by Sykes, V. K.
CURVEBALL
The Philadelphia Patriots
Book Four
By V.K. Sykes
Copyright 2013 by V.K. Sykes
Smashwords Edition
Cover Art by Kim Killion, Hot Damn Designs
http://www.hotdamndesigns.com
E-book Formatted by Jessica Lewis, Authors’ Life Saver
http://authorslifesaver.com
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 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.
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
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
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Excerpt from Fastball
About the Authors
1
“HE’S SO NOT ready, Dave,” Taylor Page said as she watched the new kid take his cuts in the batting cage at Clearwater’s Cal Torrance Field. Nathan Corbin was the team’s prized young prospect, and he looked more than lost as he swatted futilely at batting practice pitches. “We’ll shatter the poor guy’s confidence if we keep putting him through this nightmare.”
The former first round draft pick had managed just eight hits in fifty-six spring training at-bats, and even his fielding stats were subpar, no doubt reflecting his rattled nerves and crumbling spirit.
The fact that the man sitting beside her, Philadelphia Patriots’ general manager Dave Dembinski, had decided to rush Corbin straight from Double A to the major leagues didn’t alter the long odds of the raw youngster making the jump before paying his dues in the minors. Being so new to the Patriots’ front office, Taylor hadn’t wanted to argue her boss’s call. She might be one of the team’s assistant general managers, but she had only a couple of months under her belt. Nor did she know the team’s minor league system well enough yet to gainsay either Dembinski or the legion of scouts singing Corbin’s praises.
Dembinski tugged at the zipper of his team windbreaker, hunching his shoulders against the stiffening breeze that blew a few raindrops almost sideways in front of him. Normally they’d be watching from inside the suite, but the GM liked to sit behind the plate when he needed to take an extra close look at a player in game conditions. “He sucks, you mean. So, just say it, Taylor.”
“Say what?” Taylor responded cautiously.
“Say I told you so, damn it. Everybody else is, and you were skeptical about the Corbin move from the get-go, too.”
That was true enough, but she wasn’t about to rub the mistake in his face. Her self-preservation instincts were way stronger than that. “It’s easy to get hopes up with a five-tool prospect like Corbin,” she said. “He’s special. But still a work in progress, it seems.”
The Patriots had hoped Corbin could fill a desperate gap at first base—the one created by a February car accident that had come close to killing their regular first sacker, Jared Stark. With two broken legs and a smashed pelvis and lacerated organs, Stark was lucky to be on the right side of the grass. No baseball for him for a long while, and definitely not this season.
“Assign Corbin to minor league camp after the game,” the GM said abruptly. “Now, I’d better get back to the office and make some more calls.”
Dembinski started up the concrete stairs and Taylor followed. The stands were almost empty, a result of the unusually cool and rainy weather in sub-tropical Florida. “We’re up against the wall, Taylor,” her boss said without looking back at her. “Corbin’s not the answer, and there’s no way I’m going to have Cruz in the lineup every day. No fucking way.”
Taylor agreed. Ramiro Cruz was a fielding whiz, but his on-base percentage was pure garbage. Basically a Triple A player masquerading as a major leaguer, the guy was the kind of marginal utility player used at the end of the game as a defensive replacement, or when a starter needed a rest.
From the moment she knew Jared Stark was out of commission, Taylor had started to compile a list of possible trades. She’d quickly come up with a few first basemen who might be available and whose contracts wouldn’t break the bank. Though some might think it cold of her to give the names to Dembinski the day after the car crash—hell, poor Jared was still fighting for his life at Jefferson Hospital in Philly—she hadn’t had a choice. Her boss was a tough son of a bitch and Taylor had to do the job. And sooner rather than later, too, or she’d likely find herself standing in the unemployment line.
Dembinski had, in fact, seemed impressed with her initiative, and had been working the phones with his fellow GM’s ever since. But nothing had yet to pan out. In every case, the other team had stuck to an asking price too steep for the Patriots to swallow.
“Dave, I think we have to go in another direction,” Taylor said as they headed for the Patriots’ spring training offices below the stadium.
“Okay, brain girl, that’s why I’m paying you the big bucks. Go ahead and dazzle me.” He unleashed a smarmy grin that made her want to roll her eyes.
Big bucks? Though Taylor’s salary was more than she’d made in her last job as a special assistant to the L.A. Dragons’ GM, the small salary bump in her Patriots’ contract hadn’t been the reason she’d left the Dragons. It was the opportunity. The opportunity of a lifetime, especially in a sport notoriously reluctant to incorporate women into management’s ranks.
But her boss was right about one thing—she’d better soon find a way to dazzle him. When he’d awarded her the position as assistant general manager, he’d told her they had the potential to make a hell of a team. She saw the game through cold statistics and data while he relied on accumulated knowledge and wisdom, along with a whole lot of gut instinct. He’d said that what he wanted from her was analysis. Hard numbers. Unforgiving stats and the tales about players and teams they could hide in their murky depths.
