by Julie Cross
Oh. My. God.
Dad’s chair tips over backward as he springs up, showing no sign of having only one real leg. In two seconds flat, he’s pulled First Base from his chair, his fists clenching around the front of his shirt as he slams his back against the wall.
Oh boy. Not good.
Chapter 15
My heart jumps up to my throat. Lenny’s eyes go from bored to wide and alert. Carl falls back into his mom in an effort to stay out of the way. My eyes are glued to Dad’s back, but I feel Brody stiffen beside me, like he’s ready to spring into action, too.
Frank stands up and walks around the table. “Jimmy!”
“Don’t ever say anything like that about Annie again,” Dad says, still gripping First Base’s designer shirt. His voice is low and calm, but his body is quite the opposite.
First Base looks startled for about a second and then the smirk returns. “Be careful there, Jimmy Lucas,” he says. “Wouldn’t want you to lose your other leg.”
“Dad…” I plead, trying to break the spell.
But Savannah is the one who actually gets through to him. She pushes her chair back, stands between Dad and First Base, and says firmly, “My six-year-old is in the other room, and I swear to you, if I have to explain to her why a room full of adults can’t have a civilized nonviolent discussion…”
Dad releases First Base and steps back. He points a finger at Carl, his eyes narrowed. “Don’t ever lay a hand on my daughter again. Unlike your dad, I have a lot less to lose if I commit murder.”
My mouth falls open. “Dad, enough!”
Brody’s hand drifts under the table and lands on my knee, squeezing it. I know he’s only doing it to shut me up, but I can’t help feeling the butterflies in my stomach, the heat in my face.
Frank flips Dad’s chair back up again, and everyone returns to their seats. Carl has adopted his father’s arrogant smirk.
And oh my God Brody’s hand is still gripping my knee. Is anyone else seeing this? Am I imagining it? I take a deep breath and allow my gaze to travel up to his face. He’s completely consumed with the task of glaring at Carl.
“Okay,” Savannah continues as though we didn’t almost have a kitchen brawl between a major league ballplayer and a pitching coach. “So I can assume the alleged fake ID accusation is accurate?” Lenny and I both nod. “And you bought drinks with these IDs?”
“We drank but didn’t purchase,” Lenny says.
Savannah scribbles more notes. “You used a car service to get to and from the club, correct?”
Lenny and Carl nod. “Brody drove me home,” I say.
First Base snorts. “Oh, that’s nice. Trading in one playboy for another. Where’s that story? Coach’s underage daughter and the rookie pitcher from the wrong side of the tracks. Sounds like a front-pager to me.”
Brody tenses beside me and, sensing that he’s about to do exactly what Dad did, both Savannah and I grip one of his arms. I release a breath. He really doesn’t have any allies on his team. I mean, I’ve seen the behavior of some of the other players, but I never thought about how difficult that must be for him.
“No,” she says firmly to Brody. “Don’t even think about it.”
“He was there on his own,” I tell Savannah, being careful not to look at Lenny’s family. “He’s the one that saw the paparazzi. He made me leave, brought me home, and made me ’fess up to my dad about everything. That’s the real story.”
“I already know exactly why Brody was there,” Savannah says, continuing her notes. “And why photographers were around. Which would have been fine had we not included the presence of two team-related high schoolers and the older brother who purchased alcohol for them.”
Wait a second…does she mean they planned to have Brody photographed there?
The conversation ends right then because the Royals’ owner strides through the front door without ringing or knocking first. His gray cowboy boots thump across the foyer and into the kitchen.
Savannah stands, offering him her chair. He shakes her off and points to her notebook. “Forget the story and the angle. We’re not gonna dig for a way to spin this in our favor,” he says, causing everyone to look surprised. His eyes rest on me and he gives me the same “you’re dispensable” look that he gave me that night in the bar forever ago. “You kids want to act like screw heads, fine with me. That’s exactly what angle we’re playing today. You got yourselves to that club, wrangled the documentation you needed to get inside, you drank alcohol willingly without your parents’ knowledge even though you’ve been told many times that it’s wrong.”
