She had to stop the inner dialogue. It was killing her. She strapped her phone to her arm and went for another run. Her second of the day. Work would keep her busy. She had to finish up a few more Six Pack stories for the week. Axel had purchased a new motorcycle, Grizz had gone and stood up at the plate again. Some batter was mouthing off. As catcher, the only other time Grizz stood, things didn’t end well for the other guy. She smirked. No one messed with Grizz. And then Ryker’d won a hometown Bingo game for charity.
If she could just run off this pent-up worry, she’d be fine. And then she could get working on a piece about the rally. Jorgenson had said he’d run it. She was thrilled. She turned down the street and decided to just run straight to work, shower there, and get started. As the street pounded past underneath her feet, she began to calm. Yes, she’d had an amazing night with a man she was really starting to like, but she was a big girl. An independent girl. He was busy. She was busy. And they could take this slow. They were not at a place in their relationship where he would feel obligated to tell her every little thing, including why he hadn’t shown up for practice nor why he wouldn’t answer any of her calls. She took a deep breath and pushed harder, faster, upped her pace.
As soon as she got to work, she headed for the locker room and the showers. And when she was finished, she felt much better than she had all morning. Cole was interested. He couldn’t fake the look in his eyes. And he was an adult. He could take care of his own career.
Cole flew home from the hospital as soon as they had the discharge paperwork ready and they knew where his dad would be treated. It was a center in southern California, actually, so that worked out great for Cole. He hoped his mother would stay with him, but he suspected she might get an apartment closer to the hospital. That would be great too so he could stay there as well, and his father could join her when he was released from treatments. Or in between treatments.
Mr. Stacy seemed fine. What could he say? But he sent Cole a whole itinerary of social activities he wanted him to start being involved in, appearances at local things, baseball team functions, and local clubs. Starting this evening, his boss seemed to think he owned Cole’s private time as much as his team time. There had to be some kind of infringement on his rights going on, right to privacy, publicity? He’d heard about it before. He’d look into it when he got a minute. He had sent the whole situation off to his agent in an email, with the hint that it might be time to start looking around, but for now, he’d show up and do Mr. Stacy’s bidding. He had better things to worry about than to haggle with the owner of the Sea Rays. And more than anything, he wanted to keep his and his father’s dream alive. He had to be successful in baseball. If that meant bringing more fans to the seats through his popularity, then so be it.
Harlow might not agree. He cringed. And then he texted her. So much going down right now. I’ll be in touch. But you’re still my number one gal.
He dressed the part, put on a bright yellow shirt, his favorite pair of sunglasses, purple shoes, and asked for the Ferrari to be ready in the drive. The convertible one. His J50.
He slipped into his car and peeled out of the driveway. He waited for the thrill of adrenaline to kick in, for the pure enjoyment of driving such a car to make him smile. But it all felt shallow. He cranked up the music and downed as much caffeine as he could from a can. Somehow he had to get in the mood or his appearance tonight might be worse for his and the team’s image. He frowned. What he wanted to do was sit in the quiet of his parents’ living room and play some more cards, or laugh with them over memories. But if he showed up, his dad would kick him out again. The treatments started next week. He would start spending evenings with them then. And he missed Harlow. But he had to place her firmly somewhere else in his mind. Tonight he was taking one for the team, for his dad. And Harlow would mess with his act.
He pulled up to a club Mr. Stacy had picked for the evening. Cole had heard of it. Sometimes the Hollywood crowd showed up. So he was a movie star groupie now? He gritted his teeth and handed an overly anxious valet his fob. “Not a scratch.”
“No, sir!” He nodded and almost jumped in before Cole got out.
When the attendant opened the door for him, the music pounded out onto the street. A rush of noise behind him and people shouting his name made him turn in surprise to flashes in his face. People called out questions, and hands grabbed at his clothes. They crowded around his car. What? The doorman pushed them away and closed the door behind Cole as he entered. How did they even know he was coming?
Harlow had just sent Jorgenson her piece for the women’s rally, and she breathed deeply in satisfaction. That was the kind of reporting she wanted to do. Her editor said he’d give it front page space and post it for other associated presses to pick up. Maybe it would spread. She had advertised the event throughout the piece, encouraging participation and listing Cole Hunter as an attendee and a supporter. He had said he was coming, so she only felt a tiny bit guilty using him for his celebrity status just like everyone else did. She missed him. His text had been so vague, and suspect. But you’re still my favorite gal? What did that mean?
Her stomach ached with the complaint of missing lunch, and she was thinking about heading out early when the sound of people in the conference room drew her there. The floor was basically empty. As she drew closer, their cat calls and responses to something made her pick up her pace. When she stood in the door, people who saw her, parted to let her in, and the room quieted. A nervous twist tied her hungry stomach in a knot.
“Cole Hunter, seen with not one, but three ladies as he left the club last night. Our Belltown hero has certainly not outgrown his appeal to the women.”
