He turns around, and I'm glad that he dug a dry T-shirt out of his suitcase before getting to work. I don't think I would've been able to concentrate if he hadn't. Thank goodness we're in a room where it's always a constant forty-eight degrees.
"Yeah?" he asks cautiously.
But he brought me here. He had to have known this would be the end result.
We're almost done, and I glance around at how much we've accomplished. He really got into it, spilling out twice as much as I did like he wanted it over and done with.
"Why were you hooking other players up with this stuff?" I furrow my brow, trying and failing to comprehend the reasoning behind his actions.
It's one thing that he was taking PEDs and hiding it. It's a whole other matter that he was supplying others with them as well. Why take such an unnecessary risk?
"Did you know that Terry Bloom was the one who initially scouted me for San Diego?" he asks, watching me drain the last remaining vial.
"Terry Bloom… He's the ex-GM of the Kings, right? The guy who had the job before Gayle?"
"Yeah, that's right." He holds the door open, rubbing his hands to warm them up. "Come on. Let's get out of here."
I don't resist, quickly following him outside into the sunshine. He crams his large body behind the wheel of the golf cart, and I get in beside him. He drives up to the house, and the sun is in his eyes, so I reach in my pocket and nudge his elbow, handing him back his sunglasses.
"Here. You need them more than I do."
He accepts them gratefully, giving me a tired smile. He's had a long day. The sun is starting to set over the horizon. We should call it a night. He's made a lot of progress today. Sure, I want to know more about Terry Bloom, but I don't want to run the risk of burning him out.
He parks under a bamboo trellis near the side entrance to the house. The path is lined with flowering gardenia bushes, and it smells heavenly. I close my eyes and breathe in deeply. The fragrant scent coupled with the salty sea air is finally helping me relax. I'm not on any type of vacation, but during moments like this, I can trick my mind into thinking I am.
Even though I can't help worrying about what crossing a man like Terry Bloom could mean if he's somehow connected to all of those empty vials back there. I didn't stop and consider that they might actually belong to someone else—someone who might be furious at us for what we just did.
When I open my eyes, I see Drake punching in yet another security code to unlock the door. I glimpse over his shoulder, peering inside, and I'm amazed that there are several grocery bags stacked on the kitchen counter. I start in on him, alarm bells going off in my head.
"Drake, you said we'd be alone, that we wouldn't be disturbed."
"We are," he assures me. "I just called ahead and made sure my staff had the place fully stocked before we arrived. All I had on hand were nonperishables like peanut butter, crackers, pasta, canned soup, stuff like that, and I know how much you keep harping on me to improve my diet."
"Fresh fruits and vegetables are what you need, not processed food that's chock-full of preservatives." I brush past him, ready to scope out the contents of the refrigerator.
"Are you hungry?" he asks, dropping onto the sofa.
"Starving," I reply, nodding my head in approval when all I see are healthy options before me—everything from a carton of fresh eggs and a gallon of fat-free milk to crisp spears of asparagus and a leafy bunch of spinach. "Your staff did well, Schultz. Do you want me to whip us up something light, maybe a couple of omelets?"
"Sure," he says, tipping back his head and stretching his legs out.
I'd rather keep talking, but I don't care if he takes a quick nap first. He could probably use one. I start arranging the ingredients I'll need by the stove and bend down to root through the pots and pans in the bottom shelf. When I find what I'm looking for, I stand back up, and I'm startled when I feel him at my back, his breath fanning my neck.
"What do you want me to do?" he asks.
"Nothing," I say hurriedly. "I've got it. Go sit down and relax until it's ready."
"I don't think so." He heads over to the cutlery stand and pulls out a chopping knife. "All you've done is feed me and clean up after me while we were in New York. It's about time I pitch in."
When I don't argue, he rinses a head of broccoli under the faucet, blotting it with a paper towel before cutting it up into bite-size pieces.
"I thought you didn't know how to cook." I let a pat of butter sizzle in the frying pan, getting it just hot enough to melt evenly.
"Why would you say that?" he asks over his shoulder.
"Because I think I still saw some of the price tags on your appliances back in Logan Tower," I tease him.
He shrugs. "All I did was sleep and shower there. I mostly ate takeout." He uses his hand to press down on the blade of the knife, and I watch the broad muscles of his back move beneath his shirt. "It used to be more of a home when Willa and Coco where there, but after that, it was just a damn bachelor pad."
"Isn't that what you wanted? To be a bachelor again?" I crack the eggs into a small bowl, keeping my back turned.
"I don't know what I wanted," he grumbles. "All I know was that I had to get away from Karolina."
I can't resist asking. "Did she know about your setup down here?"
"She knew what my family was up to, and so did Terry Bloom. He was the one who encouraged them to start dealing in PEDs." He puts the knife down and pinches the bridge of his nose.
"He reached out to them? How?" I add the eggs to the pan, swirling them around to cover the bottom equally, anything to distract myself from another one of his shocking revelations.
"By getting them to stockpile PEDs from these shady pharmaceutical companies he knew of and distributing them to the players who were more than willing to pay top dollar for them," he sighs, bringing the broccoli over on the cutting board.
