The Player (The Player Duet Book 1)

by K. Bromberg

  “Still stiff?”

  “Less and less each day.”

  “I don’t feel the click anymore when I move it. I don’t feel any resistance either. Your surgeon must have done a wonderful job, if I do say so myself.” He winks at me and chuckles.

  “No complaints here.”

  “I’ll file my report with Cory. Let him know I see no reason why you shouldn’t be able to move to the active roster by the end of the month.”

  “Music to my ears.”

  “It’s up to your PT though. He has the final say, since he’s the one working with you, day-in and day-out. Does the club still have you working with Doc?”

  I smile automatically. “I’m working with Scout Dalton.” Images flash through my mind of her earlier. At least I know I was right about the kitchen counter theory.

  “I hear she really knows her stuff.”

  “Seems to.” I meet his eyes. Hope he doesn’t see that I’m talking about a helluva lot more than just her job.

  “Haven’t heard much from Doc though, lately. Rumor is he’s planning on retiring.”

  “I’ve heard the same,” I murmur as I stand and pull my shirt back over my head. I think of Scout yesterday, and the tears she tried to hide when she hung up the phone with him. She won’t talk about it, and I won’t push her. That’s her dad. It’s her frustration over wanting to be with him and him being a stubborn cuss and telling her to finish the job first.

  To get me back on the field first.

  Fathers and their unexplained actions.

  I shake Dr. Kimble’s hand and say good-bye.

  Let’s hope he’s right. That my arm should be good to go. While the X-rays may be clean, sometimes it’s the things you can’t see that are waiting to bring you down when you least expect it.

  I’m on fucking cloud nine.

  Dr. Kimble gave me his clearance.

  The Literacy Project just got approval for a huge grant that’s going to help us expand our reach to more inner-city schools.

  Scout and I practiced throwing down to second base yesterday and not a single fucking thing hurt.

  Then, of course, Scout rewarded me for my progress. Surprised me with a little takeout on a picnic blanket on the private field, gave me a full body massage to work out any muscles that may be tight, and then let me work her out.

  And Christ did we work out.

  So, I add a few extra reps in while I’m down here putting my time in and take advantage of all the things that are falling in line for me.

  “You should be activated by the end of the month.”

  Kimble’s words echo in my head as I scrub a towel over my face and head toward the locker room.

  Three weeks.

  Looks like my stint in hell—the disabled list—might be coming to an end.

  “I thought you’d already put your time in?” Miguel says as he passes me in the tunnel, an odd expression on his face that I chalk up to surprise.

  “Yeah. I did. But Mathers told me I could come in and catch bullpen if I want to warm the pitchers up and help get my reflexes up to speed.”

  “Nice. That close, huh?”

  “I want back on the field so bad I can taste it. I might even give up sex at this point.” He looks at me like I’m crazy and we both laugh. “Nah. I’ll never give that up.” I laugh as we pass each other.

  “Hey, Wylder?”

  “Yeah?” I turn around to face him. He’s standing in the middle of the tunnel, the daylight from the field at his back as he just stares at me.

  “Nah. Nothing. We’ll be glad to have you back.”

  “Thanks. Me, too.”

  Pumped to be getting my gear on and be part of the game in some way, I head into the locker room, ready to shower and check my phone to see if Scout’s going to swing by.

  “Hey.” I lift my chin in greeting as I pass Drew. He startles when he sees me and flicks a glance over to J.P. across the locker room, a concerned look on his face when he meets my gaze again.

  What the fuck is going on?

  Is this the prank I’ve been waiting for? Are they finally going to man up and get me back for that stunt in Cleveland? Bring it on, boys.

  But when I meet J.P.’s eyes and he glances across the room, I start to doubt it. I follow his line of sight and see a group of guys, some with towels wrapped around their hips, others with just their jock on, some in sliders and their jersey shirt.

  Something’s up.

  Gonzo’s locker is empty and the placard with his name is gone. Poor kid. He had a good run but has probably been sent back to Triple-A. Dr. Kimble was quick with filing his report if they already sent him back.

  But then who’s behind the plate for now?

  Just as the thought crosses my mind, I notice the bag on the floor in front of the locker, about the same time the entire room falls silent. Fucking bad juju. I can feel it instantly but have no clue why . . . until a man strolls through the center of the square room. His head is down, he’s using one white towel to shake the water out of his hair, and another towel is around his waist.

  But I’d know that tattoo on his bicep from anywhere.

  And as if he can sense the whole locker room is staring at him, he lowers the towel from his head and looks up and straight into my eyes.

  It’s not a prank.

  Santiago.

  Mother. Fucker.

  “Tell me it’s not fucking true, Finn,” I grit the words out.

  I keep my head down, the bill of my hat pulled low over my face as I weave my way against the flow of the crowd milling around the ballpark, here to catch batting practice.

  I don’t know where I’m going, but I know I need to walk. Run. Fucking punch something. Anything to abate the rage controlling me right now.

  “I’m trying to get answers.”

  “That’s not fucking good enough.”

  “It’s fucking bullshit is what it is,” he sneers, and thank fuck for that because I need him to be just as livid as I am. He was about to be fired if he wasn’t.

