Balk (Home Stand #2)

by Lacy Hart

  Balk

  The Home Stand Series

  - Book 2 -

  By Lacy Hart

  Published by Scarlet Lantern Publishing

  Copyright © 2019 by

  Lacy Hart & Scarlet Lantern Publishing

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  This book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language.

  All characters in this work are 18 years of age or older.

  Table of Contents

  Other Titles by Lacy Hart

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Epilogue

  Steamy Romance Excerpts from Lacy Hart

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  Other Titles by Lacy Hart

  The Home Stand Series

  Change Up

  - The Home Stand Series Book 1 -

  Single Dad, Small Town Romances

  Burnt

  After Midnight

  Lacy Hart's Single Dad Romance Collection

  Bethany Beach Romances

  Sweet Nothings

  1

  The buzz of the alarm cut through the air of the bedroom like a razor and Wes shot up in bed, panting. By the time he calmed down and glanced at the clock, he realized that Kristin must have gotten up early and forgot to turn off the clock on her side of the bed before she left for work. Wes stretched his arm across the bed, still warm from where Kristin slept just a short time ago and slammed the top of the clock to stop the alarm. He saw it was only after seven, and the room was still dark. Sunrise in February in Pennsylvania hadn’t happened yet, and it just made Wes feel more like rolling back over to get more sleep. What did he have to get up for anyway, he rationalized. He laid back on his pillow for a moment, staring up into the dark at the ceiling. He could make out the shadow of the ceiling fan in the room, and his eyes adjusted to the dark faster now that he saw a slit of light from the kitchen creeping under the bedroom door.

  “Kris?” he yelled, wondering if she was still in the kitchen.

  When there was no answer, Wes knew she must have gone out to the library early again. It would take some time for her car to warm up in the cold, but the ride into Chandler to the library was less than five minutes. Why leave so early? Because she’s Kristin, Wes thought. A smile crept over his lips in the dark. Wes turned to his side, considered going back to sleep, and then sat up in bed. He had been doing too much sleeping in for his liking lately and decided now was as good a time as any to start his day.

  The chill of the tiled bathroom floor shot up Wes Martin’s spine the moment he placed his foot down on the floor. Moving from the comfort of the shag carpeting of the bedroom to the tile was more than enough to make Wes open his eyes wider. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and saw he was still shaking out the shivers that ran through his body. Wes wasted no time in turning the shower on and getting it as hot as he knew he could stand before stripping off his flannel bottoms and climbing into the stall. The hot water pelted his muscles and worked through the cold his body tried to hold onto.

  Wes sighed deeply and rested both palms flat on the shower wall in front of him so the hot water could continue to work its magic. The water dripped from his brown hair, letting Wes know that his hair was much longer than it would have been back in his baseball playing days when it was short and neat. He hadn’t seen much of the need to keep up with things like that, and a quick rub of his chin made him realize he had more than just a day or two of stubble on his face. It was far from the norm for him, but Wes hadn’t been inclined to worry about things like this much for the last six months or so.

  When he finished showering, Wes climbed out and heard the familiar pop that his left knee often made in the mornings. Stiffness in the knee he had surgery on more than a year ago was something he dealt with more now as well, especially since working out was no longer a daily obligation. Wes flexed the knee back and forth a few times to work the kinks out, hoping the tightness would go away quickly, but Wes knew that from the way his knee had been for the last few weeks that wasn’t likely to happen. Ever since he had slipped and fallen in the driveway when he chased his daughter Isabelle playfully as they tossed snowballs at each other, his knee hadn’t felt right. The idea of trudging to Pittsburgh to see his orthopedist made Wes shake his head to erase the thought. The ride took too long, and he never knew who he might run into while he was there. The Pirates still used the orthopedist as one of their primary doctors and having to see ex-teammates who would inevitably ask him what retirement was like, how he was doing, and if he missed the game was not something he looked forward to.

  Wrapped only in his towel, Wes sat on the edge of the bed. He glanced to his right and caught a glimpse of himself in the full-length mirror in the corner of the room. He stood up from the bed, his knee groaning again, and walked until he was in front of the mirror. The flecks of gray that dotted his brown hair were becoming more visible. His gaze worked its way down, and he saw that he was still fit, thanks mainly to all the chores done around the horse farm, but it wasn’t like it was when he was playing, and he was proudest of his physique.

  Wes went to his dresser and mindlessly pulled out clothes for the day. Before he pulled his jeans on, he moved back to his dresser and grabbed the sleeve that slid over his knee that helped give it extra support. He had been wearing it frequently lately, trying to hide it from Kristin when he could so she wouldn’t worry about him and coerce him into seeing the doctor. Trying to convince Kristin that it was nothing to be concerned about might be a battle he didn’t want to fight just yet. Wes held out hope the knee would start to feel better with some stretching, and when the warmer weather of the spring might finally get here in a month or so.

