Inside Game

by Collette West

  "Drake, you wouldn't have gotten drafted right out of high school if you weren't the best of the best," she says with her hands on her hips. "It's in you. You just have to find it again."

  "Just dig deep and believe in myself, huh?" I mutter. "Like it's that easy."

  "That's because you're making it too complicated." She sighs, throwing her hands up. "Come on. Let's get you in there so you can at least take a couple of swings."

  She marches forward, and I have no choice but to follow her. She buys a plastic cup full of tokens from the kid manning the register and then guides me over to cage number three. Great—Chase's number. There is a row of bats lined up against the wall, and after trying a few of the different weights and lengths, I settle on one that's similar to the model I'd use in a real game.

  I hear the grunts and groans of the grown men around me as they make contact. The highest setting on the machine is for an eighty-mile-per-hour fastball. That's not going to be much help when I routinely face guys who can get it up into the high nineties. But I guess it's better than nothing.

  I step up to the splotch of white paint in the shape of home plate and give Eva a nod. She plunks the correct amount of tokens through the metal slot, and it feels like I'm getting ready to run myself through a car wash instead of working on getting my timing back as a major league hitter.

  The first pitch I see is almost too easy, like I'm playing in some pickup softball league, and I rip it into the netting. I raise my hand, and Eva hits the pause button.

  "Crank it up. Don't leave it on the kiddie setting," I yell over to her.

  "That's as high as it goes. I don't know what to tell you," she yells back at me.

  "That was eighty miles per hour?" I ask, flabbergasted.

  "Yeah." She sticks her tongue out at me. "Quit being such a showoff."

  I smile. Maybe my timing's not as bad as I thought.

  I point the end of the bat at her. "All right. Turn it back on."

  Pitch after pitch, I hit it right on the sweet spot. I don't miss a single one of them. I continue making solid contact, which is all I could ask for.

  Pretty soon, I notice a crowd is beginning to form behind the chain link fence, watching the hitting clinic I'm putting on. The digital scoreboard says that I only have two pitches left in this round, and I put some extra oomph into them, hearing the cheers of admiration.

  I still have my faded baseball cap on, forgoing the double-sided batting helmet all the other guys in the cages are wearing. It's not like I'm going to get hit in the head by a mechanical pitching arm. In fact, I don't even flinch being around balls thrown that slow. I'm too accustomed to getting beaned by the hard stuff.

  When I'm done, I saunter over to Eva and she claps enthusiastically.

  "That was unbelievable!" she exclaims.

  "Yeah, but it's about time to put an end to the sideshow before someone recognizes me." I grimace when I feel a slight twinge in my hip.

  "What is it?" she asks.

  "Nothing," I grumble when my appreciative audience starts to clap, realizing I'm done.

  "It's your hip, isn't it?"

  "I'll just have to learn to deal with it."

  I open the cage door and put the bat back in the rack, glad that the spectators are lined up on the bridge above the lagoon. They can't get to me. The only ones down here are the other guys hitting, and I can avoid them easily enough. I spy a side exit and motion to Eva to follow me. It leads out to a back alley, but it's a lot safer than fighting our way through the crowd—a crowd anyone could be hiding in.

  I'm feeling those intense cravings again. All I want is to tap some white powder out of a baggie, chop it into fine, long lines with a razor blade, and snort it up one nostril and then the other, feeling it drain all the way down my sinuses, relishing the burn.

  There's no one around, and I have Eva all to myself. Maybe it'll help if I get what's bothering me off my chest with her. Well, some of it at least.

  "It hurt to watch Sanders play tonight," I say all in a rush. "And having my hip flare up in there… What if I go back and it continues and I end up needing an operation?" I sigh, dropping my chin onto my chest, knowing that this could be it. "What if I'm washed up?"

  "You don't know that. Your hip could be bothering you from how many hours we've spent on your damn Harley. Quit jumping to conclusions. Take it one step at a time," she says, trying her best to calm me down.

