Scoring

by Kristin Hardy

  Waking up the morning after Ryan’s wedding to go on a road trip hadn’t helped. She was out of her depth, unsure of her moves, and every day she was that much more conscious that the end of the season was drawing nearer. He’d spend the final weeks with teams in Florida and Georgia. And after that, who knew?

  That was the frustrating part. Instead of it being a normal relationship, after barely a month as his lover, her choice was either leap into the void and ask if he wanted to keep it going, or let it end. Compared to that, her anxieties over whether she’d get a contract for the next year or whether she’d find a job to pay for rent and food during the off-season were minor.

  The question she wrestled with, the one that kept her up nights staring at the ceiling long after Mace had fallen asleep, was whether to tell him she was in love with him. He had feelings for her, that was clear. What was impossible was finding a realistic way to have any sort of long-term relationship. Long-distance arrangements worked only in the movies. In reality, there were times you just had to say maybe love wouldn’t conquer all.

  During the season, a week here or there, the very rare day off was all they might manage, and that, only if he stayed as a roving instructor. If he took the New Jersey job, they’d never see each other at all. And the off-season was even more impossible—he lived in Florida, she lived in Massachusetts. She had to be out of her mind trying to think of a way they could have anything even resembling a real relationship, even assuming that that was something Mace wanted.

  And yet, when she thought of telling him goodbye at the end of the week, she wanted to weep.

  It was needing him that was the hardest. With all of her previous lovers, she’d been the one to decide when it was over. They’d treated her well or poorly, and she’d stuck with the relationships until she could be bothered to deal with the logistics of breaking them off. She had been diverted by them, but she hadn’t needed them for her happiness. When she thought about Mace leaving, it was as though a void opened up at her feet.

  So she was back to her debate—tell him and risk finding that they couldn’t come to terms or live with the hollowness? Put that way, it wasn’t really much of a decision. The worst that could happen was what was going to happen anyway, and she’d never been one to shrink from unpleasant tasks. If they both wanted a future, they could find a way. If Mace didn’t…

  If Mace didn’t, he was already lost to her.

  She’d just go in there and join him and have the conversation. Resolved, she got up to take a step—

  And nerves assaulted her, dampening her palms and sending adrenaline surging through her veins. She sat back down on the bed. Probably best to wait a minute or two while she figured out what to say, maybe even wait for him to get out of the shower. When the timing was right, she’d start that discussion. Just put herself out there, let him know what she felt and see what happened. She’d do it, too, Becka thought. Really. Just as soon as she checked the weather.

  She fiddled with the remote, flipping through channels, noticing none of them. Then suddenly she stopped dead. On the screen was an image of a heartbreakingly beautiful actress, one who’d been a big star just a couple of years before.

  And standing with his arm around her, was Mace.

  MACE STOOD under the hot water, letting it beat onto his shoulders. In a matter of days, his time with the Lowell Weavers would be over. A couple of weeks with the southern teams and the season would be complete. But he wouldn’t be, not without Becka.

  In the time since he’d left Florida, he’d found new meaning to his life, an energy, a reason. Part of that was the teaching, he had to hand it to Stan. Part of it, though, was a certain cat-eyed redhead who prowled through his days and filled his dreams. But how did he even know what he felt? Certainly in the past when he’d thought he’d found the one, he’d been sadly mistaken. Why did he think now was any different?

  Because it was, and deep down, he knew it. If he left Lowell without talking with Becka about where they went next, he knew he would regret it. He didn’t need the Trenton job, he could keep doing what he was doing. They’d find a way to make it work.

  Because deep down, he knew he loved her. And it was time to tell her that.

  BECKA STARED at the television as the image changed. It was a shot of Mace from years before, his hair cropped short as it had been in his playing days. The blond, waifish woman on his arm whispered in his ear.