She froze. This is why Cole hadn’t called back, why he he’d left such a cryptic message? She walked farther in to see what else was going on. Just a clip of Cole walking out of a club outside of LA. One of the girls looked familiar, like she might have been on a TV show or maybe she was a model, Harlow didn’t know. He smiled and waved at the camera and jumped in a convertible Ferrari with two girls in tow. They piled in together in the front seat and squealed as he peeled away.
After a moment she realized the room had stayed quiet, and from the side of her eye she could feel everyone staring at her. She closed her eyes, took a breath, and then turned to face them. “What?”
“Just hoping you’re okay, honey.” The nearest woman put a hand on her shoulder.
“Why? Because of Cole? Look, the press created a fake relationship with us. There’s nothing going on . . .”
The clip switched to a shot of Harlow’s apartment door and Cole leaving after a quick goodbye kiss.
Oh boy.
And then of course the speculation, the commentary. She couldn’t stand it anymore. “Really, there’s nothing going on. He’s a friend. I don’t care what he does when he’s not here.”
No one believed her. She didn’t believe herself, but she turned and left the room, with her head high and as much dignity as she could find. Her phone dinged. Aiysha. You okay?
She texted back, No, and then picked up her pace down the hall.
The editor called after. “I need the story.” Had he no shame?
She froze and turned. “Pardon me?”
“I need the story. This is the hottest thing going down right now. If you don’t tell it, I’m gonna put someone else on it.”
She turned from him, but he called out, “What’ll it be?”
“I’ll tell it.”
Oh, she’d tell it all right. Man would she ever. Flames would spit in all directions.
But right now she just needed to find a place to cry. And kick herself for falling for his nonsense. Did the other girls play slapjack kiss and tell? Or did they just go straight to whatever he was about to do? How could she be so stupid to fall for a player twice? She knew what he was before going into the whole thing, and like an idiot, she ignored all the signs. Well, this time, payback would be sweet. She wasn’t the cowering college co-ed any longer
. Bonfire? Oh yeah. They were about to see a towering inferno.
Chapter 18
Cole’s dad was okay. His first treatment left him weak but fine. His mom waited on him like she would a sick child. So Cole went back to the team. The owner loved him again. And Joe was back on the bench, offering advice. “Keep your mitt soft and open.”
Cole ignored him but it was starting to grate. Next thing you know, the guy was gonna tell him to close his mitt around the ball once the ball hit.
“Close your—”
He whipped around. “Don’t. Say it.”
The guys closest to Joe shook their heads. “Probably not a good idea.”
Joe closed his mouth. “Sure, okay.” He kept it shut for several innings in a row, definitely a wise move.
Everything should have been better or at least moving forward in his life, but Harlow wouldn’t respond. She wouldn’t call him back, text him, or acknowledge him at all. He’d tried everything. After he’d heard all her messages, he’d lain in bed listening over and over to her voice, her concern, her care, reaching out, “When I didn’t see you in the practice stats, I knew something was wrong.” “I’m worried Cole. Is everything okay?”
Harlow knew he’d needed someone. She’d tried. But he didn’t know how to let her in. Of course she would hate what he had to do for Stacy, and he didn’t have the energy to try to make that sound even remotely all right. She blamed herself for his missed practices of course. She didn’t know about his dad yet. He tried to call her yesterday after the whole night club news went viral. All his calls went immediately to voice mail and that didn’t seem the place to leave a message about his dad. He texted again. “You must have a long stream of texts to read when you finally get around to it. Skip them and just call. I miss you, Bonfire.”
When he’d seen the huge amount of press about his one visit to a club, he knew she’d be miffed. But if she’d just hear him out, maybe . . .
Honestly, he didn’t think anything he could say would douse the bonfire, but it should. She should be able to hear him out and understand. At least that’s what he needed her to do.
He felt the silence of being shut out even from across the country. She was ignoring him. And it hurt. When he needed someone most, she stepped away. But he couldn’t even get angry, the feelings of betrayal washed away before they could become resentment, and he was just left with sadness, and he felt lonely. The night at the club, hanging out with women, superficial relationships, it made him miss Harlow and her sincerity. What he had with her felt like a mountain to the weak reflection in a lake below. The reflection might look as beautiful, but it was quickly apparent no substance backed up the impression.
He ran back out to the outfield, grateful. He needed his sweet spot. No matter what was going on in his life, when he was out in centerfield, it faded and life narrowed to just him, the ball, the field, his mitt, and the fans. In dull moments, with a foul ball, or bunt or something, he’d respond to the crowds behind him. They were always chatting it up back there, always trying to get his attention.
And today it was all about Joe. “Who’s the new kid?”
“Yeah, he looks like he goes to school with my kids.”
“Why they playing him and not you?”
Most of the time Cole ignored them. The fans didn’t expect him to say anything. They entertained each other as much as him.
“We like you better.”
Cole turned and nodded.
Grandpa Frank called out, “And we told him that too.”
He laughed. He loved these guys. A big guy on the front row always wore a jersey without a number and a bright purple Sea Rays hat. This guy knew his stats.
The next guy came up to bat. Purple Hat called out. “Tony Rolling. Usually hits straight to center. Very few homers.”
Cole crouched down and watched the batter.
