Playing Without Rules: A Baseball Romance

by Rachelle Ayala

  Third pitch. Crack! Line drive up the middle.

  Brock’s heart catapulted from his throat as Ryan doubled over, holding his hand over his face and collapsed onto the ground.

  Everyone charged the mound, and Brock reached his friend first. Ryan lay on his face moaning. His legs twitched, tapping in pain.

  “I’m sorry. So sorry,” Brock muttered, rubbing Ryan’s back. “Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.”

  “Step back,” the pitching coach barked as the medic slammed his bag on the rubber. Two men with a body board ran onto the field, and the head coach grabbed Brock by the armpits and hoisted him away from the scene.

  “There was nothing you could have done,” the coach said. “These things happen. Why don’t you take the rest of the day off? You’re excused from the game this evening.”

  “Coach,” Timmy said. “Shouldn’t we cancel the game? Out of respect?”

  “Get back on the mound, unless your arm’s turned into a noodle.” The coach slapped Timmy with his mitt. “Batter up.”

  Brock stood behind the fence and watched until Ryan was loaded into an ambulance. The pain of knowing he had Ryan writhing on the ground, moaning and hissing, slashed through his insides the same way he’d felt watching his mother lying on the floor holding her head.

  He should have let Ryan strike him out. He should have stayed loyal to at least one friend. He should never have come back to Phoenix.

  “So if it isn’t big bad Brock Carter, slugger,” a slimy voice jeered behind him. “My father wants to talk you in his office.”

  Brock’s nostrils flared at the pungent designer cologne worn by the poseur, Conrad Riggins. “Tell him I need a few minutes to shower.”

  “Why? To wash the blood off of you?” the effeminate douchebag lilted in a sing-song schoolboy fashion.

  “Get out of my way.” Brock headed for the locker room, but Conrad tagged at his heels.

  “I know everything about you and Marcia. Everything. Ryan’s not the only person you battered. Oh, right, battered up. Ha, ha.”

  “What’s this have to do with Marcia?” The hairs on Brock’s arms bristled.

  Conrad sneered, showing his teeth. “You stay away from her. Hurt a hair on her head and you’ll answer to me.”

  “I never …” Brock pushed by him.

  “Ah ha. Can’t even deny it,” Conrad said. “My father’s not about to see his franchise smeared by an abuser. There’s a lot of that going on in pro sports right now, but here with the Rattlers, we don’t care if you’re the home run champ or lead the league in RBIs.”

  “I’m not …” It was no use fighting a negative. Besides, if Marcia had told Conrad about this morning, then there was no use denying it. He stared at the fingernail gouges on the back of his right hand.

  “Ha, ha, she nailed you too. Good girl. Queen to h8, checkmate.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Three days later, Marcia dragged herself back to work. She needed to give Jeanine a day off and thank her for driving Bianca and Pappy to the hospital.

  Her friend was supervising the beer keg exchange.

  “Yow, you look like shit.” Jeanine dragged her in for a hug. “How’s Binky?”

  Marcia suppressed a yawn. “Feeling better than me. She went back to school. Thanks for working overtime. Why don’t you take the rest of the day off?”

  “I could use some time, but you look like you’re ready to fall on your feet.”

  “Barely got any sleep the last few days. Do I look that bad?”

  Jeanine’s lips twisted sideways. “Bags a mile deep under your bloodshot eyes, puffy cheeks, bad hair under a black bandana. I can handle another day and night. Go home and take a nap now that Binky’s back in school.”

  “I won’t be able to sleep anyway.” Marcia rubbed her eyes.

  “Why? Is it Brock?”

  Marcia bit down on her lip and swallowed. Brock hadn’t called, not that she’d expected him to. Even Pappy wondered why he’d suddenly dropped out of the scene. She still had his cell phone in her purse, and she’d kept it charged, hoping he’d call to fetch it.

  “What’s going on?” Jeanine’s voice sharpened. “I didn’t want to say anything in front of your father, but did Brock do something to you?”

  Marcia had too much on her plate to discuss Brock with Jeanine. For one, Conrad kept calling and hinting he had dirt on him. He’d be coy and say he would only tell her over dinner and drinks.

