Back in the Game

by Lori Wilde

  “It’s weird though, isn’t it, that the scarf is cheetah and cheetah is your favorite animal print. It seems almost—” She broke off.

  Finally, he glanced over at her. She tilted her head so that her hair fell into her eyes and she could study him from underneath a camouflage of fringe. God, she was cute as hell.

  “Fated,” he finished for her, thinking of the day he’d first caught sight of her and those cheetah panties.

  Her cheeks pinked. “It’s not only superstitious, but pretty nuts to believe that.”

  “You don’t think we’re fated, Breezy?” he whispered, leaning in toward her, surprised by how panicky he felt at the thought that maybe confessing his secret shame to her had changed the way she looked at him.

  Her eyes widened as if he’d asked a trick question and he suddenly realized he didn’t want her to answer that in case the answer was no.

  That’s when he knew that he truly wanted more. And he’d been wanting it for a long time, but admitting it felt too much like walking off a cliff.

  Until now.

  Until Breeanne.

  His father had loved his mother, and he had loved his children, but as he lay dying, he regretted getting married and having four kids so young. He never had the time or money or health to enjoy life. Rowdy had clutched that lesson to his heart, and held on tight. He’d strived to emulate his uncle Mick, who was still single at fifty.

  But it didn’t have to be an either/or extreme. He could have a balanced life. He had money. He wasn’t a kid anymore. He could have a substantial future beyond baseball. He could be a real part of a community. Volunteer. Coach Little League. He had had his day in the sun and that was all right. He had played in the major leagues for over a decade. How many people could say that? He had a legacy, but what good was it if he had no one to share it with? It wasn’t until he met Breeanne that he fully understood how empty his life had become. He’d dated free-spirited women who didn’t want strings attached any more than he did. Women like Laila.

  An old childhood fear had kept him believing that if he stopped moving, stopped having fun, stopped long enough to let himself feel anything deeper than physical pleasure, he’d end up like his father. Trapped in a life he didn’t want to be in, and couldn’t get out of.

  It seemed obvious now. Why hadn’t he seen it before? Warwick tried to tell him, but he simply hadn’t listened.

  Breeanne.

  She was the one who’d gotten through to him. His last good hope. A lifeline. How stupid would he be not to grab hold before he ended up like his uncle Mick, a bloated, middle-aged party boy trying hard to prove he wasn’t lonely.

  Around Breeanne, he felt good in a different kind of way. A way that didn’t leave him hungover, or with buyer’s remorse for a hotshot toy he’d blown money on, or sheepishly sneaking out of a woman’s apartment in the middle of the afternoon.

  He didn’t know what he’d done right to deserve this sunshine that had fallen into his life, but he wanted more. He wanted more from life.

  He wanted her.

  Not just for now.

  Not for a week.

  Not for a month.

  Not for a year.

  But for a lifetime.

  Monday morning, Breeanne took her second walk of shame. She’d had breakfast with Rowdy, and he’d told her to take the day off. He intended on phoning Zach and explaining why they hadn’t been able to watch him pitch on Saturday night.

  On the way home, a tire on her Sentra blew out.

  She could have called Triple A and waited in the car in the muggy July heat for over an hour. Or she could have phoned her father, but she didn’t want to explain her situation to Dad. Or she could have called Rowdy to the rescue.

  But she didn’t need rescuing.

  Her house lay two blocks away. She could call Triple A from there in the comfort of home and not have to bother anyone. That meant she had to stroll Stardust as people rushed off to work.

  Fine. She wasn’t ashamed. Head held high, shoulders back, wearing the same wrinkled brown shorts and white ruffled blouse she’d worn to the ballpark on Saturday, purse slung over her shoulder as she strutted down Main Street. Waving at everyone she passed.

  Kasha was coming out of DeLite bakery, balancing her usual blueberry bran muffin and a cup of coffee in one hand, while opening her car door with the other. Their gazes met and her sister’s eyes bloomed open like morning glories, while her mouth fell like a broken elevator, and her coffee cup and muffin splattered to the ground.

