by Mindy Klasky
Anna turned on her heel and walked back to her grandfather’s room, not able to watch Small make the call that would break Zach Ormond forever.
CHAPTER 8
Zach slammed the locker door with enough force that it bounced back and nearly hit him in the face. A quick pound with his fist ended that cartoon scene. Goddamn locker. Goddamn road trip. Goddamn Coach making goddamn decisions based on goddamn input from goddamn—
He cut off his silent tirade.
He was the one who had challenged Anna. He was the one who’d put bullets in a gun, handed her the firearm, pointed it directly at his chest, and told her to fire. How many times had he said his stance wasn’t about the money?
She wasn’t an idiot. Far from it. The second she’d set foot inside the farmhouse, she’d zeroed in on his past. She’d seen what he really cared about—family and tradition and being there for the people who relied on him.
And she’d taken all of that away with a single phone call. Benched him.
Because he had no doubt whatsoever that Anna was the person behind his sitting out the game the team had just lost.
Shit. Maybe he should waive the clause. Go to Texas. Babysit their phenom pitcher, spend a couple of years bringing the kid along, make sure he could stand up to the pressure of post-season play. Maybe snag a World Series ring two years down the road, just before his contract ran out.
Before his knees ran out.
Even though he hadn’t spent a minute behind the plate that night, his knees were aching. Part of it was tension, he knew. Every muscle in his body was strung as tight as the new fences he’d just put up at the farm. But part of it was the wear and tear of the game, the damage that wasn’t ever going to go away.
The guys started drifting in from their showers, wrapped in cheap white towels and the bruised silence of a humiliating loss. Zach grabbed his bag and headed for the door, for a taxi that would take him back to the hotel, alone. There was no reason to look any of his teammates in the eye. No reason to measure the full extent of the condemnation that waited for him there.
It wasn’t like he could do anything about it. It wasn’t like he could control the first thing about his goddamn professional career.
He hadn’t counted on the cameras, hadn’t thought any New York reporter would care enough to ambush him by the locker-room door.
“Zach!”
He turned automatically, barely disciplining the frown from his face when he saw the dapper field reporter, already extending his microphone.
“Zach, what was it like, sitting on the bench while your team lost?”
Aside from that, Mrs. Lincoln, what did you think of the show?
“I don’t call the shots around here,” Zach said, carefully schooling his voice to civility. “Coach says who plays, and I just follow along.”
“But you’re not heading for the DL, are you?”
“No disabled list for me,” Zach said, shifting his bag on his shoulder. “Coach wanted to try out a new lineup. Shake things up a bit, see if we could generate a few more runs from the lower half of the batting order. It was an experiment, and it didn’t work tonight. But we’ll be back on track tomorrow.”
“Then there’s no truth to the rumor that you were sat down because of a contract dispute?”
Zach found the camera, stared directly into its crimson eye. “There’s no truth to that at all. I have a contract. There isn’t any dispute.”
“Then stories that you’re headed for Texas—”
“Are just that,” Zach interrupted. “Stories.”
He stood his ground, refusing to flinch. If he wasn’t going to be allowed on the playing field, this had to be the battleground. The press was his only ally as he fought for what he wanted. What he needed.
And the tactic worked. The reporter pulled back his mike, turned back to the camera for his own sign-off. “You heard it here first, folks. Zach Ormond, legendary catcher for the Rockets, isn’t going anywhere.”
Zach waited until the camera was turned off, and then he shook hands with the reporter. The guy was already positioning himself back at the door, ready to snare whoever came out next. Great job, if you didn’t mind feeding off the entrails of some damn fine ballplayers.
Hefting his bag higher on his shoulder, Zach turned down the long hall toward the street. Halfway to the door, his phone buzzed, and he pulled it out of his pocket. Anna.
His treacherous heart leaped high the instant he saw her name. A smile actually curled his lips, and his fingers moved automatically, eager to answer the call. He couldn’t wait to hear her voice. Couldn’t wait to ask her how she was holding up, how the old man was doing, whether the doctors were offering any signs of hope.
He stopped himself, though. He couldn’t do that. Not now. Not when they were in the middle of a war.
He shoved the phone back into his pocket. He had almost sixteen hours before he had to report back to the ballpark. Back to another game where he wouldn’t be allowed to play the only game that had ever mattered to him. And he had Anna Benson to thank for that.
He decided to walk a while, before hailing a cab. The exercise would do him good. Give him a chance to calm down. Let him figure out his next move. If there was one.
* * *
Anna stared at the clock on her kitchen stove, willing the glowing blue numbers to change over to 9:00. It seemed like the only thing she’d done for the past three days was wait.
Wait—for the doctors to tell her there was any change in Gramps, that his brain had begun to recover, that they could taper off the drugs that kept him in his coma.
Wait—for Gregory Small to tell her Texas was withdrawing its offer, that they were tired of playing games, that they were going to make their straightforward deal with St. Louis.
Wait—for Zach to call her. For Zach to respond to one of the six texts she’d sent him. For Zach to knock on her door, to push his way into her living room, to fold his arms around her and carry her to her bed, and make her pay for benching him.
