“Morning, Jenn.” Big Jake greeted her with a pleasant nod and then turned to him. “Two, ready to get your ass kicked by the big boys?”
He smiled through gritted teeth. His father knew how much it galled him to be stuck in the minor league…how badly he wanted to play for the Diamondbacks or Dodgers. Hell, he’d even join Matt on the Rockies, if they’d have him. “Keep talking, old man. We’ll see who’s still laughing in an hour.”
Speaking of Matt…
Greg excused himself. “I ought to go say ‘Hi’ to Thatcher before we get started.”
His father waved toward the home dugout, which they’d designated for team MLB. “I saw him over there. With his pretty wife and toddler.”
Meg was here, too? Great. He hadn’t seen either of them since the wedding, which he’d attended as Stephanie’s guest. A month later, Steph dumped him. Her defection didn’t bother him anymore, but Meg didn’t know that.
Matt, holding a toddler with Meg’s curly blond hair, stepped forward as he approached. “Great to see you, Bartlesby. This is one of your parties I’m happy to attend.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not the same dumb kid who rented out the high roller suite at the Riviera.” More than three years later, the memory of getting hauled away from the hotel in handcuffs still stung.
“Thank God for that.”
Matt’s hearty laugh grated his last nerve, but Meg’s eyes, full of pity, were even tougher to take. Her voice was gentle. “Greg, you look good.”
“You, too. A lot smaller than last time we met.” At the wedding, she was hugely pregnant.
“I know.” She giggled and glanced at the kid. “Hard to believe that was inside me, eh?”
Having no idea what to say to that, he remained silent.
Meg laid her hand on his arm. “I’m sorry for how Steph screwed you over.”
“Forget about it. I already have.”
She stared at him for a moment, as if she couldn’t quite believe it. “Have you really?”
He nodded.
“Really really?”
“Yes, really really.” As he said it, he knew it was true. He felt no bitterness when he thought about the time he’d spent with Stephanie. She was merely a diversion on the path of his life. A pleasant diversion, to be sure, but they’d never been meant to be together forever. Theirs was more lust for a while than love for the ages.
Matt clapped his shoulder. “You’re not flirting with my wife, are you?”
“No, man. See that girl over there with Dad?” He pointed. “I’m with her.”
Meg clapped her hands together. “I’m happy for you, Greg.”
Matt added his hearty congratulations.
“Thanks.” Some devil prompted him to add, “She used to be a stripper.”
Matt’s lip curled in disgust. He grunted. “You haven’t matured after all.”
Greg wanted to argue the point but couldn’t. Why the hell had he mentioned Jenn’s dancing? It was his idea to get her out of that place, yet he wanted everyone to know she’d been there. How messed up was that?
Classy, Bartlesby. Real classy.
Chapter Nine
“Play ball!”
Broadcaster Chip Caray, grandson of beloved Cubs announcer Harry Caray—another favor called in by Jake “Big Man” Bartlesby—had just explained the rules of the derby and called a start to the action.
Jenn knew the schedule well, since she’d drafted it. First up was the MLB vs. Minor League contest, with big-name donors signed on to give anywhere from $100 to $1,000 per home run. The top one from each side would then face off. Donation levels ranged from $500 to $5,000 per homer for that round, thanks to support from corporate entities.
Then came the father-son grudge match for the ages. Jake agreed to let Greg shave his head in front of the full stadium if Greg won; Greg would dress up like Marilyn Monroe and sing “Happy Birthday” for the crowd if Jake beat him. The loser would also donate $500,000 to the Foundation’s holiday campaign.
A half-million dollars? It scared her a little that both men had that much disposable cash just lying around. She was way out of her league with them. Yet neither Greg nor Jake ever made her feel like she didn’t belong. Any feelings of inadequacy were hers and hers alone.
The side bet was somewhat ridiculous, but Jenn had asked them to create their own demands. This was what they came up with. She shrugged. No matter who won, the crowd was in for some fun.
