The Player (The Player Duet Book 1)

by K. Bromberg

  I lose myself to my thoughts. Time passes, minutes ticking down to the next Aces’ game tonight that I won’t be playing in. And like every night my team plays without me, I fight the rage of helplessness that corners my mind.

  I know he’s there. I can sense him before I hear the creak of the seat a few down from mine, followed by the clearing of his throat. I don’t glance his way—unsure if I want to deal with his bullshit just yet—so I nod instead of speaking.

  “By the length of time you’ve been sitting out here, and the fact that you’re not in the team meeting right now, am I right to assume you haven’t gotten cleared to play yet?”

  “Hi, Dad. How’re you doing today?”

  “I take that as a no?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Don’t be a smartass.” There is no humor in his tone. No smile warming his voice.

  “I’m not. I’m here. They’re there. And it’s been two days since the last time you asked the same exact question you asked me three days before that, so do you really think that I’ve miraculously recovered since then?”

  Definitely not in the mood to put up with his shit.

  “The team—”

  “Dad, there are more things in life than baseball.” I look his way for the first time. I give no smile, no nod, just a lift of my eyebrows behind my sunglasses in a half-hearted attempt to mask my need for him to just be my dad and not the baseball great, Cal Wylder.

  “Like what, son? Do you have a family you go home to every night? No. This club is your family. Your teammates are your brothers. And you’re currently letting them down by not showing up to the table with dinner every night.”

  Ah. Tough love, Wylder-style. Gotta love that. But then again, I shouldn’t expect any less. It was always one more fly ball, one more throw down to second, one more let’s do it until you get it right, son, before we could eat lunch, eat dinner, or go home.

  In an effort to avoid the recurring fight between us, I look away and rest my head on the seat back. It’s much easier to focus on the blue sky above and feeling sorry for myself than deal with him. “Sorry, Pops. While I inherited your skill with a ball, I sure as hell didn’t inherit your godlike ability to heal.”

  “Maybe you’re not putting in enough time at the gym, then. It takes dedication to come back from an injury. You know, if you get the muscles strong around the tear, they will help take the pressure off the cuff.”

  “Got it.” I clench my jaw.

  “Every day you’re off the field gives another player an opportunity to steal your starting position. You have to be vigilant against that.”

  “Sure thing.”

  “I’m serious, Easton. This is important, so you better start treating it that way.” Funny how no matter how many times he’s used this phrase over the years, it still jolts me back to being eight years old and on the mound in Little League, the tears of frustration in my eyes because I couldn’t make the ball hit the strike zone, and him telling me I wasn’t trying hard enough. And how, well over an hour after the last inning ended, he sat on the bucket behind home plate and demanded ten strikes in a row before we could go home.

  I hated him that day.

  I respected him later for it, but I hated him that day.

  Kind of like now. Not much has changed.

  “I get you’re serious. No doubt there, Dad. Good thing the front office is, too, since they just brought in Doc to help my rehab.”

  “Hmm,” he murmurs, and it takes everything in me to keep my eyes closed and wait for whatever I’ve got coming next. That sound from him is never followed with a benign statement. “Doc, huh? Let’s hope you don’t blow off three sessions with him like you did the trainer you had before. That’d be grounds for the club to cut you.”

  “They’re not going to cut me, Dad.” But he’s planted the seed, and I know it will haunt me tonight when I can’t sleep. “Besides, I skipped out because I didn’t have a choice. I had to take care of Mom.”

  I wait to hear the disapproval that always falls from his mouth, but it doesn’t come. In fact, nothing does, and I’m not sure if the silence makes me grateful or worried.

  “It’s a shame your mother’s . . . problem . . . is affecting your career.”

  I grit my teeth and hold back the sigh I’m certain every child of divorce knows by heart when one parent disses the other. “Yeah, well . . . her problem was a result of things beyond my control. She was alone and fell. Someone had to take care of her. And, for your information, I didn’t skip out on my appointments. I called in, got my training, and did it on my own time.”