Screw heads?
“Sir, I don’t think—” Savannah interrupts, but Mr. Johnson raises a hand to stop her.
“Our focus isn’t going to be on what’s been done, but on what we’re going to do about it. I want you out of town.” He waves an index finger around, pointing right at Carl. “Purchasing for minors is not going to happen by you again. Not in this country anyway. That summer internship you asked for in South America? Done. You leave by Wednesday. In two weeks, we’ll send a camera crew down to Rio.” He turns to Savannah. “Write that down, Ms. Dawson. Find something humanitarian for him to do, like playing soccer with orphaned toddlers.” His finger drifts to Lenny and then me. “And you two…you better find some sick kids to hug and some Habitat houses to build, got it? The ball club is assigning you one hundred hours of community service, and I want every single hour documented on camera. We’ll make a little show out of this.”
“Do you really think it’s the ball club’s job to punish them?” Dad says. “It’s my responsibility to keep an eye on Annie, and my responsibility to issue appropriate punishment.”
Mr. Johnson turns to Dad. “That’s where you’re wrong, Jim. Unless you keep her locked up, your daughter is my show now. And at Club Royal, we expect the children of players and coaches to be good role models, and when they fail to do so, they need to make up for it, understood?”
No one says anything, and Johnson shifts his attention to Brody. “I’m sick of this playboy rookie shit. It ends today.”
“But, sir,” Savannah says. “We’ve polled fans, and they’re almost unanimously in favor of players under twenty-five being single and…um…” She clears her throat. “Sexually vibrant.”
Dad closes his eyes and shakes his head. Lenny and I both burst out laughing but stifle it the second Frank’s glare bounces between us.
“Don’t care,” Johnson says. “Get him a girlfriend and make sure she makes up for his lack of a perfect record. What about one of those Disney Channel girls? Squeaky clean and innocent. Assuming you can catch them before they shave their heads and start swinging naked on wrecking balls.”
“What the fuck,” Brody mumbles beside me.
“I know!” Johnson snaps his fingers together, the idea light switch flipping on. “That deaf girl that just released her first album in sign language, get ahold of her people,” he orders Savannah. “See what kind of deal you can work out. We don’t have nearly enough disabilities and terminal illness in this ball club.”
If I’d been able to concentrate instead of being preoccupied with the bizarre idea of arranging some kind of courtship between Brody and a Disney Channel actress/singer, I may have pointed out that my grandmother has Alzheimer’s and my dad is both an amputee and a cancer survivor.
“Detroit just signed a player with sickle cell,” Johnson says, continuing his speech. “And the Cub’s third baseman is dating a blind woman. A blind woman! She can’t even watch him play, can you imagine that? Talk about a tear-jerking story for Dateline. And what have we got for Dateline?” He gestures between me and Lenny. “Royals’ kids gone wild.”
Frank and Dad are exchanging glances—both of them look on the verge of laughing.
“So if I can find a human interest story to pitch to Dateline, you’ll consider the disability and terminal illness void to be filled?” Savannah says, her gaze shifting to Dad for a split second, and the amuse
ment immediately falls from his face. He narrows his eyes, giving a tiny shake of his head.
Johnson seems to consider this offer for a few long seconds. “But I still want Brody and that Disney Channel girl.”
“I didn’t use a fake ID,” Brody snaps. “Or buy drinks for minors like that idiot asshole.” He points to Carl. “I’m not the one in trouble here. I just came to help with getting the facts straight. Nor am I letting you play matchmaker. You have a demand, you can bring it to my agent and we’ll discuss the options. I’m here to play baseball, not put on your show.”
“Yes, you’re here to play ball. For two more months,” Johnson reminds him before turning to Frank. “This is exactly what I warned you about, Frank. You take on these delinquent charity cases, and it causes nothing but trouble for everyone. Have you gotten it out of your system yet?”
Frank stands up, not quite as quickly as Dad had a while ago, but he’s obviously pissed. He points at Brody. “That charity case is the only damn reason we’ve won any games this season.”
