Inside Game

by Collette West

  "Nah, I don't think it matters. It's like he's not even here," I mutter, watching him take another sip of ice water.

  He's not drinking along with everyone else. In fact, he hasn't had a drink the whole time I've known him. He's sworn off alcohol, other women, drugs—all of his bad habits. I should be happy, but something about his behavior feels off tonight, like, for some reason, turning a year older is really getting to him. And I don't know why.

  He's been playing great lately, finding his swing and driving the ball hard to all parts of the field. He finished the regular season strong, hitting ten homers in the month of September alone. He was on fire and ready to tear into the postseason.

  But I stop worrying about him when everyone starts buzzing about what sounds like a horn blaring on the other side of the fire exit.

  Jilly pushes away the enormous plate of hot wings he was devouring, wiping his hands with his napkin, while his wife hastily dabs at his mouth. He stands up as the guys begin to hoot and holler, while the wives and girlfriends exchange puzzled glances. Jilly pounds his fist against the red panel on the wall, disabling the fire alarm. He tries opening the door, but it sticks, so he throws his large body against it like a linebacker, and it immediately swings back on its rusty hinges.

  A headlight shines on Jilly, and he quickly steps aside as Chase comes roaring in on a motorcycle with a big pinstriped bow on the back.

  The guys all get to their feet and start cheering as Chase cuts the engine and stares over at his friend.

  "Happy birthday, Schultzy."

  I glance over at Drake, and seeing the bike seems to have drawn him out of his funk.

  "A 1200 custom? Holy shit!" He jumps up from his seat and goes over to examine his brand-new Harley as the guys crowd around to get a better look at it.

  "Well, get on it!" Chase urges. "Let's see how you look on the damn thing." Then he steps back to give Drake room.

  But Drake surprises him, drawing him in for a back-pounding hug. "Thanks, man. I know this was all you."

  When Chase thumps him loudly on the shoulder, pinching his eyebrows together to keep from getting too emotional, my eyes well up.

  "What are you talking about? Jilly had a lot to do with it, too."

  Drake releases Chase and gives Jilly a big, exaggerated bear hug, and the whole room erupts into laughter when Jilly shoves him away.

  "Don't even think about doing that again."

  "Unless we win the World Series," Scott pipes in. "Then you two can cuddle in each other's arms all you want."

  Jilly glares at Scott before turning his back on him and speaking directly to Drake. "I ordered it to my exact specifications. The dream bike I'd love to own. I made sure it had a blockhead engine and everything," he says, crouching down to run his hand over the chrome. "There was no way I was letting any of these idiots decide how we were going to customize this baby for you."

  "Sorry we'll never be as manly as you, big guy," Scott groans, rolling his eyes.

  "Not with that pretty-boy face of yours, you won't," Drake responds dryly.

  I smile, glad to hear him acting like himself again. Then I sigh when he straddles the bike—because he looks so good doing it.

  "You're such a badass, Schultz," Jake Woodbury says from over in the corner, the only other member of the Kings who isn't drinking tonight. "We should have you roar onto the field at Baltimore riding that thing. You'd intimidate the hell out of them."

  "Don't give him any ideas," Chase grumbles good-naturedly, wrapping his arm around his wife as the women get up to admire the bike too.

  But I stay right where I am, content with watching Drake bask in the affection of his teammates.

  Jackson and Colt reenter the room, holding a lighted birthday cake, and I hold my breath. Drake has had his ups and downs with these two. All the Kings are aware that he regularly supplied them with HGH, but unlike Sanders, they never came out and openly admitted it. Chase wanted to confront them once Drake rejoined the team, but Drake told him to let it go, not wanting to stir up any more trouble in the clubhouse.

  But, eventually, Jackson and Colt came to Drake privately and asked for his help on how to wean themselves off it. They wanted to hold on to their pride, and Drake understood that, even if I had a hard time wrapping my mind around it. It seemed like he was taking the fall for everybody, which I didn't think was fair.

