INSIDE GAME
COLLETTE WEST
Dedication
To those battling an addiction and the ones who love them.
Chapter One
Drake
That raven-haired beauty is back at Kings Stadium.
I wipe the sweat from my brow and feel a ray of optimism shine through all the dread.
It's the first Friday night game of the season, and she's always here on Friday nights, sitting right above our dugout. She's been coming for years, catching my eye whenever I'm over at third. It's sad, but the routine of some random chick seems like the only stability I have left in my life.
My mind is racing, and I need to get my scattered brain to focus. I can't let a pretty face distract me.
But I shift my eyes back to home plate a little too late, and with the crack of the bat ringing in my ears, I'm helpless, unable to pick up the flight of the ball. Shit. I tip my head all the way back, squinting into the bank of lights, my heart thudding painfully in my chest.
Goddammit! Where is it?
I charge quickly to my left, wildly searching the night sky, but everything's a blur. I'm just about to give up on it when I finally catch a glimpse of it falling back to earth. I turn on the jets, hoping to outrun it.
With my eyes trained on the ball, I slam right into the Kings' brick wall of a shortstop, Brooks Davison. It falls between us, and I get knocked on my ass, dazed and confused. Brooks is quick to recover, scrambling to his knees and firing a bullet to first. His throw across the diamond is on the money, but the runner beats it by half a step, causing the crowd to erupt in frustration.
"Drake, what the hell, man?" Brooks yells at me, thumping his chest with his glove. "I had it. There was no reason for you to come chargin' over here like a lunatic."
Even though Brooks is pissed, he still offers me a hand up. Nothing ever gets in the way of his good-ol'-boy manners—not even his anger.
But I ignore his offer and stagger unsteadily to my feet. "Just reminding you what a little hustle looks like, Oklahoma."
He shakes his head at me and sighs. "Yeah. Keep telling yourself that, Schultz."
There's no love lost between me and my teammates—but I like it that way. I have too many secrets that need to stay hidden. My hostility keeps them from getting too close, especially on nights like tonight, when I'm not on top of my game.
It's the ninth inning, and we only need one more out. If I hadn't screwed up that easy play, we would be celebrating a victory right now.
I slowly shuffle back toward third, and Bruce "Jilly" Gillette, our closer, glares at me from the pitcher's mound. He has his hands on his hips, showing me up in front of everybody—something he would never do to another teammate. Not that I don't deserve it, but it's a dick move. He's just hanging me out to dry because of the numerous knock-down, drag-out fights we've had over the years. I don't think he's ever forgiven me for going at him when his pitching arm was still in a brace after his Tommy John surgery.
The cameras of the Kings' TV network are locked on us, so Jilly doesn't say anything to me, probably because he doesn't want anyone to read the string of profanities that'd be unfurling from his lips. But the crowd voices his indignation for him when the boos become deafening.
I tap the corner of the bag with my heels, trying to shake it off. The fans were counting the days till I was back in town, ready to lay into me. All winter long, they bitched and moaned on social media and talk radio about how my glaring defensive error in game seven had cost us the World Series, and frankly, I'm sick of hearing about it.
I plaster a huge smirk on my face and tip my cap to amp them up even more. I know I shouldn't, but I casually let my eyes stray to the brunette again. She's quiet, pensive, leaning forward in her seat, watching me. My head is splitting, and I give myself a moment to concentrate on her and nothing else. The roar of insults fades in and out, and a wave of dizziness threatens to overtake me. I blink to clear my head when her face starts to blend in with all the others. The anxiety I started the game with returns in a rush when I can't seem to find her. Where is she? God, I need to see her—just to get my bearings. Thankfully, for some reason, she stands up and starts pointing skyward.
Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I see Jilly a split second before the big guy comes barreling in on me, all six feet eight inches of him. I take a few hurried steps back when the ball bounces off the line and rolls into fair territory. Jilly slides in after it feetfirst, just missing out on making a spectacular catch. He fumbles around in the dirt until the ball's securely in his grasp, checking the runner, who can't advance past second since there are now two New York Kings covering third.
