Single (Stockton Beavers #1)
Page 7
I breathe sharply through my nose. "Can it really be that simple?"
"It can be, if you let it." I allow her words to sink in as she reaches for the doorknob. "Good night, Luke."
"Good night, Roberta," I whisper as she closes the door, taking the light along with her.
This time, I'm not alone in a dark well, not anymore. She came in here and succeeded in igniting something a whole lot brighter inside my heart, a radiance that, for now, nothing can extinguish. Not my nightmares of Nichols, not even my fear of losing Mom. What Roberta passed on to me is a flame that, once lit, never really goes out.
A flicker of hope that no matter how hard things are now, they will get better. I just have to believe they will.
Chapter Ten
Luke
I lift the barbell over my head and hold it there. It's only a fifty-pound set, and even though I can easily bench-press a lot more, I know better than to push it without having someone to spot me. I grunt, yet another drawback of being stuck with a basement home gym. I'll just compensate by doing more reps because, boy, oh boy, do I have a lot of pent-up frustration in me right now. A good workout is exactly what I need.
I didn't get one hit in the doubleheader yesterday against the Jackalopes—although, I didn't end up on my ass again either. Unfortunately, the Beavers' manager and his coaching staff don't consider that progress. With Landry back in Texas, they held a team meeting today and called me out in front of everyone, showing video of all my at-bats and pointing out in excruciating detail everything I did wrong.
"You can't keep bailing on the fastball up and in."
"I guarantee the advance scouts already have you pegged."
"You mark my words, Singleton. If you don't man up and whack the hell outta something soon, every pitcher's gonna think they can get you out."
My arms start to burn, proof that my competitive fire hasn't gone out completely; it's still smoldering. The Beavers' manager is new. I don't know Rex Carlson, and he doesn't know me. He wanted the guy who tore his ACL to be his second baseman this year, not me. That's why I got designated for assignment. To him, I'm just Landry's little pet project. But he'll be sorry. I'll show him and his staff what I can do. I'm more than ready to prove them wrong.
With my iPod cranked up and my eyes closed, I'm startled when someone takes the bar right out of my hands. Blinking, I look up and there's Roberta, placing it back in the rack over my head.
And I immediately jump up…because I don't have a shirt on. I keep forgetting that I can't do this kind of stuff anymore, not with her around. I feel her eyes on me just like I did two nights ago when I awoke to find her in my bedroom. But I didn't try to cover up then because she really couldn't see me in the dark. But now she can. I hastily reach for my tee, and for a half a second, I wonder if she likes what she sees. But I'm too embarrassed to turn around and find out. I'm not ultrabuff like most sluggers out there.
I pop out my earbuds and give her a tentative smile. "Hey."
But she's having none of it. "Didn't you hear me calling you?" she asks, waving whatever it is she's holding in front of my face. "Your mom got into your suitcase and all of your crazy taped-up pants are all over the living room!"
Okay, her finding out that I have to hem my pants is way more humiliating than anything my coaches could've dished out during that meeting today. Having any added attention brought to my height, or lack thereof, is never a good thing.
I shrug, trying to make light of it. "And here I thought I was all packed. Besides, how'd you even see the tape? I put it on the inside."
She groans, "Luke, the cuffs are all bunched up. They look terrible. You cannot go around looking like that."
"Well, in case you've forgotten, I'm leaving on a six-day road trip after the game tonight, and with everything that's been going on around here, I haven't exactly had time to make an appointment with my personal tailor." I roll my eyes at her. "Besides, I have no clue how to sew. Mom used to fix them for me before…" I stop, forcing back yet another memory.
Her eyes soften. "So that's why she won't let me put them back." She folds them over her arm. "Sorry, Luke. I didn't mean to snap at you. I'm able to thread a needle thanks to the home ec class I took in high school. So when you get back, remind me to take a look at them for you and I'll see what I can do."
She hands them over to me, and a card falls out of the pocket. I bend down to pick it up, but she beats me to it.
