"I will." I give him a quick kiss on the cheek. "Love you, Dad."
"Love you, too. Stay safe, and call me later," he says as I hurry through the throng, searching for the nearest elevator.
"I will!" I call over my shoulder, knowing I'm going to need his support now more than ever.
If it weren't Drake Schultz, I'd say forget it. But I still have that cap he signed for me when I was eighteen hanging from my bedpost. It's the last thing I look at every night before I fall asleep, and it's granted me plenty of sweet dreams when reality seemed more like a nightmare. It's why I feel like I owe him somehow for all the happy memories he's given me as a fan over the years.
Because I don't feel as helpless as I did with Jared. Now, my good intentions are backed by hard-won experience in the classroom and out in the field. I'm no longer fumbling around in the dark, trying to be a Good Samaritan.
This time, I'm confident I'll be able to make a difference.
Chapter Three
Drake
I've always been so careful, and now, I'm trapped behind a conference table, surrounded by New York Kings royalty.
I close my eyes and sigh, the events of this afternoon replaying themselves over and over again in my head.
***
"Can you make a fist for me, Mr. Schultz?"
I remember glaring at the representative from the drug testing agency while she kept her eyes lowered, concentrating. With a circular motion, she swabbed alcohol along the inside of my arm then jabbed a needle into my skin without warning.
Needless to say, I felt the sting in more ways than one.
I watched my blood fill the collection tube, thinking, This can't be happening. No one ever gets tested for performance-enhancing drugs during the opening week of the season. I was being singled out. It was a witch hunt, plain and simple.
"There. All done," she said a little too cheerfully, applying a Band-Aid to my tiny puncture wound. "We'll have your results back later today."
"Later today?" I exclaimed.
"Yes. I'm taking your sample over to the lab now to be analyzed."
I swallowed past the lump in my throat, trying to make a joke out of it. "Why? What's the rush?"
"We pride ourselves on our efficiency. It's how we won the drug testing contract with Major League Baseball in the first place."
I cringed as she zipped her medical supply bag shut with a flourish.
"We have facilities set up in every major city. There's no reason why the commissioner has to wait weeks, or even days, to receive a report on a player. We give him the means to take action immediately."
She smiled at me, but I didn't smile back. I knew I was about to get caught, and I felt sick to my stomach.
***
Much like I do now.
I open my eyes and scowl at the higher-ups who will be deciding my fate.
Team owner, dragon lady, Diane Heimlich.
Her loyal henchwoman, GM, Gayle Rader.
Kings player of the millennium, Chase Whitfield.
Hard-ass manager extraordinaire, Tony Liotta.
The stage is surely set for the dismantling of my illustrious career.
This is only the second season Diane's been in the driver's seat as the Kings' principal owner, but she's been looking to get rid of me for years, long before she took over for her father. I have no doubt she intends to stick it to me good.
Chase has his arms crossed in front of him, stoic as ever, adding to the icy reception. We used to be friends once. But at thirty-six, we're not the young, shining prospects we once were. I'm hanging on to my career by my fingernails, and he's happily retired, coaching first base.
Although I don't know how happy he really is.
In his prime, Chase was the fiercest competitor in the game. He absolutely hated to lose, battling day in and day out. And even though we're barely on speaking terms, I saw firsthand when I joined the Kings just how much it killed him to have to call it quits due to a career-ending injury.
Seeing how he went out scared the shit out of me.
It's why I did what I did.
My first year in New York, I slid hard into second base, tweaking my hip. But I'm no wuss. I swallowed the pain, too proud to tell anybody about it. Before my free agency, when I got to choose which team I wanted to play for, I was a guy known for getting hurt, and I didn't want that stigma following me to my new job with the Kings. Everyone was looking at me, wanting to know—could I live up to all the hype? So I tried to grind it out even though I couldn't drive the ball worth a lick. I was hesitant to put weight on my back foot, and it threw off my batting stance. My home run production tanked. My average plummeted. I was desperate. I needed to produce on the field and show the Kings I deserved the record-setting contract they had given me.