  “Cory wasn’t there. The front office was the first place I went for answers.” Neither was my dad. “And no one had any answers for me other than ‘Cory will be back late tonight.’”

  “It’s probably best you didn’t talk to him right now.”

  “He’s a chickenshit fucker to make the trade and not give me a heads-up.”

  “I’m in agreement with you there.”

  “They know the history here. He’s the bastard who took me out of their starting roster, and then they go and sign the fucker?”

  “I know, Easton. It’s not making sense.” I’m so angry I start to walk one way, and then start back the other way, not sure where I’m going, what to do now, or what to do next. “How bad was it?”

  My laugh fills the connection but sounds anything but humorous. “I didn’t land a punch, if that’s what you’re asking. Not from a lack of trying, though.” I scrub a hand over my face, my feet eating up the squares of the sidewalk like they’re endless. “Tino and Drew were on me before I could throw it. The other guys grabbed him. It was a clusterfuck.”

  “I’ve got calls in. I’m hearing it was Gonzo and two other Triple-A players plus Maddox.”

  “Maddox? They traded fucking Maddox?” My head spins at the news.

  “He had a big salary and isn’t having that great of a year.”

  “Fucking Cory.”

  “This is what he’s known for, playing moneyball—he comes in, cleans up, tightens budgets, and he wins pennants.”

  “We win them. Not him.” I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to process how the hell Santiago is an Ace. “Please tell me I’m ironclad.”

  “With that book of a contract we negotiated, you’re solid.”

  “Finn . . .” I sigh as I cross the street and cut right, far enough from the stadium to breathe a bit freer, where I can talk a little less guarded, but am conscious that I’m still in the city I play for.

  “I don’t know,�
�� he murmurs, answering my unspoken question: why trade for another catcher when I’m getting my clearance soon? “He’s a damn good left fielder, too. Circe’s been weak this year. Maybe they’re thinking of shifting him there when you come back. This is a business, East. You know that.”

  “Bad juju, man.”

  “Fucking juju,” he mutters. “Just tell me you can handle being in the same clubhouse as him and that I’m not going to get a call to come bail you out.”

  “I’m not making shit for promises.”

  “Good to know and glad to hear it. I’ll text you when I hear something.”

  I look at the blank screen on my phone for a minute, wanting to call my dad but at the same time not wanting to. And when I look up, I realize where my feet took me.

  Scout.

  I stare at the front of her little townhome for who knows how long, trying to make sense of the trade and the club where I’ve devoted my career.

  And all I feel is defeat. I’ve busted my ass for months to get back, and just as I get there, my team trades my enemy to my team? To play my position?

  I should go have a few drinks.

  I should turn around, head back toward the stadium, find a dark hole-in-the-wall bar and drink myself into oblivion while I watch the game. While I watch Santiago in my position. In my team uniform.

  Fuck me.

  I should leave Scout out of this. I’m not at my best, not what she needs to deal with.

  I look around. Spot a bar across the way and down a little bit to the left.

  Drink.

  Scout.

  Drink.

  Scout.

  I need both.

  “Easton? Where have you been? I’ve been trying to get ahold of you for the past hour!”

  Relief courses through me at the sight of him standing in my doorway, still in his practice uniform, almost as if he heard the news I found out about a little bit ago and walked right off the field. He’s a little bleary eyed and a lot unsteady on his feet but it’s his face that etches itself into my mind—part lost little boy, part defiant teenager, and a whole lot of pissed-off man.

  “I needed a drink. I needed you first, but figured I should have a drink first.” He half slurs, half laughs and shakes his head. “I’m not making sense. Welcome to the motto of my day: nothing makes sense.”

  “Come on. Come in.” I grab onto him, pull him inside, and lead him by the hand over to the couch. “I flipped on the TV to catch the game, and he was an Ace. I’ve been out of my mind trying to get ahold of you.”

  He plops on the couch but doesn’t say a single word as I prattle on, trying to ease the anxiety I’ve had for the past hour and a half over whether he was okay.

  “Talk to me. Please,” I beg as I look down at where he’s sitting in front of me. I need to know what to do to help him.

  The silence stretches except for the low hum of the announcers’ voices in the background of the game, and I debate whether or not I should turn it off. His discord is more than obvious, magnified by the drink or ten he’s most likely had, and I feel helpless standing here staring at him while he’s staring at his hands clasped in between his legs.

  “I’m going to get you some water,” I say, and just as I take a step, Easton takes me by surprise, grabbing me by the waist and pulling me into him so that his arms wrap around my hips, and he rests his forehead against my belly, his hat falling backward off his head.

  My heart breaks for him, for what he must be thinking, because I’ve been thinking the same. So I do the only thing I can: I thread my fingers through his hair and just let him hold on to me and take whatever it is he needs from me.

  Half an inning expires while we stay like this and I try to figure out what it is I can say to make it better. Then I laugh at how stupid that sounds. So I say the next best thing I can think of.

  “I talked to Dr. Kimble today. We’ll give Santiago three weeks to rent that spot behind your plate and show his skills. Then you’ll be back, and when you step on the field, the difference in your skill level will be so obvious, everyone will realize how much they missed you.”

