by Julie Cross
I smirk at him and then retrieve a sheet of paper from my bag. “As a matter of fact, I do.”
He eyes me skeptically and walks over, plucking the paper from my hand. “Jason Abraham Brody—” He stops reading and looks up at me. “That’s not my middle name.”
“We didn’t get to finish the interview, so I improvised.”
He rolls his eyes. “Stands five foot ten inches…wrong again, I’m six feet. His favorite food isn’t sushi. His best pitching advice for kids wanting to follow in his footsteps is to always throw toward home plate.”
“Cute.” He shakes his head and folds the paper, tucking it into his gym shorts pocket. “Real cute.”
My homework speed gets cut in half watching Brody on the treadmill. He’s all muscle and hotness but at the same time I can’t help studying his stride and analyzing his technique. “You should really relax your shoulders more. You look better with a neck.”
He starts laughing, stumbles a little, and almost falls off the treadmill. Dad shoots a glare in my direction, and I decide to zip my lips and spend the next hour listening to the pounding feet against the treadmill while lying on my back and catching up on my American Lit class by reading The Great Gatsby. Finally, Dad leans over me and kisses my forehead. “I’m all done.”
“Good because I’m going to throw a childish tantrum if I don’t get an entire large pizza all to myself in the next twenty minutes.” Pizza. That’s carbs, right? Coach Kessler told me to load up on carbs. I sit up again and begin tossing my books into my overflowing backpack.
“Nice work today, Brody,” Dad says, before turning back to me. “I hear the showers running. Better stay here for a minute, Ann.”
“Twenty minutes, Dad. Then it’s tantrum time.”
“I know, I know.” He walks off with his non-leg tapping against the floor.
Brody stops the treadmill and rolls off the end, bending over to catch his breath before grabbing a towel to wipe the sweat off his face. His T-shirt is soaked, front and back. He walks over and picks up my algebra book. “So you’re in high school?”
“Did the outfit give me away?”
He lifts his eyes to meet mine. “The outfit is…well…yeah, it gave you away.”
I’m trying not to laugh because he was totally about to say something else and then got all embarrassed. I might be bold, but I’m not quite bold enough to truly flirt with a guy like Jason Brody, so I quickly change the subject. “Please tell me you didn’t act all high and mighty and petulant, like Mr. Starting Pitcher during my dad’s coaching session?”
“No way,” he says. “I’m on trial so no boats will be rocked. Besides, I like your dad.” He hesitates and then asks, “What’s the deal with his leg?”
“His leg or his non-leg?” I can’t help being snappy and defensive about Dad. After years of questions from friends and random kids that I played with at the park, it gets old.
Brody keeps his eyes on my textbook and eventually he starts flipping through the pages. “His non-leg.”
“Have you ever heard of osteosarcoma?” Brody shakes his head. “It’s bone cancer.”
“Cancer?”
I nod. This is the hardest part for me to deal with, too, because his leg is gone, but the cancer can still come back. “Yep. When you get a tumor in your bone, they sometimes can’t remove it without taking the whole bone off.”
“But he was pitching already, right?”
I hold up my right index finger, imitating Frank’s response when I asked him this same question nearly ten years ago. I’d been curious, but too afraid to ask Dad. “One regular season game with the Yankees.”
“And then it was over?”
“Yep.”
“I wouldn’t have done it,” he says firmly. “I wouldn’t have stopped pitching. Wouldn’t have let them take my leg.”
I snatch the algebra book from under his hand and stuff it in my bag. “Well, you don’t have a wife and a baby, so maybe that makes your perspective a lot more selfish.”
After jumping off the table and grabbing my school stuff, I can feel him watching me. He probably thinks I’m some crazy girl, but he hit a sore spot just now. Truth is, I’m not sure me or my mom were the reason Dad chose losing his leg over pitching a little longer and taking the risk of the cancer getting too aggressive to fight. I know he thinks of me first now, but I have patches of faded memories that involve a very different man from the one I know today. Which is why I’d always wait for Frank’s visits to ask for specifics about Dad’s baseball years.
