"Injuries."
"Exactly. Do you know the average length of an NFL career? Three point three years. After all the work and sacrifice, most players never get that big payday. And when they do? Very little of the money is guaranteed. My grandfather purchased the Knights before I hit my teenage years. Since then, I've seen some pretty brutal ends to promising careers. Strong yet amazingly fragile."
"I read the league was considering expanding the number of pre-season games."
"Over my dead body."
"You really care about your players." One more reason for Blue to worship the ground on which Riley Preston and her killer designer shoes walked.
"Maybe because I married a wide receiver. Plus, the love and respect for the game my grandfather instilled in me." Impassioned, Riley met Blue's gaze. "Football is the most popular game in the United States."
"I'm aware," Blue said. Baseball ran a distant second. But that was fine. Just made them work harder.
"Did I sound like a braggart?"
"Only a little."
Riley smiled, but the self-deprecating quality made her all the more likable. "My point was that we owners are so concerned with adding money to our already bursting coffers, sometimes we forget that the players on our fields are human beings."
"Also, grown men who know what they're doing," Blue pointed out. "High risk can lead to high reward."
"Not to mention that a lot of professional athletes are arrogant, misogynistic creeps. Makes me wonder why we love sports."
"Good question."
"What's the answer?" Riley asked.
"Hell if I know."
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
"I'VE NEVER BEEN so glad to see the end of July in my life."
"Turn the calendar, turn our luck."
Passing, Nick slapped Trevon Marks, the Cyclones center fielder, on the back.
"Stop blaming the month and try catching a fucking fly ball."
"Did you see that sun? Brutal." Travon squinted as if he were still on the field dealing with a high sky. "Lucky it didn't blind me."
"You were wearing sunglasses, asshole," Burt Collier reminded him. Because he was Travon's best friend and fellow outfielder, he could get away with the insult. Most men would be swallowing their teeth about now.
"Whiney little girls," Travis shook the head that hung between his legs. He was battling a slight case of the flu—a fact that he didn't share with anybody but Spencer and Nick. "We had a God-awful road trip. Shit happens. Time to get over themselves and worry about facing the Yankees tomorrow night."
Spencer shoved his gear into his bag. God-awful didn't begin to describe the past twelve games. Two measly wins against ten losses. Added to the fact that Houston—their division rivals—were on a white-hot streak meant the Cyclones had fallen out of first place for the first time all season.
Every player dreaded a slump.
Questioning himself. Wondering if he'd lost whatever magic he once possessed. Hits were a thing of the past. Even his glove turned against him. Balls that used to find the pocket with ease sailed through his legs. Runners he could gun down blindfolded scored from second as his throw to the plate missed the target by a mile.
Spencer wasn't immune. Luckily, during his career, the few slumps he experienced were of the mini variety. One solid knock, a stellar defensive play, or a long home run would end the problem as quickly as it began.
Yes, Spencer knew how a slump felt. What was happening to the Cyclones didn't have that feel.
"We need to clear our heads," Nick said, tucking his buttoned shirt into his pants.
The team had a strictly enforced road dress code. When the Cyclones traveled, the players had to wear a tie and jacket. Jeans were out. A few of the guys went all out. Expensive tailored suits. Shoes with a high shine. Spencer, Nick, and Travis stayed lower key—sports coats and slacks—saving the big guns for the post season.
"Any suggestions?" Travis asked. His gray tweed jacket was one of ten he switched out during the year.
"Figure skaters."
Spencer groaned, sending Travis a disgruntled look. "Why did you ask him that?"
"Because I love Bull Durham," Travis said, referencing perhaps the greatest baseball movie ever made. If the viewer was after a laugh. For tears? Field of Dreams. Every time. "And I love figure skaters."
"You're out of luck. Our plane leaves in an hour."
"I think we could come up with a figure skater or two in Seattle." Closing his bag, Nick grabbed his jacket. "Of course, in Bull Durham, they skipped the skaters, flooding the field instead. We're cute, but I don't think we could pull that one off without a major fine."