  Until more and more players from different major league teams, the ones he used to funnel the PEDs to, starting reaching out to Drake too.

  Drake knew he had to do something to help them, so with the commissioner's blessing, he started offering workshops at the start of every away series as a part of his court-ordered community service agreement, inviting any player who wanted to attend to learn how to get clean and stay clean.

  Through Dad's network of contacts, I was able to provide the names and phone numbers of reputable counselors in each city, and Drake would talk about his process of recovery before handing out more information about the dangers of PED use. Many would corner him afterwards with questions, not wanting to ask them in front of the other guys, and he's been staying in touch with them, offering his support as they work toward ridding their bodies of HGH.

  He also began reaching out to local high schools near each stadium, warning young student athletes about the dangers of PEDs and even cocaine addiction.

  It hasn't been easy for him, but I think being honest about his mistakes is showing the world for the first time the human side of Drake Schultz, and the cheers have steadily grown in opposing stadiums throughout the course of the season—except whenever he hits one out, like he did tonight.

  I see his jaw quiver as Jackson and Colt approach, and I know how special it is for him to have these two come full circle, but I'm probably the only one who notices his reaction. Everyone's smiling and already singing "Happy Birthday" to him. It looks like there are thirty-seven candles on the cake, and when they're finished singing, Drake takes a deep breath and blows them all out in one try—until they all magically flicker back to life.

  "Like I said, Schultz, not bad for an old man," Scott chuckles, shaking his head in amusement.

  Jackson and Colt begin to pull the trick candles off the cake, dousing them in a pitcher of water while laughing right along with Scott.

  "Thanks a lot, fellas," Drake groans. "But seriously, thank you. For the bike, for the party, for the cake…for everything. I have never been more proud to be a New York King." He pauses, and when he speaks again, his voice is gruff with emotion. "Let's bring this championship home, boys."

  Everyone begins to chatter excitedly, and no one really pays attention to Drake as he gets off the bike and takes the cake from Jackson and Colt. He strides forward and taps Scott on the shoulder. When Scott turns around, Drake slams the cake right in his face.

  Several of the women start to clamor in high-pitched voices. "Oh, why'd you do that? You just ruined the whole cake!"

  But that's the Drake Schultz I know and love.

  He scoops some of the icing off Scott's nose with his finger, tasting it. "That should turn the tide, right? Pranking the guy with the all-time hit streak should buy me a few more knocks once we start the Division Series with Baltimore… Don't you think?"

  "Are you going to let him get away with that, Eva?" Scott tilts his chair back, throwing me an indignant glance, his face, neck, and hair covered in birthday cake.

  "Of course, she is," Carrie replies for me. "That's what you get for being such a wise guy."

  Scott shakes his head back and forth and bits of cake fly everywhere, causing Carrie to squeal and jump out of the way. Then he grabs her and lays a big, sloppy kiss on her lips, making her squeal even louder.

  Drake stalks over to me, and I feel the heat in his gaze all the way from across the room, which brings me right back to our first night together in the Roosevelt Building. I cross my legs under the table and bite down hard on my lip in anticipation. He's so damn sexy…and he's all mine.

&nbs
p; "You look flushed, Dr. Sloane. Is it getting too hot in here for you?" he asks, running his eyes up and down my body.

  I nod, unable to speak when he lazily brushes his fingers along my neck, twirling one of my curls around his finger and giving it a sharp tug.

  I moan softly, knowing how he likes to pull my hair in bed, right before he's about to…

  "What do you say we get out of here and celebrate my birthday the right way?" he asks with a wicked gleam in his eye, probably reading my mind.

  Whatever was bothering him before seems to be long gone now, and I'm glad of it. I don't care if he hits a home run in every game of the postseason; I just want him to be happy and enjoy his life. He's a fantastic player no matter what he does in October.

  He offers me his hand, helping me up. I get to my feet and automatically move toward the door we came in, but instead, he pulls me in the direction of his new bike.

  "But we don't have helmets," I protest.