I have a feeling this new place, more importantly, this new job of Dad’s is gonna bring up all the cobweb-covered past that we’ve been avoiding almost my entire life.
Chapter 4
DAD: Not too late, Ann. And be careful. I heard you can get lost for hours in the Londons’ house.
After reading the text, I shove my phone into my coat pocket along with the guilt that forms as a result of lying to Dad. I’m sure he’s right. I could get lost in the London house. Assuming I was there. Which I’m not.
Cold wind whips us in the face as Lenny strides toward the entrance to a lively downtown bar, her high-heeled boots clanking against the sidewalk. She’s a superior vision to me in her tight pants and silver sparkly sweater. Though I did ditch the uniform, like she suggested, my brown sweater, jeans, and flat boots are bland in comparison.
Before reaching the door, I take in the line of people outside, and more importantly, the huge dude with massive biceps examining IDs of said people outside.
I grab Lenny’s sleeve. “I don’t, like, have a fake ID or anything…”
She turns to face me, displaying her perfect makeup job. Concern flickers across her face for a second and then she shrugs. “It won’t matter. Bean is working tonight.”
Bean?
I stumble behind Lenny, watching her flip her hair over one shoulder and strut right up to the front of the line. “Hey, Bean.”
The dude with massive biceps lifts his eyes from the ID he’s currently inspecting. A broad grin spreads over his features, making him look 50 percent nicer. And younger. “Lenny London, come on in!”
He hops off his stool and ushers us both in after Lenny reaches for my hand and brings me with her. The music inside is loud but not unbearable, and the scent of barbecue ribs is also not unbearable. The mix of patrons varies in age but definitely no one in high school like us. My stomach twists with nerves. I’m not one to play the straight arrow or anything. I like a party as much as any kid my age. But seriously, how long have I been in Kansas City? Forty-eight hours? And I’m already breaking laws and lying to my dad.
Oh wait…maybe impersonating a Sports Illustrated writer is a felony? If that’s true, then I lasted less than an hour. I know I said I wanted a brand-new start here, but good daughter to raging criminal isn’t exactly what I had in mind.
After making flirty eyes at the way-too-old-for-her lead singer, Lenny rushes off to the bar and returns with a bottle of beer in each hand. I stand awkwardly, leaning against a table while Lenny flits around the bar greeting people and, like me, not actually drinking her beer.
Over the next twenty minutes, I check my phone about a thousand times. It’s not even ten yet. Finally, she returns to my side and says, “You’re not having fun, are you?”
I shrug. What am I supposed to say?
“I’m sorry.” She releases a breath. “My parents are doing this stupid dinner party tonight, and I needed an excuse to get out of it.” She strokes her cheeks with her thumb and fingertips. “My face is still sore from holding the fake smile at the last party.”
This one small mention of her family brings the high school girl out again in Lenny’s features. “So hanging out at a downtown bar was your excuse for missing the dinner party?”
“Yeah, totally.” Lenny laughs. “Actually, you’re my excuse. My mom has elected herself head of the Royals’ welcoming committee. Meaning any new players or staff and families get to learn the lay of the lan
d from my family.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “That’s…diplomatic of her.”
Lenny snorts. “Right. Diplomatic. More like she wants to scope out the wife and children of the competition and make sure everyone knows that my dad is the highest paid player on the team, and they plan on keeping it that way.”
“Wow.” I shake my head. “Keep your enemies close…”
Lenny’s eyes widen, and she rests a hand firmly on my arm. “Not me, Annie. Seriously. I don’t play their games.”
“Except to get out of dinner parties.”
She shrugs. “If I didn’t want to hang out with you, I wouldn’t. I’ve blown off more than a few Royals’ kids.”
There is no question that she’s telling the truth. Lenny London is going to be an enigma to figure out, but at the same time, she seems to be exactly as she says.
“What the hell are you doing here?” a deep voice growls from behind me.
I spin around and come face-to-face with Jason Brody. And yeah, I panic for a second thinking about how he saw me in my pleated skirt earlier today. As in my high school uniform. Then there’s that whole threat to tell my dad so I get sent to therapy lingering from a few days ago. But then I lift the beer bottle to my lips and take a sip, trying my best not to make a face. “Hey, Brody. Great music, huh?”
