Double Play

by Nikki Duvall

  She bit his lip.

  “Ow!”

  “Don’t mess with a woman in heat,” she growled.

  He laughed a sultry laugh. “Baby, you can’t be here,” he teased, entering her in one powerful movement. “The team says no sex till after the Series.”

  The first climax already moved through her. “Just try and stop me,” she panted.

  “Shhh! The coach’s room is next door.” He flipped her, covering her mouth with his own. One large hand cupped her bottom, holding her close against his hips, increasing the friction to an unbearable level. She wanted to scream, wanted the world to know that this man belonged to her. She bucked under him, crying out as each thrust took her higher. He exploded inside her, kicking every nerve from her toes to her shoulders and dissolving her into a heap of rubber satisfaction.

  “Damn, you fuck good, Girl!”

  Halee moaned. “Maybe something a little more romantic?”

  “I love you,” he whispered, nuzzling her neck in the dark.

  Her eyes filled with tears. “Say it again.”

  “I love you, Halee McCarthy.”

  “I’m going to tell our son he was conceived the night before his daddy won the World Series.”

  “You gonna be one of those embarrassing mamas, are ya? Gonna show his girlfriends naked pictures of him in the bathtub, too?”

  Halee laughed. “Maybe.” She laid her head against J.D.’s strong chest and listened to his heart beat in the night and wondered what their life would be like together. “Do you think we’ll want to make love when we’re seventy?” she asked.

  J.D. snorted. “Probably. I can’t think past tomorrow right now.”

  “Are they starting you?”

  “Most likely. I’ll worry about it in the morning. Come here, Beautiful.” He pulled her into his arms and buried them both deep beneath the covers. Minutes later they drifted off into a peaceful slumber.

  ***

  It was high noon, an hour before game time, and J.D. had already paced the perimeter of the locker room about fifty times. According to Coach Morrison, Favier was M.I.A., Franklin’s wife had gone into labor in the middle of the night, and Talmey was in the manager’s office having a meltdown about his sudden starting position. That left J.D. to not only start, but finish this entire game. If the Federals won today, the agonizing season would finally come to a close and he could move on with this life. If this hastily assembled team of second string misfits could pull one victory off, he’d go home to a ranch and a new family. If they lost, well, he didn’t know if his shoulder would last an additional game and if it didn’t, he’d walk away from the season without a dime in his pocket straight back to the minor leagues. Most days, J.D. could be called an optimist. Today, things didn’t look so bright.

  Coach Smothers entered the clubhouse and sized up J.D. stretching his calves against a wooden chair. “You probably heard the news.”

  “Yeh, I heard it,” said J.D.

  “You don’t have to do this, you know.”

  “I can’t think like that. I got everything ridin’ on this game.”

  “I need for you to understand the risks,” said Smothers. “If you do any more damage to that shoulder, you won’t be playing ball next year.”

  J.D. continued to stretch. “I hear ya.”

  Smothers settled onto a nearby bench to watch. “Did I ever tell you about my baseball career, J.D.?”

  J.D. straightened and sized up his trainer. “I didn’t know you played, Doc.”

  “I doubt most people do. Wasn’t anywhere near your talent. Played for TCU, then the Indians, got hurt my first season in the majors. Wasn’t paying attention and took a bat to the head, knocked me out cold. Thought I’d lose my eyesight for a while. Scared me off so bad, I put my tail between my legs and headed back to Texas, but not before I got enough exposure to trainers that I knew that’s what I wanted to do with my life. There was one old fella in particular I’ll never forget by the name of Charlie Cotton. He was one of those fatherly types, always ready with the advice, you know?”

  “I see he rubbed off on you,” said J.D. with a grin.

  “He said Clint, you always got two things working on you at once, your heart and your head. You gotta let your heart do the talking. So I quit baseball and married Twila. Best thing I ever did.”

  “Are you telling me to quit, Doc?”

  “I’m telling you to hedge your bets. You risk it all for this one game and you may wind up with nothing in the end.”

  “I ain’t wired like that, Doc. I ain’t never been careful like you. I go balls out or I go home.”

  Doc shook his head. “Halee get here alright?”