Those words had been music to her stat-loving ears, and now was the time to really start proving herself. “I’m already on it,” she said as Dembinski pushed open the door to his sparsely decorated subterranean lair and peeled off his jacket. “Thinking outside the box.”
/> “Okay, then. Sit down and we’ll kick your idea around.” He pointed to one of the chairs grouped opposite his desk where he liked to relax and shoot the shit with manager Jack Ault or some of the scouts.
Taylor shook her head. Even with her ball cap still on, her long, blond hair swirled around her shoulders. “I’ve still got some work to do before I’m comfortable coming to you. It’s not my style to throw ideas against the wall to see if something sticks,” she finished with a placating smile.
“Yeah? What have you got against good, old-fashioned brainstorming?” Dembinski sat down and tilted his executive chair back hard, almost over-balancing. “We could call the boys in and get their take right away on whatever you’ve got in mind. There’s no more time to screw around, Taylor.”
By the boys, Dembinski meant the seven or eight scouts who floated in and out of training camp all spring. Taylor had no desire to find herself on that particular hot seat, at least not yet. Most of the scouts seemed to regard her as either an uppity know-it-all or a nice piece of ass.
Or both—a truly irritating combination.
“Soon, okay?” she said. “Let me do my work first.”
He shrugged. “Just be quick. By morning, I’ll know if the trade feelers I’ve got out are still alive or gone completely dead. And the season opens next week, for God’s sake.”
“Then I’d better get moving, hadn’t I?” Taylor said, backing out of his office.
She refused to think about the consequences of failure, because her instincts screamed that this was her chance to brand a permanent, positive image of Taylor Page in the GM’s mind. An image not just of technical competence, but of guts, too. She had to hit this one out of the park because someday Dembinski would move on to greener pastures, or maybe even retire early from the game. And when that day came, Taylor had every intention of sliding right into the high-back leather chair her boss’s chino-covered ass was currently occupying. That had been her dream since she was a kid—to be the general manager of the Philadelphia Patriots.
Nothing on God’s earth would have made her dad prouder, and nothing could mean more to Taylor than finally achieving her long-sought, hard-won goal.
As she strode down the echoing concrete corridor to her hole-in-the-wall office, Taylor conjured up the image of a particular photo from the Pittsburgh Hornets’ media guide. The rugged face of Ryan Locke swam into her mind. Could Locke be the one? That red-hot iron she needed to brand her success into Dembinski’s mind? She thought so—no, she knew Locke could be the answer.
But if by some chance he wasn’t, it was all too likely that Taylor would be on the receiving end of that hot iron.
2
TAYLOR SETTLED INTO one of the plastic seats close down to the field, focusing on Ryan Locke as he stood with his back to her as he waited for his turn in the cage. Sweet Lord, but the man knew how to fill out a uniform. His broad, muscular shoulders tapered down to a narrow but solid waistline. Even under the layers of his gray uniform jersey and elbow-length black undershirt, Taylor could easily see his brawny biceps. His legs were strong and sturdy, but the furthest thing from coarse and his ass…well, she wasn’t quite sure what to say about that part of his anatomy other than that she wouldn’t mind digging her fingernails into that hard, sculpted flesh, especially when she had the man securely pinned between her thighs.
Letting out a little groan, Taylor dropped her forehead into her palm. God, since when had she start indulging in such trash talk, even silently? It had clearly been way too long since she’d had sex.
She’d seen Locke play dozens of times over the past few years, maybe even hundreds of times, both on TV and in the flesh. She had to admit to being something of a fan girl when it came to the hunky veteran outfielder. Locke had the kind of fluid swing and keen eye she admired, and had always played his position with both lethal grace and fiery determination. The fact that the man was also unbelievable eye candy had nothing to do with it—there were a lot of super-hot athletes on every team, including hers. She simply appreciated Locke’s undeniable skills on the field, and the gritty determination he’d demonstrated over the years.
The fact that he was unmarried—divorced, to be precise—had nothing to do with it, either, or so she tried to convince herself. No reason to give that fact a moment’s thought. She wasn’t in the market for a boyfriend, much less a husband. Personal entanglements were just that—entanglements. Quicksand traps that would suck a girl down until she finally realized she’d given up on her ambitions and dreams. Taylor had seen that happen too many times to count, and she had no intention of joining the ranks of women forced to give up their dreams.
As for achieving her dreams, she had a long way to go and personal entanglements were not part of the plan.
After the batting coach gave him a little slap on the back and moved away, Locke turned around, his eyes unexpectedly meeting Taylor’s dead-on. She mentally flinched but managed not to avert her eyes from his questioning gaze. His dark brows arched just a little, and his hard mouth curved up into a slowly heated smile. For some reason, she hadn’t expected him to look at her, and certainly not like that. He wasn’t exactly undressing her with his eyes, but damn, even a cloistered nun could have read that particular look.
