by K. Bromberg
“I’m here, Scouty-girl. I’m here.” His voice rumbles through the connection and soothes my heart that was having a mini-panic attack over needing to talk to him for no other reason than to know he was still there.
I sag against the wall beside me and close my eyes, willing away the tears that threaten.
“You okay?”
No.
“Yeah. I’m good.” I clear my throat and look around the empty hallway outside of the locker room. “Sometimes a girl just needs her dad.”
“Understood. This time of year is always tough for you,” he murmurs. “I’ll sit here on the line as long as you need me.”
“Thank you.” My voice is almost a whisper as I try to contain my emotions. We both sit on opposite sides of the connection, we don’t speak, and yet I find comfort in knowing he’s there.
“I need to get to work,” I say after a few minutes even though I’d stay like this all day if I could. “Thank you for . . .”
“Anytime.” He clears his throat. “Remember, clear mind, hard heart.”
“I know,” I say before the line disconnects and then whisper, “I love you.” I know he’s no longer there, but I say the words anyway.
I take a moment to pull myself together—frazzled female emotions make gruff men uncomfortable—before I head into the locker room to prepare for Easton’s first of two training sessions today.
But it’s when I walk into my office to grab the notes on my desk that the fake smile plastered on my lips becomes genuine.
Sitting on top of my notes is a mess of wintergreen Life Savers, crudely arranged to look like a flower. There are three white mints making up each petal, and they all connect into the center Life Saver. Except the center candy isn’t wintergreen white.
It’s red.
Cherry red to be exact.
And there’s a Post-It note beside it that has ‘Have a day’ scrawled across it.
It’s a simple something that at a glance looks like candies tossed on a desk but speaks volumes to me. It says I’m thinking about you. It says remember what I like to do with cherry Life Savers. It says I’m still here, still determined to prove you wrong. It says remember that first time we ‘had a day’ together? Well, here’s to more of those.
My heart does a little flip flop in my chest. There’s only one person who could have done this. One person who had no clue that I needed something like this right now but who gave it to me anyway.
I pull the wrapper off one of the wintergreen Life Savers and look up through the training room window to see Easton standing at his locker, looking my way. Our eyes connect for the briefest of moments so as to not give away what’s happening between us, but it’s long enough for me to slip the candy between my lips and offer a ghost of a smile. His nod is ever so slight before turning to say something to J.P. as if our exchange never occurred.
But it did.
And as I look down to the flower (less one Life Saver) I’m left struggling with how to accept all of the good things happening in my life—the rehabilitation contract, my time spent off the field with Easton, the prospect of a long-term job that will allow me to stay in one place for more than a few months—when I should be thinking about my dad instead.
The guilt eats at me when I know I can’t let it. I just have to take things one day at a time.
Another quick glance Easton’s way drives the point home because while I may not want to admit it to myself, the time I spend with him is the highlight of my day.
“Where’ve you been lately?”
I glance over at Drew and wait for him to say what his eyes are insinuating. “You guys have been on a road trip, so I’ve been here, and you haven’t.” I snap my towel at him to emphasize my point.
“It wouldn’t have anything to do with that hot little trainer you’ve got rubbing you down, now would it?”
“Fuck off, Drew. You’re just jealous I get a female.”
“Damn straight, I’m jealous. Please tell me you’ve tried to round the bases with her, because, dude, I’d be worried if you hadn’t.”
Heads have turned our way, ears listening, the locker room full of players as they come back in from batting practice, the game’s first pitch a little over ninety minutes away.
“Shot down, brother,” I lie, and he bumps my fist and laughs. “She’s all business, all the time. Last week I thought I had a shot when she showed up at my place after I threw hard for the first time . . . but nope. I had my phone off and hadn’t answered her, so she swung by to make sure I’d iced my arm. Not exactly the kind of front-door service I was hoping for.”
“There’s hope for me yet if Wylder still gets shot down.”
“That’s cold, man.”
Comments ring through the room right beside the disbelieving laughter at the fact that I’d been rejected by Scout.
Little do they know the damn woman has owned my thoughts more than I’d fucking like to admit. It could be that I get to see her every damn day of the week. That I’ve badgered her into having a few dinners with me. That getting drunk on her kiss is what I look forward to.
But hell, this “getting to know you” shit has to end soon, because a man only has so much restraint and his balls can only get so blue. Besides, there’s only so much satisfaction in jerking off when the one you’re fantasizing about does something like she did today, showing up in a tank top that makes you want to cave on your promise.
Oh, fuck, how I’d wanted to cave. And not because it was revealing, but rather because every time she rubbed against me during our stretching routine, all I could think about was that I know what her tits look like beneath it. Perky. Pink. Suckable.
The drought definitely needs to end.
And soon.
But isn’t that the damn problem? Just when I thought we’ve gotten to know each other better, that sex is just what the doctor ordered, she showed up today with that fucking spooked look in her eyes. The one that had her so antsy she left right after we cooled down and she was done with me.
I play it off that she’s having a bad day. Maybe her uncle is still sick. Who knows, though, because she won’t say shit to me about him.
Then again, maybe she’s just freaked.