  "Yeah, but even if it's all in my head, for the first time, I'm doubting that I'll be able to return and really contribute to the team." I run my hand across my eyes. "I've always been one of the best in the game, and I hate that I might be done. I don't want to go out the way Chase did."

  "And you think blackmailing Sanders and going out like that is any better?"

  "My replacement is primed and ready to go." I scowl. "And I let him slip right in there."

  "But did he tell any of your secrets? Did he rat you out as his supplier? He could've had you banned for life and locked up the third base job for himself. But he didn't!"

  "Because he'd only wind up implicating himself," I mutter.

  "He could've copped a plea and agreed to testify against you, but he didn't betray you," she says heatedly. "So, why betray him?"

  "Because I can't let him do this to me!" I argue. "I'm the third baseman of the New York Kings—not him."

  "And you don't think they'd find someone else to replace you and Sanders?" She pierces me with her gaze. "You're all expendable—every last one of you. So, why take the low road when you know he's not going to talk?"

  I stalk away from her, too irritated to say anything more.

  "You're only bringing Mama back to New York with you if you can't let this go." She levels a warning at my back, and it sends a chill down my spine. She's probably closer to the truth than she realizes. "Do you really want to do that after finally walking away from her down in Gander Hollow? You'll be taking a gigantic step back, Drake, and I don't want to see that happen."

  Neither do I, I say inside my head, too proud to admit it to her. My main concern is getting her back home safe and sound.

  "I want to know. Who is the real Drake Schultz—a lover or a fighter?" she questions before walking on ahead.

  I have a lot of thinking I need to do on the ride from Baltimore to New York. I just don't know what I'm going to do yet. I can't give her an answer. I'm going to have to decide who I really am—a reformed baseball player with a woman who believes in me or one of Mama's boys, looking to survive at any cost.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Eva

  We arrive home to a sweltering New York City, and I don't know if I'm glad to be back or not.

  It's July second. Drake's suspension officially ends in two days.

  We stop at a red light in front of a newsstand. I quickly skim the front page of every paper, and they're all blasting Drake's return. The Daily News declares: "Bronx Set to Go Boom: Fans Explode Over Kings Benching Red-Hot Sanders." The headline of the Post is no better: "Time to Retire, Drake the Fake: Eighty Games Not Long Enough."

  I can feel the stress all through his body as the light turns green and he rockets ahead.

  Great. Just what he needs before kick-starting the next phase of his life, considering he's already mad at me.

  Last night, he wanted to pick up where we'd left off in the woods, but I shot him down, telling him that I didn't think it was such a good idea for us to keep sleeping together. I want to wait until he's safely over the next hurdle in his recovery—rejoining the team.

  Needless to say, he didn't like it very much, tossing and turning all night beside me in that Baltimore motel room. I didn't mean we couldn't kiss or do anything, but by then, his anger had sort of killed the mood.

  He pulls the Harley up in front of the Roosevelt Building, still abiding by the Kings' decree to live at a neutral location until his suspension is lifted. He's in a miserable mood as he lets me off before tearing away into the underground garage. He doesn't hav
e to come out and say it. I can tell from how quiet he is just how much he's craving a hit right now.

  And it worries me.

  Diane still thinks she's employing me as his sober companion, and for the time being, I thought it best to keep her in the dark about the change in my job description from therapist to potential girlfriend.

  Because I've already called in backup.

  I see a pair of legs stretched across the hallway as I approach the door to the suite, and I'd know those wrinkled khaki pants anywhere…

  "Dad!"

  I race toward him, and he sticks his head out from behind the book he's reading. He springs to his feet, and I envelop him in a big hug.

  "Eva, my dear. Oh, how I've missed you!"

  "Have you been waiting long?" I ask, fishing through my pocket for the keycard.

  "About an hour give or take, but no matter. I usually never have time to read during the day. So it was quite a treat."

