“Out of where?”
TUCKER TOOK a second to decide how to answer Dixon’s question. “Banner asked if there were any problems at home that could serve as a distraction.” Tucker discovered that since he’d started talking, he needed to air everything out. Dixon made for a great friend, until Tucker screwed things up that one night, and a good listener, so he kept going.
“Are there?” Dixon asked.
“Hard to have family issues when you have no family,” Tucker quietly answered.
Dixon’s mouth fell open. “I don’t understand.” Confusion covered his face and laced his words.
Tucker glanced away, unable to bear witness to the expression of pity sure to come. “My mother and I were exiled when she had me.” Actually, that wasn’t entirely accurate. He’d been banished, not his mother as evidenced by the fact she’d returned to the wild dog pack the same day she’d dropped him off at college as an eighteen-year-old kid. His father had never been in the picture. Good or bad, Tucker couldn’t really say. “She toughed it out until move in day at the university. I’d earned a full-ride college baseball scholarship. She was relieved, I think. Anyway, she let me out at my dorm, dropped the bombshell that she was going back to the pack, and drove off. I stood there, suitcase in hand, and watched her go. I knew that I’d been abandoned just like an unwanted puppy at an animal shelter.”
He heard a gasp from Dixon but didn’t respond. He couldn’t. Not when memories flooded to the fore.
I’ve done my duty by you. Now go make something of yourself.
Mom?
I’m going back to the pack, Tucker. Starting over.
Without me. The words remained unspoken, but he’d read the situation clearly enough. Along with everyone else, she considered him disposable and unworthy. Just because of his mixed genetics.
The old wound still stung.
From that day forward, he threw himself into baseball and never looked back.
“Tucker?”
Dixon’s voice drew him from the painful past.
“Care to tell me why?” Dixon twisted a little to stare at him.
“I’m not full-blooded.” Tucker whispered the words.
“Could have fooled me.”
“My father was a hybrid. I’m three-quarters wild dog.”
“And?” Dixon persisted.
“One-quarter domesticated dog.” Shame reared its ugly head. Tucker drew in air. “Because of that, the pack doesn’t recognize me as one of them.” He focused on his intertwined hands resting on his lap. “Hybrids aren’t accepted, period. A domestic dog shifter, even purebred, doesn’t even rank that high in treatment.”
“I’ve seen your shifted form. You look just like a wild dog, including all the patches of blond and white over the black coat. I especially like the tuft of bright white at the tip of your tail.” Dixon grinned.
Tucker halfheartedly smiled. “I guess in that respect, I’m lucky. My father’s mix was wild dog with a Catahoula leopard dog. Lots of spots in both breeds along with a similar build.” Tucker peered over at Dixon. “They would have put me to death or abandoned me to the elements were it a couple of centuries ago.” Insight began to surface in his mind, making him see his mother in a new light.
“But now?”
Tucker shrugged. “My mother hid me away. Raised me as a single mother the best she could, I guess, especially without the luxury of support of any kind from anyone.”
He recalled the tough times and his shoulders slumped. His mother could have dropped him off at a hospital, an orphanage, entered him into foster care and returned home where she’d have a much easier life. Instead, she toughed it out for all those years. He’d fixated on her departure, not on her sticking with him.
“I hated her for leaving me. Abandoning me. But now….”
“You see the sacrifices she made to get you through to college?”
“Yeah. I received a baseball scholarship. She was thrilled. Relieved. I didn’t understand at the time, but I do now. She longed for her family but needed me on my own in order to go back. So, I guess when I entered college, she was free.”
“Pretty damn sad if you ask me.” Dixon’s eyes reflected sympathy along with respect.
Both bolstered Tucker’s confidence a smidgen.
“Forcing a young mother to make such choices in life. That’s bullshit.” The strong words were laced with indignation.
