Love on the Line

by Aares, Pamela

  A week after buying the ranch, he’d volunteered to help with the middle school baseball team. He’d warned the coach, Dave Jenkins, that until the Giants’ season was over he’d have little time, but promised that in November he’d be able to do more. Right now they had to settle for him showing up when the team had a day off or for him arriving late after a day game.

  “Hey, Ryan,” Perry Norman hollered out to him. Albion’s mayor was called Perk by his constituents. “Nice shot in the third.”

  His triple had been a thrill. The runs he’d batted in had given the Giants a lead they’d held to win the game. Ryan was still buzzing from the rush. The team had lost the day before, while he’d sat in that damned courtroom. And his performance today hadn’t dissolved the inquiring stares in the clubhouse. Usually somebody had to die or be the equivalent of mortally wounded before a guy missed a game. When he’d suited up for the game that day, Ryan had felt that he’d experienced the sting of both.

  He nodded toward the visitors’ bench. “Let’s see if we can duplicate that play against the Hawks tonight.”

  “The Hawks have a good lefty,” Perk said. “Our boys don’t hit him well.”

  The boys on the Albion team were a rather scrawny crew of twelve- and thirteen-year-olds playing with outdated equipment. Ryan knew too well the feeling of being a scrawny kid on a team with subpar equipment. During his own early middle school years, he’d been the scrawniest kid on his team—until he’d had his growth spurt. He’d shot up and filled out, but the shame and frustration of those early years still clung to him like a cloying octopus.

  But he’d been a twelve-year-old with a mission. He’d been determined to make it to the big leagues. And he had made it. He was living his dream. And it was a good life.

  He’d made up his mind to show the local boys a few tricks that might whet their interest and entice them into practicing the basics. The thought put a smile on his face. These off-season intramural games didn’t count against the Falcons’ team record, but they built up a player’s skills and experience. He’d set up a batting cage in his second barn and put in a practice diamond behind the ranch house. By the time the spring season started, he was pretty sure he could help Dave get the boys into shape. If they practiced. And maybe grew a few inches and put on some muscle over the winter.

  Ryan’s stomach grumbled.

  He’d skipped out on the spread in the clubhouse after the game and driven faster than he should have to get to the middle school game before it started. And he was starving.

  “The taco stand open for business?” Ryan nodded toward the tables set up near the parking lot.

  “Five bucks a shot.” Perk shrugged. “We need new bats. If they sell out tonight, that should do it.”

  Ryan had been tempted to plunk down the money for the bats, but he’d learned early on that the citizens of Albion Bay had very definite ideas of self-sufficiency. Maybe it was pride. He understood the power of pride, wrestled with it himself. He’d have to settle for buying a few fish tacos and find a diplomatic way to help out with equipment expenses.

  But he wasn’t giving up on talking Dave into letting him pay to have the field rolled and seeded. Convincing the stubborn coach might require a few nights over beers at Nick’s, but he’d manage it. If he didn’t, the field would be a muddy mess after the winter rains had their way.

  Ryan slipped past a group of moms and over to the taco stand fashioned out of folding tables and camp stoves. Cain Bryant, the best fisherman in Albion Bay, was filleting a salmon on a worn cutting board. The prospect of a fresh salmon taco made Ryan’s stomach growl louder.

  “Had to go out ten miles for this big guy,” Cain said as Ryan approached. “Want the usual?”

  Cain and he had gotten to know each other over stacks of pancakes at the diner; one meal Ryan had never learned to do well was breakfast. At least not the kind of breakfast he wanted to eat. He and Cain had developed an unspoken respect for each other. Ryan played the game Cain loved and played it well. And Cain fought off elements out in the open ocean that Ryan could only imagine facing. In the winter, waves could top fifteen feet and fog and storms made for treacherous fishing. To do what they loved, they both pitted their bodies against the elements of speed and force.

  “Yup,” Ryan said, leaning in to savor the aroma of the sizzling salmon. “Make it three.”

  “We don’t need bats that bad,” Cain said with a grin. He poked Ryan’s rock-hard abs. “Tubby center fielders don’t win pennants.”

  “In that case, make it four. I’ll save two for breakfast.”