She was secretly rooting for Greg, though. Men of a certain age looked ridiculous with long hair—even men as handsome as Jake Bartlesby. He’d look so much more distinguished with a cut that matched his years.
Okay, that wasn’t the only reason she wanted Greg to win. He needed success…needed to be better than his father at something. Or everything. Their rivalry was both funny and sad.
One by one, batters stepped up to the plate. One major leaguer, followed by a minor leaguer. By the time Greg came up to bat, the “big boys,” as Jake had called them, were up by 11.
Jenn crossed her fingers and closed her eyes.
Thwack. Greg’s first hit sailed to center field, too short. The next one cleared the fence. Then came a swing and a miss. He tapped the dirt from his cleats and resumed batting stance.
So it went. For every couple hits, he had a miss. By the time he notched his tenth out, Greg had added eight home runs to the minor league total.
“Nice work,” she told him when he sought her out in the stands between rounds. His pitcher, a lanky young Antonio Banderas lookalike, was at his side.
“Not good enough.” His scowl deepened. “Dad hit nine. And Thatcher hit twelve.”
Jenn bit her lip to keep from pointing out that Matt’s batting average had always been higher than Greg’s. She’d done the research. But with Greg set to face off against Matt in Round Two, she didn’t want to do anything to shake his confidence.
Instead, she smiled at both him and his companion. “Aren’t you going to introduce us?”
Greg grunted, apparently unconcerned with basic social niceties. “You met Luis already.”
“I’m sure I’d remember if I did.”
His eyes narrowed. “At the club.”
Oh. Of course. Jess met him. Time for damage control. Maybe she could play up the airhead angle. She amped up her smile tenfold and fluttered her eyelashes. “Sorry, Luis. You look different in broad daylight.”
The pitcher’s shoulders rose and fell and white teeth flashed in a wide smile. “You, too, Jade.”
Judging by his even narrower gaze and pursed lips, Greg wasn’t fooled. He snaked an arm around her waist and shot Luis a glare that would have put the fear of God in even the most degenerate sinner, which she guessed the easygoing pitcher was not. “Her name’s Jenn.”
“No problem, man.” Luis took a step back and held up both hands. The classic “hands-off” stance. “I need a Gatorade. I’ll see you back at the field in ten.”
She waited until Luis was out of earshot. “Jealous much?”
Greg’s grin was sheepish. “Sorry. Momentarily lost my mind.”
“Well, I’m glad you found it again.” She trailed a finger lightly over his forearm. “To win this thing, you have to trust Luis.”
“I do. Implicitly. He’s the best pitcher the Condors have.”
“Good.” She leaned in to peck his cheek. “Now get down there and knock a few more out of the park, will you?”
“You bet.”
****
Greg cleared the stadium stairs and loped back to the dugout. He needed a hell of a lot more than “a few” home runs to beat Matt and then his father.
Good thing he’d put in so many hours of practice. He was ready for this. Ready to prove to everyone in the stands Greg Bartlesby was just as good as his father—or even better.
Ahem. Before he could do that, he had to face off against Matt. Beating him wouldn’t be easy. Thatcher had always been good, and his experience in the NL had honed his already sharp skills.
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Luis joined him in the now-empty visitors’ dugout, where they both watched Matt slam ball after ball. His form was flawless.
Luis whistled. “Looks like the Rockies have been good to our boy.”
“Tell me about it.” Each one of Matt’s successful hits grated on Greg. Did the guy have to be freakin’ Mr. Perfect all the time? He was born with his shit together, where Greg constantly scrambled to hold it together with both hands. And frequently let it squish through his fingers.
Matt managed to notch 16 homers before making his last out. Then it was Greg’s turn. As he walked to home plate, lucky bat slung over his shoulder, he repeated one phrase with every step. “You got this.”
Just outside the batter’s box, he took a few extra moments to get in the right mindset. Breathing deeply. Testing his grip. He needed to become one with the bat. Relax and let muscle memory do its thing.
He assumed batting stance and nodded to Luis. The first pitch was a beauty. He swung and the ball sailed right over the fence. Good. Just what he wanted. Balls two and three did the same. Four fell just short and five was a swing and a miss.