  J.D. frowned. “How did you know she was coming?”

  “She called me a couple of days ago. She told me about your contract.”

  J.D. blew out a deep breath and shook his head. “She shouldn’t have done that.”

  “I’d convinced Victoria not to put you in game three right before she called. Halee said I should let you decide. Sounds like it saved your bonus. She’s a smart one, that Halee.”

  J.D. nodded. “Yes, Sir.”

  “What do you think she’d say about you playing today?”

  “I’ll tell you what she’d say.” Both men turned as Halee entered the locker room.

  “Baby, you can’t be here…”

  “You keep saying that,” Halee said with a soft smile. “Hello, Mr. Smothers.”

  “Halee, a pleasure to see you again,” said Doc, tipping his hat.

  “Thank you for your help the other day.”

  “Happy to do it.”

  She turned toward J.D. and reached out for his hand. “I know you think the whole world is watching and that you owe Faye and me a happy ending. But I came to tell you that it doesn’t matter what you decide to do today, J.D. It doesn’t matter one bit to me whether you win the Series or sit this one out. This is your decision. This is your dream.” She squeezed his hand. “As long as you love me, I have mine.”

  J.D. kissed her palm and took in a deep breath. “Are you telling me you wouldn’t mind being a rancher’s wife?”

  Halee shrugged. “Uncle Gus taught me long ago, it’s not where you are, it’s who you’re with. I’d go anywhere with you.”

  J.D. rubbed his jaw and stared at his feet for a few moments. “It’s been a long road,” he said, shaking his head. “I’ve come too far to back down now. If I never play again, at least I can say I won the Series.”

  Halee wrapped her arms around his strong body and sighed. “I believe in you, J.D.,” she said softly. “Faye believes in you. New York believes in you. Go win this for all your friends back home.”

  J.D. melted his lips against hers in a deep and passionate kiss. “Coach Smothers,” he said, coming up for air, “start me at centerfield.”

  ***

  Ten minutes later the locker room was buzzing with news cameras and half-clad Federals players milling around in nervous anticipation of an historic game. Simone perched himself on a chair in the corner of the room and commenced to flirt with an attractive young female sportscaster, opting not to put on his shirt until the interview was over. Favier, finally located at the eleventh hour, sat in front of a long line of espresso shots which he downed in succession, hoping to counter the residual alcohol coursing through his veins. Coach Morrison paced the floor and texted Franklin every five minutes for an update on his wife’s condition while Talmey did some last minute repetitions with a set of twenty pound barbells as if he could miraculously get in shape within the next thirty minutes.

  Clint Smothers stepped up onto a chair in the center of the locker room and cleared his throat. “Let me have your attention, everyone!” he shouted. A hush fell over the room.

  “Now I know it’s been a long season and a lot of you guys are hurting. The good news is, the same is true for the other team.” A low hum of laughter floated through the crowd. “You’ve played amazing ball this year and, best of all, you’ve play
ed like a team. It’s no accident that we’re here today getting ready to make history. So take a minute to turn and thank the guy next to you. It’s every one of your efforts that brought us here.”

  J.D. turned toward Simone and grinned. “Thanks for covering my ass out there, Simone.”

  “De nada, my friend. How you feeling today?”

  “I’ve been better.”

  “Doc fix you up with some good pain medicine, yes?”

  “Double dose.”

  Simone slapped J.D. on his good shoulder. “You a champion, man. Ain’t nothing going to break you. Remember that.”

  The double doors crashed open on the far side of the room. Victoria Pryor waltzed in dressed in leopard print and red snake leather. A consolidated groan replaced the upbeat chatter. Undaunted, Victoria leapt onto a nearby bench and slapped her hands together till a hush fell over the room. “Gentlemen! I hear the least among you are taking the field this afternoon. Heaven help us.”

  “What the hell does that mean?” shouted Favier.

  Victoria turned. “I see you’ve sobered up, Favier. Then you’ll understand me when I tell you you’re fired.”

  “Now just a minute!” Smothers stepped forward. “We need Favier to play first. No one else has experience at first base.”

  “You’ll think of something,” said Victoria with a wave of the hand.

