The Player (The Player Duet Book 1)

by K. Bromberg

  “Nah?” Drew sputters. “Since when do you say nah to a betty like that?”

  Images flash through my mind. Challenging gray eyes. Muscular little body. Brown hair pulled up in a messy ponytail. A woman who isn’t trying hard at all and is still sexier than the blonde baseball betty trying to add a notch to her how many Austin Aces have I fucked tally she most likely displays prominently on her bedpost.

  “She’s all yours, D. I’m sure she’d take you as a consolation,” I tease as J.P. barks out in laughter at the fuck-you look Drew is trying to kill me with.

  “Second is better than third,” Drew replies with a direct dig at J.P., since he plays third base and Drew plays second.

  “Fuck off.” J.P. laughs but flips us off.

  “Gladly. But I want to know why East here is passing up parting her sweet thighs when he obviously needs to get good and laid,” Drew says with a lift of his chin to the blonde again.

  “How do you know I need to get good and laid?”

  “You’ve been on a permanent home stretch, which means your forearms are getting a workout, but not in the baseball sense.” He demonstrates making a jacking-off motion.

  “Fuck off.” I roll my eyes.

  “Dude, a homestretch like yours is enough to make anyone itch for some action, and since you can’t get any on the field, you might as well get some between the sheets,” Drew explains with perfect sense.

  “Boredom makes your dick need action,” Tino affirms, and I can’t help but laugh at their fucked-up logic.

  Fucked-up, but pretty damn accurate.

  I catch Blondie’s eye again, consider her, but know any chick buying me beers in Sluggers, our team’s local hangout, is looking for more than a thank-you.

  Could be fun.

  “Ah, it all makes sense now.”

  J.P.’s murmur pulls me from making a mistake that I suddenly want to make . . .

  “It’s that fuck-hot trainer of yours that’s grabbing you by the balls, isn’t it?”

  And knocks it out of the park, putting the image of Scout into my mind.

  Not like it was very far to begin with.

  “Nah,” I murmur. Hell if I’ll give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s right.

  “Bullshit. Dude, I’d let her rub me down in a second. Add in some oil . . . and we could have our own slip and Drew-slide,” Drew chimes in.

  “You’re fucked in the head,” I laugh.

  “That’s the hope,” he muses as he raises his eyebrows, “just a different kind of head.”

  Over my dead body.

  My own thought knocks me back a step. Forces me to suck down my free beer and reconsider Blondie’s unspoken, no-strings-attached offer, but now I can’t. Not when Scout is in my head, and my dick’s reacting to the thought of her more than the thought of the woman down the bar.

  “For some reason I don’t think Scout’s into screwing the starting line-up,” I say with an arch of my brow. “So hands to yourself, you grabby fucker.” I hope my thinly veiled threat is heard, and at the same time not heard. Them knowing I have the hots for Scout will only make life in the clubhouse worse for her.

  “I agree. If she was into that, she’d be out in the locker room flirting with everyone. Sucks for you, though.” J.P. taps his beer against mine.

  “Depends who’s doing the sucking,” I say, getting a laugh for the distraction.

  “Well, rumor is you’re her ticket to getting the Aces’ contract,” Drew says.

  “Really?” He has my attention now.

  “I heard that Doc’s worked in every clubhouse in the majors except for ours. Supposedly by fulfilling this contract and getting you back on the field, he’s angling for the club to sign him to run the team’s PT program. Word is, he’s never had a long-term contract with a club, but after a lifetime on the road, travelling from team to team to rehab their stars . . . a la you,” he says with a nod, “he wants to end his career this way. Getting to stay in one place for a while.”

  “The perfect game to close out a pennant-winning career,” I muse. Makes sense.

  “Exactly.”

  “And how does his daughter play into all of this?”

  “Not sure.” Drew shrugs. “But if she’s half as good as he is, it’d be more than good enough. Plus, dude, are you going to complain that you get that hot little body pressing up against you every day?”

  My smile is automatic. “Not at all.” I laugh.

