“What’s tasty today?” Mack pulled out the seat opposite Dixon and plopped down.
Dixon bit back a frown. While he truly liked the other players, that didn’t mean he wanted their company right now. Drawing in a breath, Dixon aimed for civil. “I’m not sure, just went with what sounded good.”
Mack’s eyebrows shot up.
Well, shit. Obviously his tone didn’t match his words.
“You sound a bit edgy. Does it have anything to do with why you sat in the front seat on the bus and only spoke with Banner the whole way?”
Dixon had hoped no one paid him much attention. Obviously, Mack, the left fielder noticed. Leave it to the sole leopard shifter on the team to pick up on such things. “It’s just been a rough few days is all. Nothing exciting.” As much as he wanted to spill the beans to someone, he didn’t dare. The last thing he needed was for word to get back to Tucker. The poor guy had enough on his plate right now without additional stress. Although he seems to have found a way to work off the tension and pretty damn fast. The snarky remark in his head made the sting hurt that much more.
“Interesting.” Mack took the menu from the waitress, glanced over it, then told her what he wanted. She darted toward the kitchen once again. “Tucker is in a fit after losing his starting spot and you’re sulking and antisocial.”
“So?”
“So, it seems coincidental that you two were chummy at the party, left together, and have been up in arms since.” Mack stared at him intensely.
Damn it. If Mack knows, then how many of the others do as well?
Dixon steeled himself behind his poker face. “I didn’t see you at the party.” He turned the tables, hoping to divert the topic and Mack’s interest off track.
Mack grinned ruefully. “People only see me when I want them to.”
The comment made Dixon blink. “Meaning you’re lurking around in the shadows and spying on others?”
Mack shrugged, then took a long drink of his water. He lowered the glass and met Dixon’s gaze. “People watching is a hobby after all.”
“Uh-huh.” Dixon took a drink while studying the man across the table. “Curiosity killed the cat,” he warned.
Mack had joined the team last year. Nowhere near a rookie, the seasoned veteran had spent time with a handful of teams. His sage advice and easygoing manner fit in well with the Predators. Normally quiet, he had a penchant for stirring the pot now and again. However, with Trigger on the team to keep people on their toes, Mack’s version of mischief largely went unnoticed. Until now.
Dixon saw the predator inside Mack as well as the stereotypical inquisitiveness felines tended to possess. The combination added up for a bad mixture in Dixon’s present frame of mind.
“So says the fox.” Mack smirked.
A minute passed in silence before Mack struck up the conversation again. “Maybe I should tell you what I think and you can tell me if I’m wrong.” He leaned forward and pitched his voice low. “I think you and Tucker hooked up after the party. Now, there’s regrets. That’s why he’s inviting women into his hotel room right and left, why he’s avoiding you when you two used to be close buddies. Tucker’s wound tight. You’re edgy and ready to blow.”
Dixon’s lips parted at the spot-on summing up of the situation. “And how did you deduce all that?”
Mack’s face eased as a small smile appeared on his lips. “Like I said, I people watch. Besides, it wasn’t hard to piece together. Especially when you both still carried each other’s scent the next day. Subtle, but there.”
“Here I thought canines had the market cornered on great noses.” Dixon snorted.
Mack’s smile grew. “Not even close, buddy.” He sobered a little. “What are you going to do about Tucker?”
“I don’t know.” The truth poured out.
Sympathy flashed in Mack’s eyes. “You want him, but he’s resisting.”
“More like running.”
“Then you’ll just have to catch him.”
Dixon snorted. “Easier said than done.”
Mack appraised him for a long moment. “You’re smart. Give it some time and you’ll come up with a plan.”
“I wish I had your optimism.”
“It’ll happen. Just you wait and see.”
The certainty in Mack’s voice sparked Dixon’s interest. “How can you be so sure?”
“Simple. I observe and I scent. Tucker might be keeping his distance, but he’s not forgotten you.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“Always am.” Mack gave a quick nod, then turned to the waitress who’d just arrived with their meal.
Dixon clung to his prediction and hope flared the tiniest bit. Maybe, just maybe, this can still work out.
Just like pigs can sprout wings and fly.
Chapter 6
OPENING DAY. One of the greatest events in baseball. The beginning of the season, when everyone is undefeated and all teams have high hopes of going all the way. Fans pour into the stadiums, eager to celebrate another year of remarkable plays, amazing happenings, grand slams, and the underdog rising to victory. It all started with this one day.
And I’m sitting on the fucking bench.
Tucker ran his hand through his hair, then replaced the cap on his head. This day had been one of the highlights of his years playing the game. Yet, for the first time ever, he wasn’t on the field or taking his turn in the batter’s box. Instead, a rookie filled in his spot.
Not my spot any longer.
He grouched to himself, irritable and depressed with his life at the moment. First, he’d been demoted to a backup role. Yeah, he deserved it after the way he played during the preseason. He didn’t argue with Banner’s logic. Not in the least. The result still left him hanging and with more doubts that he’d ever encountered before. Could he make it back? Did he even want to try? Maybe this was how good players finished their careers, slowly sliding down the scale until they threw in the towel and quit. But he’d never considered life without baseball and hadn’t ever given a second job another thought. Which left him between a rock and a hard place—either step it up or expect to hang out in the dugout as an observer for most of the games.