  “You’ve sold every decent second string player we had! I want Favier reinstated!” Smothers demanded.

  The corners of Victoria’s ruby lips tipped up. “Very well,” said Victoria. “You can have him back on one condition.”

  The crowd waited.

  “Your resignation is in my inbox by the end of the day.”

  J.D. stepped forward. Simone pulled him back. “What you gonna do, get your ass fired, too?”

  “It’s a matter of principle.”

  “Principle don’t pay the bills.”

  “Coach Smothers keeps his job!” J.D. shouted. “Or I walk.”

  Victoria turned toward J.D. with a piercing stare. A deadly silence filled the room. J.D. took two steps forward. “What’s it gonna be, Pryor? You gonna bully your way out of a World Series title?”

  Simone cleared his throat. “He’s right, Mrs. Pryor. J.D. don’t play, none of us play. You forfeit the game.”

  “Count me in,” said Favier. “Smothers goes, we all go.”

  A general hum built into a roar, with one after the other player stepping forward to voice his dissent. Victoria remained silent. “Well, it’s all a moot point anyway,” she said at last, stepping down from the bench. “You’re bound to fuck it up.” And with that, she slung her leopard print shawl over her shoulder and let the door slam behind her.

  “You didn’t need to do that,” said Smothers to the team. “She’s already doing everything she can not to pay any of you. This will just make it worse.”

  “We ain’t here for the money, Coach,” said J.D. “We’re here for the team.” He turned to face the anxious faces scattered around the locker room. “Now I don’t know about you, but I’ve been waitin’ for this game my whole life. I say we go out there and play like Federals, Pryor be damned!”

  A cheer went up. “Son, I’d say you’re in a league all your own,” Smothers said with a chuckle.

  “We’re about to face some serious odds, Doc,” said J.D. “This shoulder can’t take much more. I’m gonna need your best medicine to pull me through.”

  Smothers grinned. “I’m here for you, J.D.,” he said, slapping his back. Then he turned back to the team. “Let’s play ball!”

  ~TWENTY-EIGHT~

  Halee shifted uncomfortably in the hard plastic box seat directly behind home plate. Carla had scored five seats in prime territory normally reserved for high rollers through some shady deal back in New York, and Halee knew she should be grateful, but on this blustery October Midwestern afternoon, she couldn’t help but wonder when she’d be entitled to watching J.D.’s games from the heated comfort of the owners’ box. If, that is, J.D. had any games ahead of him at all.

  He’d started the game just as he’d requested- in centerfield- and for the first seven innings, all the action had either been in the infield or easy pop-out flies to right or left field positions. With every crack of the bat Halee winced, knowing that a hit to centerfield could be the breaking point in a game that decided their future. Now she watched as J.D. took his place on deck and waited for his turn to give the Federals an edge in a tied game.

  “How can you be so calm?” asked Rita, pulling Ty a little closer under her wool blanket. “It’s like you’re a million miles away.”

  Halee pulled her hands out of her mittens and held them up. “No nails,” she said matter-of-factly. “Satisfied?”

  Rita raised her ring finger to her teeth and commenced to chew in solidarity. “Who’s this guy ahead of J.D.?”

  “Carstens.”

  “Can he hit?”

  “His average is 400,” said Halee. “He can hit.”

  Carstens connected on a fastball and tagged second on a stand up double. The sea of black and gold jerseys in the upper deck roared their approval. J.D. approached the batter’s box and peered down the line at the third base coach for instructions. He nodded, tapped home plate with his bat, and sunk down into a fiercely determined stance. Halee held her breath.

  “Strike!”

  “I can’t look,” said Rita, hunkering down lower in her seat. Ty leaned toward Halee and proceeded to crawl into her lap. He slapped her face playfully with his chubby hands, blocking her view.

  J.D. touched the brim of his hat and lined himself up over the plate. The second ball came in low and outside. Halee blew out a relieved sigh and sat a little taller. “Come on, Baby,” she murmured. “All your friends at Fat Jimmy’s are watching.”

