Matt Jackson, Catcher (Bottom of the Ninth #2)

by Jean Joachim

  “That’s the right answer.” He continued eating, despite the giant grin on his face.

  “Besides, I’ve got my own road trips coming up.”

  He dropped his fork. “You do?”

  “Yep. We travel in July and August. Not all the time, but sometimes.”

  “Damn! Hadn’t thought about that.”

  She raised her chin. “We play other teams in the northeast. We’re not just a hobby. We’re pro too.”

  “I know, I know. Just hadn’t thought about you being away. Don’t like it much.” His brows knit as he chewed the meat.

  “They didn’t ask for your approval. Big, bad, pro ball man doesn’t like the little girls competing?” She laid down her knife.

  “Wait a minute!”

  “Chauvinist,” she spat at him.

  “Okay, okay. I shouldn’t’ve said that. Can I help it if I don’t like being away from you?”

  “It’s okay for you to be away from me, but not okay for me to be away from you?” She cocked an eyebrow.

  “I get it. Put my foot in it. I’m sorry. Now that means more time apart.”

  “It does. If it’s meant to be, we’ll survive,” she said, picking up her utensils, determined to finish her dinner.

  “How’d you get to be so smart?”

  “Not by hanging around men like you,” she sniffed.

  She knew she’d gone too far by the look on his face. Hurt flashed across, remaining in his gaze. He turned his attention back to his food.

  “I’m sorry, Matt. It’s just, when you start that stuff… Damn, it makes me mad.”

  “You think you’re smarter than I am?” He lifted wounded eyes to her.

  “No, no. I didn’t say that.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  She patted his forearm. “I’m so sorry. No, I don’t think I’m smarter than you. I think you’re damn smart and the best catcher in the majors.”

  Relief eased the lines in his face. “I think we’re both smart.”

  “Me too.”

  “Finished?” he asked. He squinted a bit, his mouth set firmly.

  “Foot hurt?”

  “How’d you guess?” He eased up from his chair.

  “Let’s go.” Dusty took his hand and waved goodbye to the rest of the team. Matt limped along behind her. She held out her palm. “Keys.”

  “What?”

  “Keys. You’re in too much pain and had too much beer to drive. I know the way. I’ll drive.”

  He looked sheepish, but didn’t argue. She let out a breath, expecting the worst. He dropped his car keys in her hand and opened the door for her.

  “Drive careful. Precious cargo,” he said, brushing her lips with his.

  Chapter Nine

  By the time they got in the door, his foot was throbbing. The shoe seemed too tight. Obviously, his foot had swollen. He sat down on the couch and unlaced his sneaker. Easing it off, he let out a sigh as the discomfort let up a bit.

  “Does it hurt?”

  He nodded.

  “Let me see.” She dropped to her knees and set gentle fingers to removing the sock. Even her light touch sent pain through him. As she slid it off, he hissed. Once the foot was bared, he could see an angry, red and purple bruise around his arch.

  “Be right back,” she said.

  He stretched out on the sofa and put his leg up on the coffee table. Raising it would help reduce some of the swelling.

  Dusty returned with an ice pack and a bowl of hot water. “Like the guy said—cold then hot, cold then hot.”

  He lay back as she took his foot in her lap and applied each extreme temperature for two minutes, then switched. She held out a glass of water and two pills.

  “Take this. It will reduce the swelling.”

  “Ibuprofen?”

  She nodded. He did as she instructed. For such a big, bad guy, he didn’t mind her taking care of him. He kinda liked it. Reminded him a little of Marnie, and the way she’d patch him up after a rough soccer game, baseball practice, or fistfight.

  Yeah, he’d been a hothead in his younger days. But her death had taken the fight out of him. Her loss had replaced his moxie with sadness. Now, if some tough guy or bully tried to mix it up with him, he simply laughed it off and walked away.

  After she finished the cold and hot therapy, she gave him a gentle massage. He pushed up and headed for the bedroom. Matt stripped off his clothes and got into bed, with his foot sticking up from the covers. She rubbed his calf and ankle, even his toes. He laced his fingers behind his head. His eyes drifted shut.

