by Laney Smith
His Best bet
By:
Laney Smith
If you purchased this book without a cover, please be aware that this book is stolen property. The author has not received any payment for this “stripped book.”
ISBN-13: 978-1720999539
His Best Bet – Uncensored
Copyright 2018 by Laney Smith
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any way by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now in existence or hereinafter invented, including photocopying, recording, or xerography, or in any information storage or retrieval system is not permitted without the expressed written consent of the author, Laney Smith, 700 E. Redlands Blvd., Ste. U362, Redlands, CA 92373.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are a result of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to an actual person, living or dead, business establishments or organizations, events or locales is completely coincidental.
For questions or comments regarding this work or any others, please contact [email protected]
Printed in the U.S.A.
Cover art by Jo Anna Walker – Just Write Creations
~*~
This book is dedicated to the late Sarah Dremer – my best friend’s mother and one of my biggest fans of all time. Not a day goes by that you are not missed, Ms. Sarah. Thank you for all the ways you’ve touched my life. You may be gone from this world, but you will never be gone from the hearts and memories of those who knew you. Rest in peace, Sarah.
His Best bet
~ONE~
WORLD SERIES
World Series.
Seventh game.
Tie-breaker game.
The score was tied, four-to-four. Bottom of the ninth. The bases were loaded, two outs . . . two strikes . . . and three balls. One play away from the end of the World Series. The rowdy stands had calmed, filled with fans, waiting – watching – holding their breath. The crowd was so quiet, Ryan Priest swore he could hear his own heart pounding through the stadium speakers.
Intense!
He scanned the outfield as he jostled from one foot to the other. He muttered to himself.
“Let’s do this!”
He glanced at his first baseman, then to second, briefly noting the hopeful, anxious faces of his team mates. He dragged the heel of his hand across his forehead, wiping away the sweat that beaded on his brow ridge. He stretched his neck as he sighed, plunking the catcher’s mask down over his face. Ryan crouched behind the impatient batter. His eyes locked on the pitcher’s as the batter stepped to the plate and heisted his bat, hovering it above his shoulder. The pitcher drew his hands up under his chin as he studied Ryan’s hands. Ryan threw a hand signal. The pitcher’s head slightly jerked toward his shoulder, waving off the signal.
“The pitcher doesn’t like that one,” one of two commentators offered into the microphone, breaking the tomb-like silence.
Another signal. Again, the pitcher shook his head. This time, Ryan flipped the pitcher the bird, along with a cocky, taunting smirk. The pitcher returned a subtle smile. Finally, another signal. This time, a wide grin slid over the pitcher’s lips. He gave a nod, drew his knee to his chest, cocked his arm back, and let the ball fly.
“And, a good signal. The pitch is thrown! Batter swings,” the commentator’s excitable voice bellowed through the speakers.
Crack!
The batter slung the bat, his feet blazing a path toward first base as the field suddenly came alive with players running counter-clockwise, each hoping to beat the ball across home plate. Every player on Ryan’s team scrambled to do his part to get the ball to Ryan at home plate. Just as the opponent from third base approached the plate, the pitcher heaved the ball right for Ryan’s mitt.
Easy catch. Easy out. Finally! The moment everyone had been waiting for.
Again, a commentator’s impatient voice boomed over the noise of the excited crowd through the stadium speakers.
“Aw! Come on, Priest!”
Time stood still. As though he were in slow motion – or the air had been replaced with a gelatinous substance - Ryan extended his arm to tag the runner just as reality registered. He . . . missed the catch!
“Safe!” The umpire’s voice stabbed through the noise as the runner blazed right over home plate.
What!? How? Ryan wondered in disbelief.
“Come on! Hurry! Grab the ball, Priest!” the pitcher shouted, his voice drowning in the sea of other voices. The pitcher drove his finger, pointing toward Ryan. “Get the fuckin’ ball!”
As though his brain had frozen in shock, Ryan could not orchestrate the movements necessary to respond. His head felt as though it weighed ninety pounds as glanced to his left to see, yet, another runner coming straight for him. Finally, the spell was broken. Ryan snapped back and rushed for the ball.
It was too late, now. He knew that. It was over.
“And there he is! Your MVP, Ryan Priest, ladies and gentleman,” a commentator sarcastically spouted. “Un-be-lievable!”
Having broken free of the strange time warp, Ryan scrambled to get the ball to home plate to tag the runner. He couldn’t change the fate of the game. However, he could change how many the other team scored on him.
The winded runner came barreling for the run. Ryan planted his foot on home plate. A cloud of red tinted dirt washed over him as he tagged his sliding opponent. Quick as a blink, Ryan glanced at the umpire, just in time to hear the call.
“Out!”
Ryan clenched his left fist, hammering down in a victorious gesture.
“Yes!”
*****
Television cameras, the world over, zeroed in on the announcers in the spectator booth.
“Ryan Priest seems happy with himself. I wouldn’t be happy about any of that, if I were him,” one commentator said.
“Well, you’re not known for betting on the game, either. One can’t help but wonder just how much Risky Ryan has riding on this game, and against his own team, again, too,” the other commentator responded.