The crack of bat against ball rang out through the air, and Cole watched the ball. It sailed through the air, coming straight at him. As he watched it, he ran to the right, ready for it, mitt in the air. He reached higher and felt the sweet impact of ball against glove. The crowd cheered, and he threw the ball back to second.
“Hey, magic hands!”
He knew that voice and whipped his head around.
The fans noticed and called out to him, but his eyes searched for her. Her white-blonde hair caught the lights. She wore his jersey, his sunglasses. He wanted to tear over there and sweep her up into his arms. But he nodded, tipped his hat. Seeing her, even in the stands, warmed him to his toes. Harlow.
The crowd craned their necks to see what had drawn his attention.
Then she called out, “I hear you like to kiss and tell.”
“Oooh!” A few of the fans had found her.
“So what’s better? Your mouth or your glove?”
Everyone roared with laughter. And Cole couldn’t tell where she was going with this.
“This would be so much better at a AAA game.” She laughed when she said it. He heard the trill. The crowd started to laugh along with her. And a nervous pit opened up in his stomach.
What was she doing?
“So, magic hands?”
“Big Dawg. Big Dawg!” The crowd cheered for him as the next batter was going through his stance.
“I’ve seen better hands on a snake!”
Oh boy. He felt the pit widen but resisted the urge to turn and stare.
More of the crowd joined in. “Oooooh!”
His eyes subtly scanned the seats, but he couldn’t see her again. Everyone had grins on as wide as their cheeks. But Cole wasn’t sure what to think. Heckling for fun? Attention from the press? Or was this Bonfire mad as flames? He suspected the latter.
Then the ball cracked, and he whipped around. His heart sank. He had no idea which direction it was flying. He found the white dot, coming his way, but hard left. He took off running. He heard the crowd cheer behind him. He was way behind; the ball was winning; it might be out of reach, but he was not giving up. He picked up his pace. He was one of the fastest guys in the MLB. It was time to prove it. Everyone around him quieted. The world went still and his legs pumped. His heart pumped along and his eyes watched that white dot get larger and larger and too far in the front. He stretched his gait. Two more steps, and then he dove, mitt out in front, watching the ball come closer, closer, until it hit the tip of his mitt. He lifted, tilted, begging the ball to roll back inside.
When he curled the leather around that small white sphere, he hugged it to him for a moment, breath leaving him hard in relief. Then he heard. “Does Big Dawg need his baba?” Harlow.
The crowd roared.
He stood and held up his hands, ball secured in his mitt. Most of the stadium cheered, but the guys behind him were laughing.
He stepped to the right. They called out, “Right.”
Oh no, not this. He stepped again, “Left.”
Then he threw the ball to second.
“I can throw a bowling ball better than that. And a dodgeball.”
“Right, left.” Every step, they called out his movement. Harlow and he were going to have words . . . if she ever spoke to him again.
“Right, left. Rub your ear.”
He dropped his hand. This was going to be a long game.
“Cinderella gets to the ball faster than you.”
“Hey lady, lay off our dawg.”
“Hey, Big Dawg! How much they paying you?”
Someone else yelled, “Probably too much!”
And then he started to get irritated. This was a home game. These were his people. Harlow was messing with his sweet spot. And he did not need this today. He frowned and lifted up his shades, searching for her hair.
“Shades!” she screamed.
And everyone started chanting, “Shades, shades, shades, shades.”
So he lowered them.
He stepped to the right and they yelled, “Right!”
Time to ignore them, like he did for all his away games. T
he team needed one more out and he could go in. Never in all his career had he hoped to hurry through his time in centerfield.
He rested his hands down on his knees.
“Uh oh. Houston, we have a problem.” Her mock pity grated. “Feeling lonely without your ladies?”
The crowd laughed.
“Surprised you caught that without two women on your arms.”
Ah. So Bonfire was upset about all the press his owner was making him do. And that made him unreasonably happy, ’cause that meant she cared. Suddenly the world seemed a bit brighter than before. Surely she would know it meant nothing. Anyone with half a brain, even the girls on his arms knew it meant nothing. Was she here, heckling him in the stands, ignoring his phone calls because of a bit of female jealousy? Something about that made him smile.
He turned to face the whole center section with his arms wide open. “I only need one woman on my arm.” Half of the ladies jumped up in their seats. He held out his arm. “How about it? You coming down here, Bonfire?”
The crowd loved it. “Bonfire. Bonfire. Bonfire.” He didn’t even think they knew what was going on, but they chanted like their world depended on it. And Harlow never showed her face again. And she stopped heckling him.
Suddenly his sweet spot felt lonely. He would even take the heckling just to know she was around.
Chapter 19
Harlow scrolled through all the trending tweets about her heckling in the stands.
“Unknown woman dishes out then disappears.”
“Has Big Dawg met his match?”
“Mysterious heckler best part of yesterday’s game.”
She laughed at clip after clip of Cole hugging his mitt followed by her jab, “Does Big Dawg need his baba?” Classic.
And the best part of it all? Cole was now inundated with female fans.
“I’ll be your one woman.”
Falling for Centerfield Page 12