  The therapy, medicine, massage, and beer dulled the pain. He relaxed into the mattress. Rolling onto his side, he scrunched up the pillow beneath his head and was asleep before he could kiss Dusty goodnight.

  As he tossed, his whole body jerked awake. It was pitch black in the room. Something warm and soft pressed against him. His fingers touched her hair. He rubbed the strands between them, enjoying the silky feel. She was naked. He slid his hand over her breast and squeezed. She moaned, closing her fingers over his.

  With her butt squished up on his thigh, he hardened. Matt loved middle-of-the-night sex. The ultimate spontaneous experience, he always said. Tonight was perfect. The swelling of his instep had gone down, his head cleared from the beer, and his body responded to hers, lying so open and vulnerable next to him.

  He bent over, and his lips met her flesh. She stretched slightly, moaning in her sleep.

  “It’s not a dream, baby. It’s me,” he muttered.

  She stirred, smiling. Her fingers combed through his hair, stopping at the back of his head and pulling him closer. “Love me,” she whispered, barely awake.

  “You got it,” he said.

  She sighed, and he shifted, hovering above her, parting her legs with his knee. His mouth took hers, gently, then rougher and rougher, until she was totally awake.

  “I want you to know what’s going on,” he said.

  “Hmm,” she responded, eyes open.

  “Hey, beautiful.”

  “Hey, yourself.” She circled his neck with her arms.

  “You look as good in the dark as in the day,” he said, kissing her neck.

  Dusty arched her back, pressing her breasts into his chest.

  “Honey, when you do that.”

  “What? What’ll you do?” she asked, gliding her hand down his side, until she reached his hip, and then moving her fingertips inside to touch his shaft.

  “Oh, God. I’m gonna come. Geez. Shit, baby.” He reached for a condom.

  She nipped his shoulder and raised her legs. “Let’s not waste it.”

  Matt shifted his hips and, with one thrust, entered her.

  “Oh my God!” She took a breath.

  “Holy hell,” he muttered. Everything was warm, wet, sexy, and silky. He was more turned on than ever and tried to focus his attention away from the hot creature moving her hips in a rhythm beneath him.

  “Did you know the chickadee is related to the titmouse?” he said.

  “What the hell?”

  “It keeps me from coming,” he admitted.

  Dusty burst out laughing.

  “The more I talk about birds, the longer I can go.”

  “Matt, honey. I don’t need you to go all night without coming. In fact…shut up!”

  Her body heat jacked up, their skins moist and slippery as she moved faster, harder, and he kept up with her. She crowded out all thoughts of other things in his brain. Her body, her musky, sexy scent, the feel of her skin filled his mind until his body took over, desire climbing, spiraling up and up as he slammed into her, harder and harder, his pulse kicking into third gear.

  “Oh, God! Matt!” she yelled, her hips taking on a life of their own.

  He bent his head, letting sweat trickle off it onto her shoulder as he focused on the feel of her having an orgasm. The shy, controlled girl had given in to passion, and he loved her abandon. Before she even finished, his body took over, balls tightening, pulse
skyrocketing, and everything came together for an earth-shattering climax.

  After catching his breath, Matt rolled off then sprang up, heading for the bathroom. Oh, God, he loved making love to her. Loved everything about it. As he flushed the toilet, the word “love” stuck in his brain. No, no, he didn’t love her. He loved fucking her. Yeah. And playing ball with her. And breaking bread with her. But he didn’t love her. Matt Jackson doesn’t love any girl. Not now and not ever. No exceptions.

  He returned to bed, kissed her, and settled on his side, his back facing her.

  “Goodnight,” she whispered.

  “’Night.” He closed his eyes, willing himself to sleep. But the feel of her, the scent of her, the taste of her kept running through his mind. He heard her sigh. She sounded lonely. Well, tough shit. Guys roll over and go to sleep after sex. Everyone knows that. And if she wanted to be with him, she’d better get used to it.

  “Matt?” Her small hand rested on his shoulder.

  “Huh?”

  “How’s your foot?”

  “Fine. I’ll be playing tomorrow. Thanks for everything. Now go to sleep.”