Fucking women.
“Well, one thing for sure,” Stanza says from across the locker room, “Santiago is going to get some chin music tonight.”
I meet his eyes across the distance and just nod—a quiet thank you for letting me know that when he pitches tonight, he’s going to throw a few inside to push Santiago off the plate. A little “fuck you” for hurting me.
Those who say there’s no retaliation in baseball have never played. A pitch aimed a little too close to the head. A tag thrown just a tad too hard. A shoulder lowered or cleats angled up when going in to slide at a base. You fuck with my teammate, we’ll fuck with you back, is the motto for most teams.
Especially mine. Especially for me because the play was dirty.
“Fuck that fucker,” J.P. mutters, getting a rise out of the guys.
“You staying to watch?” Drew bumps my shoulder and asks.
I pull my shirt over my head and chew over the idea I’ve considered more times than I’d like to admit. “Probably not. Last thing I need to do is run into him in the hallway. A few months isn’t long enough for me to not want to rip his goddamn throat out.” The guys around me laugh. “Besides, if I did, I’d probably just fuck my arm up further . . . so, nah, I’m gonna watch from home.”
“Gonna meet us after?”
I glance over to the empty training room. The one Scout ran out of earlier. She’s the one person I’d rather hang with tonight, but fuck it, going out is probably just what I need to feel like my old self again instead of this overthinking, whiny bitch I’m feeling like right now. “Got nothing better to do than hang with my boys.”
And then I see him. The rookie who was just called up from the Triple-A team outta Bum-fuck, Nowhere. He’s sitting on his stool, staring in awe at the
locker with his name placard on it, much the same way I did my first time here, all those years ago.
“Hey, Gonzo!”
The kid startles as he turns around and sees me across the room. “Yeah?”
“Thanks for filling in for me. You’ll do great. Knock ’em dead tonight.” I smile at him and nod. A little something to ease the pressure of his first time in the big leagues, and a subtle reminder not to get too comfortable in the gear because I’ll be back.
I’m not sure who I’m trying to convince more, him or me.
“Thanks,” he stutters, eyes as big as saucers.
“We’ll see you at Sluggers after the game. The guys’ll show you where to go. It’s not every night you make your major league debut.”
His smile widens, and he nods. And I’m left sitting, staring at my own locker, contemplating what it would be like to have that feeling back—the awe of walking into the stadium for the first time, the nerves that roll your stomach, the jog of your knee as you sit in the dugout for the first time, and the knowledge that when you hop over that chalk baseline there are thousands of people in the stands who would kill to take your place.
All of it is a reaffirmation of how damn lucky I am, when I’ve been sitting here feeling goddamn sorry for myself.
The chatter begins to die down as the guys head for the dugout. Some slap me on the back as they leave, some give a fist-bump. Good lucks are given. Shit-talking is required.
And when I’m the only one left in the locker room, I head out, hating the feeling that I’m missing all of this with them. That they’re moving on—the next game, the next play, the next city in this long season—while I’m still sidelined and going fucking stir crazy over a game I love but can’t play and a woman I want but can’t seem to get.
Talk about being majorly fucked.
I laugh at myself as I stand in the tunnel and decide if I want to go to the right and past all the VIP fan events happening, where I’ll get wrangled into PR, or asked to head up to the announcer’s booth for a bit and add some color commentary, as I’ve done a few times over the past few months, or if I want to veer left and take the long route.
Left. Definitely left.
I’m not in the mood to deal with fans right now. Not when I’m pissed and just want the hell out of this stadium that suddenly feels like a prison I can’t escape from fast enough.
My shoes echo against the concrete as I make my way through the maze of tunnels. My thoughts are all over the place. On my shoulder. On Scout. On watching the game today, the first time Santiago has been in the starting line-up against us since he fucked me over.
“Don’t you go anywhere near him.”
The voice comes from the next hall up, and the threat in it resonates down to where I am. By the time I wrap my head around the notion that it sounds like my dad, I’m standing in the opening of the passageway, staring at him and Santiago.
Standing side by side.
My dad’s hand fisted in my enemy’s shirt.
There’s a tense second where it takes everything I have not to close the distance and smash my fist into his smarmy fucking smirk that has never said anything near an apology.
“What the fuck is going on here?”
He’s suited up to play. Just like I should be, but can’t.
Because of him.
“Dad?” I address my dad, yet I can’t help but stare at Santiago and try to figure out what in the hell his deal is.
Santiago turns to look back to my dad, eyebrows raised. “Thanks for the chat, Cal, but I’ve got a game to play. See you on the field, Wylder?” he says as he looks toward me. “Oh. Wait. My bad. You won’t be there.”
And with a fucking chuckle that is like acid in my gut, he pats my dad on the back and jogs the other way down the tunnel. We both stare after him without saying a word.
“What the hell was that all about?” I grit the words out, clenching and unclenching my hands to prevent me from punching the wall.
“I saw him walking down the hallway toward your clubhouse. I asked him where he was going. When he wouldn’t answer, I figured he was coming to see you. I told him he better not go near you or I’d have him thrown out of the ballpark.”