  "I'm just glad you're finally taking a break, Dad," I tease him. "Closing the clinic for the holiday weekend was such a good idea."

  "I'm still having second thoughts about it, to be honest." He scratches the side of his head. "I've never closed our doors before. And—"

  "And nothing," I interrupt, opening the door to the suite. "You need to take some time for yourself."

  "So, where is my new client?" he asks, standing in the doorway and looking down the hall.

  "He's parking the bike. He'll be here soon," I mumble, getting nervous about the two men I care about the most in the world meeting for the first time.

  "Don't sound so enthused," Dad chuckles, pushing his glasses up his nose before stepping inside and closing the door.

  "I just want you to like him."

  "You know how I feel about you getting too close to—" he starts.

  But I interrupt, not wanting to hear it. "Dad, it's different with him, okay? I can't explain it. He's just it for me." I smile before turning serious. "And I'm more than willing to do whatever it takes to make it work with him."

  Dad raises the corner of his mouth at me. "That's why I'm here—for him to convince me that he's worth it."

  "He is worth it, Dad."

  "But he's unstable, unpredictable."

  I fidget uncomfortably, but he goes on.

  "I'm speaking out with only the best of intentions, because I don't want to see you get hurt," he says softly. "I don't want you getting involved with an addict."

  "Well, you can save your breath, because you're not going to warn me off him."

  "But, my darling girl, he's just like Jared. He'll end up breaking your heart."

  And this is the moment Drake picks to storm into the suite, rudely bypassing any type of introduction.

  He gives me a pained look, and I have a pretty good idea he overheard what my dad just said about him.

  He's gripping his phone in his hand, and he roughly shoves it back in his pocket. "I just got a text from Karolina. I asked her if she'd bring the girls to my first game back, and she said no."

  I cautiously approach him, not wanting to start things off on the wrong foot. "You have to respect her boundaries. Maybe next time—"

  "Maybe there's not going to be a next time!" he exclaims, surprising me with the forcefulness of his reply.

  "You're blowing things out of proportion," I respond, casting a quick look at Dad, who tactfully removes himself to go stand by the window.

  "This isn't some stupid step on the road to recovery. This is my life." He scowls at me, casting a furtive glance at the back of Dad's head. "My hip was killing me all the way here. I could play and get hurt on my first at-bat and that'd be it."

  "You just need some rest and maybe a long soak in the tub," I say, rubbing his arm.

  "I'm not some child you can tuck in with a bath and a bedtime story," he growls.

  Karolina's to blame for his violent mood swing. She's always been his trigger, but I'm surprised by how vehemently he wants to rip my head off. His cravings must be more pronounced than I thought. He's practically foaming at the mouth.

  "You had a long, hot drive up the coast." I tilt my head toward the window. "My dad's here now. He's here to help, and I know he'd love to talk everything over with you in the morning."

  "So you're just wiping your hands of me. Is that it?" he snarls, and Dad turns his head to observe him more carefully. "Just like everyone else."

  "What are you talking about?" I stride up to him, angry at the way he's acting in front of my father. "We've already discussed this. You knew Dad was going to take over for me, and you were fine with it. I'm still going to be in your life. I'm not going anywhere."

  "Then, if I'm making so much progress, why won't my ex-wife let me see my kids!" He kicks the side of the table, rattling the lamp on top.

  I don't know where this is coming from. He hardly spoke about Willa and Coco the whole time we were gone. To me, they weren't exactly at the forefront of his mind—battling through his past was. But how could I've been so foolish? I'm not a parent. Of course he's always thinking about them. I just didn't realize that having them at the game was so important to him.

  Dad starts moving toward us, shooting me a look that says: I told you this wasn't a good idea.

  But when it comes to the welfare of a client, he's all business. "Drake, how about we talk it out with your ex-wife tomorrow and see what we can do?"

  Dad always sees the big picture. That's why he's so much better at this than I am.

