Hardball

by V.K. Sykes

  * * *

  As strange as it felt to be playing baseball in Canada, Nate could be pitching on the dark side of the moon for all he cared. He was so glad to get back onto the mound and pitch in a real game. In Triple-A, the hitters were almost as skilled as their major league counterparts, so he knew it would be a good test of his readiness. Tonight was his first chance to pitch in an actual game since suffering the shoulder injury.

  The evening sun slanted in from the west over the stands of the cozy ballpark. A warm west breeze ruffled his hair. His shoulder felt loose and fully healed. His arm strength wasn’t close to a hundred per cent yet, but it was getting a lot better every day. The small crowd gave him a standing ovation when he was introduced, clearly appreciative of his All-Star season last year with the Patriots. When he took the mound, the other players surrounded him, giving him words and slaps of encouragement.

  Man, it felt good. He was exactly where he should be. A mound was a mound, even if it was in the minor leagues.

  He threw the first two pitches high and wide, but got the third over the inside corner. The batter wristed a weak grounder to the shortstop who fired it to first for the out. Nate smiled to himself. It felt like it was going to be a good night.

  He struck out the second batter on three pitches and gave a little fist pump when the umpire called the third strike. It was a bush move so early in the game, but he couldn’t help it. He figured people would understand how he felt. When the third batter hit a popup that the second baseman ran down for the out, Nate jogged off the field, every cell in his body humming with satisfaction. Cheers filled the cozy little stadium.

  The next four innings went almost as perfectly. Only one ball was hard hit—a line drive that whizzed past him on its way to center field, missing his head by maybe two feet. The close call shouldn’t have bothered him, but it did. He wondered if the injury to his shoulder was making him a little gun-shy. Lack of confidence had never been a problem for him, but so many things in his life had gone wrong in the last little while. So many things that made him wonder who he really was.

  He gritted his teeth and struck out the following batter.

  After he’d pitched five complete innings, the Ottawa manager pulled him out of the game. He was on a maximum pitch count of seventy, as ordered by the Patriots head office, and he left the game after throwing sixty-seven. He’d staked the Cougars to a 4-0 lead.

  In the Spartan but fairly new clubhouse, Nate started to strip off his uniform. Despite the narrow miss with the line drive, he felt great. He’d been sure his arm was fully healed and ready to go, but that hadn’t stopped a few doubts from nagging away at him. Getting back on the mound with a hugely successful outing had been exactly what he needed to lift the boulder of doubt off his back. Nate Carter was going to be just fine again. One more start in Ottawa and he’d be back with for the Patriots, healthy and ready to help the team take a run at the National League pennant.

  That’s what counted. That’s who he was. That’s what he was meant to do with his life.

  After icing his arm for ten minutes, he decided to shower and dress but not leave the park. He had nowhere to go other than his hotel room. Better to stick around and spend some time with the Cougars. But as he stood in the shower, letting the hot water stream over him, the all-too-familiar black mood started to resurface.

  Holly.

  He’d managed to force her completely out of his mind when he was on the mound, but it hadn’t taken long for his thoughts to turn back to her. Even in the middle of his own element, a baseball clubhouse, he still missed her with an ache that felt like a punch in the gut.

  It surprised the hell out of him. He’d told himself over and over that it wouldn’t be long before she faded from his mind. But it was actually getting worse, and that was making him crazy.

  No woman had ever affected him like Holly Bell. Not even close, and Nate hadn’t a clue how to deal with it. Over and over, he replayed their last conversation, remembered the tears in her eyes and the sorrow on her beautiful, sensitive face. It made him feel like the worst jerk in the world that he had treated her the way he did.

  Get over it, idiot. You did the right thing. He told himself that every day in the hopes that it would eventually stick.

  By the time he’d toweled himself dry and put his street clothes on, the other players had started streaming into the clubhouse. The game had ended 4-2 and he’d been awarded the win because he’d left with the lead after five innings. A minor league win shouldn’t have meant much at all to him, but somehow this one did. It was an affirmation that he still had life in his arm and a future ahead.

  A couple of reporters—one from the local paper and the other from a TV station—cornered him looking for quotes. He obliged them, and then signed autographs for most of the Cougars—bats, balls, caps, programs, and anything else they could get their hands on. When some of the players told him they were heading out for beer, he didn’t hesitate in saying he’d tag along. The last thing he wanted to do was to go back to his hotel room and sit around moping about Holly until he could finally fall asleep.

  Ten guys piled into three cabs. When they crossed the Ottawa River, a sign in the middle of the bridge told him they were entering the city of Gatineau, Quebec. The Cougars’ starting catcher, Pedro, who he’d played a few games with in the majors, told him the guys liked to party in the clubs on the Quebec side. They stayed open later, and had smoking hot French girls who really had game. That last expression garnered the usual laughs from the other players, but Nate couldn’t seem to work up any enthusiasm. Maybe when he actually saw those smoking hot girls he’d muster some up.