"But you were so talented. You didn't need Terry Bloom to make it out of Kentucky. You were the top prospect in the country. You went as the first overall pick in the draft. You signed with San Diego right out of high school and debuted in the majors at eighteen." I glance up at him as he tilts the board and drops the broccoli into the pan. "I'm sure every team in the majors wanted to draft you."
"They did," he says miserably. "But Terry talked to a lot of people in my hometown. It didn't take him long to find out what my family was up to. He knew I'd fail the drug test I had to take to be a part of the draft. He knew I was addicted to coke, so he got me under his thumb, telling me he'd make it all go away as long as my family started funneling what he needed for him. Mama sat down with him and drove a hard bargain, getting what she wanted out of the deal, regardless of how it affected me. They were going to make each other rich—and me too, as long as I cooperated. Not that I had a choice. Mama already had the infrastructure in place, the transportation channels, everything. She'd work for him, and in exchange, he'd protect me from ever getting busted for my coke habit."
"And Karolina was the only one who ever knew about it?"
"Why do you think I have to pay her so much alimony?" he groans, watching me flip the omelet over.
I let it sizzle a minute in order to work up the courage I need to ask him a very important question. "Drake, were you ever clean?"
He laughs mirthlessly, handing me a plate as I slide the omelet onto it. "Since Terry had so much riding on me with his PEDs, I went to rehab plenty of times during the offseason or I'd go on the disabled list for some fabricated injury and be away from the team for a little bit, but I'd always relapse. He'd only ever get me off the coke for a while."
"How long was 'a while'?" I press.
He cuts the omelet down the middle, offering the other half to me. He still hasn't gotten his appetite back, and I'm too engrossed in what he's telling me to bother cooking another one for myself.
He takes a seat at the table, but I remain standing, waiting for him to answer me.
"I thought that, by getting out
of Kentucky, the past could somehow be undone. But I learned the hard way that it can't. You always succumb to your greatest weakness when the very worst happens," he sighs, forcing a mouthful past his lips.
"And when was that?"
"When Chase stopped speaking to me."
Chapter Fourteen
Drake
I sound like such a pussy.
Eva stares at me, and I hate seeing the look of sympathy in her eyes. I've never admitted that to anyone before. Guys don't say that kind of shit about each other. They just don't.
"Tell me why," she says, making me drop my fork and fidget uncomfortably in my seat. "Why does having Chase's good opinion mean so much to you?"
I wipe my mouth with a napkin, unable to eat anymore. "I have no clue how to say what you want me to say without coming off like…"
"Like those gay rumors that have been swirling around you and Chase for years are true?" she says, cocking her head to the side.
"I'm not gay," I state emphatically.
"I never thought you were," she replies calmly. "But it doesn't mean that Chase doesn't hold a special place in your life."
I don't say anything because I don't know what to say. I'm not good with emotional stuff like this.
"He was like a brother to you," she supplies, her eyes warm and understanding.
"Yeah, you could say that." I nod, my throat getting tight.
"Let me fill in the blanks and you tell me if I'm right or wrong." She sits down, turning her chair toward mine. "You were both young, can't-miss prospects. You had more natural talent than he did, but he would always outwork you. His dedication to being the best would drive you crazy, but there was a healthy spark of competition between you and a lot of mutual respect."
I rest my elbows on the table, and she leans forward.
"He was just the first person I could ever count on," I respond, peering into her eyes. "He always keeps his promises. He always does what he says he's going to do. I'd never met anyone like that before. He didn't have some kind of agenda. He just expected the most out of himself and everyone around him."
"And that frustrated you?"
"Hell yeah! I was the kid from the wrong side of the tracks. I wasn't raised to be an upstanding young man like Chase Whitfield," I reply mockingly. "I was brought up to do whatever was necessary to survive, no matter how cutthroat I had to be."
"And that's why you turned on him?" she asks point-blank.
"Partly," I admit, not liking her shining a light on the dark side of my nature. "All he was doing was winning in New York, and it was hard to take."
"Did he rub it in?"
"He didn't have to." I slump down in my chair until we're sitting with her knees knocking against mine. "I tried my best to stay clean until my bust-up with him. Then it was all downhill from there. I went back on the coke, and my world fell apart. The risky, uninhibited sex that led to my divorce—I hated myself. Because that's not who I am. I've always been so careful."
Her knee nervously taps mine. "Have you been tested?"
"For STDs?" I bristle. "No worries, sweetheart. I passed my physical in spring training with flying colors."
I quirk up the side of my mouth, but I don't feel all that good about it. She's not the kind of girl who should be sitting here, listening to this crap. I know she deals with junkies all the time and has probably witnessed a whole range of depraved behavior, but it bothers me that I let myself turn into such a train wreck of a man, a guy she shouldn't come within ten feet of.
I'm trouble, plain and simple.
"Why are you trembling?" she asks.
"Because we just spilled an entire inventory of PEDs," I reply, my thoughts racing ahead. "My family expects dozens of Major League Baseball players to pay for their season's worth of vials upon delivery. My cousin, Dwight, was supposed to come down here and run them up to New York for me to distribute before I got suspended."
