear of lights when they passed through a town. Released. On the bright side, he wouldn’t have to betray his soul and throw any games for the fucking Wades. On another bright side, he wouldn’t have to worry about the Wachowskis catching sight of him on the news.

  Independent league players never made the news.

  Maybe he should leave baseball. He could follow his other passion, working with kids. He could work at a juvenile detention center, the way Grizz had. He didn’t need money; he’d socked away enough to get by for a while. After he got Nina set up, he’d put his entire signing bonus into an investment fund. He’d be all right, financially. Not as wealthy as he would have been with the Friars. But what did bank accounts matter compared to Nina’s safety?

  A few seats ahead, Dwight was bobbing his head in time to whatever song was playing on his big Bose headphones. Across the aisle, Leiberman scowled at his iPad, flipping pages on a virtual book. Shizuko tapped his fingers in a complex drum pattern on his leg. T.J. was fast asleep, head cushioned by the cervical neck pillow his surgeon parents insisted he use. The snuffle of snores filled the bus; they had a long ride before they reached Kilby.

  Once he got back to Kilby—

  It slammed into him, harder than a fastball to the stomach. Once he got back, he’d have to clean out his locker. Grab his third-favorite bat, which he’d left in the clubhouse, his extra cleats, the spare T-shirts he stashed in his locker. Turn in his Catfish uniform. Someone would come and rip the masking tape off his locker, the one with the handwritten 45-Stark on it. And that would be it. He’d be erased from the Kilby Catfish.

  From baseball.

  If someone had stabbed a knife in his gut and yanked it upward, through his heart and lungs, it would probably feel like this. Baseball was like the air he breathed, the blood circulating through his body. Baseball had saved him, lifted him up, given him a place to shine. It had allowed him to take care of Nina.

  It had brought him to Paige.

  And now, baseball would be gone from his life. Independent league baseball . . . who was he kidding? It wasn’t the same. He’d be facing 80-mile-an-hour fastballs, not 90. He’d be like a college graduate going back to junior high. He wouldn’t
be able to test himself against the best, hone his abilities, take his talent as far as it would go. For all practical purposes, it would be the end of baseball for him.

  And what about Paige? How could he expect her to be with some minor league reject? She was the daughter of baseball royalty. What would he be by tomorrow? Some asshole who used to be a prospect.

  All this time, he’d been operating under the belief that he was in baseball because of Nina, because she’d made him promise. Bullshit. Nina was right, he did belong in baseball, and it was going to fucking kill him to leave. He played baseball because he loved it. And now it was being ripped away from him, and it felt like giving up a vital organ.

  Around two-thirty in the morning the bus stopped to fuel up at a rest stop in a random town in Oklahoma. Trevor, who’d been sleeping so lightly that every shift in the bus’s speed woke him up, decided to stretch his legs. While the other guys were just starting to stir, he jumped out of the bus and jogged into the convenience store. A sleepy-eyed kid in a Red Bull T-shirt rested his head on one elbow while leafing through a magazine.

  Trevor gave him a nod, then went to the cooler and surveyed the soda selection. Maybe a ginseng green tea would give him a lift. The bell tinkled as someone else walked in.

  “Morning. Got any hot coffee?” Dwight asked in a sleep-graveled voice.

  “Nah.”

  “I’ll take it cold.”

  “All out.”

  Trevor glanced over at the coffee setup. The pot was full, probably even warm, or at least tepid. Asshole. Shit like that made him nuts. Maybe the clerk didn’t know there was coffee. Maybe he didn’t feel like getting up, or even pointing. Maybe it wasn’t racist bullshit. In his current mood, none of that mattered.

  He grabbed the pot and took it to the clerk. “Ask him how he likes it,” he told the kid in a steely voice.

  The kid hesitated. Trevor reached over and grabbed the neck of his shirt.

  “We have video cameras,” the clerk squeaked.

  “Good. Someone will finally get to see you give good service. Ask him how he likes his coffee.”