“Oh, my gosh! Ya know, how would you like to be that guy, right now? He just had the worst play of his entire career.”
“Depends on how much he just made to miss that catch. You remember, John, it wasn’t so long ago that Priest was paying penalties and warming the bench, suspended for gambling – betting on the game. Priest will cost his team the win for the World Series. His pockets just might be a little thicker for that horrid play, though. Sorry, team, it looks like Risky Ryan is up to his old tricks.”
“Boy, I hope you’re wrong, Mike. If that’s the case, Ryan Priest is done for. That would be a career ending bet. He better hope he just won the devil’s cut.”
*****
Ryan’s disheartened team mates started toward the bull pen by the time he looked out into the field. He surveyed the angered expressions on the faces staring back at him. With a scowl, he pitched his hands out to the side in an animated, incredulous gesture.
Crack!
Before he could speak, Ryan flinched, wincing. This time, the cracking sound came with a pain shooting up his neck to the base of his skull and down into his right arm. He knew he was in trouble.
“What the . . .?” Ryan blasted as he reached up with his left hand to soothe the pain in his right shoulder.
The crowd booed and hissed. The sounds of furious fans - raging and disappointed - filled Ryan’s ears. He watched his team mates throw their baseball caps, kick the dirt, and ram the heel of their hands against the walls. Expletives were flying a
round as though those words were a thousand doves released into the wild.
“Something’s not right,” Ryan called to the coach.
“We can all see that, Priest! Damn, son! What was that? The World Series, Ryan. The whole game. You just lost the whole game,” his coach blasted. “We were sittin’ pretty. It was all in our favor. I was sure we had just won this one. What was going on out there?”
Ryan shook his head as he held his shoulder. “Something snapped. I heard a crack. This shoulder is killing me.”
The coach scoffed and dragged his hand down his face. “What? You want me to feel sorry for you? Well, boo-hoo-hoo! The World Series, Priest! You just blew the World . . . Series! How much, huh? How much did that little stunt just earn you, Risky Ryan? Huh?”
“What’re you talking about?” Ryan barked
“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” the coach snarled as he glared at Ryan. He clenched his teeth, his voice taking on a deep, guttural tone. “Get the fuck out of my dugout!”
“You’ve got this all wrong. It’s not what you’re thinking.”
Some of Ryan’s team mates chimed in.
“You son of a bitch!”
“Was it worth it, Priest?”
“We believed in you, you lying sack of shit.”
Ryan shook his head in disbelief. “Are you fucking kidding me? I’m trying to tell you . . . I don’t have money on this game.”
“Get to the locker room,” the coach ordered.
“Are you going to listen to me? I need medical,” Ryan insisted.
The coach stared into Ryan’s eyes for a few seconds, his lips puckered, and his nostrils flaring. “Medic!” the coach finally barked.
*****
The commentators continued with their speculation as they watched the medical personnel scurry onto the field, rushing to tend to Ryan.
“The medics are in motion. I wonder what that’s all about. Seems they’re headed toward Priest.”
“Maybe he just realized how much he won. He’s probably having a heart attack. I guess the five-million-dollar contract just wasn’t enough, John.”
“Plus, the signing bonus. Don’t forget that. Some of those guys get a hellacious signing bonus. You know Priest got a good deal. I don’t know, though, Mike. They seem to be evaluating him, now. Looks like a clavicle, maybe? They are really working him over. Let’s see if they take him away.”
“He better hope they do. His team mates look like vultures after a fresh kill. If he doesn’t need medical attention now, he will,” Mike joked.
“Oh, here comes the stretcher. He might really be hurt. They’re putting a sling on him. Something with that right arm, looks like.”
“Maybe the lack of enthusiasm from the rest of the team hurt his feelings. Take him away and put a bandage on his little feelings. The medical team is probably trying to figure out how to help that kind of mediocrity. That guy easily could’ve been in the hall of fame. He just blew it.”
“No, Mike,” John countered. “They’re loading him up. Priest seems to have suffered an injury of some sort.”
“Are you kidding? He’s afraid of those guys on his team. He’s got a guilty conscience. That’s the only thing wrong with Ryan Priest. You saw that missed catch. It was obvious he missed that on purpose. Look at his team mates. They know him better than anyone. If they’re that mad, you know he has been up to no good.”
“Now, we wait for the medical report. I sure hope he’s back next season. He’s given so much to this sport. You don’t get MVP for nothing, ya know. That guy is money in the bank. He’s got the stats.”
“I just want to talk to his bookie. Think ol’ Risky Ryan would give me some betting pointers?” Mike chuckled.
John cleared his throat. “I’m going to let the facts speak for him. I’ve talked to Ryan on many occasions. He’s a good, stand-up kind of guy. I really like him.”
“He may be a good guy outside of the game. Inside the game, he’s got an addiction to gambling. You watch. They’re going to find out. He’s going to get caught, again. Just like last time.”
“Again, I sure hope you’re wrong. The kiddos don’t need another fallen role model.”