  "What about these?" Chase calls out, reaching behind the bar before walking toward us, one in each hand.

  "I knew Whit would have all his bases covered. He always does," Drake says smugly. "That's why he's Mr. Perfect."

  "Get out of here before I shove what's left of that cake up your nose. Jesus, Schultzy. I was really looking forward to that buttercream icing, too," he groans, shaking his head as all the wives descend on Scott, trying to clean him up without making any more of a mess, while Scott just sits back with a big smile on his face, enjoying all the attention.

  "Harper's enough of a showboat as it is. Did you have to go and get all our women to fawn over him too?" Jilly grumbles over his shoulder, watching his wife try to get some of the icing out of Scott's hair. "And now, you're just going to take off? What gives, man?"

  "I want to spend the rest of the night with my girl. You got a problem with that?" Drake growls, getting back on the bike.

  I try to hide my grin. I know he's not really annoyed with Jilly; he's just super horny right now.

  I slide on behind him, and he reaches back and wraps my arms around him. It feels so good, so right, the slope of the seat pressing my hips even more firmly against his tight, firm backside. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, rocking the bike from side to side, and I know he's just as eager to have me all to himself as I am.

  "Sanders! Get over here and open this goddamned door!" Chase bellows.

  Sanders immediately jogs over. The Kings' rookie hazing ritual requires him to be at the veterans' beck and call, from picking up batting practice balls to keeping the team plane stocked with playing cards for their epic, all-night poker games, and Chase fully intends to make him earn his stripes until the last game of the year has been played.

  Sanders tries to reopen the fire exit, but after shoving his shoulder against it three times, it refuses to budge. His ears turn bright red as Jilly strides over and pushes him out of the way. He flexes his arms, throwing it wide open with a resounding bang.

  "Never ask a boy to do a man's job," Jilly grumbles, brushing his hands off and grabbing Sanders in a headlock before roughly rubbing his knuckles over the top of his head.

  The party's in full swing as Drake revs the engine. When he honks the horn, everyone cheers behind us. The alcohol is still flowing, so the party will probably go on into the wee hours of the morning, even without the birthday boy. That's just how the Kings roll when they get together. And ever since Drake came back to the team, they've been including him in everything—not just to be nice, but because they genuinely want him there.

  But it's a lot to ask of any addict to be completely comfortable in a party atmosphere. There aren't any drugs here tonight, of course, but being as high profile as the Kings are, they're always within easy reach. And I know it's going to be a constant battle for him to live in a world where they're so readily available.

  I glide my hands up his torso and extend them over his heart. I feel it racing beneath my fingertips, the dull thud strong and sure, and it makes me smile, allowing me to let go of my fears, at least for tonight.

  Because he's alive and he's here with me.

  And that's all I could ever want.

  Epilogue

  Drake

  The clock is ticking, and I know have to get this right.

  We're all snuggled up on a chaise lounge on the patio of my Tampa home. It's the last day of September, eleven forty-five p.m. My thirty-seventh birthday is coming to an end, and Eva's about to turn twenty-six at the stroke of midnight.

  Yep, the Kings made it to the dance. Tonight, we beat Tampa in a one-game, do-or-die playoff victory. Tomorrow will be the last off day the team will have before the next round begins, and Eva and I plan on just relaxing and chilling out…and enjoying each other. She didn't even tell anybody that we practically share the same birthday, saying that the only thing she wanted was having me all to herself for the day.

  The playoffs are always a stressful time for me, and she wants to keep things as low key as possible. In the past, I think the reason I always played so poorly at such a critical time of the year was because the wives always accompany the guys on the remaining road trips, and seeing everyone else with their happy families, laughing and having fun, used to rub me the wrong way.

  I wasn't a part of that scene. No one wanted me to be with me—until now.

  I caress Eva's shoulder beneath the soft, comfy blanket and stare out at the water, trying to man up and give her the surprise I have in store for her. But I don't know if she's going to get mad at me for what I have planned. She's all about taking it slow and not rushing into anything, but I don't want to wait anymore. I'm eager to at least point us in the direction of our future.