  In the past, Breeanne might have rushed over, apologizing for causing Kasha to spill her breakfast, but today, she simply called, “Good morning,” and continued on her way.

  Did she look different? She certainly felt stronger, braver, prettier, sexier, and happier and . . . well . . . just about every kind of “er” there was.

  Tossing her mussed, freshly-rolled-out-of-Rowdy-Blanton’s-bed head, she walked through the front door of her house. Stephanie sat at the kitchen table eating a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios.

  “Well, well, look what the cat dragged in. Sit, tell me all about your weekend.” Stephanie smiled like Sylvester the Puddy Tat with a mouthful of Tweety Bird.

  Breeanne set her purse on the table, fished out her cell phone and keys. “I’ve got a flat. Need to call Triple A first.”

  “Okay.” Stephanie wriggled her fingers.

  Breeanne went to shower and change clothes, and then she popped back into the kitchen, but Stephanie had already gone. After she got the flat fixed she planned on getting down to work, spending the day transcribing the conversation she and Rowdy had on the drive home. Not knowing how much of the interview was on the recording, she dug in her purse for the recorder.

  But it wasn’t there.

  Had she put the recorder back in her purse? Or was it still on the table in Rowdy’s foyer? She was so love addled, she couldn’t remember. She rubbed her forehead. What she did remember was the big kiss Rowdy laid on her before she left the house that morning, bending her over backward as if they’d danced the tango, kissing her so hard and deep that her head buzzed muzzy.

  She rubbed her forehead. Think. It could have fallen out in the Sentra. She’d check when she went back to meet Triple A.

  She shouldered her purse, headed out the door, only to be ambushed by Kasha, Jodi, and Suki on her front porch.

  Suki grabbed her left arm, Jodi her right. They strong-armed her back inside and sat her down at the table.

  Jodi folded her arms over her chest, stared at her like a prison guard prepared to frisk an inmate for contraband. “Where have you been?”

  “What are you guys doing here? Don’t you have lives?”

  Once upon a time, she would have placated her sisters, smoothed their ruffled feathers. Then again, once upon a time, she wouldn’t have spent two wild nights with a gorgeous playboy baseball pitcher.

  “Ham’s watching the B&B,” Jodi said, referring to her handyman. “This is an emergency.”

  “I don’t have to open the bookstore until ten.” Suki plunked down beside her.

  “I called in late,” Kasha said. “I had to go home and change out of my coffee-stained clothes because a certain Miss Thang decided she was going to strut the walk of shame in the same clothes she was wearing on Saturday evening. You owe me breakfast, by the way.”

  “Cereal in the pantry.” Breeanne flapped her hand.

  “I would have paid to see that.” Suki leaned in to whisper to her, “When these two are gone, I want dets.”

  “I can’t believe you were so incautious. Mom and Dad are going to hear about this.”

  “And realize that . . . gasp . . . I’m having sex at twenty-five. I’m not that sickly little kid anymore. I’m happy, healthy, and trying to live a normal life. Don’t I get to do that?”

  Jodi looked woeful. “Rowdy’s going to crush your heart.”

  “I know that,” Breeanne said quietly, and folded her hands on top of the table.

  Her thr
ee sisters exchanged surprised glances.

  “You’re not dreaming of happily-ever-after with him?” Jodi sat on the other side of her.

  “Just because I read fairy tales doesn’t mean I think they’re real, but that also doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy the fantasy,” she said.

  “And that’s what you’re doing with Rowdy?” Kasha sat down at the end of the table with her cereal bowl.

  “Yes. I know he’s a good-time Charlie. I don’t care. I wanted to be with him and I accept the fact that I’m in love with him and I’m going to lose him.”

  “You’re in love with him? Aw damn.” Suki snapped her fingers. “Rookie mistake.”

  Breeanne lifted her head, stared at her sisters one by one. “Are you telling me that you all didn’t fall hard for the first guy you slept with?”

  “We came here to stage an intervention for you, not talk about our sex lives.” Jodi stood up. She was touchy on the topic of love since she’d been stood up at the altar six months ago.