So I started injecting HGH to hasten my recovery. And I never stopped.
I'm not one for excuses, but when Chase couldn't play anymore, he had a wife and a kid to ease the blow. Not me. Not anymore. That's why I was willing to do whatever it took to hang on, because baseball's all I had left.
It sucks, but from the moment you make it to the majors, there's already a clock ticking on your big league career. Youth is always ready to step in and take your place—just like that rookie Sanders did tonight. I hate looking washed up and weak, and that's exactly what happened.
I glare across the table at my manager, and he glares right back at me. Tony's livid that I cost us the game. I single-handedly took a much-needed "W" out of our win column, and he's in no mood to forgive and forget.
I should show some remorse for my piss-poor performance out on the field, but I can't. I'm too worked up. Why? Because someone went through my locker during the game, searching for more evidence against me. I noticed it right away when my lucky blue Sharpie was stashed upside down on the top shelf, and I don't let anyone touch my lucky blue Sharpie—ever.
So I have no intention of making this easy for these four executioners of mine. Why should I? It's obvious they've already made up their minds about me.
I drum my fingers loudly on the table. "Can we get on with this already?"
I've never been a fan of the silent treatment. The way I was raised, I prefer to settle things with my fists. That way, there's always a clear winner and a clear loser.
"We're waiting for one more person to join us," Diane says crisply, like it pains her to have to speak to me.
I scowl at her, never thinking she'd be shrewd enough to outmaneuver me. Everyone always assumed her father was the big bad. But she's turning out to be more of a force to be reckoned with than I anticipated. There's no way I'm letting her see me sweat.
"Why don't you go on and deliver the bad news already? I know you're dying to." I curl my lip and gesture at the paperwork stacked in front of her on the table, the top folder brandished with the seal of the drug testing agency.
"You did it to yourself, man," Chase mutters, shaking his head.
"'Cause I have it so easy. Right, golden boy?"
My irritation quickly surfaces, probably because Chase is the one they've assigned to play hardball with me—the same guy I asked to be the best man at my wedding once upon a time.
"Go on, Whit. Keep talking out of your ass. You don't have to go out and play anymore. You don't have to scratch and claw to stay where you are. You're a fixture on the Kings' coaching staff now, and we all know that's an exclusive, little club I'll never be asked to join. You all just want me out of the game permanently."
"That's enough out of you, Schultz," Tony warns. "Zip your trap if you know what's good for you."
"You're not going to silence me, Tony," I reply angrily, talking a mile a minute. "And neither is anyone else. I have the right to an appeal, and I'm damn well going to ask for one." I splay my hands on the table to keep them from shaking.
"Drake, please. Take it easy," Gayle urges, reaching across the table to steady my arm.
Before becoming GM, Gayle was a fixture in the Kings' locker room, cove
ring the team for her sports site, the Queen of Diamonds. She's been around the game a long time. She's seen stuff. She knows what goes on behind the scenes, what makes players tick. And for some reason, she's always been more understanding with me than all the rest. It's like, by observing me all of these years, she's gleaned some special insight into why I am the way I am. I'm not sure how, but it's like she knows about my past—a past that, so far, I've been able to hide.
The Kings' previous GM, Terry Bloom, knew I was taking PEDs, and we reached a mutual agreement. He'd protect my ass and I'd hook him up with a steady supply for some of the other players on the team. But it all got shot to hell when he was fired and Gayle took his place.
Terry's problems seemed to start and end with me. He did a lot of shady things to several of my teammates. He was trying to make them look bad so he could trim their future contracts and resign them well below their market value, gambling that no other team would take them after he'd thoroughly damaged their reputations.
The only reason he was threatening his own players was to cut corners so the Kings could afford to pay me the yearly installments on my quarter-billion-dollar contract.