  “No, nothing. Nothing at all.” Marcia dismissed her friend and headed for her office, rolling up her sleeves to get some work done. No sense crying over spilt milk. Brock would never be back. Not after that fight they’d had. She booted up her computer and checked her email, glancing at her wrist while she clicked the mouse. The bruising had faded to a light yellow, but it was a stark reminder of why she should stop pining for him.

  She would never ever be one of those women who stayed in an abusive relationship. Never. And she sure as hell was going to set a good example for Bianca.

  A buzzing noise sounded from her purse. It was Brock’s phone.

  Marcia flipped it open and hit the ‘accept call’ button. The number flashing on the old-fashioned LCD screen was not one she recognized.

  “Hello, Mr. Carter, this is Dr. Sparks. I have an opening tomorrow afternoon at three,” a woman’s voice said.

  “Oh, this is Marcia Powers,” Marcia said.

  “I must have gotten the wrong number.”

  “No, no. You didn’t. Brock left his cell phone with me. Could I ask you what this is about? Is he ill?”

  “Sorry, I can’t divulge that information. Is there another number I can contact him at?”

  “Uh, I’m not sure he has a landline at his apartment.”

  “I’ll send him email,” the doctor said. “If I don’t hear from him by tomorrow morning, I’ll reschedule.”

  The call ended. Marcia jotted down the phone number on the screen and entered it into a search engine.

  Dr. Leslie Sparks, Psychotherapist, specializing in Anger Management, Domestic Violence, and Sexual Addictions.

  He needed help all right, and she owed it to him to forward the message. After all, he was still a friend and someone she cared about.

  He was probably at the ballpark, so she checked the Rattlers exhibition game schedule and found that they had a game this afternoon. Maybe she could speak to him after the game when the players signed autographs. The call had sounded important, and she didn’t want him to miss the appointment.

  Her eyes misted at the twisting feeling wringing her heart dry. Who was she fooling? She still loved him and hated the way they’d parted at the hospital. He’d spilled his fears at her feet and reached for her like a drowning man begging for a lifeline.

  But her wrist had throbbed, and the pain had hardened her heart. Even though she yearned to comfort him, she couldn’t place herself in his line of fire. Maybe she shouldn’t rush to the stadium this afternoon.

  She’d send Jeanine, instead.

  # # #

  Brock groaned and wiped the grimy sweat from his face. He sat up, knocking over an empty bottle and rolled off his bed. The room was dark and reeked of vomit and alcohol.

  For the last three days, he’d been holed up in his apartment with the blinds drawn. The only time he’d stepped out was to visit Ryan at the hospital.

  Ryan had suffered a broken cheekbone and a gash under his eye. Fortunately, the ball had missed his eye, and he was expected to recover. The entire left side of his chiseled, male-model face was distorted and swollen to the size of a grapefruit, and his smile had been so distended, he’d looked like a hippopotamus.

  Brock rubbed his dry eyes and held his stomach, recalling the last meeting he had with the team owner. He’d requested Riggins to let him off his contract with the Rattlers and pursue free agent status. Riggins hadn’t agreed, saying he’d take everything into consideration. Surprisingly, nothing had been said about Conrad’s allegations. Instead, he’d been given a week o
f mental health leave, and Riggins had forced him to call his therapist on the spot before letting him leave his office.

  Brock’s stomach heaved, and he stumbled to the bathroom. The sour whiskey propelled with such force it spewed from both his mouth and nose. After he finished retching, he splashed cold water over his face.

  The image staring back at him in the mirror was that of a loser. A disgusting man, a lowlife, unfit for human companionship. He staggered from the bathroom and gathered the half-empty bottles, ripped their caps off and turned them upside-down in the sink.

  Collapsing to the kitchen floor, he palmed his face and curled up into a fetal position, letting the tears roll. He cried for his mother, for Marcia, for Bianca and Uncle Ron, for Aunt Nanny. And for his father who’d been holed up in a jail cell in Louisiana fifteen miles from the cemetery his mother was buried at.

  All Brock had ever wanted was a normal family—one where everyone loved each other and protected their own. Acceptance and being included inside the circle was just out of his reach, always had been, except he hadn’t believed it. Instead, he’d overreached, cleaving to stupid romantic notions, that love would conquer all, and that Marcia would be the one.

