Back in the Game

by Lori Wilde

  “Are you trying to piss me off?”

  “Is it working?”

  “Nah, I’m wise to you.” Rowdy yawned and scratched his chest.

  “Heath Rankin called again,” Warwick said.

  He groaned.

  Last season, Rowdy had walked out of the Dallas Gunslingers locker room over unfair treatment of his good friend, and teammate, Price Richards. After badly mishandling the career of one of the best second basemen in the league, the Gunslingers general manager and all-around douchebag, Dugan Potts, had released Price. To add insult to injury, not only had Potts not even tried to make a trade for Price, he badmouthed him all over the league so no other team would touch him.

  Cutting his buddy unfairly was the final straw, just one more stunt in a long list of chickenshit maneuvers Potts had pulled.

  And Rowdy had had enough.

  Even so, his sense of fair play clashed with his loyalty to his friend, and he’d intended his brief absence from the team as nothing more than a token protest, a four-hour mini-strike to prove a point and grab media attention to showcase Potts’s major douchedom.

  Rowdy had returned to the clubhouse in plenty of time for the game, even though he hadn’t been slated to pitch that night. But Potts intercepted him before he got down to the bullpen, and suspended him indefinitely for insubordination.

  In retrospect, maybe he shouldn’t have called Potts a hamster during his TV interview with Babe Laufenberg, because c’mon, there was no point insulting defenseless animals.

  When Rowdy had been hospitalized after his attack, hopped up on morphine, Heath Rankin, the publisher of Jackdaw Press, fellow Texan, and former minor league baseball pitcher, approached him about writing his autobiography. He and Heath had briefly played on the same team before Rowdy’s career took the express train to the majors, and Heath dropped out of baseball in favor of publishing.

  Assuming it would give him an easy out, Rowdy confessed to Heath that he was dyslexic. Unfazed, Heath assured him that it was a rare ball player who wrote his own autobiography. Jackdaw would hire a ghostwriter.

  Um, yeah, because that was so much more pleasant.

  The last thing he wanted was to spend half a year of his life regurgitating stories of his glory days to some nerdy writer. But he’d been floating hazily on those happy drugs, and he’d agreed to think about it. Heath had been pestering him ever since.

  “Get up. I’ll meet you in the gym. You have five minutes.” Warwick turned for the house, whistling to Nolan Ryan.

  The bloodhound moseyed after Warwick.

  “Traitor,” Rowdy called, but swung his legs over the side of the lounger and stood up.

  He made his way to the custom gym, a separate building outside the house, situated on the opposite side of the pool, and he plunked down on the weight bench. The big-screen TV mounted on the wall was tuned, as it almost always was, to ESPN.

  Warwick came through the door, a glass of water in one hand and a mug of steaming coffee in the other, Nolan Ryan heeling beside him.

  Rowdy chugged the water. Sipped the coffee.

  “You sleep too much,” Warwick said. “Are you depressed?”

  Rowdy looked up at him. “My arm is busted, my career shot. What do you think?”

  “I’ve never known you to be a quitter.”

  “Yeah, well, you try losing your career—” He bit off the words as it dawned on him who he was talking to. Warwick had missed his shot in MLB because of Rowdy. “Hey man, I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “I know what you meant.” Warwick’s face was unreadable.

  Rowdy strapped on black workout gloves, and lay down on his back on the weight bench. “Let’s hit it. Add ten extra pounds to each side.”

  “Nope.” Warwick loomed over him. “We’re staying within the guidelines of your physical therapy regimen.”

  “I won’t get better if I don’t push.”

  “Push too hard, too soon, and you’ll make things worse, not better.”

  Warwick had hit the nail on the head when he said Rowdy was only paying lip service to getting back in the game. He’d been self-indulgent since the attack, wrapped up in feeling sorry for himself.

  Honestly, he was scared. As long as he didn’t really try to recover there was always the flicker of hope that if he just applied himself he could reclaim his career. But what if he tried his best to make a comeback and failed?

  What then?