"Heidi Foster, speech therapist. Wow, she's pretty. If you like blondes…" she says, scrutinizing the photo on the front of the card before flipping it over and spotting the handwritten message on the back. "And you said you didn't have a girlfriend." She gives me a pointed look before passing it back to me.
I blush, not knowing what to do with it. "I don't."
"Uh-huh, that's why she gave you her personal cell number to 'call her anytime,'" she mimics, shooting me a contemptuous glance.
"It's not like that," I protest, rubbing the side of my neck. "She helped me after the accident…when I had to relearn how to talk again."
Her eyes go wide. "Luke, I didn't—"
"Yeah, not many people know about that," I admit, feeling more exposed than I did without my shirt on. I let out a breath. "But now you do."
She takes a seat on the exercise bench. "Do you still have to see her?"
"Every few weeks or so." I try to meet her eyes, but she won't look at me. "Roberta, it's okay, really… I'm fine. Now you can't shut me up if you tried."
I sit down next to her and bump her foot with mine. "Hey, I didn't realize you were such a softie."
Her head shoots up. "I'm not," she declares, glaring at me. "I'm just sick and tired of hearing about bad things happening to good people."
I smile. "So, you think I'm a good person?"
The light shining in her blue eyes strikes me right in the heart. "I wouldn't be here if I didn't."
There's nothing I'd like more than to lean in and kiss her. All I have to do is tip my head, move in, and… No, it wouldn't be appropriate. I hired her to take care of Mom. Just because I'm interested in her doesn't mean she's interested in me, and things could get messy in a hurry if I make a move on her and she shoots me down. We're practically living together now. I can't go blurring lines that shouldn't be crossed. I grin to myself. She'd probably slap me across the face for trying anything anyway.
"What are you smiling about?" she asks.
"Nothing." I stand, resisting the temptation of being so close to her.
"Liar," she chides, her eyes never leaving my face. "You have a thing for Heidi, the speech therapist, don't you?"
No, I have a thing for you, and I have for quite a while. But I can't very well say that to her, since she doesn't even remember meeting me in Arnold's office. Still, my cheeks remain red-hot, knowing that she's watching me.
"I knew it," she groans. "Players like you are never really single. Are you?"
She shakes her head, heading toward the steps, and I reach for her arm to stop her. But I'm too late, and my fingers grasp nothing but air. I want to tell her she's got it all wrong, I'm not like that—I am single—but my true relationship status doesn't seem to be something she's all that interested in.
She waits for me to catch up to her, giving me a sly grin. "You know what? I can't wait for us girls to have the house all to ourselves while you're gone."
I cringe, fearing she's referring to my late night outburst. So I try to play it cool, act like whatever she says isn't going to bother me.
"Is that right?" I smirk at her as we trudge up the stairs together. "You're not gonna miss me?"
"Nope," she chuckles. "I look forward to having some bonding time with your mom, one-on-one."
Instead, her remark causes my emotions to veer off in a completely different direction. I'm not worried about what Roberta thinks of my nightmares. I'm more concerned about how Mom is going to handle being separated from me.
"Even if she can't remember you from one day to the
next?" I can't help but ask. "So far, I've had to introduce you to her twice, and you've only been here two days. What if she wakes up tomorrow and panics when I'm not there to remind her who you are and what you're doing in her house?"
"Then you'll be receiving an early morning wake-up call from us." She smiles at me. "But I don't think that's going to happen."
I run my hand across my forehead, grumbling, "We would have to be playing two teams out of our division the first trip out. I'll be an eight-hour drive away if anything should happen. Are you sure you're going to be all right handling her on your own?"
"Positive," she proclaims as we come to the top of the steps.
And there's Mom, kneeling by my suitcase. She doesn't even look up, she just keeps methodically folding and unfolding the same pair of pants, while the rest of my clothes are haphazardly strewn across lampshades or lying in crumpled heaps on the floor.