But I think even Terry was sick of dealing with my shit, paying off call girls to keep them quiet—warning me not to lead them on or give them gifts that could be traced back to me while having to continually sell me to the media after my production numbers had bottomed out. I didn't like how much power he had over my life and my career, so I signed an affidavit for Diane to get rid of him, implicating his involvement with hooking players up with PEDs, barely skirting the line of incriminating myself.
At the time, Diane was still new to the job and she didn't have the balls to turn Terry over to the commissioner, thinking some of the fallout might blow back on her. She just wanted Terry and his PEDs away from her precious Kings, and all she had was my word against his—no cold, hard proof.
And ever since, I've been waiting for the other shoe to drop. But, Christ, it's only the first week of the season. They sure didn't waste any time. And that frightens me a hell of a lot more than Tony's venting over the miscues I made in the damn game.
I remove Gayle's hand from my arm. "I know what you're trying to do, but—"
A knock at the door interrupts my outburst.
"Come in," Diane beckons.
I peer over my shoulder, ready to size up whoever's about to walk through the door. It's probably some damage control representative from the Kings' front office ready to tell me the best way to deal with the scandal my test results are about to create or a science geek from the lab all set to go over everything in excruciating detail, providing me with very little wiggle room to explain away the charges. I grit my teeth.
Whoever it is, I'm ready.
But I jerk back in my chair when the face that caused a thousand errors enters the room.
Because nothing could've prepared me for this.
Is this really happening, or am I just hallucinating?
My raven-haired beauty gives me a small smile before nodding quickly at the others. I watch her stride in confidently, briefcase in hand. There's an empty seat on the other side of the table, presumably for her, but instead, she sits next to me.
I shrink into myself. Still in my sweat-soaked uniform, I look like crap and probably smell even worse.
She must be my temporary legal counsel appointed by the players' association. That's the only reasonable explanation I can come up with for her being here. I knew she had to be smart, with a good job, based on the business attire she always wears to the games. She's a total workaholic—something I can relate to.
She turns to me, and my breath catches. "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Schultz. My name's Eva Sloane."
Her voice is rich and melodic. And if it were anyone else, I'd shove my hands under my arms and refuse to cooperate, but I can't. Not with the way she's looking at me.
***
I've only ever seen her up close one time. It was my first month with the Kings, and management wanted me to reach out to the fans so they could get to know me better. They asked me to dole out some autographs before the game, and Eva was there, above the dugout, with my brand-new Kings baseball card in her hand. I spotted her right away, having already noticed her during my first home stand whenever I'd jog across the field at the end of an inning. Being that she was in the same section, I figured she must be a big-shot season-ticket holder who just wanted to add the new guy to her collection.
But I still liked that she was up there, waiting for me. It was flattering. Yeah, at the time, I was married—not that it meant anything though. My marriage had been a train wreck long before it'd officially gone off the tracks.
I was willing to do anything to get her to talk to me, so I decided to make things difficult for her. She held my card out, and I pretended to ignore it. I never sign baseball cards, but I wasn't about to tell her that. After she'd been passed over twice in a row, it didn't take her long to catch on. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched her take her Kings hat off and fasten a blue Sharpie to the brim.
When she stuck it out, I took it immediately, receiving a smile from her in return. I signed it and handed it back, minus the Sharpie. She waited a moment, clearing her throat. But when I kept on signing with no intention of giving it back, she chuckled and started back to her seat. But not before saying, "Thanks, Drake."
Knowing she was there watching, I hit three home runs in that game.
And I've kept that damn Sharpie with me ever since.
***
I extend my hand to her, and she gives me a firm handshake, one I can respect. There's nothing light or dainty about it, but I hate the fact that she can feel me trembling.
"Hello, Eva," I mumble, looking away.
Her warm, brown eyes are too compassionate. They're full of understanding, not revulsion or pity. She can't be a lawyer. Something else is going on here.