  “That’s what I thought,” he says as he motions to our waitress for another round. “Lucky for you, our lovely GM has given Sumo Sam his written notice. He’s got ninety days and his contract is void.”

  “Thank Christ,” I murmur, recalling the last time I let the team’s lead physical therapist, Sam, touch my shoulder. At about three months post-op, my shoulder was nowhere close to where it should have been. Frustrated and feeling like I was spinning my wheels, I demanded to know why we were doing the same shit every day rather than try the new methodologies other clubhouses were using and having success with. I think back to how pissed he was that I questioned him. How he told me I wasn’t healing because I wasn’t putting in the time when in fact I was putting in so much time I was overdoing it. Such fucking bullshit.

  “Sam doesn’t know an elbow from an asshole,” J.P. says.

  “You’re telling me.”

  “Yeah, Miller told me he overheard Cory tell Sam that the Aces are a forward-thinking organization and that from here on out he expects every member to subscribe to the idea or some bullshit like that. And how since Sam refused to educate himself on the newest trends—your shoulder rehab—then he was in breach of the fine print of his contract and would no longer have a position with the Aces.”

  “Asshole,” I mutter.

  “Which one? Sam or Cory?” Tino asks.

  “Take your pick.” I roll my eyes. “Look, I get bringing a new GM in to restructure the Aces’ organization. It’s always good to switch things up and trim costs after having the same people running the club for so many years. What I don’t get is Cory. There’s something about him I can’t quite put my finger on.”

  “He’s a bean counter.” Drew shrugs. “He’s a live by the contract, die by the contract, even when the words in the contract don’t make any fucking sense, kind of guy. I get his job is all about dollars and cents, but this is baseball we’re talking about here.” He takes a long swig of his beer. “Then again I’m buzzed so what the fuck do I know?”

  “A lot.”

  “I’m with you, East,” Tino says. “The jury is still out on Cory. I mean . . . take Doc Dalton. The man has a legendary record of success. How fucked up is it that Cory is making him vet himself for the new long-term contract by getting an ugly fucker like Easton here back on the field?”

  “Vet himself? Doc Dalton?” J.P. laughs in disbelief. “That’s kind of funny.”

  “The man with the golden hands,” I murmur, thinking of all the times I’d be on the road with my dad and watched Doc work his magic on opposing players.

  “No doubt his daughter’s hands . . . and thighs, are just as magical.”

  I hear the comment but my thoughts are on what Drew just said. On the fact that the club’s new general manager is thinking of bringing Doc’s team on board to run the club’s physical therapy regimen. It’s fucking great news, since I’ll need the continued rehab.

  But it’s also daunting to have the final piece to this man’s renowned career rely on whether I return to the roster within the mandated timeframe.

  Nothing like adding a little more pressure or anything.

  “If that’s the case,” I interject into the conversation that’s moved on to the questionable call from the game earlier, “wouldn’t Doc be here rehabbing me instead of Scout?”

  Three pair of eyes angle my way. “You want man-hands on you instead of woman-hands?” Tino asks, and the table erupts into laughter.

  “T, you’re so hard up you’d take any hands at this point.”

 
; “At least I’m not a picky bastard like you,” he replies.

  “East has a point,” J.P. says. “But considering I was thinking about pulling a groin tonight just so Scout could rub it out for me, my vote is to keep her around.”

  “Fucker,” I chuckle. “You’re vote’s no good, though. Scout’s here for me. Only me,” I taunt. “So you’re shit outta luck. Be my guest, though, and pull that muscle. I’m sure Sumo Sam would love to rub out your groin and maybe take a quick detour to find your dick while he’s at it.”

  “Gonna need a magnifying glass for that,” J.P. mocks.

  Phones ding around the table and interrupt the conversation as we all move to see what’s going on.

  ESPN Alert: Trade rumors are swirling that Jose Santiago will likely be traded in the coming weeks.

  “Fucker.” My comment is repeated around the table as I stare at the name of the person responsible for my stint on the DL.