  “Fish shouldn’t be left out without refrigeration,” a woman said as she walked up to Cain. Though her voice was like velvet, her tone smacked of authority.

  Ryan had seen the woman around town and driving a school bus. She was tall, almost model-like, but she wore simple clothes that hid her body, and her unruly hair made her face hard to see.

  “It’s fifty degrees out, Cara,” Cain said with a laugh. “But if it makes you feel better, I’ll put Mr. Rea’s breakfast on ice until the end of the game.”

  Cara brushed her hair away from her face and smiled at Cain. She didn’t look at Ryan; instead she studiously started chopping onions. But Ryan had glimpsed her haunting beauty, and felt the ping of attraction he hadn’t felt for a long time.

  Cara showed none of the usual posturing to capture his attention. He was grateful to the good people of Albion for giving him a chance to be considered for his qualities as a person, as a member of the community rather than for his stature as a sports star. Though he knew it wasn’t real, the feeling of anonymity was refreshing.

  And Cara’s lack of regard intrigued him. He saw through the transparent gloves she wore that she didn’t sport a wedding ring.

  She plated his tacos and handed them to him with barely a glance. But enough of a glance to tell him that she was a puzzle he’d like to explore.

  As Perk had predicted, the Falcons fared poorly against the Hawks. In the bottom of the ninth, Sam Rivers attempted to steal second but collapsed, gasping, halfway there. The Hawks second baseman ran over and tagged him out, ending the inning and shutting down the Falcons’ chance to even the score.

  Sam’s mother, Molly, ran onto the field brandishing an inhaler. Sam waved her off, clearly embarrassed.

  “There’s no telling that boy anything,” Dave said over his shoulder as he jogged out to where a crowd of players and moms had gathered around Sam.

  “Kid’s got one of those asthma conditions,” Perk said as he helped Ryan stash the bats and balls in a burlap bag. “But Molly’s right to let him play. A boy’s gotta have a life.”

  Sam got up, still struggling for breath. He shooed his mom away and trudged over to collect his gear bag.

  “Hey, nice dash,” Ryan said, going for a casual, offhand tone.

  “Hardly,” Sam said. His shoulders had the defeated hunch Ryan hated to see on anyone.

  “Hey—I’ve been thrown out lots of times trying to steal second,” Ryan said, conveniently leaving out the fact that he’d succeeded more than a hundred times. Though he was tempted to pat Sam on the shoulder, he didn’t. “You never get anywhere if you don’t give it a go.”

  Sam didn’t say anything, but Ryan saw the boy’s shoulders relax. He remembered being Sam’s age. Every mistake loomed like the end of the world.

  After the Hawks loaded onto their team bus, the parents and the Falcons’ players began to disperse. Ryan headed over to collect his breakfast tacos. Cain wasn’t there, but Cara was. She didn’t see him approach, and he had a moment to study her. Her dress was worn and faded, but the light evening breeze made the sweater she wore over it hug her very fit body. Her movements were efficient but graceful, like a dancer’s or an athlete’s. She smiled as she worked, and Ryan was pretty sure it was the sweetest, freshest smile he’d seen in years. When she looked up and caught him staring, her smile faded fast.

  “I came to collect my iced-down breakfast,” he said
, suddenly feeling awkward. There was something about her that made his body stand at attention and his brain go into alert mode.

  She turned to the cooler and pulled out a plastic bag. She started to hand the bag to him, but then pulled it back.

  “You’ll need an outer bag with some ice to keep these cold until you get home.”

  “It’s a short trip,” he said. And then his next idea had him changing his mind. “On second thought, more ice would be great. Especially since I’m hoping you’ll join me at the diner for a beer before I head home.”

  She stiffened.

  Okay, maybe his approach was too forward. He was still adjusting to the ways of the people in the town.

  “No, thanks. I have to clean up here.”

  “Then let me help.” Ryan stepped around the table and picked up a cleaning rag. The scent of fish rose up from it, but standing next to Cara he also detected the scent of honeysuckle. He knew that scent. Bowers of it grew on the ranch he’d been raised on.

  “I can handle this,” she said. “I’m sure you have more important things to do.”

  “Can’t think of a thing.” Ryan swapped out the fish towel for what appeared to be a clean one and began wiping down the table.