“Role model? Priest? He’s already let down anyone who ever looked up to him. His glory days are over,” Mike jabbed.
“If you’re right, which I hope you aren’t, Ryan Priest is gonzo.”
“They should play that old tune, Happy Trails, as they cart him off the field,” Mike laughed. “Good riddance!”
*****
Coach Eric Grindell watched the medical team carry Ryan Priest off the field. He was too infuriated to believe Ryan could have a medical problem. Eric was certain Ryan had fallen into his old habits. He couldn’t help feeling disappointed. He knew what that would mean. He thought the world of Ryan on a personal and a professional level. None of that mattered. The coach was too angry to allow his personal feelings get in the way of what he had to do. He had to let his MVP, Ryan Priest, go.
After evaluating him, the doctor on the field decided to send Ryan for x-rays. The medical team didn’t like how the green and blue bruises under Ryan’s skin looked. The fact that his arm was immobile only added to the concern.
Within ten minutes, the medical staff determined Ryan would require surgery to repair a broken clavicle. It was amazing how quickly he had gone from a baseball hero to feeling like an absolute zero. Though he hated hearing the bad news, he hoped the news would afford him the opportunity to plead his case.
Ryan listened to the doctors as they evaluated him. The bad news kept coming. He had torn ligaments and frayed muscle tissue. Interestingly, the broken bone was such a clean break it almost looked surgically severed.
“What were you doing at the time this happened? Were you doing anything strenuous? How did this happen?” the physician asked.
“I didn’t do anything. I just moved my arm. Then, I heard it snap.”
“You had to have a sleeping fracture. It happens sometimes. You can have a fracture and not even know until it breaks, if it does.”
“I’ve had no pain. I can’t imagine how I would’ve fractured it,” Ryan said, obviously bewildered.
“You probably had a fracture and the muscular tension for whatever you were doing was just enough finish the job.”
“Any minute, Eric is going to come through that door,” Ryan said as he pointed with his left hand. “I need you to make him understand this is real.”
“Ryan, you’re not going to be able to play this next season. I’m sorry,” the physician offered sympathetically.
Ryan dropped his head in shame. “It’s not just next season that has me worried.”
“You should be better than ever by the end of next season, depending on how rehab goes. You’re going to have to take your time with this or you could do permanent damage. I can’t stress enough how important it is that you give this time to heal.”
“Yeah? Well, Eric thinks I’m out there, placing bets. He won’t hear that there was a reason I missed that catch.”
“Funny thing about those beds, huh? You make them, then you have to lay in them,” the doctor shrugged. “I have a feeling when everything calms down, you’ll be fine. They’re not stupid enough to let you walk.”
~TWO~
“So, Priest, are ya done diddlin’ your nuts?” Coach Eric Grindell blasted as he stormed into the medical exam room.
“Ryan is going to be diddling his nuts for quite some time, I’m afraid,” Doctor Vorhees offered. “You better have a seat.”
“Just give it to me straight,” Eric insisted, waving his hand through the air in an animated fashion.
Ryan listened as Doctor Vorhees explained his condition to Eric in extensive detail. The doctor was kind enough to make it sound worse than Ryan felt. He hoped, to some degree, that Eric felt a twinge of guilt for jumping to conclusions. He hoped, now, that Eric would be willing to accept that Ryan wasn’t throwing the game for the sake of a bet. Doctor Vorh
ees stepped out of the room to make notes and prepare for the next step in Ryan’s care. The door had barely closed when Eric tore into Ryan.
“How much, Ryan?” he demanded.
“You still think this was over some bet?”
“We all do. I don’t expect you to own it, though, that would be the admirable thing to do at this point. There’s not a man in that locker room that has an ounce of respect left for you.”
“I’m not ruining my life by gambling, OK? I know I fucked up in the past. I owned it, then – when I was actually guilty. I learned my lesson. What part of that is so hard for you people to comprehend?”
“This is all a little convenient, don’t you think?” Eric scoffed.
“Convenient? My shoulder is broken in two. Forgive me, but, yeah, I guess I missed the convenience in that.”
“I’m not stupid, kid. I’ve seen it all. A broken clavicle gives you an awful lot of excuses and opportunities to settle up, sit pretty for a season . . . Look, Ryan, I’m not interested in smearing your name. I’m happy to accept your resignation.”
Ryan dropped his jaw as his head tilted to the side in confusion. “Res . . . resignation? I’m not resigning, Eric. I’m out for a season, but that’s it.”
“This clavicle thing . . . It gives you an opportunity to save face. Do it. Retire while your name still means something.”
“Are you fucking nuts? I’m not retiring.”
“Am I fucking nuts? Let’s think about that. You’re thirty-three, with a broken right clavicle. You’re right dominant and though the doctor is hopeful you’ll make a full recovery, there are no guarantees. I am ninety percent certain that you will never be what you’ve been. Not after this. So, be reasonable. There are a lot of younger guys out there, Ryan. You’ll be picked over. You’ll be begging someone to let you be the ball boy. Get out now. Make it easier on yourself.”