“It’s reality,” Tucker answered without malice. The pack’s philosophy wasn’t going to change anytime soon. Yet, he could finally understand more about his mother and her own brand of courage once he looked past his own selfishness. Maybe he had reason to be angry, hurt, and upset, but one action didn’t a life make. He’d chosen to focus on the bad times instead of facing facts. She’d given up a lot for him and done the best she could, considering the circumstances. Not every wild dog shifter would have done half of what she did in trying to raise him.
Dixon blew out a breath, the momentary anger seeming to recede just as quickly as it appeared. “Do you still speak with your mother? Visit her?”
“Talk now and again is all.” He really hadn’t missed her in the beginning. His anger clouded his feelings. Now, he had a great urge to call her up and hash things out. Especially after being such an ass the last time they spoke.
Dixon tilted his head. “Why do I have a feeling things weren’t easy for you and your mother?”
“Probably because they weren’t.” Tucker leaned back against the plastic backrest of the seat. “She only had a high school education. Her job prospects were limited. Money was a luxury we didn’t have.” He recalled all the nights he went to bed hungry and realized that his mother did so more than he. In all honesty, he’d never thought about it much, but saw all those dinners that she prepared but never partook of. Instead, she talked to him about his day as he ate.
Guilt settled on his shoulders, the weight pushing them down. “She gave so much to me and I hated her for leaving. How could I have been so blind?”
Dixon reached out, then settled for placing his hand on the armrest. “Because you were a kid, first. Secondly, you were hurt. Angry. The pain of abandonment colored your view. It’s normal and to be expected.”
“I’m a fucking prick.” Tucker sighed heavily and looked to the heavens.
“You’re human. Well, part of you is.” Dixon grinned without humor.
“If you say so,” Tucker answered tiredly. He took a moment to appraise Dixon. “You never told me about your childhood.”
Dixon glanced around the stadium. “It wasn’t what it was cracked up to be. As evidenced by that debacle of a batting practice today.”
Intrigued, Tucker swiveled to catch the expressions on Dixon’s face as he told his story. “It can’t be worse than mine.”
Dixon snorted. “There’s no trophy for who had the worst life, you know.”
“True. So, tell me already.”
“Everyone knows my father, idolizes him.”
Tucker nodded. “Terrance Foxx. Hall of Famer. One of the best hitters in the league. Got his autograph on a bat to show it off.”
“Yeah, his lists of achievements go on and on. Too bad he wasn’t half the father as he was a ball player.”
“Such a pompous ass who showed up today to cut his own son to ribbons in public because he feels you’re not living up to his expectations.” Tucker didn’t mince words and his tone spoke volumes filled with ire and irritation.
“I grew up knowing one thing—baseball. He was going to turn me into a professional player one way or the other. Just like his father did with him.” Dixon rubbed at his chin. “I had private coaches. Practice every day of my life. An indoor park if rain shut down the outdoor ones. Money could buy all those things, certainly. Only it couldn’t buy my father’s love. He didn’t care about my wants, dreams, or wishes. I won a ribbon in the junior high science project competition. I knew he’d be proud. When I showed it to him, he just shook his head, tossed the ribbon over his s
houlder, and dragged me to the batting cages.”
“Ouch.”
“Yeah.” Dixon blew out a breath. “I guess I do owe my career to him.”
There was something in Dixon’s voice that sparked Tucker’s curiosity. “Do you even like playing the game?”
Dixon shifted his gaze sideways enough to meet Tucker’s eyes. “I’m really not sure. It’s all I’ve ever known.”
“Damn.” Tucker understood Dixon so much better. The guy, though wealthy, tended to live like an average person. All the benefits of growing up with a silver spoon in his mouth made him wish for something else. Normalcy. A father’s love that didn’t revolve around a baseball diamond.
“We’re quite a pair,” Dixon said.
Tucker grinned slightly. “You can say that again. Pretty damn pitiful, if you ask me. You had all the money and fame growing up but couldn’t buy the one thing you wanted most. I grew up in pretty dire poverty, dreaming of the fame and fortune that came with a contract to play in the big leagues.”
“You’re out to prove something. That you belong.”