  Even though Becka knew that she was looking at photos taken years before, jealousy pricked at her. The shot faded to a live television studio, and the same woman cozily ensconced on a couch with the talk show host. She knew the face, Becka thought. An actress, and what was her name? Carolyn…Catherine…Ca… She notched the sound up, fascinated. “I’m Jessamine Maffrey. We’re here with Calista Stockton to talk about her newly released tell-all book Calista Confidential. Thanks for being here with us.”

  Calista smiled and fluffed her hair.

  Jessamine leaned in. “I have to tell you, all the Hollywood dish aside, the thing I found most fascinating about your book was the story of your relationship with Mace Duvall. I was absolutely riveted.” The screen behind them changed to a shot of Mace in his baseball uniform, with that focused look Becka knew he wore when he was at the plate. In the current context, though, it just made him look hard and cold. “The pregnancy and miscarriage right when your relationship ended…” Behind her glasses, the host’s eyes were bright with malice. “He was the father of the child, right? Your book doesn’t really ever say how it actually happened.”

  The hairs on the back of Becka’s neck began to prick up one by one.

  Calista’s face wore an expression of lingering pain. “Well, Jessamine, it’s just time to get past it. I’m streamlining my life, and ending the secrecy is part of that.”

  “Oh, but your book is just as tantalizing for what it doesn’t tell as what it does. Mace Duvall was the father of the child you lost, wasn’t he? You’re among friends who care for you. Won’t you tell us what happened?”

  “That’s why I put out the book, so I couldn’t run away anymore.” Calista gave a laugh that rang just a little hollow.

  “It doesn’t sound like you were the one who ran away at all,” the host said flatly. “Now you were involved with Mace Duvall for six months, is that right? Were you living together?”

  “He moved into my house in L.A. He hadn’t bought a place yet. I thought we were building a life together. I thought—” She broke off, misting over daintily. Jessamine handed her a box of tissues.

  Becka watched, transfixed.

  “You thought that he was serious. According to your book, you’d talked about marriage.”

  Calista nodded. “I thought he wanted the same things that I did. A family. A home.” Her voice faltered.

  “When did you find out you were pregnant?”

  She stared down at her hands. “In February. Mace was upset because it meant I’d deliver in October, and he was hoping his team would make the World Series.”

  Jessamine gave her one of her patented empathetic stares. “You must have been really hurt by that.”

  Calista raised her head bravely. “I knew he’d love the baby when it came, and if he couldn’t be there for the birth, well, I figured it was just part of being a player’s wife.”

  “But he didn’t ask you to marry him right away when you told him.”

  Becka’s hands curled into fists, the nails cutting into her palms, unnoticed.

  “Well, no, he didn’t. He’d been working out a lot, spending late nights at the gym getting ready for spring training. I just put it down to preoccupation. I knew he loved me, you see.” Her chin wobbled. “Or I thought I did.”

  Jessamine lowered her voice, touching Calista’s shoulder gently. “Tell us about the night of the charity auction. According to your book, that was the night you miscarried, but you don’t say exactly what happened.”

  Calista looked down at her lap, silky blond hair falling to screen her fac
e. The seconds ticked by while she gathered her strength. While Becka tried to absorb what she was hearing.

  “Calista?” The host said gently. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  Calista looked up, blinking away tears. “Oh yes.” She dashed them away and took a deep breath, visibly composing herself. “I’d been at an industry function. It was scheduled to run quite late, but I’d begun feeling ill, so I came home in the early evening. I walked in…” her voice cracked.

  “Take your time,” Jessamine said gently.

  Calista pushed her shoulders back with determination. “Imagine being pregnant and sick, coming to your home, looking for comfort. Imagine instead finding the father of your child in bed with another woman, having him tell you that he doesn’t want the child, that you’re trapping him and interfering with his career. Imagine having him tell you that he doesn’t love you anymore.” She reached out for Jessamine’s supporting hand. On the screen behind her, a montage of shots appeared, Mace with actresses, models, pop stars, seemingly every famous woman in the world on his arm. “That night…I lost the baby.” Her face crumbled and sobs choked her voice as she fell into Jessamine’s comforting arms.