"Why were you even involved?" Her voice takes on a nervous edge I can't ignore.
"There were a lot of guys on the Kings Terry got hooked on HGH before he got fired. Jackson Riggs and Colton Fisk were two of the bigger names. Terry even got Wendell, the trainer's assistant, to administer it to them."
"That's insane," Eva says, shaking her head.
"When Terry came to Appalachia to scout me, he saw the lifestyle. He learned how the holler made money. He knew he could proposition my family into making him even more. Years later, Terry made it a condition of bringing me to New York, an unofficial, behind-the-scenes addendum to my contract." I pause, spreading my legs apart and letting hers fall in between them.
"But why did you let it go on for so long?"
She doesn't pull away when her knees come to rest against my stomach, right below my belt. I stay absolutely still. Any sudden movement and she's going to be acutely aware of how hard I am for her. Sex is the furthest thing from her mind right now. She looks distressed at just how far my family's drug ring goes and how powerless I am to stop it.
She got me fired up on that damn plane, moaning my name in her sleep, and my body still hasn't come down from it. That's why I jumped in the ocean. Anything to ease this aching hard-on that just won't quit. I need to concentrate on telling her my sad story instead of what being this close to her is doing to me.
I sigh. "My family became Terry's HGH pipeline, a source he could lay the blame on if it all went wrong. In the meantime, he went from being a scout for San Diego to the GM of the Kings, and he developed some major clout along the way. He knew that I wanted to come to New York, where all the greats have played. He was well aware of how much I wanted it. I was the best player in the game, and now, he was giving me the opportunity to be on the best team in baseball—and win."
"But why did you start taking PEDs yourself?" she asks, sitting back in her chair.
I immediately miss the connection, what the touch of her legs was doing to me, and I start getting defensive. "When I signed my mega contract, the pressure to deliver was on. I got hurt and it turned into one of those nagging, long-term injuries that just wouldn't heal. I was shuffling around like an old geezer. It was humiliating. I was willing to do anything to get my confidence back. That's the curse of being a natural talent. I always made playing the game look so easy, so for the first time, when I started to struggle, it really showed. Everyone—from the coaches to the fans to the reporters—thought I wasn't pushing myself hard enough, and they cut me no slack whatsoever."
"But you already knew you were an addict," she protests. "The dangers of going back on the coke and—"
"Come on. You have to have clients on multiple drugs. I can't be the first."
"No, but—"
"It wasn't that hard. Besides, my family was ready and willing to give me whatever I needed. Coke, PEDs, you name it. Little did they know, they'd end up putting me in the cross hairs." I scratch the back of my head and drop my hands discouragingly onto my lap.
"You think the commissioner knows about what your family's been up to?" she questions me, unable to conceal her anxiety.
"Why do you think I got tested the first week of the season?" I counter. "Some player must've talked off the record. They have their suspicions. They just can't tie me to the whole operation. At least, not yet."
"So, even if I help you remain sober, there's no guarantee that this is over?" she asks, her face falling.
"No. Not by a long shot."
Chapter Fifteen
Eva
After that marathon therapy session our first night on the island, we spend the next week or so not saying much at all.
It's not like we're keeping our distance from each other, but the fallout from that one intense conversation feels like it's still settling around us. How deeply he's involved in his family's illegal drug trade is a huge risk to his recovery. Anyone else would give up on him and turn him in to the authorities, but I can't.
Instead, I find myself trusting him more and more.
He's been through rehab before
, but I can tell that this is the first time he's taking it seriously and really opening up. He's sharing painful memories, connecting the dots as to why he keeps turning to drugs to ease the pain.
He didn't have to tell me anything, but he made the conscious choice to throw some light on the demons that have been plaguing him for years. I want to drag him out of the abyss he's mired in, but I don't know if my support and encouragement will be enough to break the bonds that are keeping him shackled to his addiction.
For now, I just let him do his thing—as long as I can keep an eye on him. I still haven't had a chance to search the house as thoroughly as I'd like. So I follow him everywhere, from the dock to the terrace to the majestic cliffside overlook, while finding quiet spots to work on my thesis in the meantime.
Our days on the island go something like this: While he rides the waves on one of his many jet skis, I make a dent in the stack of clinical studies and journal articles I need to read. While he hits golf balls into the sea, I use different-colored seashells to organize my notes. While he takes some hacks in the professional batting cage he had installed on the property, I listen to recordings of my professors' lectures through my earbuds, tuning out his constant barrage of cursing and swearing because his timing's off.
But the whole time I'm plugging away, I have this gut feeling that my thesis is missing something, that human element that could bring it to life—the kind my entire existence is currently centered around.
The thought floats through my mind that Drake would make a perfect test case to demonstrate some of my theories. He'd make a great anonymous addict number one. But it's too much to ask, especially with all he's been struggling with. Sometimes, I wonder if he's going to make it on his own once the eighty games are up or if he's going to revert back to his old habits the minute he starts playing again. The pressure's still going to be there, and it bothers me that there's absolutely nothing I can do about it.
Disgusted fans. Competing teams. Cynical members of the media. So many people are going to be rooting for him to fail.
Inside Game Page 10