by Laura Simcox
Georgia dropped her bag to the floor and launched herself at him. He caught her easily, his arms circling around her soft curves. He kissed her once, lingering. And then he looked into her eyes, his heart full, not a bit nervous.
“I love you, Georgia.”
As he watched, she closed her eyes for a moment, a sweet smile lifting her lips. He knew then that she was completely his, and tears of gratitude sprang to his eyes.
When she opened her eyes, they were misty too.
“I love you, Brett.”
He kissed her again, and this kiss was filled with a simple promise. He promised her that he would always love her. It was the best he could do because he couldn’t promise her anything else. She kissed him back with equal passion, and he knew that she understood. Now was not the time to talk about what the future would hold. For this moment, they shared joy.
She let him hold her like that for a long time, and then she kissed his cheek and wiggled against him. “You better put me down unless you’re intending to . . .”
“Take you?”
“Yes, please.” She gave him a smile, but it was tinged with sadness.
He ignored the sad part. “Tease.”
She wiggled again and he put her down. “I need to go interview you and the rest of the strippers,” she said.
“So you enjoyed that, did you?”
“You have no idea.”
“Not sure I want to know.” He winked at her.
“Oh, come on. You’re Knox the Fox. You think I was looking at any of the other guys?”
“Yes.”
She giggled. “Well, it wasn’t as if I could un-see them.”
Brett rolled his eyes. “Let’s go. I have that fan autograph thing after the interviews, and I want to get out of here so I can give you a private strip tease.”
“Oooh.” She smiled at him, but as she reached for her bag, he saw anxiety in her eyes.
“What is it, sugar? You’re finished for the day in a few minutes, aren’t you?”
“Usually I would be. But tomorrow’s the big day. We’re airing the feature on you during the morning show.”
“I know. But didn’t you tell me on the phone last night that you’re ready?”
“Yeah, but I have a meeting with Joan today. She’s going to watch the tape with me and give me a critique.” Georgia groaned. “If she gives it her stamp of approval, I can move on to hard news. If she doesn’t, then . . . don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m stuck doing baseball for the rest of my internship.”
He touched her cheek. “I’m not offended. I know being a sports reporter isn’t your goal.”
“Okay, but what’s completely crazy? Besides me, that is? I have no clue what I want to do. When I started this internship, it was crystal clear. What the hell happened?”
“Real experience,” he said, and he was glad that she was living through it, even though it was tough for her. It was bringing her one step closer to her future. “It’s a bitch and a blessing, I know.”
“That’s one way of looking at it.” She walked to the door. “I . . . I meant to say congratulations. I’ve been watching the recap footage on Sports Center, and you were amazing in Durham.”
Pleasure spread through him. “I was all right.” He winked at her. “You were watching ESPN?”
“Yes. And you won the MVP trophy? That’s better than all right, Brett.”
“I was able to face my fears. That’s all it took.”
She frowned a little. “Are you sure it wasn’t because of me? I mean—I wasn’t there, so you were able to concentrate?”
He walked forward and kissed her. “No. I did well because you were there, in my heart.”
“Oh,” she said in a relieved tone. “Oh.” Then she rested her cheek against his chest. “I like hearing that.”
“I like saying it.” He chuckled. “Call me when you’re finished with Rapacious Joan, okay?”
Georgia burst out laughing. “Rapacious? That’s a good word. An exacting word.” She raised her eyebrows. “Nice one.”
“Hey, don’t look so surprised. I can be good with words. I went to college and everything.” He opened the door and ushered her out.
“I’m well aware.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “Sometimes I think you might even be smarter than me.”
He kissed the top of her nose. “You’ll get over it.”
And then, his heart soaring, he walked back into the clubhouse, letting the door bang shut behind him. He clapped his hands. “Let’s go, let’s go, you bunch of slack-jawed, lazy jerkoffs,” he called out, imitating Monty’s gravelly voice. He strode with exaggerated steps toward his locker. “Get your big heads out of your asses and listen up.”
