Blake (Season One: The Ninth Inning #2)

by Lindsay Paige

  * * * *

  Blake

  Season 1 of

  The Ninth Inning Series

  Copyright © 2015 by Lindsay Paige and Mary Smith

  All rights reserved.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products, bands, and/or restaurants referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  About the Authors

  Coming Soon

  MY LEGS ARE shaking as I walk back out to my car. Did that happen? Did that really just happen? I fall into the leather seat of the Audi my dad bought me and try to calm myself. This can’t be happening. This isn’t real. I quickly rifle through my Prada bag and find my cell phone. I call the one person who can bring me back to reality.

  “Sofia, how did it go?” my mother’s soft voice comes over the line.

  “They told me that I got it. Right there on the spot. They said, ‘you have the job.’”

  “Sweetheart, isn’t that what you wanted?”

  “Yes, I really wanted it, but I’m in shock. Please promise me that Dad had nothing to do with this.”

  Mom giggles. “Oh, I promise you that he didn’t have anything to do with it. He knew you wanted to do it on your own and you did.”

  “I did. I did it on my own.” I sigh in relief as my new title hits me. Sofia Gardner, Massage Therapist for the Memphis Angels. It might not sound like a lot to some, but to me, it’s everything.

  “Are you coming for dinner tonight?”

  “No, Mom, I’m going to head home and relax. I have to go in tomorrow, do my paperwork, and get my badge. Can you believe it? A badge.” I’m giddy as a schoolgirl.

  “We’re very proud of you and love you so much.”

  “Aw, I love you, too.” I couldn’t have picked two better parents.

  Vivian and Art Gardner have to be two of the kindest souls in the world, and they taught me to be the same way. Mom and Dad constantly told me that there’s always good in someone, you just have to find it, and do so with kindness. I think it’s one reason why Dad has been so successful in his business ventures: he’s true to his word and gives everyone a fair shake. No matter who it is.

  I drive home with my music blasting and the air conditioning on high. Damn, this humidity is going to kill me and my hair. When I reach the small two story house I share with my sister, I see that she’s home.

  Oh no, I think as I walk up to the door and unlock it as loudly as I can.

  “Harmony, are you here?” I almost scream.

  “Good grief, what are you yelling for?” My older sister comes around the corner. She’s in a pressed light gray business suit. Her dyed blonde hair is on top of her head in a tight bun. When we stand next to each other, people always think we’re twins. We’re exactly ten months apart. We’re the same height, weight, and build. We even have the exact same shade of crystal gray eyes like our mother. The only difference is that I don’t dye my naturally red hair.

  “I didn’t want to walk in on you having sex on the kitchen counter again. I still can’t get that image out of my head.” I shudder, thinking of that day.

  “I said I was sorry a million times.” She shakes her head, and I follow her into the kitchen.

  “Why are you home?” I ask, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge.

  “I came home to see how the interview went.”

  “I got it.”

  We both squeal and jump up and down. It’s ridiculous, but it’s something that we do; we have since we were kids.

  “That’s awesome. When do you start? And when can you start introducing me to the baseball players?”

  “Never,” I tell her firmly. I love my sister more than my shoe collection, but there’s no way I’m going to take her anywhere near the team. Harmony would be climbing on them like honey if I let her loose.

  “That’s hurts, Sofia.”

  “You know it’s true.”

  She opens her mouth to argue, but stops and nods. “It is. So, tell me everything that happened.”

  I go into great detail about the interview, the small tour they gave me, and how they’d told me on the spot that I’d gotten it. I even tell her how I felt like I was going to pass out as I walked to the car.

  “I’m so excited for you. Listen, let’s celebrate tonight when I get home. I have to go back before Dad realizes I’m gone and not working on the Crest Street Development.”

  I gasp. “Harmony, you can’t lie to Dad.”

  “I didn’t. I told him I was running out to do some research. Well, okay, that is a lie, but he won’t know.” She kisses my cheek and races out the door.

  I clean up her sandwich crumbs and half a glass of milk and load the dishwasher. Harmony is the messy one of us, but it’s who she is. I slip off my heels and walk up to my bedroom. The house is perfect for us and Dad has owned it for a long time. He lets us stay here, but we have to pay the bills. We may be spoiled, but Dad does tell us no from time-to-time.

  I gently put my shoes back into their original box and place them carefully on my closet shelf. I unzip my DKNY light green dress and toss it into the dry clean pile. I find a pair of jean shorts and a purple tank top, put those on, and then twist my hair into a messy ponytail. I scrub off all the makeup that I hate to wear and finally fall onto my bed.