“And whose fault is that? You’re the fucking manager.” Johnson nods toward Dad. “Still think we need two pitching coaches, Frank? Or do you have some other personal stake in this little project?”
Silence falls over the kitchen. It’s not hard for me to figure out what’s going on, and I’m almost as humiliated as I was after kissing Brody. Dad stands up slowly, his face calm. “I think I’ve had enough mediation for one day.”
He grabs his car keys from the counter, and I immediately rise up from my chair to go after him, but Savannah reaches across Brody and touches my wrist. “Let him go.”
She turns her attention back to Johnson. “About this Disney Channel girlfriend idea…I really don’t think it’s the best interest of ticket sales—”
“Fine,” Johnson barks, waving the idea away with one hand like he hadn’t practically demanded it happen moments ago. “But I want a sappy, positive human interest story to pitch to Dateline, and I want those kids showing remorse through community service.”
“Are we through?” First Base asks, already standing up.
“Yes.” And just like that, Johnson stalks out of the kitchen, out the front door, and into his car.
I’m the next to leave the table. I head outside and sit on the porch swing, watching for Dad to come home. First Base and his wife exit, not even giving a glance in my direction. They get into their car, and I realize that the four of them didn’t even ride together—and their house is only half a mile away.
What a happy family.
When Lenny and Carl finally exit, I stand up to tell Lenny good-bye. Carl’s got his arrogant smirk plastered on again and he comes right over to me, like he’s going to hug me.
And then his hand is on my ass again, just like Friday night. Did he not take Dad’s threat seriously? This time, I have a second to react, and I quickly grab his hand, bend his fingers back, and then twist his arm behind his back. He lets out a yelp of pain, but I hold his arm firmly in place and lean in closer. “You’re lucky that you’re heading out of the country.”
Lenny is standing on the porch steps, taking this in and practically bending over with laughter. “Nice move, Annie!”
The screen door flies open, and Brody is suddenly ripping Carl from my grip. He shoves him toward the steps so hard, Carl stumbles to keep from falling. “Get the hell out of here, dude. My self-control is about gone.”
Carl glares at both of us but he doesn’t make a move to get closer. “Come on, Len,” he yells at his sister, “get in the car.”
Lenny stops in the grass, shaking her head. Brody hops down the steps and is at her side in seconds. “I can drop you off.”
Lenny shakes her head and then her eyes find mine. “I’d rather walk. Talk to you later, Annie?”
“Yeah, okay.”
Brody plays with his keys, obviously preparing to leave like everyone else, but he turns to me before getting in his car. “Johnson is the worst kind of asshole. Just remember that, okay?”
Yeah, but assholes are still capable of telling the truth.
After he’s gone, I fall back onto the porch swing. I’m totally beat and it’s not even lunchtime. After a few minutes, Frank comes outside and sits beside me, causing the swing to rock.
He keeps his eyes trained on the mailbox across the yard. “Johnson wasn’t completely blowing smoke, Annie.”
I sit perfectly still, not speaking a word. My thoughts drift back to our townhouse in Arizona and the last time Frank visited us there, his job offer and what Dad had said—and more importantly, what he hadn’t said.
You don’t have to do this, Frank. You don’t owe me anything.
“Do you?” I ask, my stomach already tying itself in knots. I don’t want me or Dad to be some charity case for Frank. Brody’s proven himself already by throwing a shit-ton of strikes. But has Dad? “Do you owe him anything?”
Frank doesn’t shift his gaze from the mailbox. “He wanted to wait. He didn’t want the surgery right away, but I had everything lined up for him. Rehabilitation specialists, a Johns Hopkins team of med students and doctors who’d convinced me that they could get him pitching again, even with the prosthetic limb. They wanted to revolutionize what amputee athletes were able to achieve, and Jimmy was their guinea pig. Your dad was a phenomenal talent. One of the best pitchers I’ve ever seen. And remember, I spent thirty years recruiting for the Yankees. I’ve seen every brand of talent.”