He was expecting the guys to laugh, but he was met by dead silence, and then a deep cough sounded from near the TV area. Grimacing, Brett looked over and found Monty kicked back on a folding chair, his arms crossed over his gut. The man glared at him.
“Sorry, Coach,” Brett said.
“Thought I told you to keep your head in your ass, Knox,” Monty said.
“Yeah.”
“Well, you must have done a good job because you’re going to The Show.”
Brett stood there, not quite believing what he’d heard. The last time he’d received shocking news like this, he was standing almost in this exact spot. When he’d found out he was going to meet Georgia in person, his heart had jolted into a rapid rhythm, and he’d gotten tunnel vision. It had been a dream come true—and so was this.
The Show. Major League Baseball. His life was about to be changed all over again.
He swayed a bit and grabbed the edge of his locker door. “Well—damn. Okay.” He nodded at the guys, who all stared at him. “It’s been real, fellas. I’m gonna miss you.”
A cheer went up in the room, and Brett looked around at all of his teammates clapping for him. There wasn’t a single jealous face in the bunch. He swallowed.
Monty stood up and ambled over. He clapped Brett on the shoulder. “Congratulations, son.”
“Thanks.”
“Now, we don’t have the go-ahead to formally announce it yet, but it’ll be soon. Probably later today.”
Brett nodded. “Okay.” He glanced toward the door. He wanted to tell Georgia—wanted to share his happiness. But it was bittersweet happiness because it meant that he’d have to leave her too. He’d just told her that he loved her. Could he really cause her that kind of pain ten minutes later?
He looked at Monty. “When do the Cardinals want me?”
“Friday. You’ll have time to get your shit together, and that’s lucky. Some players get called up and they’re on a plane the same day.”
Brett knew that—it was what had happened to him last season. One minute he’d been sitting in his apartment, and eight hours later, he was in Atlanta, wearing a Cardinals uniform, facing down the Braves. He hadn’t had any time to prepare, had barely been able to say a few words to Joe before both of them were standing on the baseline listening to the national anthem. This time would be different. This time, he’d have a long talk with his brother before stepping out on the field with him. He nodded.
“Okay, Coach. I can’t thank you enough for everything.”
Monty grunted. “You’re welcome. I don’t want to see your ass back down here in Memphis, you hear?”
“I hear.”
Monty scratched his jaw. “Technically, you’re done with the Redbirds, but I’d appreciate it if you’d still go sign autographs.”
“Not a problem.” Brett glanced toward the door. “We have those interviews first, though.” And Georgia would sense something different about him, wouldn’t she?
“Not you. I don’t want anything leaking about your news. I’m going to have a hard enough time replacing you as it is, and having the Cardinals pissed at me isn’t something I’m aiming for.”
Brett nodded. “Would you make up some excuse for Georgia? I’ll tell her later, but now isn’t a good time.”<
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“Agreed. I’ll take care of it, and . . . it’s been a pleasure. Now hit the showers and hit the bricks, Knox.”
Even though he knew it would make the man uncomfortable, Brett wrapped his arms around him. “You got it, Coach.” He slapped Monty on the back and then grabbed a towel and headed for the showers.
Thirty minutes later, he stood with his teammates in a roped-off area, smiling at eager kids and signing anything that got shoved in his hands. “Who’s your favorite player?” he asked a little girl in messy braids.
“Not you,” she replied. “But you’re pretty good, I guess.”
“Thanks, I guess.” He chuckled and signed her program. “And thanks for the reality check.”
“You’re welcome,” she replied in a chirpy voice.
Brett signed baseballs, more programs, a few T-shirts. He politely declined to sign a couple of pairs of breasts. He winked and sent the disappointed owners of those breasts on their way, and then turned to grin at Booker. “Should I have nudged them toward you?”