Dixon jumped into the air to catch a ball, hit hard and right at him. Easily, he gloved it, pulled it out with his free hand, and threw it back to Graham, the pitcher.
Dixon. Tucker couldn’t get the guy out of his mind since the morning after they fell into bed with one another. He’d been rattled, still was, and ended up being an ass to Dixon. Not that he saw any other choice in the matter. What happened between them couldn’t be repeated. No way. Besides, he didn’t want Dixon getting the wrong idea.
What wrong idea? You begged him to fuck you. He chastised himself with the blunt truth.
Just a onetime fuck and it was out of his system. For good.
Liar.
Tucker growled at his inner beast. As much as he tried to smooth things over with excuses, his animal side disagreed. To the wild dog, everything was black and white. Unfortunately, in the real world of humans and shifters, gray existed all over the place.
Like right now with the whole mess of a straight man going home with a gay one, stripping down, and getting it on. He wasn’t into men. Never had been and never would be. Considering that, he knew to lead Dixon on with a little bit of hope would only prolong the inevitable. He liked the guy. As a teammate and friend. That’s it. No friends with benefits and certainly nothing more serious.
That’s the way it had to be. He’d make sure of it. Because that’s all he knew. The thought of things changing now proved too overwhelming to even think about.
My life sucks.
Oddly enough, until a couple of days ago, he thought he was cruising along just fine. Then the first bump in the road led to the second bigger pitfall. Now, he found himself benched, confused, and pretty damn lost.
And sick of spending every waking hour fixating on what happened.
“Hey, Tucker. How
’s it going?” Milo, one of the relief outfielders, strolled the length of the seats.
Just fucking fantastic. Tucker dutifully bobbed his head. “Good and you?”
“Can’t complain. Another season, another chance to collect another championship trophy.” He kept going all the way to the cooler, grabbed a bottle of water, then retraced his steps. Standing next to the entrance to the dugout, Milo seemed content to watch the game without the annoyance of the railing being in his line of vision.
The crack of the bat drew Tucker’s attention.
Dixon dove to his left, caught the ball, then jumped back to his feet and fired a laser to first base in time to beat the runner.
Damn, he’s good.
Tucker raked Dixon’s body with his gaze. And damn fine looking too.
He listened to his own words and cringed. Pretty hard to pretend nothing happened when he caught himself ogling Dixon. That had to stop. Immediately.
After yet another quick self-lecture, he focused on the game.
Graham struck out the next player before trotting to the dugout. Sweat beaded his face and stained his shirt already.
Tucker felt for the guy. As a polar bear shifter, Graham didn’t handle the heat as well as some others, namely himself. Built for the African plains, he reveled in the summer temperatures.
The rest of the players came in from the field right after the battery, each one either finding a spot on the bench, heading for the water, or simply dropping their gloves off, strapping on a helmet, and grabbing a bat. Dixon among them.
Trigger stripped his catcher’s gear except for his shin guards, grabbed two bottles of water and passed one to Graham.
The softness in Trigger’s eyes as he looked at his mate made Tucker’s heart kick against his ribs. Even a surly old cuss like Trigger could find a mate. The fact gave hope to others.
Except Tucker. He wanted no part of that business. Much better to love them and leave them than to settle down and play house for a lifetime. No commitment, no getting burned and abandoned at some point when things got tough.
Dixon flicked his attention to Tucker, opened his mouth, then shut it right back.
Tucker avoided eye contact, stood, and moved to the far end of the bench. Less chance of being face-to-face with Dixon that way. Avoidance became the goal. At least for now.
Two men headed right back to the field. Dixon was one of them. He strode directly for the warm-up circle, making a few practice swings as soon as he arrived.
Dixon was the progeny of two generations of professional baseball players, both of whom had been at the top of the league in hitting during their careers. He’d followed in their footsteps. He earned a nice batting average each year and always proved to be a hit with the fans of the team. Right on cue, cheers and applause broke out, even among those supporting the opponents, as Dixon walked to the batter’s box.
What would that be like?
Tucker, having been raised with nothing, couldn’t fathom life as a kid born with a silver spoon. No having to try to hold down a job flipping burgers while attending school and playing ball. No walking to practice because his mother had a shift at the diner and couldn’t be there. No wearing ragged and torn clothes because the budget didn’t allow anything new unless it came from the thrift store a couple of times per year.
He shook his head in disbelief at how two lives could be so opposite, yet they ended up in the same place. A bit of envy invaded his thoughts as Dixon took his cuts at pitches. Dixon had a built-in coach and ample time to practice growing up. He’d been destined for stardom from a young age.
So unlike me.
The reminder of where he’d come from and what he’d been through acted like a lightning rod for Tucker. He’d lived a version of hell and never lost sight of his goal in life. The way out of poverty revolved around the game. Hard work, extra hours. Anything and everything to get just a hair better.