None of those things happened, no matter how many times she looked at the clock. But Anna had promised herself that she could take action at 9:00. As the last glimmer of summer sunlight faded on the Raleigh horizon, the number finally changed, and Anna headed down to the garage, got into her car, and drove through the hot city streets on her way to Zach’s farmhouse.
Today had been a travel day; the team had flown back from New York, from the series where they’d been swept in three brutal games. Sure enough, Zach’s car sat on the driveway in front of his house, dark and hulking under the spreading oak tree. He’d parked the BMW next to his dusty pick-up truck.
With both vehicles there, he had to be home.
Anna wiped her palms against her jeans as she climbed out of her car. She thought she’d glimpsed a flicker at the windows as she pulled up, a quick flash of someone looking out the upstairs bedroom, identifying the source of the evening intrusion on the farm’s bucolic quiet.
Now, though, the shades were all neatly in place, eyelids shutting off any glimpse of life inside. She could just make out the glow of a lamp in the living room, a wash of gold around the edge of one window frame.
Swallowing hard, she forced herself to climb the three steps to the porch. Before she could chicken out, she opened the screen to knock on the door—three sharp raps that echoed off the white-painted swing to her right.
Nothing.
She tried again, knocking more rapidly, letting some of her nerves flow into her fist. When there was still no response, she tried the doorknob. It was locked.
Squaring her shoulders, she marched back down the steps. She made short work of walking around the farmhouse, grimacing at each darkened window. A well-used grill crouched near the back door, shimmering in the summer night. Her stomach clenched at the aroma of recently-cooked steak. The summer scent reminded her that she hadn’t eaten a real meal in three days; instead, she’d grabbed chips from the hospital vending machine, filled her belly with a
poisonous brew of Coca-Cola and candy bars.
She knocked on the back door, resorting to pounding with her fist when Zach refused to answer. In the city, he would have been forced to respond; she was making enough noise that any nosy neighbor would call the cops.
Out here on the farm, though, surrounded by rural peace and quiet, no one was going to report her to the authorities. No one would force Zach to open his door.
She rummaged for her phone as she stomped back to the car. Leaning against the hood, she punched in his number, listened to it ring four times, hung up when she got his voicemail. Again, she hit the number. Again. Again. The fifth time, he’d obviously turned off his phone—the call went directly to his gruff outgoing message.
And now she had no idea what else to do.
She couldn’t say how long she stared at the front door. She couldn’t count the number of hopeless, idiotic ideas that crossed her mind.
What if she sat down on his welcome mat and simply refused to move? What if she stood in the front yard and stripped naked beneath the full moon, putting her hands on her hips and waiting for him to drag her inside? What if she drove back to town, found some all-night convenience store that sold cell phones, bought one and called and fooled him into answering?
But none of that would matter. None of that would change anything.
Because now that she was out here, now that he had rebuffed every approach she’d made, now that she was alone, she couldn’t imagine what she and Zach could possibly say to each other. She still had an obligation to her grandfather, a bond that was even stronger because the man lay in a coma. And Zach still stood by his responsibility to himself, his fans, his family.
She pulled open her car door and dropped into the driver’s seat. The key turned in the ignition, and the engine flared to life. She kept the lights off as she drove down the long driveway, pretending she couldn’t be crying if no one actually saw the tears on her cheeks.
She had to switch on the headlights, though, when she got to the country road. She dashed her hands across her cheeks and opened her eyes wide, the better to watch for deer in the darkness. By the time she merged onto the freeway to head back to Raleigh, she’d accepted the truth.
She’d lost Zach Ormond. And there was nothing she could do to get him back.
* * *
The hardest thing he’d ever done in his life was stay inside the farmhouse. Hearing her knock, listening to her call his name… He’d peeked through the bedroom window when she’d finally given up. He’d watched her slump against the hood of her car. He’d needed to grab onto the doorframe to keep from going to her then, to stop himself from ripping open the door, hurtling down the steps, picking her up, and carrying her to his iron bed.
But he’d been right not to let her in. He couldn’t trade his last bargaining chip. That’s what he’d told himself until the noise of her car engine faded into the night.
Not that he had the first idea of what the hell else he was going to do.
Eight years ago, he and Ep had fought for that no-trade clause like it was a contract for a diamond mine. With a guarantee that the team couldn’t palm him off on anyone else, Zach had never needed to worry about his aching knees, his twinging back. He’d play the best game he could, knowing he was safe. Protected. At least until he retired.
Retired. He’d always thought of retirement as some vague, distant future, when he’d be surrounded by a wife and kids, by a happy family living here on the farm he loved.
Well, the future was practically here, and he was screwed. No wife, no kids, and the farm felt more like a prison than the retreat he’d always craved. He was on his own—old and broken down and so goddamn tired he just wanted to collapse on the couch with a bottle of Jack to drink himself past his dreams.
Shit. If he was this tired, he could only imagine how Anna must feel. She was running the team in the old man’s absence. And she must be living at the hospital when she wasn’t at the park.
He should be there with her. They’d watched over Tucker together. How could he do less than that now?
He picked up his keys and was halfway to the door before he stopped himself. Dammit all to hell. He couldn’t help his antagonist in the contract wars.