He glares so hard at me I’m sure his forehead is gonna stay permanently wrinkled. “What the hell are you doing?” He snatches the bottle from my hands and slides it across the table until it taps the wall.
A tall brunette with a twenty-inch waist approaches him from behind and rests a hand on his shoulder. I take a second to glance at Lenny, who rests a hand on her hip and says to the girl, “I think you left your panties by my pool the other night. Right beside loverboy’s boxer briefs. I’ve collected them both for safekeeping. In case you were wondering.”
A bewildered look crosses the girl’s face and then Lenny fakes shock, covering her mouth with one hand. “Oh. Maybe that wasn’t you. Now that I think about it, I’m pretty sure that girl was a redhead, but it’s hard to tell in the dark, especially with all the flailing around.”
The girl gives Lenny a tight-lipped smile, spins in a half circle, and walks away. Brody drops his head, pinching the bridge of his nose with one hand. “Nice. Real nice, Lenny.”
My gaze bounces between the two of them. I don’t know whether to laugh or be disgusted. Brody lifts his head and I look right at him, holding his gaze. “Go easy on him, Lenny. He’s just taking advantage of his major league status while it lasts. Can you blame him?”
Brody cocks one eyebrow, challenge dancing all over his features. “While it lasts? Let’s get one thing straight—”
He stops cold when all three of us take in the older man approaching our table. A man I met only briefly when we toured the stadium the other day. Johnson. The new Royals’ owner. Brody swears under his breath. Johnson’s walking toward us with such purpose that I know he recognizes us. Or hopefully he only recognizes Brody. I mean the guy probably meets kids of Royals’ staff all the time. How likely is it that he memorizes faces?
He stops abruptly in front of us, adjusting his tie. If I hadn’t just noticed the suit-wearing clan at the table he emerged from, I’d say his attire was out of place here. I glance at Lenny, who looks cool as a cucumber, but she does set down her beer bottle.
Johnson addresses Lenny first, eyes narrowed. “I take it you were being hospitable, giving our substitute relief pitcher a sample of the town’s best barbecue.”
It’s obviously not a question. And if I know this, Lenny definitely does. The cheek-numbing fake smile spreads across her face. “How’d you know?”
And substitute relief pitcher? That’s a bit redundant. Relief already indicates substitution.
“Lucky guess,” Johnson says, returning the fake smile. “How about you go and get that car warmed up.”
I start to follow Lenny out, thinking that maybe I got away with not being recognized or assumed to be one of Lenny London’s insignificant friends. But Johnson touches my arm and says in a low voice, “Not so fast, young lady.”
Lenny takes in the situation and looks at me. “Meet you outside in five, Annie?”
I nod, not knowing what else to do. My heart thuds, the sound blocking out the music, and Brody shifts beside me.
Johnson leans in closer, still wearing the fake smile. To an outsider, this could almost look like a friendly conversation. But I know better. Especially with all this tension rolling around between us.
“I don’t know what you’re playing at, going after ballplayers. But this is not the image I want my Royals’ families portraying,” Johnson says. “I won’t tolerate bad PR. Not from your daddy and certainly not from you. That’s one strike, young lady.”
Heat rushes to my face. My mouth falls open, but I can’t form any words. What the hell kind of cult did we get ourselves into?
Johnson turns to Brody. “And you came into this gig two strikes in the hole, son. Consider yourself at two and a half. Dragging innocent children into a bar late at night…” Oh, so now I’m an innocent child? What happened to me going after ballplayers? Or maybe Lenny is the innocent child? “I heard you’d done some pretty bad things, but this is way outside of my comfort zone.”
“He didn’t—” I start to say. Why the hell am I defending Jason Brody—but Brody pushes me from behind toward the exit.
“Don’t worry,” he says to Johnson, his voice tight and restrained. “It won’t happen again. Trust me.”
“That’s the problem,” Johnson says, all smooth and old-man-business like. “I don’t trust you. I doubt anyone in their right mind trusts an ex-convict.”