“Nah, man.” Booker shoved him. “I don’t like leftovers.” He leaned close. “But the minute you’re gone, I’m gonna help myself to whatever’s fresh.”
Brett threw his head back and laughed. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a guy who looked a bit familiar standing at the back of the crowd. Brett peered over the heads in front of him, not wanting to ignore an acquaintance who’d come to see him. It was probably someone from college.
Smiling, he motioned the guy forward, even though he couldn’t see clearly because his contacts, which he’d had in for a long time, were bothering him. They sometimes did after afternoon games when the sun glared. Today was one of those days. He should have swapped for his glasses, but he hadn’t. He motioned again, and the man began to push his way through the crowd.
Brett blinked, and, as the man’s face became clear, his heart lodged high in his throat while his feet felt rooted to the ground.
Buddy.
What the fuck was Buddy Mambo doing here? On instinct, Brett turned to walk away, but the man called out in an unmistakable voice. An annoying, fast voice—straight out of his furniture commercials.
“Hey there, Knox. How are ya? I’m a big fan. Huge fan.”
“Thanks,” Brett said, forcing himself to look the man in the eyes. He didn’t want to, but he had to see if there might be a resemblance. Buddy’s eyes were brown but a murky sort of brown. His cheeks were lean, almost gaunt, and the trim goatee he wore was threaded with gray.
Buddy smiled, and Brett saw the resemblance then. It was a cocky smile—with indentations around the edges of his lips. It was the same smile Brett used a lot of the time. People loved that smile. Georgia loved it. And right now, that smile filled him with disgust.
“Can I sign something for you, sir?” he asked.
“No, thanks. I just wanted to shake your hand.” Buddy thrust his hand out.
Brett stared at it. There was no way in hell he wanted to take it. He glanced around, noticing that a handful of people had recognized Buddy. They were pointing and whispering. Well, of course, they were. Buddy was wearing a royal purple shirt—the same kind he wore for his commercials. All he was missing was the stupid crown and scepter.
“Something wrong?” Buddy asked. He chuckled.
Brett glanced at him again. And then he took the man’s hand and gave it brief shake. He tipped his cap to the crowd, turned around, and set out for the players’ parking lot. It was a crappy feeling—walking away from fans, because he’d never done it before, but he didn’t know how else to handle the situation. Knowing this had been his last fan event for the Redbirds made him feel even worse.
“Damn,” he muttered.
Anger tugged at him, threatening to throw him right back into the frustrated, resentful place he’d grown to hate. There was a reason Buddy had shown up today, and that reason had his mother written all over it. He got into his Jeep and pulled his phone out of his pocket, but sat there waiting to calm down before calling her. He hadn’t spoken with her since the day she’d told him the truth about his father. Maybe he shouldn’t call.
Brett took deep breaths. He tried not think, but he knew he had to have answers. He’d only just recently crawled back on top of his game, and he was damned if he was going to fall straight back into a pit of worry, anger, and unresolved questions. Two minutes later, he dialed her number.
“Hello?” she said.
“Did you send Buddy Mambo over to the ballpark?” he calmly asked in lieu of a greeting. His heart was still hammering from the encounter, and he could feel the rough, papery grasp of the other man’s hand.
“Well, good afternoon, Brett. Nice to hear your voice,” Margot said.
“You would have heard it a lot sooner if you’d taken any of my calls. But I figured you’d take this one, and I was right.” His voice sounded pleasant, detached. It was better than nothing—better than anger.
Margot was silent for a moment. “I was worried that you’d be mad, and I was right.”
“So we’re both right. But not about everything. Was it your idea for him to blindside me like that, Mom?”
“I’m sorry. He was getting so antsy to meet you. And I really wanted him to have a chance before you got called up to the Cardinals.”
Anger rose up then, thickening his throat. “You never asked me if I wanted that chance!”
“I know.”
“And, assuming I had agreed, you didn’t think of arranging something?” Brett’s volume rose. “You couldn’t have done this more privately?”