“And you’re still trying to please your father.” Tucker saw the writing on the wall. Dixon played the game because the only way to impress his father was to succeed on the field. He highly doubted Dixon truly loved the game. How could he? Tucker eyed Dixon. “Where does that leave us?”
Dixon stared at him, hope and a latent fire broadcasting clearly in his eyes. “I don’t know.”
A flicker of desire lit in Tucker’s gut. He so wanted to give in, but couldn’t. Not yet. Not with his life turned upside down. Right now, he needed his friend more than a casual fuck.
“Maybe we can find our way back to the game. Together.”
Dixon nodded slowly. “I’d like that.”
“Me too.”
“Dixon….” Tucker started to say more, but his courage faltered.
“It’s enough.” Dixon clapped him on the shoulder.
Relieved, Tucker shot him a grateful smile. “We can do this.”
“Yep. We’ll flash some glove and hit a few out of the park. Once we get back on track, the rest will follow.”
The rest of what? Tucker didn’t have the guts to ask. Instead, he threw caution to the wind and opted to go with the flow. A new approach, but one that appeared quite promising.
Chapter 8
“STU SIMPSON is pitching today. What do you know about him?” Dixon asked as he opened the door of the nearest batting cage located under the stands.
Tucker stepped inside with bat in hand. He pulled up what he’d observed about the guy in his mind, compliments of their batting coach who consistently handed out a page or two of condensed need-to-know information on the likely pitchers they’d face in the upcoming game. The guy gave a verbal rundown during batting practice as well, but expected his players to read over the provided guide.
“Likes to throw fast balls.”
“Yep. And a mean backdoor curve.” Dixon walked behind the machine and turned some buttons. “I’ve got this set for both fastballs and curve balls. It’ll give you a fair idea of what you’ll face with Stu.”
Tucker nodded. He had no clue if he was going to play today, but he’d made a commitment to fight for his spot. That meant being ready for anything.
The first ball flew by. He swung and missed by a mile. “Damn. What’s that set on? Two hundred miles per hour?”
Dixon grinned. “One hundred and ten actually.”
“Shit.” Tucker resumed his stance and waited. The next ball came slower but moved away from him. Tucker swung and managed to get a piece of it.
“There you go. Fight off the pitches. Stu is tricky. If he can get the ump to call those lower ones, he’ll be having a hay day. Best to just foul them off and wait for a better pitch.”
“Yeah.” Tucker felt like he was back in college and his batting coach preached details as Tucker made his cuts. Not a bad reminder since he’d learned tons of stuff from the old man.
He spared a quick glance at Dixon. The guy knew his stuff. His father, while an ass, passed down his knowledge over the years, helping mold Dixon into a great hitter. As far as batting coaches went, Dixon would make an excellent one when he decided to turn in his playing glove.
He focused on the machine, saw a fastball coming hard, and unloaded. It slammed against the back fence with force.
He grinned. “That felt good. Really good.”
“Looked great too. Nice motion and follow-through.” Dixon added some more baseballs to the machine from a nearby basket. “You’ve got a natural flow, just need the time and room to extend.”
“So the back of the batter’s box for Stu, huh?” Feeling more chipper, Tucker rolled his shoulders and prepared for the next pitch.
“Definitely.” Dixon looked up. “Ready?”
“Yeah.”
The next ball headed his direction. Tucker hit it square. Same with the next one and the one after that. A dozen more pitches came with Tucker making contact each time.
“Nice.” Dixon came around to the entry gate, let himself in, and patted Tucker on the shoulder. “How does it feel now?”
“Great.” Tucker grinned with confidence. “Really good. Like there’s hope.”
“There was never a doubt of that.” Dixon stared at him for a long moment.
Tucker read the pride as well as the happiness in Dixon’s eyes. A spark of longing flared for a quick second. Not ready to deal with that side of their relationship, Tucker focused on the present.
“Your turn.” He handed the bat over and left the cage. A few strides later, he stood at the back of the pitching machine, assessed the options, and smiled wickedly to himself. He cranked the speed up to the highest setting. “You ready?”
“Bring it on.”