  He chuckles. The heat of it hits my belly as his fingers tense and flex against my hips before he slowly leans against the back of the couch. His hands pull on my hips and guide me to straddle him. I follow his lead, my eyes steadfast on his, waiting for him to look up so I can get a glimpse of what he’s thinking.

  He doesn’t.

  Instead, he rests his head back and closes his eyes; his thumbs, now resting on the sides of my hips, rub circles against the denim of my jeans. “I turned my phone off. Sorry I didn’t pick up, but I thought it might be best to not talk to anyone for a bit.”

  I nod my head, and then realize he can’t see it. “Understandably. I’m sure your dad is worried about you. Did you talk to him at all?” He doesn’t reply, just gives a half-hearted shrug that doesn’t give me any insight.

  “You know what gets me?” he asks with an audible skepticism I can understand. “What did I ever do to him? Get a better contract with a better team? There are a hundred guys out there who have better contracts . . . so why pick me to fuck with? Is it just because I’m the privileged legacy son, so he doesn’t think I deserve it? Is it because he thinks I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth and a gold bat in my hand when he had to struggle? Doesn’t he get that it wasn’t all fucking cherries being Cal Wylder’s son? That I’d give my eye-teeth to have one moment of my baseball career that wasn’t overshadowed by the fact that I better perform as expected from the Iron Giant’s son?”

  He lifts his eyes and looks at me for the first time, weary and a little lost.

  “You know what’s even more fucked up? You know what I thought about as I sat in the bar across the street?”

  “What?” I ask gently.

  “I love this game, Scout. I told you the other day that I played because of my dad, and fuck yes, I do . . . but I also play because I love this game. Baseball is so much more than just a game to me. It’s sights and sounds and smells—the roar of the crowd when you crank a home run, the tack of the pine tar on your bat, the smell of the popcorn in the air, the pop a glove makes on a screaming fastball, the sting of a broken bat vibrating through your fingers and up your forearm, the awe on the little boy’s face standing above the dugout when you toss him the game ball as you jog off the field . . . Shit, Scout. I could go on forever, but that is the soundtrack, the movie, the everything of my life. It is my life. How stupid was I that it took Santiago showing up to reaffirm the love I have for something that’s been a part of me before I was even born?”

  There are tears in my eyes that I don’t even bother to blink away. The reverence in his voice speaks louder than all the things he just said, and they were pretty damn loud.

  I lean forward, bringing my hands to frame his cheeks, and press a tender kiss to his lips before resting my forehead against his.

  “I promise you that we’ll have you back in top form. You’re already there—we just need to work your arm up to playing a full game.”

  He nods, his breath hot against my lips, and the scrape of his stubble rough against my fingertips.

  “Santiago being on the team means nothing. Maybe there was an old trade that linked to this one. The ‘a player to be named later’ kind. Maybe they brought him on to spur your ass into gear.”

  “Or maybe Cory’s an asshole and just wanted to fuck me over.”

  I know that’s the alcohol talking, but he still has a point. “I get why you feel that way, but at the end of the day, you’re Easton Wylder. The Aces’ franchise player. You’re not going anywhere, so why cause trouble just to add strife. There has to be a valid reason.”

  “And I’m sure if I listen to my thirty messages, there will be, but right now I don’t care. Right now, I just want to feel sorry for myself, have another drink, sit here with you, and figure out how exactly I’m going to see that fucker every goddamn day and not break his nose.”

  I chuckle an
d press my lips to his before shifting and nuzzling my forehead against the side of his neck. “Ignore him.”

  “Easier said than done.”

  “True, but the best way to get back at him is to come back and blow him out of the water. The assumption is that you’re injured and won’t be one hundred percent. Won’t it be the ultimate ‘fuck you’ to be just the opposite?”

  “The mother fucker deserves it.”

  “He does.”

  “Do you really think I can get there?”

  The cautious hope in his voice digs its claws into my heart and doesn’t let go. “I know you can.”

  “There are no guarantees.”

  “You’re right, there are no guarantees,” I repeat his words back to him, “but it’s the possibility that should keep you going.”

  When the guys call him after the game and ask him to meet up for drinks, I encourage him to go. He needs their camaraderie right now. He needs their reassurance that they have his back.

  And I need time to myself.

  To think.

  To process.

  To reread the email that Sally forwarded, explaining how they’ve pulled my dad’s name from the transplant list.

  It’s not like I didn’t expect this. A new heart was out of the question. His body is too frail, his immune system too weak to accept a foreign organ.

  But while his name was on the donor list, there was a false sense of hope.

  And now there’s not.

  My heart just needs more time to accept what my mind already knows.

  But there will never be enough time to accept this.

  My feet stop the second I spot Easton.

  The moms pushing strollers have to swerve around me and a little boy bumps against me, but I stand still, trying to comprehend how the mere sight of him eases the stress of my day.

  He’s lying on a slope covered in grass beyond the left field fence, his legs are crossed at the ankles, his hands are braced behind him, and an Aces baseball hat sits low over his brow. His attention is focused on the Little League game playing in front of him where little boys about five or six years old are trying their hardest to master his game.