  He clears his throat, his universal sound for “not buying it,” but I don’t really fucking care right now. I love him more than anything, but most days I loathe him, and his demanding expectations, too.

  “It’s not the same. You have to be present, be seen. The club isn’t happy, Easton . . .” He lets his phrase fade off, but it will still fertilize the goddamn seed he planted. “Your bat was on fire. You had the streak going, you were picking off runners left and right, and your pitch calls were perfection. Every day you’re gone is another day those facts are forgotten, and in a game of statistics, that’s worrisome.”

  “And here I thought you were going to pay me a compliment and just leave it at that. I should have known better.”

  “Easton.” My name is a warning. A demand for respect. One I’ve heard more times than I can count. And yet there is something underlying it that I can’t quite pinpoint.

  “Such a shame my rotator cuff was ripped apart. Must have been my fault that prick yanked it backward on the tag. Should I have called time-out on the way down and asked him to hurt something else instead? Break a bone because that heals easier than tendons? Is that what I was supposed to do, Dad? Would that have met your expectations?” My voice escalates with each word, my frustrated anger loud and clear. And fuck, yes, I’m being disrespectful, but so is he, and I’m sick of hearing it.

  Silence descends around us in this house I grew up in, under the shadow of the iron giant sitting beside me, who ruled this stadium his entire career. I look out to where his number, twenty-two, adorns the center field wall in retirement, and wonder if I’ll ever live up to the expectations he set out for me that day on the mound when I was eight.

  I’m not quite sure.

  “Look, you’re right.” He sighs instead of apologizing. “I just want the best for you, Easton. I always have. I hate that you’re injured. I hate that your shoulder’s not coming along as quickly as it should. And I hate that I’m here and there’s nothing I can do to help you.”

  I look over to him, see his dark hair with silver at the temples and his eyes that match mine, and know he means well. The hard-ass with a son who can carry on the legacy he left when he retired.

  “You can just be my dad. That will help me.”

  And yet I know there’s no separating Cal, the three-thousand-hit player, from Cal, Easton’s father.

  They’re one and the same.

  Always have been.

  Always will be.

  Each thump of his stride on the treadmill irritates me more than the last.

  Every grunt of exertion adds to it.

  And then there’s the beep. The one that tells me his thirty minutes of high intensity running is complete, and now it’s my turn to get hands on and complete the session.

  Lucky me.

  I’m irritable. Pissed off. And I’m not sure if my current mood stems from exhaustion after spending too many hours last night Googling Easton Wylder, or the fact that it seems he was doing the same about me.

  “So are you actually going to touch my arm today, or is the expertise you bragged about yesterday limited to telling me treadmill, thirty minutes, level ten? If you wanted to avoid me, then maybe you should call in sick for the next few months.” Sarcasm drips from his voice. His obvious disdain for me makes that even keel I thought we might have found yesterday seem nonexistent.

  I need to tu
rn around, to face him, but I stall. The images from Google are seared in my mind. The charity calendar where the month of April is a picture of him wearing nothing but a strategically placed baseball glove. The ESPN body issue where he’s batting—naked—the twist of his legs hiding his package. The ESPYs with him looking dashing in a three-piece suit. All of them are there, floating around, reminding me how all those hard lines and toned edges look in person.

  And it would take a dead woman to not be affected by him.

  So, I steel myself for the visceral impact of looking at him—hot, sweaty, relaxed—but it doesn’t help when I turn around. I’m not sure anything could. Because even in his sweat-dampened T-shirt, he’s still breathtakingly handsome with his mixture of all-American and rugged outdoorsman. He still exudes that tinge of arrogance. And the odd thing is how today when I look at him, after I’ve stared at pictures of him for hours yesterday, somehow the arrogance adds to his appeal.

  And then he smirks, and I shake my head and question my own sanity.

  “So you actually want me to look at your arm? You mean you’ll trust me with it? And here I was under the impression you thought I was just a trophy trainer.”

  “Come again?” He chuckles.

