Fastball

by V. K. Sykes

  FASTBALL

  V.K. SYKES

  Copyright © 2012 by V.K. Sykes

  http://www.vksykes.com/

  Smashwords Edition

  Cover Art © Kimberly Killion of HotDamn Designs

  http://www.hotdamndesigns.com/

  Formatted by Jessica Lewis

  http://www.authorslifesaver.com/

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Epilogue

  Also Available By VK Sykes

  About the Author

  Rock*It Reads

  CHAPTER ONE

  Maddie Leclair knew most women would sell their souls to be in her shoes—the only female on a chartered flight with thirty-five men, twenty-five of whom were professional baseball players. Insanely, wildly hot baseball players. And at least half of them had no wedding rings on their fingers. Her job had many perks, one of which was flying around the country a few dozen times a year with the Philadelphia Patriots of professional baseball’s National League.

  She settled back in her seat, laptop propped in front of her, and allowed herself a few rare moments to revel in the joys of her recently attained status. Only five months into her new assignment as sportswriter for the Post newspaper, she’d managed to earn the respect and trust of nearly all the players. An unfortunate few retained their Neanderthal status, treating her as a receptacle for lewd remarks and boneheaded comments about her presence in the locker room. But she’d learned how to deal with the best and the worst of them, and felt more comfortable in the job with each passing day.

  Did she get hit on? Oh, yeah. But the truth was she had little if any interest in getting mired in a potentially compromising relationship. And even if she’d been open to a fling, most of the older guys were married with kids and the younger players looked on her as something of an old lady. In a few weeks she’d turn thirty, and in this crowd of testosterone-fueled egos that qualified her as totally over-the-hill.

  When the fasten seatbelt sign lit up, Maddie stowed her laptop and prepared for the landing in sunny San Diego. Once inside the terminal, she gave a wave to some of players and headed off to the taxi stand, skipping the drive to the hotel on the crowded and often raunchy team bus. She liked spending time with the players and enjoyed their company but she needed her space—especially after five hours with them in an airborne sardine can. Taking a cab by herself from the airport was always a good way to get some of the privacy she cherished during road trips. Besides, after rushing to the airport at five a.m. to catch the early morning flight to the west coast, she was already tired. A very long day lay ahead, and she wanted to settle into her hotel room and get some rest before tonight’s game.

  After a speedy check-in at the front desk of the Omni, Maddie fell into bed for a much-needed nap. When the bedside alarm jolted her awake several hours later, she dragged herself off to the bathroom, treating herself to a long, hot shower. Unlike the players, she didn’t need to get to the park much before game time at seven o’clock, so she took her time getting ready, selecting her favorite black pantsuit with the tailored jacket—the one that very nicely displayed her curves. It was severe and business-like, but didn’t make her feel completely butch. As much as she wanted to be accepted as one of the guys in the locker room, Maddie had no intention of relinquishing every last vestige of her femininity.

  That was often a tricky compromise to negotiate, especially given her occasional and very unwelcome bouts of insecurity. Unfortunately, one of those little bouts was circling her right now, hovering just out of reach. That called for drastic action, so she rummaged into the bottom of her suitcase until she unearthed her sleek black boots with stacked heels. She pulled them on and thoughtfully inspected her image in the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door. The heels gave her five-three figure some stature, as well as a needed boost to her self-confidence.

  She grimaced at her reflection, hating that she even had to worry about boosting her confidence levels. She’d never been one of those people who liked to be center stage, and had always had difficulty pushing her way into the forefront. Though Maddie was loath to admit it, she knew her reticence had played no small role in the length of time it had taken her to work her way up the ladder in the Post’s sports department. Journalists were supposed to be pushy bastards in their never-ending quest for good stories, but Maddie’s inherent shyness had always held her back. There had been days when she’d feared she might be stuck covering high school sports for the rest of her career, no matter how hard she worked—both at her job and on her personal demons.

  When her break had finally come, it had been a very mixed blessing. Only the heart attack and sudden death of the previous incumbent on the Patriots’ beat had thrust her into the more prominent role. Even now, months into the job, she knew she was still on probation. Her editor kept pushing her to come up with more creative features, but as much as she worked her ass off, she hadn’t yet developed the kind of breakout stories that would seal her reputation—and her career. Many a night found her tossing and turning in bed, the little devils of doubt and anxiety clawing away at her belief that she actually could handle the job, and handle it well.

  Forcing a bright smile for her reflection in the mirror, Maddie gave herself a little mental pep talk and headed downstairs.

  As she pushed through the hotel’s revolving door and stepped out into a beautiful day, she lifted her face to the sun and inhaled the soft air, faintly scented by the Pacific breeze. On days like this, when everything seemed perfect, she actually believed she would make a mark for herself in the ruthless, male-dominated world of sports. She was living her dream, and not for one minute would she allow herself to forget it, or let her personal fears get the better of her. Her mother had always had faith in her, and it was time for Maddie to keep that faith as well.