"And my boot up your asses."
"Relax, Yoda. What happened to your sense of humor?"
"I lost it around our sixth loss in a row."
Nothing sobered his friends faster than a quick reminder of where their season was headed. If the Cyclones didn't pull out of their tailspin soon, all dreams of postseason glory would be shelved for another year.
"Most of the guys in this locker room know how to get to the other side of a slump," Travis reminded his friends. "We need to concentrate on bucking up the less experienced players. In particular, our rookie phenom."
Spencer nodded, worried eyes moving to where Drake Langston sat removed from his teammates. Something was up with the kid. Had been for several weeks.
"He won't admit anything is wrong. I asked."
"Me, too," Nick sighed. "Bought him a drink. Tried to get him laid. Half a beer and I thought he would slide off his barstool."
"Do you know what Langston did when I offered to set him up with a sure thing? Blushed, for Christ's sake. Redder than a fire truck." Travis couldn't seem to fathom the idea. "Do you remember the last time you fucking blushed?"
"What's a blush?" Deadpan, Nick stared wide eyed from Travis to Spencer.
"So, the kid is inexperienced." Spencer exited the locker room, sending one more glance Drake Langston's way. From his expression, he looked as if he'd lost his last friend. "I don't care if he's a goddamned virgin. We need him back on his game."
THE CYCLONES EEKED out a win the next night. Clinging to a nail-biting one-nothing lead heading to the ninth, Carlos Petretti, the team's flame-throwing closer struck out the first two batters.
With the count in his favor, Petretti and his catcher inexplicably went away from the pitcher's strength. Instead of a steady diet of fastballs, he nibbled at the corners. As a result, he walked the next two men he faced.
Joining the pitching coach on the mound, Spencer could see the sweat rolling off Petretti's face. That wasn't so bad. What worried him was the flicker of panic he saw.
"Breathe, Carlos. You own Dietrich. Give him some heat and let's hit the showers."
Petretti nodded. But Spencer's gut told him this wouldn't be an easy out. One pitch. Two. Three. None even close to the strike zone. With his fastball nowhere to be found, Petretti reared back and threw one of the worst pitches Spencer could remember.
With a known curveball killer at the plate, Petretti lobbed one. Worse, the pitch stayed flat. Not a curve in sight.
Over the roar of the anxious crowd, the crack of the bat rang in Spencer's ears. But he was ready.
Diving to his left, he made a play that happened so fast, blink and one would've missed.
Luckily, SportsCenter led with Spencer's defensive gem, letting Cyclones fans revel, and the entire nation marvel at the best third baseman in the game.
BLUE CHECKED HER pulse. Yup. Still beating. Though she wondered how many more games like tonight's her heart could withstand.
Wiping his palms, Clark O'Hara hugged his wife, his oldest daughter, his youngest, his son-in-law. He gave his son a hearty slap on the back.
"Damn close. But I'll take it."
"The team needed this win," Dale said.
Now that the drama was over—and the good guys came away victorious—appetites returned.
The food that sat untouched on the coffee table during the tense late innings disappeared.
"I'm glad you decided to watch the game with us instead of going to the stadium." From the kitchen, Connie O'Hara handed Blue a stack of napkins. "Put those next to the dip, sweetheart."
"Why aren't you at the game?" Dale asked, his voice too low for anybody else to hear. "Trouble in paradise?"
Blue had no intention of sharing the details of the problems between her and Spencer. Before the last road trip, they hadn't parted on the best of terms. Not exactly an argument. However, the tension was thick—and growing.
They spoke a few times. Briefly. Blue didn't want to get into anything heavy over the phone. Besides, she couldn't decide if the distance in Spencer's voice had to do with them, or the team's bad play.
Blue had gotten used to Spencer arriving at her door no matter how late the team plane arrived at SeaTac. Last night, he texted her, that was all. Four short words. Back safely. Talk soon. Hardly encouraging.