  Rowdy started to argue about the weights, but something on television caught his eye. A leggy female reporter was interviewing Dugan Potts on the field at Gunslinger Stadium. He jerked upright, grabbed for the remote, and cranked the volume.

  The reporter asked Potts why he had unexpectedly cut the pitcher he’d signed to replace Rowdy.

  “Because that’s what the asshole does,” Rowdy hollered at the TV. “He’s enjoys plowing over people.”

  Potts glowered at the reporter. “Zero tolerance. That’s my policy. No more shenanigans like what Blanton pulled last season. Everyone is on notice. My way or the highway.”

  “Hey.” Warwick nudged him in the shoulder with his elbow. “He mentioned your name. I think he still has a crush on you.”

  “Bite me.”

  On screen, a man walked up to Potts and whispered something into the general manager’s ear.

  Rowdy’s gaze shifted to the newcomer. The guy was six-one, two hundred pounds, give or take. Swarthy skin. Thick black hair. Demon black eyes, and . . .

  A striking cobra tattooed on his right forearm.

  His blood froze in his veins. No way.

  It was the same guy who’d ambushed him outside the Dallas nightclub Push, on New Year’s Eve. Rowdy knew it as surely as he knew his date of birth. His heart slammed against his chest, and with each pump of blood his left arm throbbed from his shoulder all the way down to his fingertips.

  In a flash, he was back in the alley of his recurring nightmare. He smelled the rotting garbage. Felt beer bottle shards cutting into his back, and the bat hitting his left side again and again. Tasted cold, bitter fear. Saw the cobra strike. Heard the wood crack.

  He’d gotten only a fleeting glance of the man’s face before the assailant sprinted off into the darkness, but he could identify that awful tattoo anywhere. It would haunt him for the rest of his days.

  A sick feeling rolled over him, and for a moment the water and coffee threatened to come back up. The camera cut away from Potts and his henchman, panned back to the reporter, who wrapped up the story as the network went to commercial.

  Rowdy grabbed Warwick’s arm. “Did you see the guy just now? The one that came up to Potts?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s him.”

  “Who?”

  “Louisville Slugger. I swear it’s him. You saw the guy. Validate me.”

  “I barely caught a glimpse of your attacker as he was running away. In the dark. I might add that if you hadn’t tried to give me the slip to meet up with some groupie—”

  “I’m telling you it’s him.”

  Warwick’s shrug said, You’re reaching, but I’ll indulge you. “He’s the same build, same hair color, same approximate age. I suppose it’s possible, but that description fits hundreds of thousands of men.”

  “It’s the same tattoo.”

  Warwick ran a palm up the nape of his neck, let out a long breath. “A lot of guys have snake tattoos on their forearms.”

  “It’s the guy, and I’m certain Potts hired him to attack me.”

  “That’s a quantum leap. Even if he’s the guy, and he works for Potts, that still doesn’t mean Potts hired him to attack you.”

  Rowdy stared at his best friend, incredulous. “You think it’s just coincidence?”

  “Okay, I admit it smells fishy, but why would Potts hire someone to beat you?”

  “To get even with me for publicly humiliating him, and to give him a real excuse to cut me from the team. He could only stretch my suspension so far. Potts was hell-bent on get
ting rid of me.”

  Warwick’s head shifted left to right, and back again in measured increments.

  “Potts is a lot of things, but if he hired someone to beat you, he crossed a line that I didn’t know he was capable of crossing.”

  “I did.” The sick feeling in his stomach spread throughout his body.

  “For the sake of argument, let’s say Potts did hire this guy to bust you up. What can you do about it now? You have no solid proof. It’s your word against his. If you go around making unsubstantiated accusations he’ll sue you for slander. You know he will.”

  “I might not be able to prove it in a court of law, but I can write a tell-all book.”

  “Oh great. Then it will be libel.”

  “Don’t care.” Rowdy stalked for the door. “Let him sue. The information will be out there in the public. And who knows? It might encourage other players to come forward, and Potts’s house of cards will tumble. This time, he screwed with the wrong player.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To call the detective who handled my attack, and if he blows me off for lack of solid evidence, then I’m going to call Heath and agree to write that autobiography.”