  Breeanne got to her feet as well. “I don’t need your intervention, but I do thank you for your concern. It’s good to know I have sisters I can count on. I’ve got to go now. Triple A is coming to fix my tire.”

  “Not without a hug,” Jodi said.

  “As long as you’re passing out hugs.” Suki threw her arms around Breeanne and Jodi. “I’m in.”

  “Kasha.” Jodi motioned her over. “You too.”

  “We know we love each other, why do we have to do the group hug thing?” Kasha grumbled, but she joined the circle.

  “Okay.” Breeanne dusted her palms. “Together. That’s enough sap for one day, but I truly do love you guys.”

  “Just let us know when you need the Häagen-Dazs and Kleenex,” Suki said, “and we’ll be here.”

  “Go to work.” Breeanne shooed them.

  As they walked out the door, she heard Jodi whisper to Kasha, “I do believe that whatever happens she’s going to be just fine.”

  “I think you’re right,” Kasha whispered back. “She’s walking into the relationship with her eyes wide open, whatever mistakes she makes are her own.”

  The door clicked closed behind them. Thinking about her sisters’ confidence in her, Breeanne smiled. Finally, they were starting to realize that she could take care of herself.

  Now if she could only convince herself of that.

  CHAPTER 27

  It never ceases to amaze me how many

  of baseball’s wounds are self-inflicted.

  —BILL VEECK

  Zach wasn’t answering his calls again. Damn Potts for screwing up his relationship with his little brother. No doubt his brother believed that he hadn’t shown because he was jealous, and that killed Rowdy’s soul.

  He picked up the phone to call Breeanne, but put it down again. Just imagining the sound of her voice cheered him. He smiled. She’d been on his mind all day long, but she told him she needed to reconnect with her family, and he respected that. Her family was a close-knit bunch, and they worried about her. He didn’t want them believing that he was standing in the way of her seeing them.

  If things went the way he wanted them to . . . well . . . it was a little too soon for that. But he hoped he’d be seeing a lot more of the Carlyles in the future.

  He tried several more times to call Zach, but got nowhere. To burn off worry, he worked out in the gym. But he couldn’t stop worrying about Zach. Restless, he quit the gym after thirty minutes and took Nolan Ryan for a walk instead. Warwick had gone to town to pick up supplies, and he was at loose ends in his own company.

  To keep from worrying over Zach, he thought of Breeanne and wondered how she was doing. He resisted the urge to call her for as long as he could, but finally unwilling to go to sleep without hearing her voice, he phoned her just before he went to bed. It was almost midnight and her cell phone went to voice mail. His little meadowlark was probably already sound asleep.

  “My bedroom smells of you,” he said, hoping she could hear the smile in his voice, and he almost added, “I love you.” But he stopped himself. Not because he didn’t want to tell her. Hell, he wanted to shout it from the top of his zipline tower to the entire town of Stardust. No, he wanted to do this right. In person, over a romantic dinner he cooked for her.

  All night long he dreamed of Breeanne and his plans for their future.

  He was dead asleep when Warwick came barreling into his room on Tuesday morning, ripping the covers off him.

  “Wake up,” Warwick commanded. “Now.”

  Rowdy jerked upright. “What is it? What’s going on?”

  Warwick found the remote, switched on the big-screen TV on the wall opposite his bed.

  “What are you doing?” Rowdy yawned. “What time is it?”

  “Eight o’clock in New York.”

  “News flash, this isn’t New York.”

  Warwick flipped through the channels, stopped when he found what he was searching for.

  “GOZIP TV?” Rowdy groused. “Are you kidding me?”

  “Shut up. Watch.”

  “That stuff is pure bullshit. GOZIP is known for taking things out of context and—” Rowdy rubbed his eyes. “Is it Zach? Tell me? What’s happened?”

  “Watch,” Warwick growled.

  Rowdy got out of bed. Grabbed his T-shirt from off the floor, wrestled it on.

  “Where did this recording come from?” the TV personality asked the reporter.

  “The source prefers to remain anonymous, but the recording has been authenticated. That is Rowdy Blanton’s voice,” the reporter confirmed.

  He stared at the TV, not fully comprehending what was going on until the announcer asked the reporter to play it again.