"Drake, meet your new sober companion," Diane cuts in, causing my head to shoot up.
"What? I don't need a goddamned sober companion!" I growl back.
"Your positive test result for PEDs says that you do." Diane watches me carefully, fully expecting me to deny the accusation.
So she doesn't know about the other thing. Good. But based on the way Eva's staring at me, it's clear she sees right through me. I might be fooling everyone else in the room, but not her. My only worry is: Is she going to tell Diane about it?
"I'm not going to take this lying down. These charges are bullshit!" I exclaim, a cold bead of sweat trickling down my back. "I intend to challenge these findings. You can be damn sure of that."
"I thought you would," she sighs loudly. "But I'd advise against it."
"Just serve your suspension and get it over with, Schultz," Chase advises. "You were caught red-handed."
"Why don't you shut the fuck up, Whitfield?" I snarl back at him. "You don't know what the hell you're talking about."
"Watch your language, Schultz. We're not in a locker room. There are ladies present," Tony jumps in, quick to scold me.
I roll my eyes, laughing bitterly. "Like it makes a difference. You're all just out to screw me."
"Drake, the team is going to need you down the stretch," Gayle says, showing that she still has at least some faith in my baseball abilities. "You should thank your lucky stars that you're not getting kicked out of the game. Since it's only your first offense, the punishment is a mandatory eighty-game suspension. The rulebook also states that you won't be able to play in the postseason, but we've found a way around that. The commissioner is willing to waive that clause if you forfeit your entire salary for the year."
"You've got to be kidding me?" I huff. "No way in hell am I giving up what the Kings owe me."
But Gayle continues, strengthening her argument. "If you appeal and it drags on, sure, you could still play in games in April and May that no one will even remember, or you could play in October, the time of year when players become legends."
"Yo
u think I still need to redeem myself for blowing the World Series last year, don't you?" I challenge her flat out.
But it's Diane who comes at me with guns blazing. "You don't want to appeal, Drake. I still have that affidavit you signed about Terry, and no arbitrator is going to side with you once they see that you've already admitted in writing to using PEDs."
I glare at her. "You were supposed to destroy that. You gave me your word."
"Well, I didn't. I thought it might come in handy," Diane says, and I start to rise from seat until I hear what she says next. "I don't want you on these drugs, Drake. I'm only thinking of you. The side effects are too dangerous. If I have to strong-arm you in order to get you to stop taking them, I will."
A stunned silence falls over the table for a minute. I don't think anyone can believe that Diane is willing to fight just as dirty as I do.
Tony speaks up first, taking a more positive approach. "You have tremendous natural talent, son. I've seen it. If only you'd stop making such bad choices."
"And that's exactly what Eva's here to help you with," Diane says, reminding me that Eva's observing this little tantrum of mine.
"I don't need anyone to babysit me," I grumble, stubbornly propping my elbows up on the table. "I don't want her anywhere near me."
Throughout the entire exchange, Eva hasn't moved a muscle. She's remained quiet, taking it all in, like she's trying not to form any snap judgments about me, even if my hostility isn't making it easy for her. But her reticence only makes me more curious as to what's going on inside that head of hers. Just knowing she's here to witness my downfall is really getting under my skin.
"Eva's going to monitor your behavior for us," Gayle murmurs, trying to compensate for my rudeness. "She's a trained professional who's going to make sure you don't take HGH during your suspension and ultimately help you kick the habit."
"We require the insurance Eva provides," Diane says, sitting back in her chair and folding her hands in front of her. "We want you off this stuff for good. When word gets out, it's going to shine a very bad light on the rest of the team, and I refuse to let you tarnish the Kings' good name. Cheating won't be tolerated in this organization. Do you hear me? You destroyed any trust you had with me, Drake, and you're going to have to earn it back—on my terms. It's Eva or nothing."
Inside Game Page 2