  “Are you sure that’s a smart move?”

  Rowdy stopped, but didn’t turn around. He knotted his fists at his side. His past mistakes were a mountain, but he had to climb it. Had to make things right. The chickens had finally come home to roost and he was the only one who could pluck them.

  “I gotta try, War.”

  Warwick came after him, his footsteps echoing in the gym. “You do this, and the truth comes rolling out, your career is well and truly over. Might as well surrender any last hope of a comeback.”

  Rowdy gulped. He could back off. Let Potts get away with what he’d done. Or he could fight and let the chips fall. “I didn’t ask you to weigh in.”

  Warwick touched his elbow.

  Rowdy pivoted, and met his buddy’s eyes. The look Warwick gave him was exasperated, confused, and defeated all at once. Seeing his oldest friend’s face fall was like watching an icy glacier calve, impressive but sad.

  “Why are you picking a fight with a guy who has no qualms about hiring someone to do you bodily harm?” Warwick lowered his voice. “And if you write that book, you’ll have to talk about it.”

  Rowdy softened his jaw, and his tone, but kept his gaze flinty. “I know.”

  Warwick let out a low, broken whistle. “It’s a big step. Give yourself a few days to think it over.”

  “No.”

  “Haven’t you heard the best revenge is a life well lived?” Warwick had never begged for a thing in his life, but he was almost pleading now. “Make that comeback. Show Potts up that way. It’s more your style.”

  “Or I could just sit on my ass, drinking beer, and throwing parties until I’m a pathetic, washed-up has-been. Does that sound good to you?”

  “No.”

  Another beat of a second passed between them, their eyes still locked. Warwick was worried for him. Hell, he was worried for himself.

  Rowdy ate the bitter taste of his own fear, swallowed it back, felt it sink to his stomach, and spin there. “I have to do this.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if I let Potts get away with this, we both know it’s gonna end up destroying me.”

  For a week the hope chest sat unopened behind Breeanne’s desk at Bound to Please, the bookstore housed on the second floor of the converted Victorian of her family’s antique store.

  Timeless Treasures was tucked at the end of Apple Street, two blocks south of Main. Back in the early 1900s Apple Street was where the crème de la crème of Stardust built their homes. But times had changed, so had the economy and zoning, and now the majority of the stately old Victorians were businesses. To the left of the antique store was Twice Around, a vintage clothing boutique. On the right was a dental office. The houses across the street had been turned into law offices, a sandwich shop, and a hair salon. The historical feel was just one of the reasons Breeanne loved living here. Because of the lake, tourism produced a quarter of the town’s income, and there were plenty of thriving small businesses. The VA hospital and Stardust Independent School District were the town’s biggest employers, as well as a plant that made drilling rig equipment.

  Breeanne had called both of the locksmiths in Stardust and neither of them had been able to open any of the locks without drilling into them. Nor could they explain why their lock-picking tools wouldn’t work on the trunk. Stubbornly, she refused to mar the hope chest by letting the locksmiths drill into the locks. Instead, she and her sisters had gone through every skeleton key they could find in Timeless Treasures on the off chance that one of them might work.

  None of them had.

  But the keys had given creative Suki an idea to turn skeleton keys into necklaces and sell them in her Etsy store. To that end, Suki had put a sign in the window offering to pay a dollar apiece for skeleton keys. So far, there had been no takers.

  That Saturday afternoon just after closing time, Suki bounded up the steps waving a skeleton key over her head. “I got one, I got one.”

  “Where did it come from?”

  “Some little old lady brought it by.”

  Goose bumps dotted Breeanne’s skin. Could it be the same woman who sold her the trunk? “What did she look like?”

  “Tiny little thing. Weird yellow eyes. Wearing a Little House on the Prairie dress. Looked to be a hundred and ten, but she moved surprisingly spry.”

  Breeanne put a palm to her mouth. It had to be the same woman. “Did she say anything about the trunk? About me?”

  “Nope. Just wanted her dollar.”