  He had barely pushed through the club’s door when he understood what Pedro meant. He swept his eyes around the room, settling on one hottie after another. The girls really knew how to dress—or not dress. Short, tight skirts and flimsy, spaghetti-strap tank tops were everywhere on the pulsating dance floor.

  But there was too much glitter. Too much make-up. Still, those girls knew how to shake it.

  They were hot for damn sure and…well, tacky.

  Tacky? Where the hell did that thought come from?

  Muttering to himself, Nate headed over to the bar. A couple of beers, and maybe even a few dances, might help him to get his head screwed back on straight.

  He was still working on his first Molson and avoiding eye contact with the babe standing next to him when his pants pocket started to vibrate against his thigh. Pretty late for a call. He pulled out his cell phone and saw Jake’s ID.

  Maybe Maddie had gone into labor a bit early. He hustled toward the door since the volume of noise in the bar drowned out any hope of conversation. “What’s up, man?” he asked, a little worried. “Something wrong?”

  “Where the hell are you?” Jake yelled back. “I can hardly hear you. The background noise is awful.”

  “Just a minute.” Nate flicked a salute to the bouncer, pushed through the door and headed a few feet down the sidewalk. A panhandler was sitting huddled against the side of the building, a paper coffee cup beside him. He dug into his pocket and pulled out a couple of U.S. dollar bills. The panhandler gave him a nod and a thumbs-up when he stuffed the bills into the cup.

  “Is this better?” he asked as he walked a bit farther down the sidewalk.

  “Much better. Well, it sounds like you’re enjoying yourself.”

  He shrugged, even though Jake couldn’t see it. “I needed something to distract me for a while. We’re at a club on the Quebec side of the river. Loud music, lots of hot babes. You know the drill.” God, even to his own ears he sounded pathetic.

  Jake snorted with derision. “Yeah, I know. Well, I hate to ruin your fun, but I thought you should know that Holly got another phone call from that Arnold guy. She’s pretty upset about it.”

  Nate’s mind seemed to contract with a pinpoint intensity, then fury exploded from deep within, expanding outward in a red wave.

  “Shit!” He kicked the newspaper
box at the curb in front of him, sending it rocking on its base. The panhandler grabbed his cup and scurried off in the opposite direction.

  Nate drew in a deep breath, trying to calm down. “What did the bastard say?”

  “I don’t know exactly. But I can tell you that threats were involved.”

  Fuck. He would kill the guy when he got his hands on him. “How did you find out?” he asked through clenched teeth.

  “Holly told Maddie. She also asked her not to tell you about it, but I said the hell with that. I knew you’d go crazy if you found out we’d kept something like that from you.”

  “Damn right I would,” Nate said. In fact, he was pissed that Holly hadn’t called him right away, but he would deal with that later. “Thanks, bud. Maddie and Holly are both going to be mighty ticked off at you.”

  “Don’t worry about it. It won’t be the last time.” Jake paused a moment. “Holly’s too proud to admit it, but I’m betting she needs you right now. I was thinking it would be a good idea for you to get your ass back here and be with her. Maddie said she’s trying to hide it, but she’s pretty scared.”

  Nate’s mind leaped ahead, thinking through the obstacles. He could feel the sweat seeping through his linen shirt, even though it was a lot cooler outside than it had been in the club. But the thought of Holly alone in that house scared the hell out of him.

  “I’ll be out of here tomorrow,” he said, already trying to figure out how he’d explain that to the Patriots management.

  “Good. But you know you’ll have to do some fancy talking to the front office about that,” Jake cautioned.

  “No kidding. They want me to pitch another game here on Sunday. But all I know is that I have to get back home and be with Holly. I’m sure as hell not sitting around here twiddling my thumbs until Sunday night.”

  “Call me when you get in, then,” Jake said, the concern in his voice obvious.

  “Sure.”

  “And Nate? Anything I can do to help, just call, okay? Day or night.”

  “Absolutely. I’ll call you tomorrow after I get in.”

  As soon as he hung up, Nate hurried back into the bar and told Pedro he had to get back to the hotel. Though the catcher gave him a puzzled stare, he didn’t ask any questions.

  In the cab, he thought hard about calling Holly but decided against it. He knew she’d pooh-pooh the danger, even if she was scared shitless. She’d put down her stubborn little foot and try to talk him out of coming back. Then they’d have another stupid fight.

  No, he had a better idea, and it didn’t matter whether Holly liked it or not. She wanted commitment? Hell. He was just getting started.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven