Game On

by Collette West

  Did I expect him to spend the night? No. But it made my heart clench when I woke up without him this morning with just a lingering trace of his scent on my pillow. He didn't even leave me a note or send me a text. He just took off.

  But I wonder if something happened in the meantime. Did he get a bad report from the doctor? Did Terry lay into him again? Did he find out about the book?

  "Is there anything you wanna tell me, Hails?" Mom asks out of the blue. "Because just so you know, I reviewed the security camera footage this morning, because I thought I heard some strange noises last night, and I was surprised to see that we had an overnight guest."

  "Yeah, ummm…" I flush, and not because I'm standing over a vat of hot cooking oil.

  "It's okay, Hailey," she sighs. "You're a grown woman now. I don't want to treat you like a child, but I don't think it's entirely appropriate for you to be sneaking Bruce into the basement in the middle of the night. Your father'll have a stroke."

  "We just had a lot to talk about." I shake the excess grease from an order of mozzarella sticks and use a pair of tongs to package them. "Stuff that couldn't wait until morning, and then he told me that he was going to New York today and—"

  "You and Bruce will be the death of me." She gives me a lopsided grin. "Why can't the two of you just say what you mean to each other? He's shy. You're shy. And somewhere in between, you lose something in translation. You think you're communicating to him through your books and he thinks you're able to read his mind without him having to say a word. You have to stop being so afraid of each other and just be. If you hurt each other's feelings, so what? Apologize and move on. That's what working at a relationship is all about. You can't keep tiptoeing around each other when the going gets tough. Really…what am I going to do with the two of you?"

  "I'm sorry, Mom," I mumble sheepishly.

  "Don't tell me, Hails." She gives me a playful tap on the arm. "Tell him!"

  I open my mouth to respond, but my head jerks up when I hear what sounds like a chainsaw.

  "What's that?" I ask, wide-eyed.

  "Now, don't get mad, but—" Mom begins.

  "Never start a sentence like that, Ma." I grimace. "Do what you've been telling me to do. Just spit it out."

  "Your father hired Kurt to trim those hedges out back. It must be his day off from the road crew, and he's finally here to do it." My mom wrings her hands, knowing I'm not going to like it. Not one bit. "He shouldn't be here long. You don't even have to see him if you don't want to."

  I listen to the racket outside as it pulses through my brain. Then I lift the curtain aside and peer out the window. Yeah, that's all I needed today—Kurt Nelson shirtless and wielding a hedge trimmer in my backyard. Perfect.

  "Let me go talk to him," I mutter, untying my apron and shoving it under the counter. "He and Jilly got into it the other night at Lenny's and I don't want Kurt causing any more problems because of me. I have to make sure it doesn't happen again."

  "You're saying Bruce got into a bar fight with Kurt with his arm in a brace?" Mom asks, rubbing her forehead in consternation. "He has to be careful. He shouldn't let Kurt goad him like that. I'm going to have to have a talk with him."

  "Yeah, you and me both." I give her a weak smile before walking out the back door.

  "KURT!" I yell, but he doesn't hear me. When he turns his head, I get a glimpse of the orange earplugs he's sporting, which means I'm going to have to get closer—closer than I'd like.

  He has his Mountain Area baseball cap on backwards and it's all sweat-stained and broken in. He has a pair of mesh athletic shorts riding low on his hips, and that's about it. I'm sure any other girl would be drooling over his six-pack, which is all exposed and glistening in the sun, but not me. Not anymore. I can't believe I was ever into him for his body. What was I thinking?

  I hesitantly tap him on the shoulder, and he turns around, giving me a huge grin. He turns off the trimmer and plucks out his earplugs, standing up straighter, no doubt so that I can admire his killer physique. But those days are long gone. I'm not that girl anymore—not since Jilly reentered my life.

  "Hey, babe," he says, leaning in to give me a kiss, but I back away.

  "Kurt, c'mon." I rebuff his advances and his smile quickly turns into a sneer.

  "So you're still gonna be like that, huh?" He walks over to the stone wall near the edge of the property and takes a drink from the thermos he brought with him.

  "I want you to leave Jilly alone, Kurt." I watch his shoulders slump the minute I say Jilly's name. "How many times do I have to tell you that it's over? You have to let it go and move on before someone gets hurt."

  "You know, that's funny because it seems like you never really cared if I ended up getting hurt, did you?" He runs the back of one arm against his forehead and then the other. "See, you thought this whole time I was leading you on, but from the beginning, it seems like you've been playing me."

  "That's not fair, Kurt." I watch him as he wipes his face in his towel, waiting for him to look at me. "How can you even say that?"

  "Because I was stupid enough to fall for it. You wanted him to notice you, so you dangled me in front of him like I meant something to you," he chuckles sarcastically, staring over my head at something for a split second before continuing on. "I just never thought I'd end up developing feelings for you, so I guess that makes me the big loser in all of this, huh?"

  "Kurt, I—"

  He backs away when I step forward. "Nah. It's too late for that, Hails." He massages his jaw, giving me a brokenhearted look.

  Remorse tugs at my heart. I don't care about Kurt, not that way, but we do have a history together. I don't like the idea of knowing that I caused him pain. It doesn't exactly make me feel good. It wasn't all bad with Kurt. It just wasn't right. But I guess, if I really analyze it, that was more my fault than his.

  I move toward him again, tentatively laying a hand on his bicep, and his hand immediately reaches down to cover mine, his thumb grazing my knuckles.

  "I'll always care about you, Hails," he murmurs, looking down at me tenderly.

  "Yeah…" I pause, deliberating whether or not to give him what he wants as a parting gesture. I take a deep breath and press on. "Me too."

  That's when I hear a garbage can get kicked against the side of the building accompanied by the screech of an alley cat. WTF?

  But Kurt holds on to my hand, not letting me go. "Good. I hope he heard that."

  "Who?" I look up at him in confusion. "Who was there?"

  "Your precious New York King," he snarls, and I can see the pain mixing with a false sense of triumph in his eyes. "Who do you think?"

  "Jilly was standing there the whole time and you didn't tell me?" I wrench my hand free of his grip, resisting the urge to slap him.

  "Serves the bastard right." Kurt spits onto the ground, taking another swig like nothing happened.

  "Kurt, you are such an asshole. Here I was trying to be nice and—" I scramble around, wondering what I should do. I want to go after Jilly, but I can't leave my mom in the lurch either.

  "You felt sorry for me?" Kurt drawls, picking up the trimmer again. "Well, you can just forget it, because nobody feels sorry for Kurt 'The Ace' Nelson." He pulls the cord, angrily revving it up and turning his back on me.

  I sprint up the alley to the front of the shop, but I don't see Jilly anywhere. He's already gone. Damn it. I'll have to try Rick's later, as soon as I can get off work. Until then, I intend on blowing up his phone until he answers me.

  Kurt Nelson isn't going to be the one who comes between us. Not again. Not if I have anything to say about it.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Jilly

  Okay, why'd I come back here again?

  Oh yeah—to get kicked in the nuts by seeing Hailey getting cozy with her ex.

  Rick's doing an overnight supply run at an auto parts wholesaler, but he left the key under the mat, so I let myself in to the apartment upstairs, throwing my body onto the bed in
the spare room, ready to sulk the night away until I can muster up the strength to head back to the city in the morning.

  I'm sure as hell not staying here. New York it is, being that I have nowhere else to go. No wife. No kids. No parents. No family whatsoever to speak of. Yeah, I'm just a rolling stone adrift in the world with no ties to bind me. Maybe it's time to embrace my freedom. So then why do I feel like crap?

  I get out of bed and amble into the kitchen, where I saw Rick's laptop sitting on the table. A glutton for punishment, I turn it on to get a feel for how the team's been doing since my absence, considering that I've willfully avoided anything Kings-related. Anything to take my mind off Hailey.

  I start with the Post then move on to the Daily News. As of today, we're in third place in our division, the American League East, in an apparent free fall since I got hurt. Randy Gilecki blew a save and so did Jason Trubelow. Yeah, these guys are veteran short relievers in our bullpen, part of our righty-lefty combination. They shouldn't have cracked like this. They're used to pitching the seventh and eighth innings. The ninth shouldn't be that big of a deal.

  But nothing deflates a team gunning for a playoff spot more than a blown save. I should know. That's why I never let it happen. It's been two years since I lost a game for the Kings. I'm 'Mr. Reliable.' No one gets through me.

  I read on, even pausing to watch the video links to the homers they gave up to the opposing teams. But it's not just the bullpen that's not coming through in the clutch; the entire offense has been struggling mightily as of late, too. In the last five games, they've scored a total of four runs. That's it, and that's not how a team wins ballgames. No matter how good the starting pitching has been, if we can't put numbers up on the scoreboard, we can't win. It's as simple as that. The defense can hold a lead, but it can't create one.

  Plus, I know what a strain it is on the pitching staff when it feels like we have to be perfect every time out. One mistake and the hitters won't be there to pick us up. It's a lot of pressure having to play like that, especially on a team that's historically known for its massive run production, with balls flying out of the park seemingly every night of the week.

  I shut Rick's laptop in frustration, wishing that I hadn't looked, but there's more I have to investigate before I call it quits. Reluctantly, I flip it open and go back into the browser, typing my name into one search bar after another. I shove my knees against the bottom of the table as I read article after article predicting my future.

  Norman Riker, the beat writer for the Post, doesn't think I stand a chance. He writes, "The likelihood of Gillette returning to the domination he's grown accustomed to is slim to none. According to our expert, Dr. Wayne Herzog, who's performed Tommy John surgery on Paul O'Boyle of Cincinnati and David Travers of Oakland, Gillette's return to greatness will be rocky, sure to be mired with a whole host of setbacks, assuming he makes it back at all."

  Even Gayle hasn't been shy expressing her concerns over at the Queen of Diamonds. "Jilly has the heart of a champion. Never count him out. His grit and determination in big situations is legendary. However, my main concern is that he's known for his pinpoint control, and not throwing within the strike zone for twelve months is going to erode that. I just hope he's able to get back to where he was before he got hurt."

  Wonderful. My critics are slamming me. My supporters are losing faith in me. Terry's not even talking to me, and I'm up for free agency at the end of the year. What if no team picks me up? What if I become too big of a question mark that nobody wants to take a chance on me until they see if I'm fully recovered? And by then, it'll be too late.

  I won't be anywhere near ready until the midpoint of next season. It's going to be like trying to jump onto a moving train everyone's already boarded at the station. I'll be playing catch-up the whole time—that is if I can get into any kind of groove at all. What if my velocity doesn't come back? What if I'm only able to throw at ninety-three just like everybody else? And if Gayle's right and I can't find the plate, I'm going to be washed up no matter if my arm heals well or not.

  I get up and stomp around Rick's apartment. There's so much happening all at once; it's a lot to take in. I thought I'd have my exam this morning and then come back and hash it out with Hailey. In the brief amount of time we've reconnected with each other, I've already come to depend upon her as the person I can go to when I want to talk about things that are bothering me or stuff I'm trying to straighten out in my mind, knowing that she'll be there to help me through it.

  It's been a long time since I've had a person in my life like that. I never really clicked with any of the guys on the team. They humor me, tolerate me because I'm good, but what if I'm not anymore? The only one I ever made a connection with was Sasha, and I can't go burdening her with my shit when she should be concentrating on the baby that's on the way. Besides, she probably has enough on her plate with listening to everything going on with Brooks on a day-to-day basis.

  Being a Major League Baseball player isn't easy. There's so much that goes along with it—surviving the front office deals, keeping the fans happy, performing well on the field, coping with the travel schedule, getting along with the guys on the team. It goes on and on. It's not just about being able to hit, field, and throw. Now, it's about being a cross between a businessman, a circus performer, an athlete, and a showman all rolled into one.