  The poison in his blood and the vicious cycle of abuse haunted him, dwelled in his subconscious, and infected his behavior so that he’d pass it on to those he’d love the most—a wife and a child he could never allow himself to have and to hurt.

  Could he really live without the hope of Marcia?

  He had to. Bottom line. Unlike baseball, love played without rules.

  # # #

  “What do you mean he hasn’t been at the ballpark?” Marcia questioned Jeanine when she returned to the Hot Corner later that afternoon.

  Her friend flipped her blond hair over her shoulder and shrugged. “The guys say he injured a pitcher, Ryan Hudson, and sent him to the hospital.”

  “He what?” Marcia’s stomach turned upside down, and a wave of nausea shoved bile up her throat.

  “I didn’t get the details. They were busy with their pre-game warmups.”

  “Crap. This is worse than I thought.”

  Jeanine’s eyes narrowed, and she speared Marcia with a pointed look. “What are you saying? That he did it on purpose? I was under the impression it had been an accident.”

  “I don’t know what to think.” Marcia wiped her hands over her unruly hair. “You know about his father, don’t you?”

  “Actually, you never told me.” Jeanine gripped Marcia’s arm. “What’s going on?”

  “Brock might be having a breakdown.” Marcia pointed to her wrist. “He hurt me on the drive back from Saguaro.”

  “He did?” Jeanine’s eyes widened and she shuddered. “Are you saying Conrad’s right?”

  “Wait, wait. What’s Conrad have to do with this?”

  “Oh, shit! He didn’t tell you?” Jeanine sank to the couch in Marcia’s office—the one Brock used to sleep on when he was a battered teenager and the office had belonged to her father.

  Marcia sagged onto the couch next to her friend. “Conrad’s been dangling information about Brock over my head all week. Saying he’d tell me over dinner and drinks. I figured it was another piece of idle gossip. You know, some shit about Brock and a cheerleader or a female sports reporter.”

  Jeanine’s entire body shook. “You mean he still wants to see you? I can’t believe it. I thought, I … uh, never mind.”

  She clammed up as Marcia’s jaw plunged to the floor.

  “No shit!” Marcia grabbed her friend by the shoulders. “You’ve been sleeping with him. That crap about Bianca being sick and Conrad rushing to the hospital—you told him.”

  “I thought you broke up with him. Honest.” Jeanine clutched Marcia. “I’ve never ever stolen anyone from you. Not even when you sicced me on Brock. I’m not the bitch you think I am.”

  “I didn’t say you were. You’re my best friend.” Marcia hugged Jeanine. “But what did Conrad say about Brock?”

  Jeanine’s face screwed into a theater’s tragedy mask as she let out a howl. “Conrad said Brock beat the shit out of his father. Broke all his bones. That he’s as vicious as his dad. He visited Brock’s father at the jail, and his father said Brock had been abusing you. That’s why you broke up with him when you got pregnant.”

  “Wait, wait, wait.” Marcia pushed away from her friend’s pawing. “Brock’s father told Conrad all this?”

  “Uh, yes. Marcia, why didn’t you tell me? Were you ashamed? I can’t believe you suffered alone. I would have been there for you, and had I known, I would never have encouraged you to get back together with Brock.”

  Marcia’s world tilted on its axis, and her face flushed hot and cold. Her head spun and her pulse expanded and contracted in her head. She shoved her hands over her ears and stomped her feet. “Stop talking. Stop it. Stop. Stop. Stop.”

  “It’s okay, it’s okay to let it out.” Jeanine patted her and crooned over her. “I’m here for you, always. But the most important thing is to keep Brock away from you and Bianca. Have you called the police? Filed for a restraining order?”

  Marcia shoved herself from Jeanine. “No, no, and no. Brock’s not like that. Not at all.”

  “I know you’re denying it, and hey, it’s okay. It’s what victims do. Conrad and I read all the websites.”

  Marcia grabbed her purse and car keys. “I appreciate everything you’re saying, but I need to leave, now.”

  “Where are you going?” Jeanine chased her from the office to the back door.