  She sleepily runs her hand up my chest, nestling her head in the crook of my arm. Feeling her hands on my body makes me groan and throw my head back. She tilts her face to look at me, her hair brushing against my chin. It's a sensation that always drives me wild, and I drag my foot up the length of the lounge chair, struggling to hold on to what's left of my self-control.

  She giggles, sitting up. "How about we go upstairs?"

  Her fingers drift lower, and I hastily shift onto my side, not wanting her to feel what's in my front pocket. I press her against me, kissing her forehead to distract her. She sighs contentedly and reaches up to capture my lips, but I reluctantly pull away. Because damn it, I need to concentrate.

  "You're not really buying into this whole jinx thing, are you?" she asks coyly between a series of tiny kisses. "Because I intend…to spend my entire birthday…in bed with you."

  She finds my lips again, kissing me until I kiss her back, and then I can't stop. I bury my hands in her curls and kiss her long and deep until she moans against my mouth.

  I rest my cheek against hers. "Well, I did hit a homer tonight," I murmur, out of breath.

  "So that means you're really going to buy into Tony Liotta's old-school mentality and not sleep with me until the end of the playoffs?" she huffs, pouting at me.

  "It's supposed to keep us fired up so we'd take all our pent-up frustration onto the field with us and use it to slaughter the opposition. Don't shake your head at me. It's been known to work."

  "So you're saying you hit a homer in tonight's game because we didn't have sex last night?" She jabs me in the ribs with her elbow as she struggles to get up. "Happy birthday to me." She tosses her feet over the side of the lounge and makes a move to stand up.

  But I grab her around the waist. "Hey, where do you think you're going?" I ask, burying my face in the back of her hair.

  "To bed. So you can get a good night's sleep and be ready for your next game…two nights from now," she says, not even bothering to turn around.

  "Eva," I mumble, kissing that spot I love at the nape of her neck.

  She leans back into me, and I know I have half the battle won when she starts to groan as I swirl my tongue along the bumps and ridges of her spine, my hand flat against her stomach. I keep going, and she arches her back, letting out a small w
himper before resting her head on my shoulder. I slide my hand under her shirt to play with her ribs, and she starts to squirm when I run my thumb over her belly button, the most ticklish place on her body.

  "Stop!" she cries out, laughing. "All right. If you can't have sex so you can keep hitting home runs, fine, we won't have sex. We've done it before. I guess we'll do it again. I just wish the playoffs didn't have to fall around my birthday."

  "Who said anything about not having sex?" I tease her while nibbling her ear.

  She jerks around, taking my face between her hands. "Drake Schultz, stop messing with me. What the heck is going on with you tonight? Your mood is all over the map." A flash of fear enters her eyes. "I know the pressure of the playoffs is intense, but please tell me you're not…"

  She can't even say it, and it pains my heart to have her even think it.

  "No," I respond firmly, realizing just how badly I'm bungling this. "I didn't take anything. I don't want to take anything. I'm just nervous because…"

  "Because what?" she demands. "Tell me, Drake. You know we don't keep secrets from each other anymore."

  I look over her head at the barge that's lighting up the water. Then I close my eyes and pray that this doesn't blow up in my face.

  "Look out there," I urge, gently lowering her hands from my face and curling her body up against me. "What do you see?"

  "Oh my God, is that boat on fire?" she asks, leaning forward.

  "No," I chuckle, wrapping my arms around her and holding her tight. "Keep looking at it."

  "Wait a minute. You know about this? What the heck is it doing out there?"

  She sounds perplexed, but I don't know why. Didn't she know I'd have something big in store for her birthday?

  I told the barge operator to light the sign at exactly midnight, so I know it must be time. Here goes nothing.

  "Eva, I wanted to share this moment with you…where my birthday becomes yours," I whisper against her ear. "When I'm back to being only eleven years older than you, not twelve."

  I laugh to ease my nerves for what I'm about to do, but she just shakes her head at me.