  This has been an exhausting day. I roll over on my side, and on my pink painted wall, I see all of my diplomas, degrees, and certificates. I wanted to be a doctor originally, but the first time I saw a film of an autopsy, I almost passed out. Then I decided being a nurse would be better, but after one hour into my clinical and someone puking on me, I left. I decided to work for Dad and got my real estate license, but I wasn’t very good at selling or negotiating, and Dad told me it wasn’t for me.

  One day at a spa retreat with Mom and Harmony, I talked to the woman who was doing my massag
e. One thing lead to another and I decided to do that. It wasn’t until my very first client—a large, hairy male—that I almost quit again. However, I didn’t. I knew that there were going to be things I didn’t like about any job, and I couldn’t keep quitting and changing my mind. That day, I powered through.

  Now, look at me. The official Massage Therapist for the Memphis Angels.

  This is going to be a great career.

  I HAVE A slight headache as I walk into the HR offices of the Angels’ Headquarters. Harmony and I shouldn’t have finished that bottle of wine, but you can’t say no when you’re watching the ever-so-hot Chris Pine. I decided on pants today for the meeting with HR, but regretted it almost immediately with the heat index.

  Damn you, Tennessee and your Hades temperatures.

  “This way, Ms. Gardner.”

  I smile and follow the older lady down the hall. I get fingerprinted, sign my name a thousand times, have all my IDs photocopied, and even have my picture taken before finally being able to see the locker room and Angels Quarters.

  I meet the medical staff and the trainers, but I won’t meet the players until later. I’m not nervous since everyone here is new. Last season, the Angels went through the biggest scandal in baseball history due to drugs and doping. The whole team was either suspended, traded, retired, or arrested. They replaced the medical staff as well. Now, the season is about to start and we are all on the same page.

  I go into my workroom and I’m underwhelmed. The red and blue of the team’s colors are a bit gaudy on the walls, cabinets, and floor. I have two large massage tables and a massage chair. There’s a desk, a computer, and supplies that I will need for the players. This room really needs a female touch and badly.

  I take out my phone and open my notepad, typing down things I need. My boss told me to send my requests in and I would get what I needed, but I don’t mind picking up a few extra items. Air freshener is first on the list. This room smells like sweat and bad 1980s cologne; it’s making me gag. I take a few pictures, and with Harmony’s help, we can make this place shine.

  I swipe my shiny new badge and unlock the door to the head out toward the exit when I slam into something hard. A hard, hairless chest. I look up to see a pair of hazel eyes looking back at me.

  “Sorry,” I quickly rush out.

  “Are you lost?” His deep voice is smooth and his hair is wet, falling onto his forehead.

  “No...um...just leaving. Sorry.” As I scurry around him, I realize he’s only wearing a towel. Damn it. I went out the wrong door. This is the player’s locker room, and I needed the other side. I keep my head down, praying I don’t see anything, and burst out the door.

  Once I figure out where I am and how to get out, I rush to my car and crank the air conditioning again. I’m not sure if it’s the heat making me hot or the hot body I just saw.

  I WATCH THE redhead quickly rush out of the locker room. For a moment, I wonder if I should be concerned about people roaming around where they clearly don’t belong, but I don’t really care, so I don’t pay it any more attention. I get dressed and drive home.

  Some days, it’s hard to decide if I even like baseball. The idea that I don’t would seem crazy to anyone who knows me, considering that I’m a catcher for the professional baseball team, the Memphis Angels. Surely, if I play, then I love the game.

  Sometimes, when everything in my life is like it should be, I love my job. But then, when reality strikes, I wonder if I truly enjoy it. However, there’s no doubt in my mind that playing baseball is what I was born to do. My father is the famous pitcher, Jack Foster. I’ve been playing for as long as I can remember because he needed his son to carry on his legacy.

  A legacy I wish would vanish and rot in hell right along with my father.

  He wanted me to pitch like him, too. While I could pitch, I needed to grasp the one small piece of control I could. I needed to have something in this game for me, so when I have a hard time remembering why, I can hold on to that. So, I became a catcher instead. Thankfully, my father was still playing when I was growing up, so he was never officially my coach. The coaches I did have honed me into a damn good catcher and player.

  Of course, my father would say it’s all because of him.

  Being back in my hometown isn’t something I’d particularly looked forward to, but here I am anyway. At least, now I can look after Mom better, even though it will cost both of us and still won’t change anything. My personal life is so exhausting that baseball season, with its traveling and games for months on end, is like vacation instead of work. Well, when I like baseball, that is.

  At home, I fix a healthy meal before relaxing on the couch. I spend most nights at home like this. I never had many friends in Memphis to start with, and those I did have, I haven’t bothered connecting with since I’ve been back. There was a huge fiasco with the Angels last season with drugs. The entire team was wiped out and a lot of the staff members were fired as well. Part of me wishes my dad still had a hand in things with the team, so that it would taint his legacy. No such luck, though.