  Breeanne stared at the trunk, feeling a bit disoriented, the way she had when she’d found the hope chest.

  “Well?” Suki held out the key. “Aren’t you going to try it? The suspense is murderlizing me.”

  Breeanne took the key from her sister and together they knelt in front of the trunk. She reread the enigmatic warning engraved into the lid.

  Treasures are housed within, heart’s desires granted, but be careful where wishes are cast, for reckless dreams dared dreamed in the heat of passion will surely come to pass.

  “Here goes nothing.” Moistening her lips, Breeanne inserted the key into the first lock.

  Suki lightly touched her shoulder. “Don’t forget to make a wish.”

  She felt a bit silly, but how was this any sillier than wishing on birthday candles, falling stars, wishing wells, or pulley bones?

  The old woman’s words of warning floated in her head. Be careful what you wish for, because you will get it. Once the wish has been cast, it cannot be undone.

  Suki snapped her fingers in front of Breeanne’s face. “What’s the holdup?”

  At that moment, Callie the calico cat, a Hurricane Sandy survivor that Suki had rescued when she attended NYU, dropped down from the bookcase overhead, landing solidly on the lid of the trunk with a loud thunk.

  Suki let out a high-pitched squeak, and Breeanne jumped.

  Callie gave them a smug gotcha-again expression, swished her tail, and narrowed green eyes in her Queen of All She Surveys mien. The cat loved pouncing on unsuspecting victims. The left half of Callie’s face was solid black, the right half orange. Her chin and chest were fluffy white, while her left forearm was orange and her right forearm was black. The back of her body was a swirly blend of black, orange, and white, giving her an exotic, one-of-a-kind appearance.

  Suki picked up Callie, stroked her fur. “Go for it.”

  Briefly, Breeanne closed her eyes. Made her wish. She twisted her wrist, but the key didn’t budge. She let out a shaky laugh. She’d actually thought it was going to work?

  Just for the hell of it, she tried the key on the second lock. It did not open. Nor did the third lock.

  Or the fourth.

  She was so certain that the key was not going to open the fifth compartment that she almost forgot to make her wish
, but just as she turned the key, she silently whispered, Please let my writing career take off.

  The key turned. The lock clicked. The compartment cracked open.

  Suki hooted. “It worked!”

  Touching the tip of her tongue to her upper lip, Breeanne eased back the hinges. Inside the compartment lay a second box. This smaller box was square, about three inches all around, and an inch deep. Carved into the lid of this box was another odd saying.

  Two pieces split apart, flung separate and broken, but longing for reunion; one soft touch identifies the other, and they are at last made whole.

  “What’s it mean?” Suki asked.

  Breeanne didn’t know. She lifted the lid, and the faint smell of cloves drifted out.

  Inside the second box lay a cheetah-print scarf folded into accordion pleats, and bound with raffia. The instant she spied the cheetah print, she thought, Rowdy, and a defenseless smile spread across her face.

  Attached to the raffia was a yellowed piece of paper the size of an envelope label. On the label, written in the faded, flourishing script of quill pen ink, were the words: “Touch Me.”

  Breeanne stared at it.

  “So touch the scarf already.” Suki nudged her with an elbow. “Or are you too scared?”

  Breeanne untied the raffia and picked up the scarf. The cloth rippled through her fingers, smooth and rich as warmed butter. “Wow.”

  “What is it?”

  “This is amazing material.” Breeanne rubbed the scarf between her finger and thumb. “It’s softer than expensive cashmere.”

  “Could be vicuna yarn, but it looks too silky for that. Pass it over.” Suki put out a hand.

  Breeanne pulled her arm back, holding the scarf away from her sister. A foreign sensation pushed up through her chest and into her throat.

  “Sheesh. I’m not going to hurt it,” Suki said.

  Breeanne hesitated. Why was she feeling like a jealous lover? Reluctantly, she forced herself to hand over the scarf.

  Suki made a face like she’d inhaled a sunflower seed husk, and jerked her head around to stare at her. “Ha ha. Very funny.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The softest material you’ve ever felt? That’s rich. When did you turn snarky?”