  He didn’t mean his voice to sound as gruff as it did. The bed dipped for a moment as she moved away. He heard the rustle of the covers being pulled up, a slight sniffle, then nothing.

  He’d done it again. Hurt her feelings. He was nothing but a big animal. He had no business with a girl like Dusty. Yeah she liked to look feisty, but she was a marshmallow inside. And who was he? The big, bad wolf. He’d stomp on her heart. He always did, and she’d leave, like the others had before her. He deserved it. He was an asshole, and Dusty was better off with a nice guy, not a bum like Matt Jackson.

  He reached behind him, feeling for her. His fingers met up with her thigh. He gave a squeeze then slipped his arm under the covers. He was asleep before she could respond.

  * * * *

  The last leg of their trip was in Pittsburgh. The city held many ghosts for Matt Jackson. He had been born there, and his father still lived there. The small house he’d lived in was still around. The place where he’d played as a boy, where his mother had packed up and sneaked off one day, never to return.

  He’d loved that house, until she’d left. Then, everything had gotten real hard, and the sandlot where he’d played ball, the back yard where he’d hunted frogs, and the street where he’d participated in kickball games late into a summer’s evening had all turned to ashes.

  Matt had had to step up. After his mother left, his father had gone on a drinking binge that lasted for two months. Matt had been eleven, and Marnie had been only three. The boy’d had to become mother and father to the little girl. But he had only been a boy himself and hadn’t wanted to grow up that fast.

  Marnie had cried for her mother every night for weeks, until Matt thought he’d lose his mind. He had finally lost his temper, throwing things around her room until he’d terrified her. She’d screamed, and his father had staggered in and beaten the boy. That had only made Marnie cry harder. She’d begged her father to stop. It had been the ugliest scene in his life, next to the one where his father had told him that his mother wasn’t coming back, ever.

  Early happy memories had been shoved aside in his brain by sad and bitter feelings. When he had accepted the responsibility of an adult, he’d finally made peace with his dad. Matt had cooked all the meals, because Dad was in his cups by dinner time. The boy had taken his sister to school and picked her up. He had packed her lunch and forged his father’s signature on her report cards.

  Somehow, his father had held on to his job. Matt guessed the boss was sympathetic because his own wife was a drunk. Matt didn’t know and didn’t care. He had needed his dad to keep working and bringing in a paycheck.

  Life had been hard. Matt took his frustrations out on the baseball field. Whacking the ball had relieved some of his anger and hatred toward his parents. He’d worked hard at the sport and ran and lifted weights religiously.

  When his little sister had showed a talent for the sport, too, Matt had taken over her training. They had worked out together, every day. Throwing, catching, batting. Marnie was more of a natural athlete than Matt. He wouldn’t admit it to many, but he couldn’t deny her obvious talent.

  He had pushed her to excel, driven by the desire for her to have something that was hers, so she could support herself and have a life. And he’d succeeded. She was picked in the first-round draft and pitched for the Pittsburgh Pythons. At eighteen, she was a star.

  He’d been so proud, he glowed every time he’d talked about her. He’d already made the Nighthawks and had achieved star status of his own. Then, Marnie had met a guy. Another ball player. She’d fallen hard and had talked about getting married.

  Panicked about turning over the well-being of his little sister to “some asshole,” as he called her guy, Matt had fought against it. They had argued, bitterly, the night she’d played Pittsburgh. He’d been playing there too. They had met for a late dinner after the game.

  The meal had ended in a fight. Marnie had slapped him across the face and stalked out. It started to rain when she boarded the bus. The rain had become a gale with eighty mile-an-hour winds by the time she’d hit the Pennsylvania Turnpike. The bus had been blown out of their lane, skidded on the wet, muddy pavement, and slid down a ravine. Half the girls on the bus were killed. Marnie had been among the casualties.

  In a drunken rage, his father had blamed him for her death. Matt had been devastated. He’d gone on medical leave for six months. Only intense therapy had brought him out of his deep depression. She had been his closest friend, and more like his child than his sister.