  After a pit stop for a quick dinner at a nearby sushi restaurant, she hurried to Petco Park. Taking the elevator up to the press box, she exchanged greetings with several other reporters and dropped into her seat just before the national anthem blared out from the huge loudspeakers around the field. In spite of her jet lag and lingering fatigue, she felt the familiar rush of excitement—the sense that little old Maddie couldn’t possibly be doing this—as the Patriots’ starter threw out the first pitch.

  Unfortunately, her excitement ended there. The Patriots’ infielders performed like they had terminal jet lag, booting two routine grounders for errors. Combined with two walks and a bases-clearing double, the Padres scored four runs in the first inning. After that, it only got worse. By the time the seventh inning stretch rolled around, the score was a gruesome 8-1 and it was “mop-up time.” At least she was spared the agony of extra innings, and it seemed her colleagues in the press booth felt the same. M
ost were already making plans for the post-game bar crawl, and a couple of them even invited her to hang out with them later. As grateful as she was to the guys for extending that hand of friendship, she was itching to get the game over with so she could email her story to the paper and head back to her room, more than ready to make up for her sleep-deprived state.

  Not that she looked forward to writing up this blow-out loss. When the team sucked, her editor and her readers expected her to come down hard on the players who didn’t produce. Her job didn’t involve treating them with kid gloves, but that was easier said than done. She spent half her life with these guys now, and they trusted her to do right by them. Though they weren’t babies, and knew they had to take criticism when it was justified, the players often had a different take as to what was justified and what was not. Maddie worked as hard as she could to be appropriately tough but always fair.

  As she mulled over the lead for her story, idly tapping her fingernails along the rim of her laptop, the Patriots’ right fielder, José Rodriguez, chased a pop fly over to the stands in shallow right field. He extended his body to make the catch, but the ball bounced off the tip of his glove as Rodriguez hit the rail in front of the first row hard. His momentum flipped him right over onto the laps of a group of stunned fans.

  Maddie jerked upright, holding her breath as the player slowly extracted himself, with the help of a couple of teammates, from the milling group of fans. His face a mask of pain, Rodriguez clutched his right wrist. The Patriots’ dugout exploded into action, trainers sprinting across the diamond to support the player as he trudged back across the field to the dugout. Maddie had seen a lot of flips into the seats over the years, and this one was rougher than most. She had little doubt Rodriguez had broken his wrist. That meant months of recovery, and the loss of one of the team’s top power hitters would strike a hard blow to the Patriots’ pennant hopes.

  With a sigh, she slumped back into her seat, ignoring the excited buzz from the other reporters. José Rodriguez was a good man and a stand-up guy, and the loss of his bat, his sure glove, and his leadership would devastate his teammates. For the Patriots, the injury couldn’t have come at a worse time.

  When the game ended, Maddie stood, stretched her cramped muscles, and began to pack up her laptop. Despite her bone-weariness, she had to stick around and see if she could get some info on the injury from Jack Ault, the team’s manager. That meant either wading into the Patriots’ clubhouse—never a fun time in a situation like this—or hanging around outside, waiting for a grumpy Jack to emerge. Not much of a choice either way.

  Might as well get it over with.

  She made a beeline for the clubhouse, getting there just as the last players were straggling in. As she followed them through the door, she silently repeated her usual prayer of thanks to the pioneering female sportswriters who had endured years of harassment from sexist players and managers. Today, the guys were mostly gentlemen, or at least they tended to swallow the offensive jibes before they actually got past their teeth. There was the occasional disgusting remark thrown her way, but she’d pretty much learned to ignore those incidents.

  Gripping her laptop bag tightly to her side, Maddie jostled along with a bunch of guys from the local media as she headed through the crowded clubhouse toward the manager. Jack Ault was one of the true gentlemen of the game. Tall, with a tanned, rugged face and a full head of wavy salt-and-pepper hair, he radiated confidence in his team and himself. He treated all his players with respect, and they responded by playing hard for him. His fairness extended to reporters, too. Jack had always made time to talk to her, usually with a mischievous twinkle in his baby blues.

  Maddie sidled up as he started to unbutton his jersey, raising her voice over the din. “Jack, how bad is José’s injury, and what are you going to do if he has to go on the disabled list? Have you decided who’ll take over in right, and what other changes will have to be put in place?”

  The manager turned around, rubbing his face as he tried to stifle a yawn. He took a half-step backward as five microphones snaked close to his face. “It’s a fractured right arm, Maddie. We don’t know about the extent of the injury yet—whether it’s a clean break or something worse. But even in the best case scenario, José’s going to be out for months.”

  “What about Jake Miller?” one of the local broadcasters asked. “He’s been hot at Triple A. Is he ready to come up?”