"Do you get off on this or something?" Jilly snarls up at me, dusting off his uniform.
But I didn't muff the play on purpose. I was looking at that girl, trying to hold on to what's left of my sanity. The increased energy and alertness I had in the first few innings are long gone, and now, the wave of despair I was seeking to avoid all night is hitting me dead on.
I feel something warm trickle down my lip and onto my chin. I brush the moisture away, cursing. Damn allergies. The last thing I want is for Jilly—or anyone else—to think I'm crying. But the initial annoyance soon turns into a steady drip, and I roughly run the back of my arm across my face to stop the flow.
Jilly lumbers to his feet, swatting my arm away. "Don't, idiot. You're having a nosebleed."
When I can't stem the bleeding, I start to panic, and Jilly takes immediate action. Before I even know what he's doing, he pulls his jersey out of the pants of his uniform and quickly yanks it up and over his head. He rolls it into a ball and shoves it under my nose.
"Here. Keep some pressure on it."
Jilly doesn't have to say anything more. He knows that something's up with me. I can't stop shaking, and my forehead's laced with sweat. My heart is pounding so hard that it feels like it's going to explode inside my chest.
The incessant humming in my ears only intensifies when a curious murmur runs through the stands and I catch a glimpse of Tony Liotta, our manager, striding over.
"Schultz, that's it. I'm pulling you for Sanders," he barks, my boyish replacement tagging along behind him.
I've never been known for my defensive skills. But to have made two back-to-back errors—on routine plays, no less—is inexcusable. By taking me out this late in the game, Tony intends for me to feel the heat, pulling me for a goddamned rookie like Bryce Sanders.
"Boss, I think there's something wrong with him," Jilly mutters, jerking his chin at me.
"Don't I know it," Tony growls under his breath. "You're lucky your nose started bleeding, Schultz. Maybe the crowd will give you a little sympathy for it, because you're sure as hell not getting any from me. You're in a shitload of trouble. The front office wants you upstairs NOW!"
"Sorry, man," Sanders says, dropping his head and moving past me to take my position.
The kid had better watch his back. If he thinks he's going to be one of Tony Liotta's boys from now on, he can damn well forget about it—not after I hooked him up with a steady supply of performance-enhancing drugs, convincing him that he needed to up his game. His ass belongs to me now.
I chuckle like the whole thing is hilarious as I saunter toward the dugout. I breathe through my mouth, my nose buried in Jilly's sweaty shirt. My stomach churns when the fans continue to heckle me, so I add some extra swagger to my step.
Yeah, bring it on. Play all the head games you want with me, New York. I've been hearing how worthless I am for quite some time now—and I know a thing or two about ignoring abuse. I'm an expert at it.
As I get closer to the stands, they really let me have it, shouting every swear word in the book at me. Pete the ball boy races by with a clean je
rsey for Jilly while giving me a sympathetic look, but the rest of the Kings lean over the railing and spit sunflower seeds, refusing to meet my eye.
I wonder what that brunette thinks of all of this. If I hadn't kept glancing over at her, none of this would've happened. I steel myself and let my eyes comb the stands until they land on her now-empty seat.
I gaze up frantically until I see the back of her head as she climbs the stairs.
I can't help but grin at the irony of it all. With her departure, it seems like my luck has officially run out.
I flex my arm and feel the Band-Aid from earlier today tug against my skin. Yep, she may as well leave early because my whole season's about to come to a crashing halt.
Chapter Two
Eva
"So, Drake Schultz finally got caught, huh?"
My dad eyes me from behind his wire-rimmed glasses, knowing I'm still shaken up over watching my favorite player exit the field to a chorus of boos.
I answer with a cross between a shiver and a shrug. "Blood tests don't lie."