  “God help whatever team he lands on,” Drew says.

  My phone alerts me again, and when I look at the screen, I sigh but for a completely different reason. Not again. “Sorry guys. Put mine on my tab. I’ve gotta head out.”

  “You good to drive, man?” Drew asks.

  “Yeah. I only had two. I’m good.”

  Too much damn time to think.

  About Santiago.

  Scout.

  If my arm’s fucked up to the point of no return.

  And only one of those thoughts on the hour drive to the outskirts of town is welcome. So, by the time I pull into the familiar gravel lot, tires crunching beneath me and the silver moonlight around me, I’m in no mood to face this. It’s not like I have a choice though.

  The slam of my truck door echoes as I stride up the pathway I know all too well.

  “Sorry it took me so long, Marty,” I say as I walk through his plume of cigarette smoke to where he’s standing outside the rundown bar.

  “No worries. She’s not hurting anyone. Sissy called in sick tonight. I’m flying solo so I can’t leave the bar to take her back to her place.”

  Same old song and dance. Just a different day.

  The air, stale with cigarette smoke and cheap liquor, hits me the minute I open the ill-hanging wooden door and walk into the dimly lit bar. I spot her immediately. She’s slumped in her booth with empty glasses littering the table in front of her.

  “Mom.”

  She jumps at the sound of my voice, her eyes painted with too much makeup look up at me, and her lips, a bright red, turn up in a smile. “Easton.” She says my name like it’s the first time she’s seen me in months—excited, grateful, and hopeful.

  “Hi, Momma. You’ve gotta stop doing this,” I tell her as I fake the same level of enthusiasm, my insides fucking exhausted from this dance.

  “I know, but I was so excited that you won tonight!”

  “I didn’t play tonight. My arm’s still hurt,” I explain as I help her scoot from behind the table and wrap my arm around her waist to get her out the door.

  “But you were playing on the TV. I was watching it. My handsome boy. You went three for three and picked two people off base. . .”

  “Good night, Marty. Thanks for calling,” I say as we pass by him.

  “And I was so proud of you I thought I’d go and celebrate and wait for you to join me . . . and here you are!” She throws her hands up, her happiness sincere, as I usher her inside the cab of my truck.

  We drive the quarter mile to her trailer in silence, but her smile remains wide. There’s nothing else I can do other than squeeze the hand she’s placed in mine, so giddy that I came home to her.

  “You were watching a replay of one of my games on the DVR again,” I tell her gently as I push open the unlocked door of her mobile home to find the TV on and the lights blazing.

  “I was?” she asks, as if it’s complete news to her, and a small part of me wonders if it’s the alcohol making her forget, or if something is wrong with her mind. Both options scare the shit out of me.

  “Yes, you were. I wish you’d let me move you out of here, Momma.” I look around the double-wide mobile home she refuses to leave. The furniture is threadbare, the new pieces I’ve bought her returned time and again, and the wall opposite of us is lined with stacks of boxes filled with brand new things I’ve given her she refused to open.

  “I don’t need anything. I love it here,” she murmurs as she sits on the edge of her bed and I wonder if she really does or she just believes her own lies. It takes me only a minute to find the makeup wipes and remove the paint from her face.

  “There’s my girl.” I smile when she looks up at me, face bare, lips still in a smile to match mine. “So much prettier without all that gunk.”

  “A lady likes gunk, East.”

  “I know. I know.” I take her shoes off, one by one. “I could move you near me. It would be so much nicer and safer for you, and I’d be able to keep an eye on you.”

  “Not gonna happen. I’m not gonna leave here. He’ll come back for me some day, and I want to make sure he knows where I am when he does . . . much the same way you know where to find me each time.”

  “Who, Momma? Who is going to come back for you?” I reiterate the same question I’ve asked countless times over the years.

  “The love of my life.” Her voice is dreamy when she says it, and the sound tugs on my heart. What is it like to hold out hope for someone for this many years?

