by Devney Perry
And with that, I turn my back and head for the door. My hands are trembling, and my body is riding high on something akin to adrenaline, but I’m satisfied that he’ll take me seriously from here on out.
“Hey, Kitty.”
Despite every urge in my body to keep walking and not acknowledge the stripper alias, my feet stop. And I hate that they do, but at least I don’t give him the satisfaction of turning around to face him.
“The name’s Scout. And, for the record, I’m not sure whether to be flattered or pissed off that you’d think I’d accept money to dance for you or sleep with you.”
“So, you’d do it for free then?” The chuckle that follows is smooth as silk, full of suggestion, and twists my insides with a potent combination of disgust and lust.
“Not hardly,” I lie.
“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.”
“Good thing I didn’t knee you in the nuts because you had.”
His laugh is warmer this time around. “Lucky for me, I practiced restraint.”
“Remember that term—practice restraint,” I say, feeling like I’ve made some headway. “I won’t be easy on you, you know.”
“I’ll count on it. And Scout? I knew you weren’t a stripper.”
“Way to try and save face, Hot Shot.” Men and their egos. “But if that’s the case, then why’d you let me keep the act going?”
“Only a stupid man would stop a beautiful woman when she’s straddling his thighs.”
“And here I thought you’d redeemed yourself,” I mutter through the smile he can’t see.
“Redemption’s boring. I prefer excitement,” he goads.
“Great.”
“Tomorrow, Scout.”
“Yeah. Yeah.”
I walk out of the locker room, the echo of my footsteps down the concrete corridor nowhere as loud as his voice on repeat in my mind. I was ready to kiss you senseless just to call your bluff.
If that would be my punishment for being wrong, why the hell would I want to be right?
Easton
“It’s just pain. I’ve played through it before. I can play through it again.”
“And risk ending your career?”
“Look. I know my body better than anyone. I’m not going to risk my career by pushing myself too early, which is why—”
“Which is why the club hired Doc.”
“Don’t remind me.” My laugh is loaded with sarcasm but my thoughts are already back on the athletic brunette with challenging gray eyes and a smartass mouth. The one I’ve probably thought about more times in the last few hours, while waiting for my agent to call back, than I care to count. “And for clarification, it’s not Doc doing my rehab. It’s Scout. Whoever the fuck Scout is, because I’ve made some calls, been asking around, and I can’t find shit on her other than she’s his daughter. His daughter, Finn? Not some topnotch professional who is scheduled out for months in advance because she’s everyone’s go-to. Look, I’m not one to knock taking up the old man’s profession because…well, because pot meet kettle. But taking over and actually being as good as him are two entirely different things. The club promised they’d get me the best physical therapist after the bullshit I had to put up with from the other one. Second best isn’t the best, Finn. This is my arm we’re talking about here. My career, so—”
“The same arm you want to chance by thumbing your nose at the club’s protocol and declaring yourself ready to go without the therapist’s consent, right?”
Fuck. Finn’s got me there. I roll my shoulders in reflex and hate that there’s that slight stab of pain when I do—my constant reminder that I’m not ready to play, and yet that’s all I want to do to get my life back to its norm.
“Easton.” He sighs. “You agreed to the terms and have to abide by the parameters now.”
His disapproving tone grates on my nerves. “We’ve gone over this.” What feels like a million times.
“Well, you’re the one who signed the papers—”
“You’re goddamn right I did. They carted me off the field and the pain was so brutal I would’ve signed anything for them to get the oxy quicker to dull it some; so don’t chastise me like I did something stupid. You would’ve done the same exact thing.”
His silence is more irritating than his disapproving tone. “I would have at least read the papers first.”
“Yeah. Yeah. I know. But I didn’t, and now I’m forced into their rehab guidelines. Can they really put a deadline on when I have to return? It’s not like everyone heals the same.”
“Should they? No. Can they? Well, you signed the paper that said you’d be back by August first, so yes, now, they technically can.”
I roll my shoulders, pissed at myself for signing it, at him for his constant nagging over it, and at all the shit that can’t be changed. “And if I’m not ready by then?”
“I told you, they can trade you.”