  Time to clear the air between us. Being handsome doesn’t override being an asshole. “You know, trophy trainer—someone good for you to look at, but incapable of much else.”

  He shrugs. “If the shoe fits.”

  I take a step closer to him, his sarcastic comeback igniting the embers of my temper he lit yesterday. “Don’t be a jerk. If you want to find out if I’m qualified for the job—capable of getting you back in top form—then you ask me for my credentials. You want a resume? You want references? I’d be glad to hand you a list of them, so don’t go snooping around, making phone calls, and questioning everything about me without talking to me first. Got it?”

  Our eyes hold as he worries his bottom lip between his teeth to combat the smile he’s fighting. “You want me to take my rehab seriously, right? Then don’t chastise me for making sure the person charged to do it is up to par and has the right experience. I don’t trust my body with just anyone, let alone a rookie trainer still learning the ropes. Got it?”

  “Touché,” I murmur as we wage a visual war of defiance and misunderstanding. “We’re wasting time. Let’s get started.”

  Maybe if we begin, I’ll forget about the phone calls I received last night. The ones from previous clients and personal friends I’d rehabbed informing me I was being vetted. I was thankful for the heads-up, and at the same time, I was pissed that he was questioning my qualifications.

  But he did just make a damn good point.

  I grab the ultrasound cart and wheel it toward the table, but he’s still standing there like yesterday, still questioning me. Obviously, he doesn’t believe I’m experienced enough to do the job, but I shrug it off, knowing after my rebuke of him, he was bound to either respect me or test me, and by the current standoff, I’m guessing it will be the latter.

  “Yes?” I finally ask when he doesn’t budge.

  “You wanna tell me where Doc is?”

  “He’s got a packed schedule on the East Coast right now. As you know, injury happens without warning.” I hold his gaze and hope he doesn’t see through the lie.

  “Uh-huh.” He just nods, but I can tell he’s not convinced. He’s the one who made the calls last night, so I’m certain he has pieced together that it’s been a while since Doc’s been around. But there must be something in my eyes he sees—the something I’m trying desperately to keep together—that prevents him from digging deeper. “He’s the best there is,” Easton says.

  “Agreed.”

  “Should I be worried then?”

  “About?” I prompt.

  “If he’s the best, then doesn’t that mean you’re second best?”

  His remark hits closer to home than I’d like, but it’s his body, his career, and his right to ask.

  “Second best to Doc Dalton isn’t a bad place to be. I learned everything I know from the man. I assure you, he’s the last person I want to let down, and you’re the beneficiary of that fear, so . . .” I quirk my brows. “Lucky you.”

  “Lucky me,” he murmurs but still doesn’t move. “The problem is I still don’t know shit about you, and yet you’re standing there ready to work on my arm.”

  “What do you want to know?” I’m getting impatient. Another day, another round of bullshit, and once again, time is wasting. But at least he listened and is asking me instead of snooping around for answers.

  “What were your stats in the major leagues?”

  “What?”

  “I asked your stats. Errors. On-base percentage. Batting average. Fielding percentage. You know, statistics.”

  “I know what statistics are,” I respond dryly.

  “But if you’ve never played in the majors, how do you know how my arm’s supposed to feel so that you can get it back to one hundred percent?”

  He’s neglecting the fact that no other trainer has played in the major leagues either . . . but I have a better way to shut him up. “Have you ever been a woman?”

  “What?” It’s his turn to be surprised by an unexpected question. “Of course not. I’ve got plenty of proof that I’m all man.”

  I roll my eyes, half expecting him to grab his crotch and equally relieved that he doesn’t. “Well, if you’ve never been a woman, how is it you know how to please one in bed? How do you know if you’re hitting the right spot? Getting her off?”

  He fights back a bark of a laugh, but eventually lets it escape as he just shakes his head. “Touché,” he repeats my word back to me.

  “If you’re going to bust my chops, Wylder, you should know that I can give as good as I get.”

  “Point taken. But since you’re the one singlehandedly charged with busting my balls in rehab over the next three months, you’ve gotta admit, it was a valid question.”