“Of course, I thought about it. Would you have agreed to it?” Margot asked.
Brett didn’t say anything.
“Son. I know you.”
“You may know me, but you didn’t think this through all the way. What if the media had been at the autograph session? What if Buddy had said something about being my—about his connection to our family? Is that how you want Joe to find out?”
“No.” She paused. “I thought meeting Buddy briefly, in public, might be easier for you, but I guess that didn’t happen. I’m sorry, Brett. And of course I don’t want Joe to find out from someone other than you or me. Have you . . . ?”
“No, I haven’t told him yet, but I’m going to on Friday. That’s the day I start work for the Cardinals.” A weird, excited thrill juxtaposed with the angry tone of his words.
“Oh my God!” Margot cried. “That’s wonderful news.”
“It is,” he agreed. “But it’s not a magic potion that’s going to wash away everything else.”
“It is for me,” she said, her laughter gleeful. “I can live on that news for weeks!”
Brett leaned his head against the back of the seat, a familiar, uncomfortable feeling spreading through his gut. His mother lived through him and through Joe. But he and Joe could take care of themselves—she needed to live for herself. He’d been telling her that for years, and she’d been brushing him off just as long, turning a blind eye to her own misery.
“Oh my God!” she repeated. On the other end of the line, he heard her cigarette lighter come to life. A few seconds later, she blew into the phone. “So when can I tell people?”
“I’ll let you know. Just, for the love of God, don’t tell Buddy that I’ve been called up. I don’t want him knockin’ on my door or something.” He paused. “Mom, be good to yourself, okay? He doesn’t have much of a track record of sticking by you.”
“I’m so happy I could fly,” she responded, ignoring his request. “Congratulations, my amazing son.”
Brett wanted to say more—wanted to beg her to see reality—but knew it wouldn’t do any good. “Thanks, Mom. I’ll stop by and see you before I leave.”
“You do that.” She paused. “And bring the president’s daughter, why don’t you? I’m tired of just watching you two on the news. I have to meet the girl who captured you. She has, hasn’t she?”
“Yeah. What do you think about that?”
“I
think that when a woman makes my son smile like that, I don’t care who she is. Happy is happy.”
“I wish you happiness, too,” he said softly.
“I know you do, Brett. I know.” She sighed. “Gotta go.”
“Okay, Mom.” He hung up, rested the phone in his lap, and stared out the windshield.
He was so sad for her. So happy for himself. And he was scared for both of them. What if she ended up so hurt by Buddy that she just gave up hope completely? Neither Brett nor Joe would be there to help.
And what if he couldn’t hack it with the Cardinals . . . again? There were cases of guys who ping-ponged between a farm team and a major league team for years before finally sinking into oblivion—washed up, their careers tainted. He couldn’t let that happen. This time, he had to mean it. He had a future—because he would make one for himself.
He would make that future with Georgia.
Chapter Twelve
“SO,” GEORGIA SAID nervously. “Does this section work?” She glanced sidelong at Joan, who sat beside her in front of a computer monitor at the WHAP station. For an hour, Georgia had been painstakingly showing Joan the finished interview with Brett and had hoped that the feel-good footage—in which he talked about playing baseball as a kid—would be a nice highlight. Apparently not, because Joan wore a disgusted frown. Not a good sign.
“Knox reminiscing for ten solid minutes about his Little League days?” Joan folded her arms. “If he wasn’t so good-looking, I would have fallen asleep nine minutes ago.”
Georgia held her nerves in check. The interview was supposed to air tomorrow morning, and she thought she’d done a respectable job putting it together. It had been filmed in front of a plain backdrop—she and Brett sitting in chairs, facing each other. In between them stood a small table arranged with Redbirds souvenirs. Brett did look good in his uniform—relaxed, almost slouching into the chair. She looked uptight, wearing a pencil skirt with her hair raked back in a bun. Ugh.