I stare at my dad, but rage clouds my judgment to the point that I’m questioning whether he’s telling me the truth. And of course he is, he’s my dad, but it’s so much easier to listen to the anger and pick a fight with him.
“You should have let him come at me,” I mutter as I scrub my hands over my face and pace a few feet past my dad, toward the opposing clubhouse’s locker room and then back the way I came.
“For what, Easton? So you can get hurt again and piss the club off because your DL stint just got extended? Nothing good ever comes out of anger. Nothing.” He walks up to me, puts his hand on my shoulder, and squeezes. “I know you’re frustrated. I know it’s taking everything in your body right now to not storm in there and kick his ass. And I know more than anything you just want your norm back. Keep doing what you’re doing, and you’ll be back in six weeks’ time, according to the report that Ms. Dalton gave the front office.”
Six weeks? How did I not know that?
I push it away. The thought. The excitement. Because I was given a return date before and never hit it. A man can’t recover on a clock.
But something else becomes clear. For the first time in what feels like forever, my dad is being my dad, not Cal Wylder. It’s just what I needed right now, even though he might not know it.
“I’m going fucking stir crazy.”
“It’s hard being cut off from what you love.”
I look up to him, meet eyes that mirror mine, and see the concern. “Yeah, well, thanks to him.” I pace back and forth once more. “You know what I don’t get, though, is why? Why take me out? Why hurt me? Why any of this?”
My dad clears his throat and chews the inside of his cheek as he thinks it over. “I just don’t know, Easton. The guy’s bat is on fire. He has a helluva on-base percentage. His arm’s flawless, and no one dares steal with him behind that plate. His style reminds me a lot of yours, yet he’s probably making a third of what you make.”
“You think this is a jealousy thing? There’s no way. I mean, there’s hundreds of us taking the field every night across all pay grades and starting positions. If that’s the case, then why single me out? It just doesn’t make sense.”
“Nothing seems to these days, son.”
“The fucker went three-for-three tonight. What the fuck is up with that?” Drew mutters as he takes a nice long drag on his bottle.
“Bad juju, man,” I mutter, tired as fuck but with zero desire to make it the few blocks down the street back to my place.
“Yeah, but we won, so it couldn’t have been too damn bad,” Tino chimes in with a clink of his bottle to mine. “I think I deserve to get laid for that homer, though.”
“Then go home to your wife,” I say, the same as I do every time we go drinking. It’s innocent enough, I know, because Tino worships the ground his wife walks on, but he never fails to say it.
Almost like a routine.
Pretty much the same as the four of us sitting here after a home game, reliving the highlights, bitching about the ball that wouldn’t drop, or the shitty call that cost us the game, and taking time to unwind for an hour or two before we head home to our non-baseball lives. Tino, his wife; Drew, his three dogs; J.P., his girlfriend; and me to my empty bed.
“I plan on it,” Tino says with a quick grin, “but I was waiting for Gonzo to get here so we could buy him a beer and fuck with him a bit.”
“Yeah. Where is he?” J.P. says, craning his neck around the crowded bar to look for him.
“He’s probably still sitting in the dugout, sporting wood and trying to believe he actually just made his debut in the show,” Drew says, and the image has us all thinking back to that first time and the rush of nerves and adrenaline that lasted for days.
“The kid did good.” I nod. “
Real good.”
“Not as good as you, East,” Tino says. “When’re you going to get your ass back on the field?”
“Soon. Four, five weeks. It’s up to Scout to clear me.”
“Ah, the mysterious Scout,” J.P. taunts, but I don’t take the bait. Because fuck yes, I’ve thought about her tonight. When I was sitting at my place watching the game, shouting at the television, and flipping off Santiago every time the camera panned to him, it was her I imagined laughing at me. Even when I came down here to grab our table in the back and wait for the guys, sure, the women who approached were attractive, but all I kept doing was comparing them to her.
I’ve got it fucking bad. Christ. Talk about feeling pussy-whipped when you aren’t even getting any pussy.
“You mean that mysterious Scout?” Drew asks with a tilt of his beer toward the far side of the room.
I look immediately, hating that my heart fucking slams into my chest as violently as confusion does when I see her on the other side of the dimly lit bar.
“Dude, is she with . . .?”
“Well, we definitely know what team she wanted to win tonight,” J.P. murmurs, just above the chatter of the crowd.
I shift in my seat to see better and try to wrap my head around why she’s sitting with Penski and Cameron, whose asses we just kicked tonight. I think of her Facebook page. Of picture after picture of her with other players.
It’s her fucking job, Easton. Dealing with other men is her job.
So why didn’t she say anything to me about them when I asked her if she wanted to do something tonight? If there was nothing to hide, then why fucking hide it?
And if you’re trying to hide something, then why come to Sluggers when you know that’s where the whole team goes after a game to blow off steam?
You don’t own her, East. She’s not yours. You don’t have the right to know what she’s doing when she’s not with you. You don’t get to lay claim to her.
Fuck that. I damn well do.
I’ve put the time in. I’ve gotten to know her. I’ve taken more care than I ever have with a woman, and so, fuck yes, she’s going to be mine.