Roberta reaches for my hand and gives it a squeeze. "I promise you. I've got this." She lets it go just as quickly as she took hold of it. But the sensation of how nice it felt to hold her hand in mine stays with me as she rushes forward to begin cleaning everything up.
"Mrs. S., we need to get Luke ready to go," she says, smiling down at her. "He has to leave for Beaver Field in about fifteen minutes. So what do you say? Do you think we can do it?"
"He's going…where?" Mom asks, clutching my pants in her hands, wrinkling them even more.
"He has a game tonight, and we really want him to get a hit now, don't we?" Roberta encourages, keeping her voice friendly and light.
Mom nods. "Of course, we do."
Roberta kneels down and gently slides the pants out of her grip. "Good, because we have to let him know we're behind him one hundred percent. So how about we give him a, 'Gooooo Beavers!'"
Mom turns to look at me. "Go…Beavers?"
Roberta laughs, and so does Mom, and I feel my throat tighten up when they smile at each other. Roberta's treating Mom like a person, not like a nuisance or a burden. And that's all I ever wanted when it comes to her care.
For the first time since Dad died, I feel like I have someone I can lean on, like maybe I'm not alone in this anymore, that she's someone I can trust.
Chapter Eleven
Roberta
When it comes to men, look at how they treat their mother, and you'll have a pretty good idea of how they'll treat you.
I scribble furiously across the page of my journal. It's not really a diary, per se, more like a compilation of life lessons I've been keeping for my daughter, the one I'll never have. I run a hand across my stomach. I've lost two babies, one stillbirth, one miscarriage. Yet a deep, maternal yearning remains, even though I swore I wouldn't allow myself to think about it. But right now, that seems just as unlikely as starting over does.
I close the cover of my journal and stretch out in bed, waiting for Luke to call. So far, I haven't had to call him, but he's checked in faithfully with me every night after the game, once he's back at the hotel. Occurring well after midnight, our conversations have been brief, mostly about his mom. Up until now, we haven't talked at all about baseball, but I intend to change that tonight.
I reach for my phone and scroll through the Beavers' Twitter feed again, tapping the update from three hours ago: Singleton doubles to right center field. He finally got a hit, his first of the year, and I'm really looking forward to congratulating him.
But it's going on one o'clock in the morning, and my eyes are starting to close. I really wanted to hear the excitement in his voice, but it looks like I'm going to have to settle for sending him an emoji-filled text. The Beavers are traveling to another city tonight, and I'm guessing he doesn't want to talk to me on the bus within earshot of his teammates. He doesn't want it getting back to Landry that he hired me, so the fewer Beavers who know I moved in with him, the better.
I run a hand through my hair, pulling my curls away from my face. It all went down so fast. I agreed to go along with Luke's plan without really thinking how it would affect things between Landry and me. The poor guy's been leaving me all these lengthy voice mails, wanting to know how I'm adjusting to Stockton, telling me what the kids are up to, and all I've done is send him a few short texts in response. I haven't exactly been a good friend to him lately.
Out of habit, I switch to a window I have saved in my web browser, the one displaying the latest search results for David Nichols. Ever since I left the ranch, the need to know where he is and what he's doing at all times is always in the back of my mind. Keeping tabs on him now that he's out of prison is the only thing that helps me feel safe and in control of my life. I hit refresh, but tonight, the headlines that pop up aren't his usual pitching line after a game. Oh, no, the news is far more disturbing than that.
Nichols hits three batters in one game.
Nichols sent down after anger issues resurface.
New York Titans' look foolish for taking a chance on ex-con.
I click link after link, each confirming my worst fear. David's back in Triple-A which means he'll eventually have to play a game in Stockton. And suddenly it's hard to breathe, like the world's caving in on me.
Shaking, I raise a hand to my mouth. I can't believe this is happening. All I wanted to do was make a fresh start in some sleepy, out-of-the-way town, instead of hiding behind the gates of Arnold's mansion, or for that matter, Landry's ranch. I couldn't stay in the Kings' universe, not after David got out and was immediately picked up by New York's other major-league team, the Titans. And when Landry started talking about Stockton, I thought, why not? But now, everything's coming full circle, converging in a perfect storm.