I’ll make it work. I just have to.
Dixon laid off a low slider, stepped out of the box, and lightly smacked his bat against his cleats to get the dirt out of them.
The guy who breathed baseball, knew the ins and outs, with all the right moves, stood just a few feet away, preparing to show everyone exactly why his reputation as a ball player shone bright.
Built-in coach. Practice time. Words replayed through his mind as he studied Dixon’s technique. Maybe if I had such a thing….
Two foul balls and three balls later, Dixon made solid contact, sending a looper into shallow center field for a base hit.
Nicely done. Tucker gave credit where credit was due.
Lance entered the box next. The tiger shifter rookie had the size and the strength to play at this level. The question became could he hold up under the pressure, especially when playing against this level of skill day in and day out.
As if he heard Tucker’s internal questions, Lance swung at the first pitch. The loud crack drew everyone’s eyes first to the batter, then upward where the ball sailed high and long, finally landing in the left field stands several rows back.
Lance, with a grin on his face, accepted a high five from Banner at third base as he jogged the rest of the way home.
Tucker applauded Lance. He’d proven himself, all right. There was no denying the rookie had plenty of talent and enough gumption to last.
I’ve got one hell of a battle on my hands.
With that realization, Tucker started thinking of ways to get back to the top of his game and earn his spot back. The alternative was too damn possible and downright demoralizing.
TUCKER STEPPED out of the shower and finished towel drying his hair before tossing the damp cloth into a nearby hamper. He grabbed his boxers and slipped them on, shivering a little at the difference in temperature from the hot water to the air in his room. While brushing his teeth, he absently made a mental note to check the thermostat, then moved on to the task of combing his hair. Task done, he returned to the living area of his hotel room. The old place across from the stadium had been restored recently to mimic the days of grandeur. All the décor reminded him of the Roaring Twenties, including the Art Nouveau pictures with various geographic designs and vague depictions, and the beige walls with light orange curtains. Not his favorite color combos, but the brightness added a touch of class. He’d give them credit for thinking outside the box, anyway.
He checked the clock and found the hands closing in on midnight. The drawback when one played night games. By the time they left the park and returned either home or to a hotel, the wee hours of the next morning were normally upon them. Tucker didn’t mind in the least. Unlike a handful of the other players, he preferred to stay up half the night and sleep in the next morning. Much easier to adapt to than the other way around. His wild cousins hunted at all hours of the day. Thankfully, he didn’t have to follow their schedule. Although having the support of a family pack would be nice.
Wild dogs were very social and nearly always lived in groups. To be alone was rare and probably a recipe for a short lifespan. While shifters differed from their wild cousins, some instincts and habits carried over. Namely the need for companionship. Something Tucker really hadn’t had a steady supply of until lately.
And if I don’t get my head out of my ass, I won’t have that luxury for long.
He walked over, adjusted the thermostat once more, and sat down on the couch. Automatically, he picked up the remote control and started channel surfing. The nightly ritual helped him settle down for a good night’s sleep.
His phone rang. He plucked it off the couch cushion and checked the caller ID. His mother. Just great. Most people would panic at calls being so late at night. With his schedule, he’d be much more upset if someone called him at seven a.m. rather than now.
Since she seldom made contact, he went ahead and answered. “Hi, Mom.”
“Tucker. How are you?”
She started all their conversations the very same way. He grinned slightly despite the emptiness he felt when she chec
ked on him. In all these years, he couldn’t find enough forgiveness for the woman for abandoning him and returning to the pack when he entered college. That single move left him totally on his own and alone.
At least she did that much, his inner animal pointed out.
Ignoring the comment, he went with the flow, keeping the discussion casual and vague. “Fine. Busy. The usual.”
“Nothing going on?” A hint of concern mixed with curiosity came through loud and clear.
His internal radar pinged and his breath caught. She knew something, but what, he didn’t dare guess. “Nope. Nothing.” He forced a bit of boredom into his tone.
“Then why didn’t you play today? It’s opening day. You always play on opening day.”
He grimaced. “It’s no big deal.”
“Are you injured?”
“No, Mom. I’m just fine.” The thought of her prying and nagging irritated him. He paused a second to debate telling her the truth. If he didn’t she’d pester him until he gave in. Not something he wanted to deal with right now. Honesty won out. “A rookie earned my starting position is all. I’m riding the bench in the backup role. Just until I get back into the flow of the game this season.”
Silence followed.
“Are you okay with that?” Her question came across tentatively.
“Well, yes and no. It’s not like I’m going to beat the guy up because he’s young, hungry, and talented. But I’m working hard to prove that I’m the better player.”
He added optimism and an upbeat attitude into his voice. The last thing he wanted was to sound like a whiny spoiled brat. After all, the buck stopped with him.
“When will that be?”
“I don’t know. When the manager makes that decision, I guess.” He stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankles. “It’s not a big deal. This happens all the time.”
“Mostly due to injury, but you said that wasn’t the case,” she pointed out.
Switch Hitter Page 7