She stiffened her back, suddenly realizing she’d returned his smile with a big, probably goofy-looking one of her own. She immediately dropped her eyes, telling herself it was merely a natural, instinctive response. Didn’t most people smile back when somebody gave them such an inviting response? Yeah, that was it. She was just being polite.
Polite and utterly ridiculous.
Trying not to feel like a complete fool, she raised her gaze back up. Locke inclined his head in a brief nod, almost as if he recognized who she was.
Strangely unnerved, Taylor flipped her sunglasses down off her head to cover her eyes. The day was overcast, so the guy probably thought she was some kind of weirdo, but the shades made her feel less vulnerable to his now laser-like focus.
Finally, with his smile turning perhaps a little sardonic, Locke returned his gaze to the batting cage. Taylor exhaled a deep sigh and retreated up the concrete stairs of the stadium and into the concourse. She’d find a less obvious place to scout Locke’s pre-game performance and take some time to think about what had just happened.
* * *
THOUGH THE HARD slider damn near kissed the outside corner of the plate, Ryan had it pegged all the way and mentally brushed away the tempting offering. Noah Cade was a craft veteran pitcher whose slider almost always broke sharply down and away at the last split second.
Out of the corner of his eye, Ryan watched the catcher, Nick Rome, inch his big glove ever so slightly to the left and hold it there. It was a ritual—a futile attempt to convince the umpire that the pitch really did skim the corner. But when the ump ignored the invariably useless gesture, Rome grunted and Ryan dropped his bat and trotted to first base. The base on balls made him feel only marginally better about his day—a day that he couldn’t help wishing he’d stayed in bed.
“Nice job, Locke, but I can’t fuckin’ believe you laid off that one,” Ramiro Cruz said after Ryan planted the side of his left foot against the first base bag. “I know you got one hell of an eye, man, but that was some nasty shit Cade tossed you there. I’d have swung at it, for sure. And probably fallen on my fuckin’ face, too.”
Ryan snorted. “Yeah, when he’s got that hard slider going, he’s damn tough to hit.” At that moment, Cade swiveled his head and gave him a hard look. Ryan figured it was one of grudging respect, but it had a major pissed-off edge to it, too. “Hey, Ramiro, that Corbin kid’s not cutting it, huh? You think they’ll pencil you in at first, now? For the season, I mean?”
Cruz had briefly passed through the Hornets’ organization a couple of years ago, one of a half-dozen teams who’d given him a shot in his peripatetic career. Ryan liked the veteran, and would be glad to see him get a legitimate shot at winning a starting job with the Patriots.<
br />
“Fuck, I doubt it,” Ramiro tossed off as he moved off the bag and took up his position between first and second, in defiance of the normal need to pay close attention to the baserunner. As usual, the Patriots weren’t making even the slightest effort to hold Ryan close to the bag. With his banged-up knees, the chances of him trying to steal second were exactly zero.
One on, one out, and Jimmy Colisanti, the weakest hitter in the Hornets’ lineup, was at the plate. Ryan looked over to the third base coach to get the signal. After a dozen or more taps and claps of misdirection for the other team, the coach flashed the hit and run sign. Ryan tensed up, but the call made sense since he was such a slow runner. He just hoped Colisanti got at least a piece of the ball, or he would be dead meat—out at second by a mile.
Pitching out of the stretch position, Cade turned his shoulder to take a disdainful glance toward first before starting his delivery. As soon as Ryan saw Cade was committed to throwing to the batter, he took off. As ordered, Colisanti swung hard at the low pitch, hitting a little grounder that managed to just squeeze by the pitcher’s outstretched glove. Running full out, Ryan could see the ball keep rolling toward the left side of the infield. By the time the shortstop had it in his glove and began his throw to second, Ryan’s aching legs had carried him close enough so he could slide to try to break up the double play. He aimed straight for the second baseman’s ankles as the guy came down onto the bag to force him out.
Sliding had never been his forte, but this time he got it exactly right. By the time the second sacker had gotten airborne in a desperate leap to avoid Ryan’s flying spikes, he was a split-second too late. Ryan’s slightly raised left foot connected solidly with the guy’s cleat, upending him just as he brought his arm forward to relay the ball to first base.
Ryan grabbed at the bag with his left hand as he slid by, the dirt flying up around him as his momentum carried him past the base. The breath rushed out of him when the second baseman’s knee slammed hard into his shoulder as Ryan slid underneath him. By the time he picked himself up, ignoring the pain, Jimmy Colisanti was trotting toward second base. The relay throw had sailed straight into the Hornets’ dugout. Happy that he’d broken up the double play, Ryan nodded at Jimmy as a few groans rose from the Patriot fans.