  Wes paced out of the bedroom to the kitchen and saw the stainless-steel coffee carafe sitting on the counter with a pink sticky note attached to it. Wes pulled the letter off to read it.

  Got up early to drive Izzy to school. Auditions for the spring musical were this morning, and she was keyed up. I left you some coffee. How about lunch today? Let me know.

  Love you,

  Kris

  Wes had forgotten about the spring musical auditions, even though he shouldn’t have since it was all Izzy had been talking about for the last week or so. She had been up in her room practicing with every free moment, listening to the soundtrack from “The Little Mermaid.” It had gotten to the point where Wes and Kristin now knew all the words to the songs as well, and more than once Wes received weird looks from his Dad when they worked on the farm and Wes would find himself singing “Kiss the Girl” in a deep, calypso style voice.

  The fresh aroma of the coffee emanated from the cara
fe the moment Wes started pouring, and the smell alone was enough for Wes to perk up. He took a few quick sips as he strode towards the back doors and opened the blinds. The sun was just starting to peek up now, and it could be seen just beyond the rise in the hill at the rear of the house out towards the back building.

  Wes stared out not so much at the sunrise, but at that building. He hadn’t been up there since the month after he retired. The building held the indoor batting cage he had constructed years ago so that he could train during the off-season. Wes spent hours up there on many occasions. He hit ball after ball until there were blisters underneath his batting gloves, as he looked to perfect his swing against curveballs with wicked breaks or fastballs that moved at ninety-five miles per hour or more. All that extra training had paid off for him over the years, but now the building served only as a memory of what was. More than once, Wes thought about finding another use for the space, but he never had the heart to go beyond those initial feelings.

  It took just a few more sips of his coffee before Wes knew his plan for this morning. He didn’t have any chores he had to get to right away on the farm, and since he got up and about earlier than usual, why not go up there? He walked back into the bedroom and took off his jeans, replacing them with a pair of black sweatpants. He put his boots on and grabbed a pair of sneakers from the closet while he pulled out his red flannel jacket. The building was only in the backyard, but a good four inches of snow covered the ground, with ice likely underneath that, and the temperature had barely been above twenty degrees lately.

  That first step out onto the back porch gave the familiar crunch Wes always loved as a kid. He constantly wanted to be the first one to step into the snow outside, even if it meant he had to shovel off the front porch and sidewalk for his parents. Wes made sure to move gingerly as he went across the yard and scaled the incline to the building. The last thing he wanted to do was fall, wrench his knee, and have to explain to Kristin, Izzy, his parents, the paramedics, or anyone else just what he was trying to do.

  The incline seemed steeper than he remembered, and Wes saw his labored breath hang in the cold air with each step before he reached the door of the batting cage. Before he went inside, he made sure to go over to the switch box outside and turn the power back on. He had shut the electricity off months ago since it wasn’t getting any use. Wes turned the key in the lock and kicked away some of the snow that had built up outside the door so he could pull it open enough to step inside.

  The inside of the building contained the same frosty chill as the outside. Wes flipped the light switch, and the lights flickered on. He noticed a few of the fluorescents high up on the ceiling were out, but there was no way he was getting the equipment up here from the farm to change the lights until a good spring thaw. Besides, he figured on just taking a few swings to get it out of his system, and then he would not be back up here again for months, if ever.

  Wes unzipped his jacket and hung it on one of the hooks just inside the door in an old baseball locker he purchased from a collector years ago. It was an old locker from Forbes Field, and Wes imagined all the greats like Clemente and Mazeroski used the locker at some point. With his jacket off and just a t-shirt on, Wes could see the hair on his arm, along with the accompanying goosebumps, as they came to life from the cold. He went over to the thermostat on the far wall and turned the temperature up to 72, but he knew he might complete the workout before the heat came up to anywhere near being warm.

  Wes had spared no expense in keeping the batting cage up to state-of-the-art, and a remote and a computer controlled everything. He turned on the computer and picked up the remote for the pitching machine, pressing the button and aiming to turn the device on. The machine whirred and hummed as it came to life, and Wes saw the lights of the machine flicker on from sixty feet, six inches away. Excitement coursed through his veins, and he waited with anticipation for the computer to finish booting so he could start.