The night lasted forever. The day seemed even longer. Blue waited for Spencer's call. She checked her phone a dozen times for a message. Anything to let her know that he wanted her at the game.
As the afternoon wore on, Blue debated making the first move. By the time she left for home, she'd convinced herself that not talking was for the best. Spencer needed to concentrate on baseball, not her. He'd call when the time was right.
"Spencer and I are fine," Blue assured Dale, shoving a napkin at him when guacamole slipped from his chip onto the front of his shirt.
"Just fine. Not great? Fantastic? Magical?"
"What are you? A thirteen-year-old girl? Honestly, Dale. What would you think if I used the word magical to describe my relationship?"
"That you were trying too hard."
"Exactly. I don't live in a YA romance novel. Thank God." Blue's phone buzzed. Spencer. "Excuse me."
As she slipped from the room, Blue answered without looking to see who was on the other end.
"Amazing ending," Jordyn said a little breathlessly.
Not Spencer, Blue's shoulder's slumped. She should've known. He had interviews, a shower, and a press conference to get through. Taking time to call his girlfriend wouldn't be high on his list of priorities.
"Spencer saved the game. I imagine your dad is floating."
"Mom might pry him off the ceiling in an hour or two. If she's lucky," Jordyn chuckled affectionately.
Picturing Byron Kraig, his chest puffed out with pride, Blue smiled.
"You stayed for the game?" Mondays were Jordyn's usual dinner with her family nights. "Normally you're only good for an inning or two."
"I've been traveling so much lately, spending some time with Mom and Dad felt like a good idea. As an added bonus, big brother decided to play hero. All around, a pretty good night at the Kraig house."
Hearing the pride in Jordyn's voice, Blue's smile widened. For all the times she groused about her family's—and best friend's—obsession with baseball, she reveled in Spencer's success right along with the rest of them.
"How are you doing? Have you and Spencer cleared the air?"
Blue leaned against the wall. The one covered with photos of her family through the years. Her eyes came to rest on her parents on their wedding day. Happy then. Happy now.
So many years. Ups and downs. Triumphs and heartaches. But no matter what came their way, Blue's parents faced the good and the bad together.
That's what Blue wanted. With Spencer.
"What is wrong with me?"
"Generally speaking?" Jordyn teased as only a best friend could. "Or do you want specifics?"
Blue felt an urgency. A need to find Spencer. Now. But as she rushed to the hall closet, pulled out her jacket, found her car keys in her pocket, she felt a lightness that had been missing for weeks.
"I need to go."
"Okay," Jordyn said, unaware of what was going on in Blue's head. "Lunch on Wednesday? I'll come by your office around noon."
"Fine. Great. Bye."
"Wait. You didn't answer my question. You and Spencer? What's the latest?"
"Ask me on Wednesday."
"But—"
Blue cut Jordyn off with a swipe of her thumb.
What to do, what to do? Rushing to the ballpark didn't make any sense, she decided. Maneuvering through the crazy downtown after-game traffic would be a nightmare. By the time she arrived, the only people left would be the clean-up crew.
Home was the smartest move. Spencer would look for her there. Or he would if she did her best to point him in that direction.
Shaking out her suddenly nervous fingers, Blue raised her phone, pulling up Spencer's number.
"Meet me at my place. Please. Please. Please. I need to see you tonight. I'll be waiting."
Taking a deep breath, Blue hit send. The rest was up to Spencer.
"Mom? Dad?" Blue called out. She found her family where she left them. Eating. Laughing. Rehashing the game. "I'm going to leave."
"Already?" Frowning, Clark looked at his watch. "It's later than I realized. Give your old man a hug. And drive safe."
"I will." Blue gave herself a moment to savor the comfort of her father's strong arms.
"Will we see you before Sunday dinner?" her mother asked, brushing her lips across Blue's cheek.
"Probably not." Blue took a deep breath. Now was as good a time as any. "Do you mind if I bring a friend?"
"Of course not. There's always room at our table," Connie assured her. "Anybody we know."
"Spencer."