  “And who’s that?” I ask again, knowing she won’t tell me, just as she never has in the past.

  “Some things children aren’t supposed to know,” she says with a laugh. Her eyes are tired, but her smile remains. “You are always so good to me. I don’t deserve you.”

  “You’re talking nonsense now. It’s time for you to get some sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

  “Are you gonna leave me?” she asks, voice wavering in panic.

  “No. You know I’ll never leave you. I’ll be right here when you wake up.”

  I help to pull the covers over her, wipe her graying hair off her face, and stare at her for a few minutes as her smile slowly fades into sleep.

  My sigh is heavy as I turn off the television, the lights, and then sink down on the lumpy couch she won’t let me replace. Pulling the blanket she made from all my various team jerseys up to my chin, I listen for the soft rattle of her breath and wonder how many more years I’m going to allow myself to continue to do this.

  “Night, Momma,” I whisper like I used to when I was a little boy. And yet, this time I know no one is going to answer.

  I’m the parent now.

  Even when most days I still feel like the child.

  “Faster. Faster,” I shout as I watch pure male perfection move across the field.

  Honed muscles ripple with pristine performance. His grunt echoes off the empty plastic seats around us. His cleats hit the base with a thump of sound.

  When I click the stopwatch, I’m more than impressed with his time. “Not bad,” I muse as I watch him from behind my mirrored lenses and wait for him to trot back over.

  “Are you trying to kill me? What did I do to piss you off?” He pants the questions and then lifts a bottle and squeezes some water into his mouth.

  “No and nothing,” I answer as I hold up the stopwatch so he can see the display. “That’s an impressive time.”

  He grunts in response as he swallows more water. “Not bad. But not my best. Are you going to explain what running bases has to do with rehabbing my arm?”

  “When you run, you swing your arms without thinking about it. And swinging your arms moves your shoulder joint,” I say, placing my hands on his arm to swing it and demonstrate the point. “And when you move your shoulder without tensing up, you also break up any scar tissue that might have built up in the joint. And that scar tissue is most likely what is giving you that pinching feeling when we toss the ball around.”

  “Huh.”

  “That doesn’t sound like you’re conv
inced, but I don’t need you to be convinced, I just need you to not feel the pain.”

  “I’m still sticking with the ‘you’re pissed at me’ theory.” He angles his head and takes a step closer. “Or at the world. I just haven’t decided which one you’re taking out on me right now.”

  I bristle, hating that he can read me so easily when I’ve put an enormous amount of effort into trying to appear perfectly fine these past few days. But I haven’t been fine. I’ve been far from it. I’m pissed at my dad, angry that he’s shutting me out when all I need is to be closer to him. I despise that I have to hear secondhand from his caretaker, Sally, that the cold he’s caught has set him back a few steps. I hate that my brother’s birthday is coming up, another year gone by, making the memories even fuzzier.

  So, yeah, Easton’s right; I am pissed at the world. Obviously, I’m doing a shitty job of hiding it.

  “C’mon, let’s get you stretched out.” Conversation over. I turn my back to him and walk to the foul line on the outfield grass. I could have stretched him perfectly fine where we were standing, and yet I needed the distraction to avoid him looking at me more closely and seeing that he’s right.

  “Classic avoidance. I get it.”

  “No, you’re just the player.” The comment slips off my tongue, more a reminder to myself than meant for him. The disdain tingeing my tone is intended for my dad, but I’m taking it out on Easton instead.

  How can you be mad at a man who is dying?

  “The player?” Easton’s voice is right behind me, and I cringe. He definitely heard me.

  Crap.

  “Don’t ask.”

  “No, please. I’m intrigued.”

  “It’s just a classic Doc Dalton idiosyncrasy.” I keep my back turned to him as tears burn in my eyes. Moments ago I was mentally lashing out at my dad, angry at the world, and in a matter of seconds, I’m smiling bittersweetly at the quirk so representative of my father.

  I can hold it together most days, push the grief aside, not believe the prognosis, but for some reason, this week it has hit me hard.