The significance of Frank’s confession isn’t quite clear. “Either way, waiting or not waiting, he still had cancer.”
Frank nods slowly. “I suppose that’s true, but a few more weeks of playing regular season, maybe a month or two, and he could have set some records, snagged more endorsements. He could have had a bigger nest egg for himself and for you.”
The missing pieces snap into place. “That’s why you kept visiting us every year, that’s why you hired Dad, you feel guilty for telling him not to wait to have the surgery?”
And then I remember Brody’s words that day in the training room. I wouldn’t have done it. I wouldn’t have let them take my leg.
“It’s true that I’ve wondered many times if he should have waited, if the cancer would have spread as fast as the doctors anticipated,” Frank says. “And maybe guilt would have been enough to bring him to Kansas City with me, but here’s the other truth, kid… Jimmy was just as committed to finding a way back as all those doctors. And eventually, he became even more driven than anyone else. He studied pitching techniques, body mechanics, biology—anything that could potentially help him. He truly is one of the greatest baseball technicians I’ve ever seen. I’d even go as far as to call him a great athletic technician. His understanding of body mechanics isn’t restricted to baseball.”
I’m not sure why, but I’m overcome with emotions and grateful that Frank isn’t looking at me right now. Maybe it’s because I want so desperately to see Dad get back what he’s lost and I know that won’t ever happen. “So, what’s the problem, then? Can’t you just explain to Johnson that Dad knows what he’s talking about? That he’s the right person for the job?”
“Johnson tried to sign him back in the day when he was with the Angels. But Jimmy wanted million dollar contracts, and his name written in the sky. To Johnson, Jimmy is nothing but a could-have-been-great player who believes he’s entitled to a coaching job just because. And on one hand, I get where Johnson is coming from. Your dad was worshipped and fawned over in his day, and I’m not gonna lie, it went to his head. But you’re allowed that when you have the skills to back up the arrogance, and he damn sure had the skills. He’s changed, though, Annie. He went through a bullheaded, I-can-fix-myself phase followed by some pretty scary depression, and then he emerged from it—humble, hardworking, and a damn good father—not that I’m an expert on the subject. But none of that matters.” Frank lets out a frustrated sigh. “If I can’t get one fucking pitcher to listen to him—except Brody who doesn’t really count—I c
an’t prove he’s good. How the hell am I supposed to get Johnson to let me keep him around?”
Silence falls over us for several long minutes while I allow everything Frank’s told me to sink in. Bits and pieces of the story I already knew or had found by myself on the internet, but the reasons behind everything weren’t something that had been public knowledge.
Frank pats my leg and stands. “I’m sorry, kid, I didn’t mean to unload on you. I just wanted you to know the truth.”
I realize Frank never really answered my question. “So it was mostly guilt that kept you coming back to visit?”
Frank nods. “In the beginning, probably. I mean, Jimmy first entered major league radar when he was still in high school. He was this pain-in-the-ass little shit that I had to deal with. But when you stick around and watch someone grow up and go from a lost kid to becoming a good man, that’s not a relationship you ever want to sever. That’s what really kept your dad and me friends over all these years. I can get caught up in the show just like Johnson, but then I’d pay Jimmy and you a visit and remember what it’s like to be human again. To be in the real world. That’s something I’d hate for you to lose as well. So be careful who you make friends with,” he warns.
“Are we going to be able to stay here after this season?” I ask.
He gives me a sad smile. “I don’t know, kid. I just don’t know. But I’ll do everything I can to keep you and Jimmy around.”
I swallow back unshed tears and watch Frank walk away and get into his red pickup truck. That’s when I notice Savannah standing in the doorway, half hidden by the screen door. “I didn’t mean to listen in,” she says right away, coming out to sit in Frank’s abandoned spot. Unlike Frank, her petite, slim figure barely moves the swing. “I just got off the phone with your dad. He’s bringing Chinese home for lunch.”
I laugh despite my depressed mood. “And I thought he was running away, leaving me to live with the London family and be Carl’s new sister.”