In the baseball world, secrets rarely die. I was only married to David for six months, right at the start of his career. And even though I routinely color my hair from blond to brown and go by Roberta Bennett, my mother's maiden name, instead of Bobbie Jo Nichols, somewhere along the line, I have no doubt David will find me. He has before.
The phone vibrates on the bed, and for a split second, I hesitate in answering it. But I can't do that to Luke, not when he's so worried about his mom. Not when he's finally had a good night.
"Hey," I manage to croak out.
"Hey, yourself," he chuckles in my ear. "I finally got a hit!"
My eyes dart around the room, my mind a million miles away. "Yeah, that's great."
"Oh, c'mon. Doesn't that warrant a 'Gooooo Beavers'?"
"It's late, Luke." I put him off. "I don't wanna wake your mom."
Although, as I listen to the baby monitor I have set up on top of the bureau, it's clear she's snoring away peacefully in her room.
"How's everything going?" Luke asks, concern quickly replacing the teasing quality in his voice.
"She has her moments…but on the whole, pretty good. She only asked where you were today forty times instead of fifty."
He groans heavily, "You should've called me."
"It's all right." I massage the tension out of my forehead. "She was nowhere near meltdown territory."
"Yeah, but you sure sound beat," he sighs. "Three more nights and I'll be home. And don't forget, I have a day off on Monday. How about I get in touch with Mrs. Jenkins so I can take you out for dinner or something? It sounds like you could use a break."
"Ah, Luke. I dunno." I trace my finger along the stitches of the patchwork quilt that's covering my lap. "I don't think that's such a good idea."
"Why…why not?" And I swear I can hear his voice shake as he swallows, even over the engine of the bus.
But before I have a chance to answer, we're interrupted by some agitated mumbling followed by some pretty colorful language.
"What is it?" I whisper. "What's going on?"
"God, Danny just showed me something on his phone. That's why you've been so quiet, isn't it? You knew, and you weren't going to tell me."
My stomach turns over. "Luke, let me explain—"
"There's nothing to explain," he huffs, and it feels like my heart is going to ric
ochet right out of my chest.
I falter. "Luke, I—"
"I don't want your pity or anyone else's," he says defiantly. "I'm not afraid to face David Nichols again."
And I feel terrible, because up until now, I didn't even take into consideration how the news about David would affect Luke. I was too caught up in thinking about myself.
"Nichols nearly beats a guy to death in a bar fight and only ends up serving ten months for it?" Luke seethes, all fired up. "My dad played his entire career in the minors, and the Titans offer a jerk like that a major-league deal right out of the slammer? I'm glad he got sent down. As far as I'm concerned, bring it on."
A cheer goes up in the background, his teammates, no doubt, egging him on. He's certainly not about to cower in front of them.
But unlike all of them, I know what it feels like to get hit by David. Not with a ball, but with his fists. That type of fear doesn't go away. It stays with you.
And I don't want Luke going anywhere near him.
Chapter Twelve
Roberta
Seven years earlier
"Where were you?" David asks the minute I step through the door.
He's slouched in the recliner, and from this angle, I can only see his knee bouncing up and down, the heel of his cross-trainer pounding against the floor—a clear signal that I should stay away, far away. But I didn't do anything wrong, and his implication that I did rubs me the wrong way.
Tossing my purse and keys onto the table, I make my voice heard over whatever game he's watching. "I went to the movies. I wasn't about to sit around all day, waiting for you to get up."
"I went to the movies," he mocks me in a grating, high-pitched voice. "So that's what you do around here when I'm gone—absolutely nothing."
When I move to stand beside him, he stares straight ahead at the TV, clenching his jaw. He's still in the Hooters tee he was in last night, the one he knows I can't stand. And based on the amount of stubble on his face, he still hasn't showered or shaved yet, even though it's almost three in the afternoon.