  Jack grimaced. “We wanted to give Miller a couple of more weeks down in Triple A. Our plan was to get him at least a hundred at-bats in Allentown before bringing him up. But he’s progressed faster than we’d even hoped for. So, yeah, it looks like we’ll be calling Miller up. He may still be a little rusty, but even rusty he’s still one hell of a ballplayer.”

  Maddie struggled to suppress a flare of unprofessional excitement. She’d never met Jake Miller, but she’d been following his career for years and had been eagerly anticipating the day he’d be called up to the big-league team. She wasn’t embarrassed to admit—well, not too embarrassed—that she was a total fan-girl, fascinated by his powerful bat and skilled outfield defense. On top of that, he also came off as a straight-up kind of guy, one who was pretty modest given his status as a star athlete.

  His outrageous good looks sure didn’t hurt one bit, either. If Maddie were still a teenager, she knew she’d have posters of him plastered all over her bedroom walls.

  Jake Miller was a hell of a ballplayer, and his projected return after injury to the big league roster would no doubt be on the front page of every sports section in the country tomorrow. Despite his standing as a superstar, most baseball fans knew little about Miller other than his decade of accomplishments on the field. The man avoided celebrity status like it was toxic sludge, and refused to talk to the media about anything but the game of baseball, even though his looks and talent could have easily landed him on the cover of dozens of glossy magazines. Maddie had read everything about him that she could ever get her hands on, but the essence of the man still managed to elude her.

  Surrounded by jostling, shouting reporters, she stood rooted to the spot as an idea began to take shape in her brain. What could it do for a writer’s career if Jake Miller decided to break his own hard and fast, self-imposed rules?

  And what exactly could she offer to get him to consider doing just that?

  CHAPTER TWO

  Jake Miller cast his gaze around the nearly full grandstand and bleachers. Allentown, Pennsylvania. Coca-Cola Park. Not exactly Wrigley Field or Fenway, but baseball was baseball, even in the minor leagues. Even when you were playing for the Lehigh Valley IronPigs.

  IronPigs. One word, for God’s sake, and obviously part of local history. The Lehigh Valley area was steel country, down on its luck now, but once a mighty beating heart inside industrial America—as important to the country as the fields and dairies of his beloved native Minnesota. Still, being stuck here was beginning to get pretty damn old.

  One good thing about Allentown—its proximity to Philadelphia. Sixty miles, and barely more than an hour’s drive to the beautiful new ball park in Philadelphia. And Philly was where Jake longed to be, back with the Patriots. Back in the major leagues, his interrupted career resumed, finally healthy and free of pain.

  Jake swung a weighted bat in the on-deck circle, waiting for his turn at the plate. There were worse places to play baseball on a warm June night, but as much as he loved the game for its own sake, he couldn’t imagine having to play in the minors for the rest of his career. For him, thank God, it was a matter of when he’d get back to the big leagues, not if.

  Of course, some in the Patriots’ head office had all but written him off when he shattered his right ankle in spring training last year. The freak injury had led to a botched surgery in March that left him hobbling for months in a fruitless attempt at recovery, and it had taken a specialist at the Mayo Clinic to repair the damage. That second surgery had finally pointed Jake in the right direction.

  But it had bee
n an arduous and emotionally taxing journey of rehabilitation. Spring training this year had been spent on the disabled list. Then, after six more weeks of rehab, he’d been dispatched to Allentown for an indefinite period of conditioning and adjustment to game conditions. The Patriots’ front office would only call him up when he was back to pre-injury, peak performance. He’d been killing himself in Allentown, determined to fulfill those expectations, all while counseling himself to remain patient. But the Patriots’ general manager, Dave Dembinski, had never been his number one fan, especially after Jake had forced the Patriots to salary arbitration three years ago and won. Dembinski didn’t like losing at anything or to anyone.

  When it came time to bat, Jake stepped up to the plate with a hyper-awareness that his team trailed the Buffalo Bisons 4-2 in the bottom of the eighth inning. The gravel-voiced announcer introduced him, drawing out the last syllable of his name in a rousing call, and the crowd let out a long, appreciative roar.

  He took his stance in the batter’s box, glaring at the Bisons’ pitcher. Unfortunately, he knew the guy wouldn’t want to give him a decent pitch to hit. Not many minor league pitchers wanted to face a healthy Jake Miller, not when he had over three hundred and eighty home runs in ten seasons in his back pocket. Most likely, this young reliever would try to throw him four balls just off the plate, and then move on to try his luck with the next batter.

  But Jake was wrong, and was caught off guard, reacting just a fraction too slow when the hurler smoked a fastball on the inside corner with his first pitch. He whiffed the air above the ball as it made a noisy thump in the catcher’s glove.

  Amusement warred with irritation as he settled back into his stance. At least the kid had the balls to throw straight heat with two men on base, but Jake couldn’t believe he’d been so asleep at the switch.