  A few strides away was the bat rack, covered with a gray tarp. Wes peeled back the cover and picked up the first bat on the rack. It had always been one of his favorites, and he slowly ran his hand over the wood. All his bats were always made of maple, and he long had a deal with Louisville Slugger to supply his bats. They had been his favorites since he was in high school and he never wavered over the years even as younger players came along and went with ash or other types of woods and other companies. Wes’ thumb grazed over the imprint of his name on the bat, and he got that familiar rush.

  The beep of the pitching machine pushed Wes out of his haze, and he glanced up to see that the green light on the device glowed, indicating its readiness for use. Wes returned to the locker and pulled on a pair of batting gloves, adjusting the Velcro several times to get the fit just right. He considered going into the cage without a helmet but thought better of it. It had been too long, and one mishit could leave him lying unconscious on the floor where no one would find him for days. He still had one of his old Pirates’ helmets and chose that one to wear. The helmet fit tighter than expected, mainly because of the extra hair on Wes’ head instead of the buzz cut he regularly wore during the playing season.

  A stop at the computer before he entered the cage so it could track results happened first, and then Wes revisited familiar territory. He stood in the batter’s box next to the faux home plate and tapped it lightly three times with the top of the bat. The computer called balls and strikes for him as they hit the net behind him since the machine was set up to replicate real-life pitching, and Wes looked back at the netting and gave a nod, just as he would when he stepped in, and a real umpire occupied that spot. He grabbed the remote and pointed it at the pitcher, pressing the start button.

  Wes dug in with his right foot, shuffling into the imaginary dirt beneath him. He took a few brief practice swings before the first pitch began its way towards him. He found himself flailing at a curveball that he didn’t expect, nearly falling across the batter’s box as the ball hit the net. The next pitch came in as a rising fastball, and he fared no better with that one. In fact, the first ten pitches he saw he either swung and missed or let go, only to see them rung up as strikes. The eleventh pitch moved quickly, an inside fastball that he barely tipped, just enough to have it ricochet off his right ankle.

  “Fuck!” Wes yelled in anger, and he slammed the bat down. He angrily pressed the pause button on the pitching machine and hobbled out of the cage over to the locker where he had a chair to sit on. He rolled up the pant leg of his sweats and gently tugged down his sock to a bruise darkening just above his ankle. Wes reached over to a shelf in the locker where he kept some supplies and grabbed a spray bottle of ethyl chloride. He shot a few cold sprays onto his leg, shivered, and pulled his sock back up.

  The rational part of his brain told Wes to put the bat back, turn the machine off and go back to the nice, warm house, and have another cup of coffee. The baseball player in him, however, said to hell with that, picked up the bat, and got back in the cage. Wes breathed deeply, pressed the pause button again, and the device lit up as it readied another pitch. He squinted out towards the pitcher as his hands gripped tightly around the bat handle. In an instant, the next pitch was upon him, and Wes let loose with a hellacious swing. He felt the reverberation of the bat on ball as his eyes followed the swing all the way through and the ball took off high into the net well at the other end of the cage.

  A tremendous feeling of satisfaction surged through him, and pitch after pitch from there on got sent back in the form of line drives or high flies that might go out of most stadiums. Wes kept it up, hitting everything served up at him until he was bathed in sweat from head to toe. After Wes sent one curveball that screamed back on a line ten feet over the pitching device, he turned the machine off, satisfied with his efforts. He exited the cage and went back over to sit down at the locker. Wes peeled off the batting gloves and picked up his bat. He could feel the warm spots where his hands gripped the handle and the marks on the wood from all the balls he had hit
. He held the bat under his nose and inhaled, taking in the sweet odor of the warm maple.

  “God, I miss this,” Wes whispered, almost afraid that someone would hear him say it out loud.

  2

  The ice that built upon the windows of the Jeep was much more than Kristin and Izzy expected that morning. Both worked furiously on the front window, chiseling through that glacier-like layer as if they were furious sculptors looking to get through marble. Both were red-faced when they hopped into the front seats of the car, waiting for the defroster to work its magic on what was left on the windshield. Kristin flicked on the headlights to cut through the dark morning before the sun had come up.

  “Boy, I really hope you get this part, Izzy,” Kristin said, as her gloves gripped the steering wheel and her boots danced furiously on the floor mats as she anxiously awaited the defroster to complete its mission so she could switch the heat on. Kristin was grateful that Wes insisted she dispose of her old car last year, the one that she treasured for years through college and beyond. She knew it was on its last legs with each repair done, and after six months of being with Wes, he went out and bought her a new Jeep Cherokee as a sort of anniversary present. Kristin insisted it was too much, but Wes made the argument that she needed to be safe driving around Chandler, whether it was just her, Izzy, or anyone else.