“You got this.”
The reminder did the trick. Before he struck out, Greg ended up with 19 homers to Matt’s 16.
Good. Better than good. And he was just getting warmed up. This was going to be fun.
He scanned the stands for Jenn. Right where he’d left her, first row, near first base. Dad’s secretary Ellen was on her left. She waved and flashed a thumbs-up. He flashed one back.
Matt came up to him, hand extended. “Congratulations, man. You’re getting better all the time.”
“Thanks, Matt.” He shook his former teammate’s hand. Honesty compelled him to add, “You too.”
“Anyone ever tell you you’re too good to be stuck in the minors?”
He tamped down his resentment. He couldn’t hate Matt for stating the obvious, right? “That’s what I say to myself every day.”
“Being on a World Series-winning team, I have pull now. I can make a few calls, see what I can do.”
Greg shook his head.
“No?” Matt was dumbfounded.
“If I wanted to make the leap that way, don’t you think I could have had my dad pull the strings years ago?” He gripped his bat tighter. “When I get to the majors, it’ll be because of what I do, not who I know.”
Matt nodded. “I can respect that. Just let me know if you change your mind.”
“Thanks. But I won’t.”
After a short break, his father swaggered out to join him at home plate.
“Now comes the contest we’ve all been waiting for. Father against son. Youth against experience,” the announcer boomed. “Good luck, men.”
Dad rubbed his hands together. “You’re going to need it, Two.”
He didn’t dignify his father’s poke with a response.
At Greg’s insistence, because he didn’t want his father to overexert himself, they’d set up this round differently. They’d take turns hitting 10 pitches. Both home runs and outs were cumulative.
His father took the first 10. Six sailed out of the park; three fell short and one was an out. Greg hit seven on his first attempt. One didn’t make it and two were outs. After two rounds, Big Jake had eleven homers and three outs to Greg’s thirteen homers and four outs.
When he passed his father on the way back to the dugout, he couldn’t resist taunting, “Who needs luck now, old man?”
His father amped up his efforts, and at the end of Round Three, they were tied at 20. But Greg had six outs to his father’s four.
“Your control’s slipping, Son.”
Greg ignored the dig and repeated his “You got this” mantra all the way to the dugout. He took a seat beside Luis and settled back to watch his father’s fourth ten.
Was that a hitch in Big Jake’s powerful swing? When Dad proceeded to smack another seven balls out of the park and get no outs, he decided that was only wishful thinking.
Still, worry niggled at the back of his mind. His father’s swagger to the dugout seemed slower, less assured. He didn’t bother to gloat on his way past Greg. The worry took a toll: He only got four homers. The other six landed in the outfield, so at least he didn’t add to his outs.
With the score 27 to 24 in his father’s favor, Big Jake returned to home plate.
Luis elbowed Greg’s ribs. “Dude. Your dad doesn’t look so hot.”
So Luis saw it, too? “It’s not my imagination?”
“No way.”
Thwack. The ball sailed toward the fence, falling about twenty yards short.
Luis pointed. “His follow-through’s getting sloppy.”
Greg couldn’t deny the pitcher’s observation. “Maybe I should call it off.”
“While you’re down? You want to humiliate yourself in front of the crowd?”
Well, there was that. He didn’t particularly want to don a dress and wig and sing to the crowd. But if his father really was making himself sicker with every swing, he couldn’t allow the contest to continue.
While he debated with himself, Big Jake hit three more balls. Only one was a home run. Before he could resume batting stance to take another pitch, he staggered and dropped his bat. He stooped to retrieve it and lost his balance, ending up on his butt in the dirt.
And just sat there, dazed and disoriented.
Greg vaulted out of the dugout and bolted to Big Jake’s side. He squatted down and tugged the batting helmet from his father’s head. “Dad, are you okay?”
No answer. Shit. And Dad’s skin had a yellowish cast. This wasn’t good.