  I've been so blind, thinking of how much my life is going to change, that I neglected to consider all the ramifications of what coming back to New York might mean to Drake. For nearly three months, he was my client. Now, he's back to being a father, a baseball player, and everything else that goes along with it. His time doesn't only belong to me anymore. He has other needs and responsibilities that have to be met. No wonder he's all stressed out.

  "I don't want you to go begging my ex for what she should already be giving me," he answers Dad through clenched teeth. "She just keeps throwing up roadblock after roadblock, but I'm not going to be deterred. They're my daughters, not his. They'll never be his!"

  Oh no. Did Karolina spill the beans about her engagement? This is not what Drake needs right now.

  "Whose?" Dad asks in that patient way of his, like he's determined to get to the bottom of things.

  "That fucking vitamin salesman!" Drake spits out.

  "All right. Tell me more about him," Dad encourages, folding his hands together.

  "Educated, born wealthy, good family, never made a mistake in his whole entire life," Drake rattles off.

  "So, everything you're not?" Dad has the gall to ask.

  Drake's face reddens, and I think he's going to slug him, but instead, he takes a deep breath and…laughs. "Yeah, pretty much."

  "And that bothers you?" Dad probes further.

  "Damn right, it does. I may not be the best father in the world, but I love my girls, and I don't want him taking them away from me." Drake slumps against the wall, the frantic burst of energy leaving him just as quickly as it came.

  "I can understand that," Dad agrees. "But your ex-wife must be lonely too. You can't expect her to remain single for the rest of her life."

  He grunts. "Trust me. I don't. I'm well aware of her wandering eye."

  "Was she unfaithful to you?" Dad presses.

  "In every way but deed."

  "Explain."

  "Flirting. Looking. Touching." He goes down the list. "She made a fool out of me in front of my teammates even if she never actually slept with any of them."

  "And you don't think she was just doing that to get your attention?" Dad poses.

  "I don't know. Maybe," he replies bitterly. "When I married her, I didn't really love her, and I think deep down she always knew it."

  "So, why not let her go?" Dad asks gently. "If you let her move on, so can you, and maybe you can finally have the relationship you've always wanted with your girls. You won't be their mother
's heartbreak anymore. You'll be the father they'll finally be able to get to know. Put an end to the animosity, and there's a good possibility you'll get what you want—a relationship with your daughters."

  Drake plays with his bottom lip, contemplating the suggestion.

  Dad shrugs, leaving it up to him to make the decision. "You have to ask yourself: Is it worth a shot? Would it put you in a better position than you are now?"

  I gently sidestep into the conversation, placing my hand on Drake's arm. "I got Karolina to bring them here before. She's not completely unwilling. If you try to make peace with her, who knows how many doors will open?"

  "She brought them here because she knew you were here. She'd never leave them alone with me," he mutters.

  "Well, they can't very well be with you when you're playing a game, now can they?" Dad chuckles softly. "It's all about building up to that level of trust. And that's what we're here to help you with. What if we proposed to Karolina to let the girls sit in our seats behind the dugout? Eva and I could watch them from up above. They'd be close enough so you could see them. Not stuck up in some box, away from the action."

  He nods, considering the idea. "That might work."

  "Drake, are you really sure you want them there?" I can't help but ask, the inflammatory headlines I saw at the newsstand running through my mind. "You do know that it's probably going to be a hostile crowd, right?"

  He sticks out his chin. "I want them to see that I don't run from a challenge. That I'm not the joke everyone thinks I am."

  Dad smiles at him. "I think I'm going to like finding time in my schedule to work with you."

  Drake ducks his head. "But I thought that—"

  "That I'm only here to get you to the finish line?" he says, completing the thought for him. "I'm never too busy to help people who want to be helped. I wasn't sure about you. I thought you might have been saying all the right things to get on my daughter's good side, but now, I can see how serious you are about making things right, and I want to help you do just that."

  "So, we're all going to live together like some big, happy family?" he blusters.