  “Out. To get fresh air.” Marcia blinked back tears. “Conrad’s lying about Brock. Don’t believe a word he says and don’t fall into his trap.”

  “You’re going to see Brock, aren’t you?” Jeanine shouted after her. “I’m coming with you.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “Sorry. I am.” Jeanine yanked the door open and plopped herself into the passenger seat of Marcia’s minivan.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The sun was on its way down when Marcia and Jeanine arrived at Brock’s apartment complex. Marcia parked in visitor’s parking and ran past the carport. Brock’s truck and Harley were in their spot. Good.

  She rushed up a flight of stairs and jogged down the landing toward his unit.

  “I still think we should rethink this,” Jeanine said. “We’re not professionals and we shouldn’t be doing this intervention.”

  “What are you talking about? Didn’t you hear a thing I said? Brock has never, ever abused me. His father lied. What I don’t get is how did he know about my pregnancy? Do you think he told Brock?”

  “Obviously not.” Jeanine dragged Marcia to a halt. “Are you going to tell him now? I mean, if Conrad knows, the cat’s out of the bag.”

  “Conrad’s a rat. An absolute rat.”

  “How can you say that?” Jeanine shook her head. “He cares about you. Even though you dumped him, he still thinks of you as a friend. He can’t help it if Brock’s own father lied—or maybe it’s a matter of interpretation.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You think a little twist on the wrist or a pinch is not abuse?”

  “It’s not, okay? Not this one time. He’s never, ever touched me in a hurtful way. Ever. He’s going to a therapist and trying, and the least I can do is be a friend."

  Jeanine flapped her hands and growled. “You’re falling into a trap. Leave it to the professionals.”

  “He needs me.” Marcia clutched her purse and strode briskly to Brock’s door. She knocked before she could change her mind. Meanwhile Jeanine clomped her heels and stood at her side.

  There was no answer.

  Marcia pounded on the door. “Brock. I know you’re in there. I have your cell phone.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t want to talk to you. Maybe he has a guest in there,” Jeanine muttered at her side.

  “Brock.” Marcia continued to bang on the door. She didn’t care if he had visitors, although she doubted it. Not if he
was so troubled he was calling his therapist. “Brock, please, open the door.”

  Brock opened the door a crack. He was shirtless and disheveled, reeking of alcohol and sweat. “You have my phone?”

  Marcia swallowed. Her throat clenched as her heart rate spiked. “I, uh, yes, here it is.”

  “Thanks.” Brock held his hand out.

  She pressed it into his hand and lingered. “Dr. Sparks called. She has an opening tomorrow at three. You should get back to her.”

  “Uh, sure. Yes, thanks.” Brock glanced at Jeanine and shrank back into the apartment. “How’s Bianca? Is she better?”

  “Yes, she went back to school this morning.”

  He made no move to invite her in, yet he didn’t shut the door. The yearning in his eyes, the pain on his face, and the way he still affected her made Marcia ache with a sense of loss she hadn’t felt since her mother died.

  She couldn’t move away, but she couldn’t stay. Jeanine was right. She wasn’t a professional. He’d been drinking to the point of throwing up, if the dank odor in his apartment was any clue. The bags under his eyes hung heavily and his face was pasty and drawn, like he hadn’t seen the light in days.

  Beside her, Jeanine cleared her throat. “We should be getting back to the Hot Corner. We left Todd in charge. Not that he can’t handle it or anything, but well, maybe he needs us.”

  Brock moved to close the door, his gaze still lingering on Marcia, as if this were the final goodbye.

  “No, you go back. I came to see Brock.” Marcia stuck her hand on the door frame.

  “Do you think it’s wise?” Jeanine tugged her shirt. “You delivered the message.”

  Marcia pushed her way into the apartment and wrapped her arms around Brock. He jumped on contact and tensed all his muscles. His breath hitched and his arms remained stiff at his sides.

  She didn’t care. She wasn’t letting go. Whether they had a relationship or not, this man was Bianca’s father, and dammit, she wasn’t giving up on him.

  “Marcia?” Jeanine prodded her. “We can come back later. Maybe Brock’s busy, or he’s getting ready to go out.”