  Becka stared at the screen numbly.

  Behind her, the bathroom door opened and Mace walked out, naked, toweling his hair. “Hey, I thought you were going to take a shower with me.”

  Becka sat absolutely still. Something must have shown in the lines of her body because he stepped forward.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked in concern.

  She couldn’t speak, just gestured at the screen as she tried to reconcile the face she loved with the odious tale she’d just heard.

  On the screen, the two women broke apart, Calista wiping at her eyes.

  “What a devastating experience,” Jessamine said softly.

  Mace snorted. “Ah, darling Calista,” he said sardonically. “Well if it’s her life and she’s telling it, I’m sure it was devastating. So what’s the story this time?” He combed his wet hair back with his fingers.

  Becka turned slowly to look at him. “You.”

  On screen, Calista blinked eyes still damp with tears. “I’ll never forget that night as long as I live. What a beautiful baby we might have had.” The montage switched from shots of Mace on the town, back to his merciless look, then the show broke for commercial.

  “What the hell is this about?” Mace asked slowly, his eyes narrowing. “What night?”

  “The night you broke things off with her. Don’t tell me it’s slipped your mind, you were there,” Becka said astringently.

  “What is she saying?” he demanded.

  “That when she was pregnant with your child, she came home to find you in bed with another woman.” She needed to move, Becka realized, and badly. Pacing wasn’t nearly enough. She needed to be running, running somewhere miles and miles away from there. “She miscarried that night, after you told her you were done with her.”

  “What?”

  “Guess babies didn’t fit in with your career. At least that’s what she says,” Becka managed, unable to make herself look at him. She wanted him to tell her it was lies, that it wasn’t true, but the awful choking horror clenched around her heart made her very afraid it was.

  “My God.” The words exploded out of him. She did look then, to see his face bone white. It told her all she needed to know.

  “Oh yes,” Becka said miserably. “It’s all in her new book, available at bookstores everywhere.” Inside her, a thousand voices were screaming that this could not be, it could simply not be. When she looked at him, he was Mace, the man she loved. Could that be an illusion? Could he really be the kind of monster who would have done something like that?

  “Jesus,” he said softly and sat down slowly on the bed. Becka stared at him, torn between wanting to offer comfort and wanting to be anywhere but there. Mace looked up. “The media is going to have a field day with this. I’ve got to call my family and warn them,” he said with sudden urgency, snatching his cell phone off the dresser and punching keys as he walked into the other room to pull on a pair of jeans.

  “So were you ever going to tell me what happened with her?” Becka asked bleakly. “‘Nothing much,’ you said. ‘Just one of those relationship things.’”

  Mace looked at her blankly and put the phone down. “What?” he asked in a barely audible voice.

  “Were you even going to tell me about Calista? Didn’t you think it was going to come out some day?”

  He shook his head. “You don’t honestly buy that story.”

  Becka gave a short laugh. “Mace, the woman just told the whole country on national television. She wrote it in her memoirs. And you’re not telling me anything. What do you expect me to believe?”

  He looked at her oddly, then stood up. “I guess I expect you to believe in me. But then that’s been our problem all along, hasn’t it? What I say has never held as much weight with you as the dirt and the sleaze.”

  “Then tell me what really happened.” She despised herself for pleading, for, after everything, holding out the faint hope that there was an explanation.

  Mace leaned against the connecting door and looked at her. “Why should I bother? It sounds like Calista’s already taken care of that. You’ve got your mind made up.” He turned into his room. “You’ll excuse me. I’ve got some calls to make. I’ll see you tomorr—”

  The phone jangled for attention until Becka picked it up. “Hello? Yes, this is Becka. What? Oh my God, where?” Her voice sharpened with concern. “Yes. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” She hung up the phone and looked at Mace. “That was Sammy,” she said bleakly. “Morelli’s in the hospital. He got cut in a bar fight. I’ve got to go.” She shucked her wet clothes swiftly and pulled on dry ones.