  Every year, the team traveled to Pittsburgh for a three or four game series. Matt braced himself for the visit. He’d made peace with his father, who was dying slowly. But he hated to return to the city that reminded him of all he had lost.

  None of his teammates understood what had happened. They knew he’d lost his sister, but no one suspected the depth of the loss, except maybe Dan Alexander. The two men were close, and Matt wasn’t able to keep much from his friend.

  Matt’s nerves tensed as the bus pulled out for the airport. They boarded the plane bound for the steel city. Matt had a beer and picked up a magazine, but he couldn’t concentrate.

  “We need a fourth for hearts. Come on, Matt,” Skip Quincy said.

  “Nah.”

  “Come on. Don’t be like that.”

  “Play without me. Get Dan. He’s not doing anything.”

  “We like to play with you. You lose more than he does.”

  This wasn’t a time to joke around, and Matt’s temper flared. “Go fuck yourself, Quincy. You little asshole. Leave me alone!” Matt pulled away and found a seat by the window.

  “Okay, okay. Calm down. Geez,” Skip slunk away, back to his card game.

  Dan slid in next to Matt. “You okay?”

  “Pittsburgh. You know.”

  “Yeah. I do,” Dan said, slapping his buddy on the shoulder. “Don’t let it get you down. We need you tomorrow.”

  “I’ll be there. Nothing stops my game.”

  “Dusty coming?”

  “Nah.”

  “How come?”

  “I didn’t want her here. It’s Pittsburgh. She doesn’t need to know anything about it.”

  “Okay. It’s your life.”

  Matt nodded then turned back to the window to watch the progress of the plane. They had an early game, eleven. He’d made plans to visit his father afterward for dinner. The Nighthawks were playing a three-game series, so Matt would be at the hotel for a few days.

  The Pittsburgh Wolves weren’t the toughest team the Nighthawks faced, but every game needed total concentration. Matt was happy to avoid the unpleasant memories that always haunted him in this city and keep his attention on the game.

  Manuel Gonzalez was pitching the first game and Dan Alexander the third. Matt kept his focus and guided the pitcher through the batting order with ease. The ’
Hawks won, five to two. The catcher was showered and dressed by three thirty. He headed for the parking lot.

  “Come on, Matt. Going to Texas de Brazil. Steak. Meat. Lots of it,” said Jake Lawrence.

  “You go ahead. I’ve got to be somewhere.”

  “What’s more important than red meat?”

  Matt laughed. “Not today, buddy.”

  “Okay, but it’s your hard luck.” Jake headed for his car.

  “So it is,” murmured Matt to himself.

  Not quite out of earshot, he heard Jake complain to Dan. “Where the hell does he go when we get to Pittsburgh? Every time. He disappears.”

  “It’s personal business, Jake. Don’t worry. He’s okay.”

  “If you say so.”

  Matt silently thanked his friend for stopping the query. He didn’t want to let everyone in on his personal pain. Pity embarrassed him. He slid behind the wheel and maneuvered the car to the Allegheny Cemetery, where Marnie was buried. He’d paid for her plot and the upkeep on it. He stopped to pick up some flowers on the way. Roses, if he could find them, were her favorites.

  He placed the flowers on her grave and sat on a cement bench nearby. He was thirty now. She’d been gone two years. He smiled to himself. Last month she would have been twenty-two.

  Sometimes, he’d simply sit there. Other times, he’d talk to her as if she was still alive. Today was one of those days.

  “I’m doing good this season. Not batting as well as I could. Yeah, yeah, I know. I need to practice more. Maybe I’ll let Dan pitch to me. If I can hit his shit, I’ll be doing fine.”

  He recounted the game, almost play-by-play. Marnie had loved to listen to his commentary on who was good and who had had a bad day. She swore she learned from his teammate’s mistakes and smart moves. Her attention had filled him with pride. So, he kept doing it, even though she wasn’t there to comment. He’d hear it in his head. Yes, he had known her that well.

  After he reached the final out, he stared at the sky. A few wispy clouds blew by overhead. A bright red, male cardinal landed on her headstone. The creature watched him for a bit. Matt reached out. The bird darted his head from side to side, looked at Matt once more, and flew off.