“Dad?” Still no response, but when he squeezed his father’s hand, Big Jake squeezed back. Weakly. He jumped up and bellowed for the medic.
He hung back, helpless, as the emergency crew loaded his still-dazed father onto a stretcher and rolled him toward a waiting ambulance. That the usually cantankerous older man didn’t struggle was another bad sign.
Luis stood a few feet away, cap respectfully in hand. The crowd watched in stunned silence. The announcer’s voice rang out, stating the obvious: The contest was over. Thanks for coming. Please drive safely.
Greg’s hands fisted at his sides. This was a nightmare. Just the kind of thing he’d been afraid would happen when Jenn first suggested a home run derby.
Jenn. She was running toward him, her face white. Her hands were clasped together, near her throat. She looked as worried as he felt.
Not that her concern made him feel any better. When she reached out to him, he couldn’t bear the thought of taking her hand. Instead, he took a step back. “This is your fault.”
Chapter Ten
Jenn stopped and stared at the man who, less than 24 hours ago, had taken her to bed. Gone was the playful, attentive jokester she’d grown fond of. In his place was a stranger with eyes as cold as ice chips. She didn’t much care for the transformation.
“You blame me? Unbelievable.” She blinked to hold back hot tears.
“Who should I blame? The home run derby was your idea. Remember?”
Even if Greg was coming from a place of helplessness and fear, as she would be in his situation, she refused to let him heap all the blame on her. Yes, she’d played a part, and if Jake died, she’d live with the guilt for the rest of her life. No way was she the only one at fault. “Why don’t you try looking in the mirror? You and Jake have both been talking smack since I came up with the idea.”
“Bullshit. Your idea started the rivalry.”
“Hardly. Given even half a chance, you and your father would argue about whether the sky is blue.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “I merely channeled your feelings into something productive.”
“And nearly killed my father in the process.”
His flat, almost emotionless voice cut her more deeply than the anger of moments ago. Her fingernails bit into the soft skin of her palm as she tried to distract herself from the pain. She wouldn’t cry in front of the thinning cro
wd. She wouldn’t.
She also refused to say something she’d come to regret. Since accusing him of the same thing fell into that category, it left her with no response.
A lawyer at a loss for words? Preposterous. There had to be something she could say. Finally, she found it. “I’m sorry you see it that way.”
There. Neither hurtful nor too terribly lame. It allowed her to turn away, dignity somewhat intact.
But only somewhat. How had she judged Greg badly enough to assume he might care for her? A man who cared for a woman did not accuse that woman of nearly killing his father.
Unless he’s too afraid to admit his part in it.
Jenn swatted away the voice of reason. Her hurt was still too fresh to listen. Besides, right now, how she felt didn’t matter. Jake was the important one. Their only goal should be finding out if he was okay.
With that in mind, she turned back to Greg, who was staring at the scoreboard. Lights flashed the score of the unfinished contest—27-24. So close.
Was he thinking the same thing? She waved her hand in front of unfocused eyes. “Don’t you think we should head to the hospital?”
He blinked. “Yeah.” But he stayed motionless.
“Want me to drive?”
He nodded. “Keys are in my bag, in the dugout.”
Still, Greg made no move to get them.
Because he was likely in shock, Jenn cut him some slack. She headed for the visitor’s dugout to retrieve his bag. When Luis fell into step beside her, she gave him a questioning look.
His smile was subdued, in keeping with the pall that had fallen over the festivities. “Thought you could use some help. Fully stocked, that bag isn’t light.”
“Thank you.” Great. This guy thought she was weak. He also thought she was her sister, the stripper. Didn’t he know exotic dancers had to be in great shape? Jess worked out six days a week. Aerobics on Monday, Wednesday and Friday and boot camp on Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday. She smiled to herself. Jess could probably bench press the lanky Latin pitcher.
Listen to you. Stop thinking about frivolous things. Jake could be on his deathbed.
Her smile disappeared. Refocused, she jogged the rest of the way to the dugout, fished the keys out of the bag’s side pocket and let Luis shoulder the bag as they ran back to Greg.
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