  J.D. connected on the third pitch, lifting it over the head of the shortstop and giving Carstens an easy ride over home plate. Rounding first, he hesitated, then ran full speed ahead toward second. The Hawks’ left fielder blasted the ball high toward the shortstop who leapt into the air, then crashed down over J.D.’s body with the full force of a linebacker. Halee screamed as J.D.’s face met the cleat of the shortstop’s shoe. Within moments, Smothers and another trainer were racing for second base.

  “No!” Halee shouted. “Not like this!”

  Uncle Gus turned in his seat. “Don’t panic, Honey. It could just be a scratch.”

  But J.D. wasn’t moving.

  Halee stopped breathing. Her heart pounded out of her chest. Gus leaned back and slid Ty from her lap as she rose from her seat and headed, first controlled, then as though she were fleeing a theater fire, toward the field.

  “Stop right there, Lady.” A tank in a uniform spread his arms wide and gave her a look so fierce she should have recoiled in fear. But she didn’t.

  “I’m his girlfriend,” she said. Her eyes strained past the guard’s fat head toward second base. There was blood, and there was a stretcher, and there were people, a lot of people, gathered around J.D.

  “You and every girl in this stadium. Go back to your seat before I arrest you.”

  “Just get him off the field, already!” someone yelled from behind her. “Let’s play ball!”

  “Is he dead?” a woman asked somewhere off to the side.

  “Good reddens!” another Hawks fan screeched. “One less Federal in the world.”

  A satisfied smirk washed over the guard’s puffy purple lips. Halee felt a strange heat flood her chest. Her hands clenched into fists and slowly, strategically, she cocked one shoulder back.

  Bobby intercepted her fist in midair. “Officer Merino!” he shouted, an inch from her lips. “There you are.” His eyes held hers for one long moment with an intensity that shook her anger free. He flashed his Chicago police badge at the distracted guard without breaking his connection with Halee’s fearful stare. “NYPD. Working security for the Federals. We got a call to escort the injured player to the hospital. Let us pass.” />
  “Hey, Federal boy,” called a fan toward Bobby a couple rows down, “start crying. You just lost your best player.”

  The guard eyeballed Bobby’s Federals hat with suspicion. Bobby grabbed Halee’s jacket sleeve and forced his way forward.

  “Where are you taking me?” asked Halee glancing back toward the stands.

  “Just walk forward and look tough.”

  “Where’s Ty? I don’t want him in that crowd. They’re like vultures.”

  “Relax. Gus has him and he’s wearing red.” Bobby led her through a gate and down onto the field and flashed his badge at another cop. The cop nodded. He took a sharp right and led Halee quickly toward the Federal dugout. She tried to break free. “You run out on the field, they’ll take you to jail,” he warned, gripping her arm tightly. “You can see him when we get clearance. Security,” he said to a line of worried coaches. “What’s happening?”

  “Player landed full force on Shaw’s head. Musta busted his skull. He’s out cold.”

  Halee turned in time to see an ambulance pull up alongside J.D.’s prone body. She let out a small cry.

  “Where are you taking him?” asked Bobby.

  “I don’t have a clue,” said the coach with a heavy sigh. “All I know is we’re fucked.”

  Halee caught sight of Tony King climbing the back stairs from the locker room to the dugout. She left Bobby’s side and met him halfway. “Where are they taking him?” she demanded.

  “St. Luke’s. You can ride along.”

  Halee turned toward Bobby, still focused on the commotion on the field. “Come with me?”

  “Only one can ride along,” said King.

  “We’ll meet you there,” Bobby assured her.

  King took her by the elbow and led her onto the field, past the pitcher’s mound, and toward the waiting ambulance. Stadium speakers blasted out rock and roll favorites, drowning out the whine of the impatient crowd and rendering unintelligible the occasional heckler’s vehement slander. A team of twenty-somethings in Hawks jackets propelled tee shirts into the stands in an attempt to distract the masses from their boredom. Halee tightened the collar on her jacket against the damp chill of the October afternoon, then pressed her stiff fingers into fists inside the fleece lined pockets. She couldn’t tell if it was nerves or the weather causing her body to shake, and she didn’t much care. She just wanted to hold J.D. and tell him everything was going to be alright.