He takes my left hand between his to warm it up while we walk through the main concourse. My skin looks so much darker next to his, but it's only in these fleeting moments of awareness that I'm reminded that Dr. George Sloane isn't my biological father, even if he's the only dad I've ever known.
We make some pair. I'm a Latina who's not exactly fluent in Spanish, and he's a lifelong bachelor with an adopted daughter, yet our shared love of Kings baseball runs deep. It's our Friday night tradition to catch a game whenever the team's in town, and Dad's been able to get seats behind the Kings' dugout for ages now. They're a gift from a former client of his who was able to turn his life around, thanks to Dad's help.
Otherwise, I think the two of us would probably spend every waking hour at Harbor House, the drug rehabilitation clinic he started as a nonprofit facility to help the city's homeless get clean and stay clean. It's where my mom gave birth to me twenty-five years ago, when I was nothing more than a mewling crack baby. I barely survived my entry into this world, but the next day, she had no qualms about abandoning me in search of her next high. She left the comfort and protection of the clinic to risk her life out on the streets, and I never saw or heard from her again.
But I was lucky. Dr. George Sloane took me in and raised me as his own. Now, I'm proud to be working alongside him as a substance abuse counselor while finishing up my doctorate thesis in addiction psychology.
Because, tonight, I'm not only here for the game. I'm here for my job.
Dad taps a finger to his chin. "That was a pretty smart move, testing Drake right at the beginning of the season. He probably never saw it coming, thinking he'd made it through spring training free and clear."
"C'mon, Dad." I nudge him with my elbow. "You know those drug tests are supposed to be random."
He tilts his head toward me. "Diane Heimlich may be the only female owner in Major League Baseball, but she knows her players. The woman's no fool."
"No, she's not." I keep my gaze fixed straight ahead. "But I think there's more going on here. I mean, did you see him? He's a mess. His nose was bleeding. He couldn't stop twitching."
Dad's bushy eyebrows shoot up. "You don't think…?"
"Yeah, Dad. I do."
I couldn't bear to watch such a talented ballplayer pretend like nothing was wrong while his mind and body broke down in front of everybody—the one who just brought a whole world of trouble down on his head because he'd felt the need to cheat at the one thing he's naturally good at.
I swallow hard. "I'm just shocked he'd take the field in that condition."
Since signing with the Kings, Drake Schultz has been extremely proficient in the art of deception. For years, people around the league have suspected him of taking human growth hormone, or HGH, the most widely used form of performance-enhancing drugs. But time and again, his sixth sense at predicting when he'd be asked to submit a blood or urine sample had every lab result coming back normal.
But this year, he tripped up. Now, traces of HGH are able to be detected in the body within fourteen days of use—no longer limited to the previous twenty-four hours. Thanks to the growing sophistication of the tests, his margin of error is now razor thin, and it didn't help that Major League Baseball put a rush on obtaining his latest test results.
I don't have to turn my head to feel the weight of Dad's eyes upon me.
I sigh, frowning. "It's not like Drake Schultz to be so reckless."
"And you know him so well?" he teases, a tinge of laughter in his voice.
Yep, I've always had a thing for Drake Schultz. I don't know what it is—probably the savior complex in me, believing that no one is beyond redemption, even the highest-paid player in professional sports. So it's no wonder that my concern automatically filters its way into my response.
"He was acting like he'd never played the game a day in his life. Dad, we've been watching Drake for years now. Have you ever seen him look like that out on the field? Hyper, jittery, dripping with sweat?"
"No. I haven't." He furrows his brow, pondering. "And you're right. Schultz was exhibiting all the classic symptoms." He pushes his glasses higher up on his nose. "Eva, what are you going to do? Are you going to tell Diane?"
I bite my lip, mulling it over. "She's been such a supporter of our work. No one donates more money to Harbor House than the New York Kings. There's no way I can keep my suspicions from her, but I'd like to spend some time with him first."