  “It was,” I concede, “but it’s your job to talk to me, tell me how it feels, where it hurts, and when it feels good, so I can make it better.” An unexpectedly shy smile slides onto his lips when he gets the correlation between my question about how to please a woman and my answer.

  “Just like sex.”

  “Perhaps.” I smile; it’s all I can do as heat flushes my cheeks and the room around us becomes too small for him and this innuendo-laced conversation. “Some men have all the tools in the world, but if they don’t know how to use them, they’re useless. It’s the same with my job. You’ve gotta know how to use your skills, and I assure you, I do. So, if the I-don’t-trust-you-because-you-have-a-vagina-card has been exhausted, can we get started, please?” I lift my chin toward the table behind him while I adjust the settings on the machine.

  “You drive a hard bargain, Kitty.” He chuckles as he sits down and pulls off his shirt.

  “You ain’t seen nothing yet.”

  Nothing more is said between us as I apply the ultrasound gel and then the wand to his shoulder, despite being all too aware that he’s still staring at me.

  I welcome the silence, using it to concentrate on the task at hand as I move the wand over the joint of his shoulder, across the angry red seam there and back, several times over. Players enter the locker room beyond where we are. I can hear their chatter—the low whistles, the suggestive laughs, the one-off comments—but know better than to give them attention. It may be a different clubhouse, but it’s basically the same reaction I typically get.

  I knew I’d have a tough crowd to win over when I followed in my father’s footsteps. I knew being a woman in this male-dominated world wouldn’t be a walk in the proverbial ballpark. And so I ignore the comments like I always have and choose to consider them compliments, while letting the more suggestive ones go. In a practiced move, I keep my eyes focused on the player I’m working on and my back to the lockers to avoid any pecker peep-shows, which I learned long ago are inevitable.

  It saves me
embarrassment and preserves the respect I have to command to be taken seriously.

  “Relax,” I murmur as I run the ultrasonic waves back and forth to reduce inflammation. For some reason, he keeps tensing up, and it’s counteracting the therapy I’m providing.

  There’s another comment behind my back. Something good-humored about another wand in his jock I could put to better use.

  If the guy’s going to be a chauvinist, at least he’s witty about it.

  I stifle a laugh. It’s all I can do. But it’s Easton who visibly tenses in reaction.

  Apparently, he can dish it out, but doesn’t want anyone else to.

  Interesting.

  And sweet.

  He seems to be upset on my behalf, and yet yesterday he was the one who thought I was a stripper here to entertain him.

  Good thing I didn’t take the bait, then. I was ready to kiss you senseless just to call your bluff and prove you were a stripper.

  His words come back to me—the ones that repeated through my mind at random times yesterday, which then led to my Google search on him. My hands touch him now, but my mind recalls the charity calendar I found—him in all his gorgeous, naked glory.

  Another comment somewhere in the locker room.

  Another bristle by him.

  And the irony isn’t lost on me. He’s getting pissed on my behalf, and I’m thinking of what he looks like naked. Well, almost naked. My imagination fills in exactly what is beneath the baseball glove.

  And, of course, now I blush.

  “Where did you leave off with your previous trainer?” I ask to try and break the tension that’s becoming more and more evident in the tightening of his muscles.

  “We were throwing the ball.”

  “All out?”

  “At about fifty, sixty percent.”

  “Hitting any?”

  “A bit, at about seventy percent.”

  “Okay.” I draw the word out, pleased he speaks my lingo. “Tell me how it felt when you did those things.”

  “Frustrating.”

  “If you’re going to make love to me Wylder, you’re gonna need to do a helluva lot more than that to get me off.” His head whips up, shocked hazel eyes meeting my gray ones, and I know I’ve got his attention now. I continue. “Explain. Why was it frustrating? Did it hurt? Was there a pinch, or was it just tight from not being used? Or was it mental? It’s bound to feel different, so is it the fear of reinjuring yourself that’s holding you back?”