But Anna was more than that. He could do something to help Anna.
He took out his phone and winced when he saw half a dozen missed calls from her. He thumbed through his contacts, stopping on one he’d used untold times during his career.
“I need to talk to Dr. Miller,” he said to the efficient answering service that picked up on the first ring. “This is Zach Ormond, and it’s an emergency.”
He never played the emergency card on a whim. As a reward, he was talking to Arnold Miller in less than three minutes. “Doc,” he said. “I’m sorry to bother you at home. But I need some names from you, people I can hire tonight. Who are the best private nurses in Raleigh? I need a team to provide full support for a patient at Memorial.”
* * *
Two days later, Anna pulled the thin cotton blanket closer to her grandfather’s neck, taking care as she smoothed the white cloth over his frail chest. Nurse Strondheim had said it might take hours for Gramps to regain consciousness after so many days in a chemically induced haze. That’s why Anna had told the private nurse to take a break, to get an early dinner.
Talk to Gramps. That’s what all the nurses had said—the Memorial staff and the ones Zach had hired. From the first day Gramps was admitted, they’d instructed her to tell him what was happening. Speak to him like you would any other day. Anchor him in his daily life, so he’ll have an easier time when he does come out of the coma.
Anna sank into the familiar chair beside the bed. “I wish I had better news about the standings, Gramps. You and I both know teams can be streaky, but this is nuts. Four losses in a row. And they were bad losses too, bad starting pitching, no run support.”
She frowned at herself. This couldn’t be the type of news she was supposed to share. She should be telling Gramps good things, stories that would make him want to wake up, to get out of bed and return to his normal, irascible self.
Well, tough luck. Anna didn’t have any good news right now.
She reached up to adjust a piece of plastic tubing, shifting the connector so it wasn’t pulling against the bed’s metal railing. “I don’t know, Gramps. I thought it made perfect sense to sit Zach down. He’d miss a game, maybe two, and then he’d realize we meant business. Jimmy could work around him—it wouldn’t be much worse than when he took those days off back in April, when his back was strained. But last night’s game was a mess—extra innings, and Zach was the only player left on the bench at the bottom of the thirteenth.”
Anna closed her eyes, reciting all the arguments to herself for the hundredth time. Once Zach was gone, the team could call up a promising young catcher from their minor league team. Once they had Tyler Brock, they would have some pop back in the order; they’d get some of those runs they’d been missing. Once this idiotic contract dispute was resolved, the team could move forward again.
“I’m so sorry, Gramps. I actually thought this might be the year we’d get to the World Series. I thought this was the team.”
But some teams just didn’t live up to their potential. Sometimes there was…something, some unidentifiable flaw that kept perfection from slipping into place.
She leaned her head back against her chair. It was easier to make her confession to the ceiling. Easier to avoid looking at the face she knew so well, the care-worn cheeks, the stubborn jaw. “I’m not giving up, Gramps. You raised me better than that. But I’m just telling you, you might have to hold on a bit longer. You might have to wait till next year to see that ring.”
“I’ll…wait.”
The words were sandpaper, etched with acid and rasped over tree bark. But they were words, spoken words whispered past chapped lips and beeping monitors and days of despair.
“Gramps!” Anna leaped to her feet. Her grandfather’s
eyes were open, his cloudy blue gaze half-obscured by his heavy lids. His throat worked, as if he were trying to swallow, and his lips trembled with the difficulty of saying something else.
Anna leaped for the call button that was looped over the bed’s railing. She pounded on the connection to the nurses’ station, jabbing it three times for extra impact. Even as she thought about running down the hallway to get help, she reached for her grandfather’s hand.
His fingers were brittle twigs, but they closed around hers. His lips twitched into the faintest of smiles. “Next…year,” he said, more mouthing the words than speaking them aloud.
Before Anna could reply, a nurse hurried into the room. “Ah, Mister Benson,” she said in a voice that was just a shade too loud. “It’s good to see you back.” She bustled to the side of the bed, glancing at the readouts for heart rate and respiration. “Do you know where you are?”
“Hospital,” Gramps said. Anna’s heart skipped a beat in her chest. Until that very moment, she hadn’t realized how deeply she’d feared her grandfather would be lost forever, that his mind would be gone, even if his body were somehow spared.
“Excellent,” the nurse said. “And who is this lovely lady beside you?”
“Anna-cakes,” Gramps managed. She couldn’t be certain, but she thought he was trying to squeeze her fingers. She smiled down at him, even as his eyelids started to flutter. His hand went slack, but Anna could hear a soft snore as he slipped into sleep.
The nurse checked one of the IVs, tapping at the connector to force a drop of liquid into the tubing. “Very good,” she said, beaming at Anna. “I’ll let the doctor know he was awake.”
“He’s so weak!”
The nurse nodded. “At his age, it’ll take months to build back his strength. But he knew where he was, and he knew you. He’s a fighter, that one. He’ll be driving you crazy in no time.”
Anna smiled down at her grandfather fondly. There was something different about him now—something sturdier, stronger—now that she knew he was only sleeping, no longer snared in the medical coma.