Tucker hit the button, and Dixon swung with all his might, only to fan at the ball already gone by. He chuckled at the stunned expression on Dixon’s face.
“What the hell setting did you have that on?”
“Oh, around one hundred and fifty miles per hour, along with being a sinker.”
Dixon shook his head, then broke out into a wide grin. “With your penchant for pranks, I’m not sure you’re the best one to be running that machine.”
“Now. Now. Where’s your sense of adventure?” Tucker teased.
Dixon’s gaze flared with sensual heat. “I’m up for anything you are.”
For the first time since that night, Tucker didn’t get antsy with the obvious double entendre. Instead, he accepted the small challenge in the spirit it had been offered. The game and friendship came first. Once he improved enough to seize his starting position back, he’d look ahead.
He inclined his head toward Dixon. “Remember that.”
“I plan on it.” Dixon gave him a small salute, picked up the bat, and took up his batter’s stance. “Ready.”
Tucker changed the settings back to a more realistic selection and hit the Start button.
Dixon swung and hit the ball square, sending it flying powerfully to the back of the cage.
Thirty minutes later, they entered the visitor’s locker room to change into their uniform for the game. As it was still fairly early, none of the rest of the guys had arrived yet. The team’s uniform manager had, though.
Every locker sported a freshly cleaned and pressed uniform on a hanger. The white background made the large black numbers on the back of the jerseys stand out. Naturally, Tucker gravitated to his shirt. On the bench in front of him a couple of rolls of black tape waited for someone to utilize them. Some of the players thought the tape helped with blood flow and muscle healing. Tucker didn’t argue but also didn’t really agree. In his opinion, a shifter just needed to change forms to heal. That’s how it normally worked, except in cases with more severe injuries. The aches and pains from being an athlete were commonplace and nothing to really pay too much attention to. Yet, if the players thought the tape gave them an extra boost, then so be it.
He glance
d up at the shirts, then back down at the tape. An idea began to take shape.
“Uh-oh.” Dixon’s voice curried his attention.
“What?” Tucker turned to face him.
“I’ve seen that look before. You’ve got trouble on the mind.” Dixon opened his locker door.
“Trouble? Me?” Tucker grinned. “Well… maybe a bit of play anyway.”
Dixon arched an eyebrow. “Care to fill me in?”
“I was just thinking that perhaps these jerseys need a number alternation.”
Dixon looked at the tape. “How so?”
“It’s wide enough. We can just add a number here and there.” Tucker picked up the roll and pulled off a large piece.
“Scissors and paper.” Dixon hurried around the corner before coming back with a short pair, presumably from the equipment manager’s toolbox he brought along on each away game. “Let’s use the number one on your jersey as an outline.” He folded the paper and made marks to resemble the official number. “We can use this for a guide. Cut the tape to match the outline of the numbers.” Once done, he handed the scissors to Tucker. “I’ll let you do the honors.”
“You know they will just pull the tape right off.”
“Good point.” Tucker considered the situation. “Super glue.” Dixon helped him pilfer around until they found a tube in the equipment room.
Tucker went to work cutting out a couple of dozen. As he finished, he handed the artwork to Dixon, who stuck the number on the back of a jersey. The number six became sixty-one. Nine became nineteen. And, Tucker’s personal favorite, ninety-one became 911.
Dixon took a moment to stare at the sixty-one shirt. “I wonder.” He collected some more tape, cute a couple of smaller pieces, then attached them to the garment. “There.”
Tucker laughed. “Sixty-nine, huh?”
“Yep.” Dixon grinned proudly.
“You do know that Trigger will be fit to be tied.”
“Bring it on.” Dixon’s eyes shone with mischief.
Tucker found the brilliance compelling. He’d never paid much attention before, but Dixon seemed to be one of the more serious players. Now that he had inside knowledge of what the game meant to his friend, Tucker finally understood. While he needed to get his head back in the game and step up his play, Dixon needed to rediscover fun. Together, they could possibly reach both goals.
Switch Hitter Page 9