Ex-convict? Jesus Christ. Are we going to have to ride home together?
When I don’t walk fast enough for Brody, our bodies collide. The hardness of him presses against me, and then I inhale his aftershave. My thoughts fog up. This is probably how he lured the redhead to the London’s pool house the other night. And how he almost repeated the performance with the brunette now sulking in the corner. Good thing for Lenny London and her panty-snatching skills.
“Please tell me you have your own car,” I mumble when we reach the door.
“Right,” Brody snaps. “Because that’s entirely possible on my minor league salary. And important when I’m on the road with the team over two hundred days a year.”
“So no, then?”
He groans and shoves the door open, pushing his way around me and heading straight for Lenny’s brand-new beamer. It’s a two door, so Brody’s forced to allow me a second to crawl into the backseat before dropping in beside Lenny.
Lenny laughs when she sees both of us, obviously pissed off. “Fun night, huh? We should do this again sometime soon.”
“Not a chance in hell,” Brody grumbles. He slides down in the seat, like he’s hiding from being seen in Lenny’s car even though it’s dark and probably no one is paying attention or even cares.
Lenny blasts the music, sensing that we’re not up for small talk. I recognize the first song as one the band in the bar had played. I guess she really is a fan. When we turn onto our street, Lenny glances over her shoulder at me. “Should I drop you at your house?”
“Uh-uh.” Brody shakes his head. “Johnson’s already got ideas. I’m not having Jim think I spend my free time clubbing with high school girls.”
I roll my eyes. “Right. ’Cause your nineteen-year-old self is so much older and wiser than us seventeen-year-olds.”
“I’m sixteen,” Lenny corrects. “Summer birthday.”
“Older and wiser is not the issue. More like legal.” Brody points to his chest. “And not legal.” He waves a finger between both me and Lenny.
According to Johnson, he’s had no problem doing the illegal things in the past.
“He likes his women leggy and independent,” Lenny says, while avoiding my house, taking us around the block and eventually pulling into the pool house driveway. She looks at Br
ody pointedly, waiting for him to exit the car. “I can drop you off now, Annie.”
I tap my fist against Brody’s seat, hinting for him to get out. “I’ll walk.” I need to get my head on straight before facing Dad, who unfortunately is relentless when it comes to waiting up for me.
Lenny turns to me. “You sure?”
Brody finally opens the door and gets out. I tumble after him, answering Lenny’s question.
“See you at school tomorrow, Annie,” she calls, heading around the back. “Thanks for being my cover tonight.”
I’m prepared to stalk quickly away from the infuriating pitcher ruining all my fun, but he grabs my purse, holding me in place.
“Johnson was right, you know?” he says.
Nerves flutter in my stomach. I don’t want to like the way his long-sleeve shirt forms over his muscled body or the perfect way his worn-out jeans hang from his waist. “What? About the ex-convict thing? I’ve already heard all of those details.”
Okay, so I haven’t heard any actual details. Only Frank’s reference to Brody’s “indiscretions.” Is that polite talk for ex-convict? “Can you really be an ex-convict at nineteen? Convict, yeah, but ex…must not have been much of a crime if you’re already in and out of the slammer.”
“God, you’re such a brat.” He sighs. “Your stupidity is bad enough to ruin my playing chances.”
“You didn’t have to come up to me and Lenny in the bar. That was your screwup.”
He shakes his head, jaw tensing. “Word of advice—if you want to stick around here, don’t give Johnson a reason to cut your dad.”
I yank out of his grip and take a step back down the driveway. “Why the hell do you care what happens to me or my dad?”
Brody’s expression clouds over, but he doesn’t answer.
I grin, knowing I’ve found a crack in his exterior. “Oh. Right. Because my dad and Frank seem to be the only ones who think you can pitch.”
Brody laughs awkwardly and looks away. “I can pitch.”
“Guess we’ll see, huh?” I turn around and take off in a jog, hoping he doesn’t follow me. When I complete the half-mile journey home and walk through the front door, Dad is sitting in the living room watching TV. No surprise there.