  My phone vibrates with a text from Hector Rodriguez, our first baseman. The team-building exercises we’ve done really paid off for him because he now considers me a friend. Which means I’m apparently his go-to person when he wants to hang out. I don’t know why, but I tell him he can come over. It’s not as if I try to be alone, excluding everyone else from my life. It just happens that way most of the time.

  Thirty minutes later, Hector walks right into my house. No knock, no hello as he pushes the door open, nothing. He plops down onto the recliner, grabs a controller from the coffee table, and kicks his feet up.

  “One of these days, I’m going to mistake you for a burglar and knock you unconscious,” I tell him as I start the army combat video game.

  “No one wants your shit, Blake. You come after me and I’ll go Kung Fu on your ass.” He swipes his hands on the air and I laugh. “Since you’re in a good mood, I think I know what your nickname should be,” he adds.

  My jaw locks, but I don’t spare him a glance, instead choosing to keep my eyes glued to the screen. “Why do I need a nickname?”

  “Because your personality is too much for a simple name like Blake to handle. And because I nearly died laughing when I thought of it.”

  Reluctantly, I ask, “What is it?”

  “Grumpy. And when Halloween comes around, you can dress as a dwarf. Wasn’t one of them named Grumpy?”

  “I don’t know, and you’re not calling me Grumpy.”

  Hector shrugs and I’m dumb enough to believe that’s the end of it. An hour later, he gets up, heading toward my kitchen. “Hey, Grumpy,” he calls.

  “Yeah?” I wince as I realize my mistake, hearing him laughing. There’s no way I can stop him now.

  “Don’t you have any leftovers? I’m hungry.”

  I turn on the couch to look at him. He’s standing in front of my fridge, rubbing his stomach. “Didn’t you pass like a million food places on your way here? Or, if you’d hurry up and get internet hooked up, we could play without you ever coming over and eating all of my food.”

  He reaches in, grabs a box of pizza from yesterday, and heats up a few slices. “You know what happens to people who don’t socialize?” he asks.

  “They don’t kill their friends?”

  “They go crazy. I’m keeping you sane, Grumpy.” He returns with a bottle of water for us both along with his food.

  “Call me Grumpy one more time, and I’ll show you what kind of damage a sane person can do.”

  My phone rings, interrupting whatever he’s about to say. My stomach knots and dread fills me before I even answer. Mom calling me this late means bad things.

  “Hey,” I answer.

  “Hey, can you pick me up and take me home?” Her voice is soft like always, the touch of fear present in her tone no matter who she’s speaking to or what she’s talking about.

  “Where are you?”

  “The hospi
tal. I broke my wrist falling down the stairs earlier.” I’m sure that’s exactly what happened.

  “Where is he?”

  “At home. He got tired of waiting, so he left.”

  “I’m on my way,” I tell her. A sigh is the only moment I have to myself.

  Hector raises his brows at me. “Do I have time to finish?” He holds up his plate.

  “Take it to go,” I snap. Standing, I grab my keys from the coffee table and wiggle my feet into my shoes by the door. One night. I can’t even go one night without this shit. Now that I’m back home, it’s like he tries to bring me into it more than I have to be. On the drive to the hospital, I try to shake some of the anger away. It’s not Mom’s fault. Sometimes, I want to blame her for sticking around like she does, but I don’t know what goes through her head, so I don’t. Or, I try not to.

  If she needs me, I’ll be there every time.

  My father, on the other hand, could be on fire and I wouldn’t spit on him.

  Mom is waiting outside, standing on the sidewalk along the parking lot. I get out and walk over to her, gently wrapping my arms around her in case she’s hurting elsewhere, too.

  “You alright?”

  “I’m fine.” That’s always her answer. “Thanks for coming, son.”

  “Always will, Mom.” I lead her to my truck before asking, “What set him off this time?”

  She shrugs her shoulders. “I don’t know anymore,” she whispers. “He’s been worse since you came back and started ignoring him.”

  My hands tighten on the steering wheel. She can’t be serious. “You’re blaming me? No one is responsible for this but him.”

  “I didn’t say it was your fault, Blake. All I mean is that he’s been moodier than usual.”

  “Yeah, because of me, I got that.”

  I don’t know why this surprises me. The finger would always be pointed at me, even if I weren’t living in the same state. Usually, Mom and I get along. We’ve had to stick together against the force that is my father, but over the past few years, her mindset has shifted. She’s thinking more like him. He has her so completely controlled, it’s as if he’s been able to brainwash her while I was away, living my life.