“And you also told me during the last negotiation that I had an iron-clad contract, Finn. Eight years with an extension option.”
“It is iron-clad. . . but then you went and signed the first papers they put in front of you without reading them, and—”
“It wasn’t like . . . you don’t understand.” Frustrated, I pinch the bridge of my nose and close my eyes to shut out the stadium laid out before me, taunting me. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t quite understand this new general manager yet, but I guess it’s his new protocol.”
“What is?” he asks. “Making a player sign something when his arm was just ripped apart? Sounds pretty callous if you ask me. What’s the purpose? Is dotting all your I’s and crossing all your T’s really that important in that moment?”
“You’re preaching to the choir, dude.”
“Everyone says he’s the best there is when it comes to this kind of thing, and there’s no way they can all be crazy, so hang in there.”
“Easier said than done,” I gripe.
“Yeah well, the bright side is that it typically takes him three years to successfully restructure an organization before he moves on to the next one.”
“Three years?” Fuck.
“Let’s just hope all these new policies and strategies are worth it. I expect to see a pennant won before he leaves.”
“Always looking for the diamond in a pile full of cow patties aren’t you, Finn?
“One of us has to.”
“Strategies are one thing, but treating your players with respect is another. Giving me a finite amount of time to rehab and return to the starting line-up is definitely not a way to show me respect.” Everything about the situation pisses me off and rubs me the wrong way.
“I know. The timeframe is most likely Cory’s way to add a bit of pressure so you get back on the field as soon as possible. After all, you’re their star player.”
“He does know this is my job, right? Star player or not, I’m a big boy who’s well aware of what my fucking obligations are.”
“He does. I promise you I gave him an earful over this. But look at the positive, he listened to you and brought in Doc—hired him exclusively for your rehabilitation. That shows just how much the club wants—no, needs—you back to help them win that pennant he’s promised the city.”
“Perhaps. But if they wanted me back so desperately, it would be Doc here, not his daughter.”
“She wouldn’t be here if she wasn’t qualified. You sound like a prima donna. You wanted a different physical therapist and you got one. Suck it up, Wylder. You’ve got less than three months to get your spikes back between the chalk lines, so use the resources they got for you and quit—”
“My bitching,” I finish for him as I scrub a hand through my hair and look out at the empty stadium. “You’re right. Sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
“This is getting fucking old. I’m stuck on the DL, being pressured to return on a timeline by the club I
’ve played for my whole career, and all because I decided to go for home and try to score the extra run? Santiago didn’t even have the goddamn ball when he blocked the plate. So what? He fucks over me and my arm both in one goddamn dirty play, and all the fucker gets is a hundred-grand fine and a four-game suspension? You want to know why I’m in a crappy mood? It’s because I’m getting the shit end of the stick here, with no damn clue why he did it.”
I know he’s heard it all before. My bitching and moaning over the injury. Over being taken from my game, my life, and forced to sit here on a daily basis and watch it play on without me.
“I can’t tell you why Santiago has a beef with you . . . but he does. That’s pretty damn evident.”
“No shit. Sorry,” I say for what feels like the tenth time. “I’m just having a pity party.”
“I get it, East. You want back out there.”
“Like fucking yesterday.”
“I know dude, but I can’t make your arm heal any faster. You’ve had the best surgeons, the best resources, and now you’ll have the best physical therapist there is in baseball.”
“But—”
“You think Doc’s going to risk his career by ruining yours? If he sent his daughter to rehab you, then no doubt she’s qualified to get you back. Just ride it out. Put your earphones on if you need to, listen to one of those damn audiobooks that I can’t for the life of me understand how you listen to, and tune her out . . . but put in the hours. Get better. And you’ll be back before you know it.”
Easier said than done.
“Yeah. Sure.”
I end the phone call, lean back into the hard plastic of the stadium seat, and prop my feet on the empty row in front of me.
And I dare to look at what I’m missing out on. The nets of the backstop fade away as I stare at the place where I’ve lived my life—between the chalk lines and behind home plate.
It’s fucking beautiful. A blessing and a curse. My pleasure and my pain.
The only thing I’ve ever known.
The only thing I’ve ever wanted to do.
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 disrespe
ctful, 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.
Scout
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.