  Mace walked into his room and came back wearing a shirt. “I’m coming with you,” he said, tucking it in.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Becka snapped. “There’s no reason for you to come, and anyway, how would we explain it? I woke you up in the middle of the night? Stay here, Mace, I don’t need you.” Somewhere deep inside, a part of her was shrieking and wailing, but she couldn’t afford the luxury of indulging it. Sometime soon, she’d be alone and then she could deal with it. In the meantime, maybe if she told herself often enough that she didn’t need him, in time she’d get used to saying it. And maybe, in time, she might even come to believe it.

  “Whether you want me there or not, I’m coming,” Mace said flatly. “The kid is hurt, and maybe if I’d done my job and talked to him weeks ago he wouldn’t be in the shape he’s in.”

  “Mace, he’s been headed this way all summer. I doubt there was much any of us could have done. You tried.” Then they were out in the hall, and the question of whether he was coming with her was moot.

  THE BATTLE-SCARRED HOSPITAL was crowded with late-night emergency cases. A harried-looking intern checked their identification. “He’s cut, but it’s not life-threatening,” she said briefly. “The knife bounced off a rib. He’ll be stiff for a couple of weeks and he’ll have an interesting scar, but that’s about it.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Back in bay three. We haven’t given him any pain-killers because his blood alcohol level was too high, so he’ll probably be glad of the distraction.”

  Becka and Mace walked past several patients until they spotted Morelli, looking pale and wan. He mustered up a smile when he saw them. “Hey.”

  “Hey yourself,” Becka said.

  “How you feeling, champ?” Mace asked.

  “Like I got kicked by a horse,” Morelli said. “Just don’t make me laugh, okay? Even breathing hurts right now.”

  “What’s under here?” Mace pointed toward a pad taped to Morelli’s jaw.

  “Guy did a warm-up on my face before he tried to fillet me.”

  “Yeah, well, you go looking for trouble, you’re likely to find it.”

  “Tell me something I don’t already know,” Morelli said
and gave a weak cough. He winced. “Oh man, that hurts.”

  “Where’s Sammy?” Becka asked.

  “He went out to make some phone calls.”

  “I should go find him. Okay if I leave you guys?”

  Mace nodded. “We’ll be fine.” Not exactly true, he thought as he watched her walk away. Morelli’s cuts would heal eventually, but he wasn’t sure if the Becka-shaped hole in his gut would ever fill in.

  He pulled the drape around the bay for privacy and turned back to Morelli. “So what happened?”

  “Guy went off on me.”

  “Morelli, for once, cut the crap, okay?” Mace’s voice was hard, without a trace of sympathy. “You’ve been looking for trouble all summer and you finally found it. Now what happened?”

  Morelli blinked. “I was out having a couple of drinks after the game. I saw this woman over at the jukebox. Real looker. You know the type, wearing something little and tight. So I figure, hey, I’ll go over and be sociable. She sort of plays it cool, but she’s still giving me the look and kind of turning that body toward me.” He craned his neck to look at Mace. “Hey, I’m a smart guy, I can read a woman’s body language and know when she’s coming on to me, but at the same time she’s acting like she’s not interested. So I say fine and go back to my drink. I figure it’s her problem.”

  “First smart thing I’ve heard you say.” Mace pulled a chair over and straddled it, resting his arms on the back.

  “Well, then I look over a little while later and she’s standing by the pool table watching this lump of meat play. And he’s ignoring her, except every so often he’ll come over and give her a squeeze, feel her up. So I see what’s going on. She wants me, but this dumbass boyfriend of hers is here, so she’s having to play it cool.”

  “And you decided not to.”

  “I walked over and said to her, hey, how tight are you with this guy? Asked her if she wanted to go somewhere else.”

  Mace snorted. “Smooth move, Morelli.”

  “Hey, she was turning that little body my way, but then she looks over at the meat and says, ‘No, I’m here with someone.’ I tell her that doesn’t matter, she can still go with me.”