Connie's eyes widened, obviously expecting any name but that one.
"Spencer Kraig?"
"Yes." With another quick hug, Blue waved, heading toward the front door. "We've been seeing each other for several months."
"Blue—"
"See you Sunday."
The buzz of voices followed Blue out of the house. She'd dropped a bombshell. Hopefully, the damage wasn't too extensive. Mostly surprise, she imagined. But whatever the mess, she'd have to deal with it later. Right now, she had something much more important to worry about.
Starting her car, she took the time to send one more text. Satisfied, butterflies taking wing in her stomach, Blue pulled from her parking spot and headed home.
And, fingers crossed, Spencer was headed there, too.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
SPENCER GLANCED AROUND the mostly deserted locker room, remembering how loud and raucous things had been a short time ago.
A big believer that one game—one moment in that game—could turn the tide of an entire season, he nodded, putting a period on a damn good night.
Had this been that game? Ask him again at the end of the season. But Spencer felt in his bones that something had shifted. An attitude adjustment, so to speak. Tomorrow, his team would reassemble and play another one. Then another. And another.
We can only play them one at a time. The old adage fit baseball better than any sport. But that didn't mean certain games didn't have more impact than others. From the smiles plastered on the players' faces, Spencer believed this—the first of August—was one of those nights.
Taking a moment, Spencer scrolled through the messages on his phone. Nothing that couldn't wait until morning. Until he found Blue's text.
"Meet me at my place. Please. Please. Please. I need to see you tonight. I'll be waiting."
Spencer wanted to see her. More than he could say. He missed Blue. So much he decided to put their differences aside. At least for one night. If he didn't kiss her—and soon—he'd go crazy.
Then he heard a beep. Another text from Blue.
"FYI? I told my parents about us. Step number one. Number two? Dinner. You and me. In public. Any night. The restaurant of your choice."
"Damn, Bluebell. You're full of surprises," Spencer whispered, grinning.
"Yoda?"
Spencer jumped a foot. Swinging around, he found Drake Langston st
anding behind him.
Laughing at himself, Spencer patted his chest. "Watch it, kid. My heart isn't as young as it used to be."
Drake looked at the ground. At his shoes. At the wall. Stooping, Spencer tried to catch the rookie's skittish gaze.
"What's up?"
"Can I talk to you?"
Finally. Whatever was eating at the kid, he'd kept the details close to his vest. Spencer tried multiple times to get Drake to open up but to no avail.
Spencer didn't push. He respected a man's right to privacy. But he made certain Drake knew he had a friend if he ever needed a sympathetic ear.
Spencer slung an arm around Drake's shoulders.
Blue waited. But if anybody would understand the reason for his delay, she would.
"My time is yours."
"Some place private."
Spencer steered Drake toward the manager's office. Nobody would disturb them there.
"Take a seat."
Drake wiped his hands on his dark pants. He didn't look old enough to shave. Spencer couldn't imagine what kind of trouble could plague such a clean-cut, clean-living young man. But at the moment, he looked as if he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders.
"Nothing can be that bad."
"Yes, it can."
"Okay." Spencer took a seat facing Drake. "Why don't you start from the beginning?"
"The beginning? Of this mess?" Taking a deep breath, Drake nodded. "Two years ago. My senior year in college…"
BLUE KEPT TELLING herself to go to bed.
Checking her phone every five seconds was neither productive nor wise. The smart thing—for the sake of her mental health—would be to brush her teeth, remove her makeup, and get some sleep.
The hell with Spencer. If he weren't man enough to at least send her a screw you text, then she wouldn't waste another moment worrying. Or pacing. Or tearing her hair out.
Blue accomplished two of her goals. Clean teeth and a freshly scrubbed face stared back from the mirror over her bathroom sink. But she knew that sleep was out of the question.
Instead of tossing and turning in her big, cold bed, Blue opted for a cup of tea and an old movie. As if TCM read her mind, the station was running one of her favorites.
For a Little While (One Strike Away Book 1) Page 15