  So maybe now's the time when I need to escape reality for a little while. See what drives the girl I love to do the things she does. I've already dipped my toe into her New York Warriors' universe. Now's as good a time as any to immerse myself completely in the world she imagined that parallels my own. I mean, what else do I have to lose?

  Once again, I brace myself and return to Rick's laptop. When I go to Amazon and log into my account, I don't even have to search for the book. It appears on the home page as one of my automatic recommendations.

  I try to ignore the title, Game of Love.

  Is this really how Hailey thinks of us? That what we have is some kind of game? Like we're making moves on a chessboard, trying to match wits with each other? Because that's not how I see us at all. I see her more like a well-worn glove and I'm the baseball sliding right in like it belongs there, making it impossible to have one without the other.

  The male model on the cover has muscles and tattoos, and just his jawline is visible. It hints at my appearance but doesn't scream it from the rooftops. It's a lot subtler than that. Hailey knows what she's doing. I'll give her that.

  I click on my body double and scroll down the page. Wow. The book is already at number one and it just came out yesterday. I don't even want to contemplate how many people have already read it. If Drake's right, readers have been waiting for this one with bated breath, the one where I assume the role of impossible-to-live-up-to leading man.

  I tap the buy button at the top and open the online reader app on the site. I might as well read it on a larger screen than my phone as long as Rick's not around. From the way Drake was talking, it won't take more than a couple of hours to get through. That is if I'm able to stomach what I'm reading about myself and actually make it to the last page.

  I flick over to the first chapter after seeing the dedication, "For B.G." Despite myself, within seconds, I'm immersed in the story. Right from the get-go, I'm struck by the power of her words, assaulted by the sheer emotion of them. This one isn't anything like her previous books. She's baring it all and holding nothing back.

  I can't tear my eyes away from the screen as I hit the next arrow again and again. She might have published this in a public forum, but I can tell that she wrote it just for me. In every sentence, every paragraph, every chapter, she's pouring her heart out, letting me know how much I mean to her, how much I've always meant to her.

  He doesn't know I'm watching him on TV, but that's okay. It's as if there's an invisible cord stretching all the way from his heart to mine so that I feel what he's feeling. All I have to do is sit quietly and concentrate on him, and it's like h
e's right here with me. To everyone else, he's just a pitcher on the mound, throwing a ball—but not to me. I can sense if he's happy or sad, confident or nervous, by the glint in his eye or the tilt of his head. For me, reading him is easy. It doesn't require any effort. At times, it feels like it's what I was put on this Earth to do. Understand him. Support him. Love him.

  It's already dark, and I haven't had anything to eat or drink, but I keep going. There's no way I can stop, the scope of her confession overpowering any other need.

  He's not one to brag about his accomplishments. He's good at what he does, and knowing that is enough for him. He doesn't need to be validated any other way. But what draws me to him the most and what keeps me coming back for more is that, at his core, he's a good man. I'm proud of his success. I'm happy that he's living his dream. But how he reaches out to help those in need is what makes me fall deeper and deeper in love with him with each passing day. The pictures of him visiting a nursing home, looming tall among a sea of elderly residents. The images of him stopping by a hospital and lighting up the faces of a children's ward. But the one that really gets me is his video for the ALS Ice Bucket Challenge.

  It starts out with the camera focusing on a young girl suffering with Lou Gehrig's disease. She yells, "One!" quickly followed by a boy who's similarly afflicted screaming, "Two!" before cutting to a close-up of another boy in a wheelchair shouting, "Three!"

  The camera pans away, showing the All-Star pitcher from the New York Warriors sitting under a recently constructed dunk tank. Three large buckets are overhead on a wooden platform, each connected to a rope fastened to one of their wheelchairs. The three kids all pull away at once, their motorized wheels quickly yanking the ropes taut, dousing him with ice water.