It's why Diane Heimlich, the owner of the Kings, asked me to attend a closed-door meeting after tonight's game. Management is going to confront Drake about his PED use. They finally have proof, thanks to the test results provided by the commissioner's office. Due to Major League Baseball's stringent anti-drug policies, he's about to get suspended. What the Kings want me to do is monitor him during his time away from the game to guarantee he'll be drug-free when he returns.
They want me to be his sober companion, a type of therapist who'll work with him one-on-one. I'm to help him abstain from drugs by establishing a healthy routine outside of a rehab-like setting. My primary responsibility is to make sure he doesn't relapse by providing round-the-clock, live-in care.
But based on what I've witnessed here tonight, the Kings don't know the half of it. He's not just using performance enhancers. He's into the hard-core recreational stuff too.
"I still don't know why you agreed to do this," Dad grumbles, clearly not enthused about what I signed up for. "Schultz is a challenge, even for someone like me, and I've been counseling addicts my whole life. Eva, dealing with someone who doesn't want to change, you know how it affects you—how much it can hurt."
I got too close to an addict once before when Jared Carlson consumed my life. He was a brilliant street artist—gay, tortured, sensitive, deep feeling. I got so wrapped up in him that I left home and moved into his tiny apartment in Newark. I was determined to do everything I could to help break him of his habit, but giving him my all wasn't enough to save him. One night, I came home and found that he had OD'ed in the middle of the kitchen floor. My world fell apart. The void his death had created made me question everything. I didn't know if I wanted to work with addicts anymore. I wasn't as good at it as Dad was, and I wondered if I ever could be.
I failed Jared, and his death made me reexamine my calling. Why had drugs been so important to him? Why had he valued them more than his own life? And it was on this soul-searching quest to find some kind of answer that I threw myself back into my work at Harbor House and crawled through the ugly, forgotten hovels of the city, seeking out those in the throes of addiction. I came to discover that they needed me even if Jared no longer did and I couldn't turn my back on them. Meeting them and hearing their stories rekindled my passion for counseling, and that fire to be a positive force in the face of so much adversity has only gotten stronger.
It's why I'm able to look Dad square in the eye and say in all honesty, "I'm up for the challenge."
He s
tudies me with his arms folded.
"And the money would help," I blurt out, shuffling my feet.
We're both aware of how hard it's been lately to secure the funding needed to keep Harbor House going. Donors have been cutting back. Now is not the time to say no to such an unexpected windfall.
Dad places his hand on my shoulder. "I don't want you to feel obligated to have to take on someone like Drake Schultz just because you're friends with Diane's daughter."
"Of course not," I reply, trying to ease the worry lines etched across his forehead. "But if not for Carrie and the student documentary I helped her with back when we were undergrads at Fordham, I never would've met Jared and…" I stop, needing a moment to pull myself together.
Sadness fills Dad's eyes. "How long are you going to beat yourself up over something that wasn't even your fault?"
I take a deep breath, feeling the burn of disappointment settle in my stomach. "You would've saved him."
Dad bends over and kisses the top of my head. "You're all heart, my darling girl. But no one could've saved Jared. Not me, not you, not anybody—because he didn't want to save himself."
I glance up at him. "That's why I can't turn away from Drake Schultz. He needs me. You can see it just as much as I do."
Because I recognize Drake's call for help for what it is. He's never let himself be this vulnerable before. Something major is going on here. I only hope I can somehow get through to him, because it's not too late. He's not like Jared. He's still alive.
My phone goes off, and I quickly pull it out of the pocket of my jacket. It's a text from Diane.
I need you in the conference room ASAP.
I hold it up so that Dad can see, and he gives me a worried glance.
"Eva, you've always been a sucker for hard-luck cases. Just remember who you're dealing with here. He's a master manipulator, bar none."
"Because he's probably in a tremendous amount of pain," I protest, hurrying on ahead and dragging my briefcase behind me.
But Dad reaches out, holding me back for a minute. "Just promise me you'll be careful."
Inside Game Page 1