  In our neighborhood, getting your hands on illegal substances wasn’t all that hard. A baseball scout was coming to town, and I took steroids. I did drugs.

  Rowdy heard his voice spin out across the airwaves, and the cute little fantasy world with Breeanne he’d stupidly convinced himself was real, caved in.

  Two minutes later, the phone rang. It was Rowdy’s agent, Barry Goldfine, who told him it was wise to lawyer up over the GOZIP thing. While he was on talking to Barry, Heath Rankin buzzed through wanting to know how and why details that belonged in the autobiography had gotten leaked to a TV tabloid. Rowdy didn’t have an answer for him, but he had a horrible suspicion.

  He’d no more than hung up when Zach called.

  “Rowdy?” His brother’s frightened voice trembled.

  “What is it, Zach? What’s wrong?”

  “I’m in trouble deep, bro.”

  Rowdy squeezed the phone, if he could have grabbed his brother through the airwaves and pulled him into the safety of the room with him, he would. He’d been waiting for a call like this since Potts picked Zach up. The kid had no idea of the level of hurt he was in for.

  “What happened?” Rowdy asked. Nolan Ryan sensed his distress, came over and leaned against him. He bent to scratch the dog’s ears, calming himself down.

  “When you didn’t come watch me pitch on Saturday, I was feelin’ kinda sorry for myself.”

  “I was there, buddy, outside the stadium. Potts wouldn’t let me in.”

  “Oh.” Zach sounded tearful.

  “Tell me what happened.”

  “I went to blow off steam after the game and I met a couple of pretty girls. I don’t know what happened. I guess I drank more than I thought. One minute I was partyin’ and the next minute it was mornin’.” Zach’s voice cracked.

  “Do you think you might have been roofied?”

  There was a long silence. “Hell, dude, could be. I woke up in a bed with two men dressed in women’s clothing. I know I didn’t have sex with them. I was out cold. But . . .”

  He could hear sniffling. “Whatever you did. Tell me. I can’t help you if you don’t tell me everything.”

  “I did drugs. I don’t remember doing drugs, but they were all over the apartment—cocaine, marijuana, steroids. My place looked l
ike a pharmacy.”

  “Let me guess.” A cold anger peeled up the back of his neck, and he could feel it growing up his brain stem, a gathering storm of fury. “Dugan Potts called and told you to come in for random drug testing.”

  “Shit, man, how’d you know?”

  “That’s how Dugan Potts works. He sent those trannies to get you doped up. I promise you there’s pictures out there showing off your wild night. Check social media.”

  “What? No way.”

  “Potts is behind this. He wants you down, and he wants you vulnerable. He wants to own you.”

  “What for? I pitched good. I pitched damn good.”

  “And he had the field manager pull you from the game.”

  “I know. I was pissed.”

  “He likes to mess with people’s heads, and he likes having things he can blackmail you with. Plus he’s using you to get back at me. You are a weapon in the chess game he plays with me.”

  “That sounds cocky.”

  He could hear the kid puffing up over the phone, getting that sullen sixth grader look on his face. “Don’t get testy, Zach. I wish it wasn’t true. But it is.”

  “Okay. All right. I’m listenin’. What should I do?”

  “First call your field manager say you’re sick, and you can’t come give the specimen today.” He could feel the anger building in his head like a pressure system generating a storm. He was a laid-back guy, but enough was enough. Potts had gone too far this time, putting Zach in the vise.

  Come after my brother, you sonofabitch, and you’re gonna pay for it.

  “Then what?” Zach asked.

  “You leave that to me, little brother. Just leave that part to me.”

  Breeanne heard about it on the radio and she drove as fast as she could to get to Rowdy’s house, but it looked like she’d picked the exact wrong moment to walk through the door.

  Rowdy set his cell phone on the foyer table, turned, and gave her a look that said if she were a witch at the stake in puritan times he’d be the first one to light the match.

  Nausea scaled the walls of her stomach, but she breathed in to keep from running. He had no idea how hard it was for her to face him. To stand here and bear his justified anger without trying to sweet-talk, smooth it over, or make things better.