  “I’m still not going to have a beer with you,” she said.

  She said it softly, but he heard the restraint and confidence in her tone. It told him she was a woman who had very clear ideas of what she did and didn’t want in her life. That she wasn’t jumping on a chance to go out with him was as refreshing as her gentle but firmly straightforward manner.

  “Then how about a cup of tea?” He knew women liked tea; his sister and mother did. He’d snagged a couple of unlikely dates by suggesting an outing for a cup of tea. There was something about the drink that must signal safety to women. Nothing racy like, Hey, join me for a magnum of Dom Pérignon at my place, even if that might be what he wanted.

  She looked up from the ice chest. “It’s been a long day,” she said, melting him with a sigh that told him it was true.

  He busied himself with scraping down the grilling skillet with a wire brush and considered his next-best approach. He was aware of her studying him, and tamped down the zing of arousal that had him imagining scenarios well beyond a cup of tea.

  “But maybe tomorrow,” she said, surprising him. “Just tea.”

  He had a ten-day road trip. Ten days without seeing her was a painful penalty for failing to woo her into joining him tonight. But he could see the fatigue in her eyes, so he didn’t push.

  “I’ll be away for a couple weeks,” he said. “How about the tenth? That’s my next free day.”

  “There’s an all-day canning session for the food bank that day,” she said as she packed up a box with utensils and condiments. “Then a party at Grady’s feed barn after, to celebrate.”

  “I know a bit about canning. My grandmother used to lasso me to help out with the heavy lifting.”

  “You’re a man of many talents, Mr. Rea.”

  Her smooth response didn’t fit his image of a small-town woman. And he wasn’t sure if she was poking fun at his blatant attempt to ask her out. Right then it didn’t matter. All he knew was that he craved to know more about her.

  Molly Rivers walked up and stacked napkins and paper plates inside the box Cara had packed. “I’ll take this, Cara. I’m on taco duty next week.”

  “How’s your boy doing?” Ryan hid his concern with a level tone.

  “Recovering. No boy wants to cart an inhaler around the infield. But he pays the consequence when he doesn’t.” She looked over to where Sam stood talking with Dave Jenkins. “If I could get him to spend one-tenth the energy he puts into baseball on his homework, I’d feel I was doing my job.”

  Her words rang in him, echoing memories of his dad saying the very same thing. But he wasn’t his dad, and he had an opportunity to support the kid’s dream.

  “He’s got a solid swing,” Ryan said.

  It was true, the kid had talent. So Molly had her work cut out for her. Ryan knew too well the allure of the diamond. Reading books and scratching out numbers on homework pages might get Sam ahead in school, but study couldn’t compare to the buzz of smacking a game-winning hit or stealing a base. He grimaced as he remembered the fights with his father on nights when he’d sneaked out of the house to hit balls into the piece of chain link he’d set up as a practice fence behind their house.

  “Maybe you could tell him that his studies are just as important as practicing his swing,” Molly said in a quiet voice.

  “I’m afraid I won’t be much help in that department,” Ryan said with a shrug. “I’m not much for bending the truth.”

  Molly shook her head and hefted the box.

  “Let me help you,” Ryan said, taking the box from her.

  “My truck’s the green one.” She grabbed a stack of paper cups and dropped them on top of the overflowing box. “Last chance to tell Sam the importance of doing his math homework.”

  Ryan laughed. “I’ll put in a word about the geometry of the baseball field. Worked for me.”

  “Mr. Rea here might be joining us for our canning session,” Cara said.

  Ryan heard the unspoken question in her tone.

  Molly looked from Cara to Ryan. “We could use some brawn,” she said with a grin. “But did Cara warn you about Belva? She’s mighty picky about outsiders in her kitchen.”

  “He lives here,” Cara said quickly.

  “Yeah? So does Martha Stewart. And you’re not going to see Belva inviting her to anything, at least not yet.” She studied Ryan. “But since you’re helping with the ball team, Belva might make an exception.”

  That he was concerned about being approved to help a bunch of ladies can their vegetables struck Ryan as ridiculous. But as he looked at Cara and saw the smile curve into her face, he hoped he’d make the cut.

  Chapter Four

  Facedown on the trainer’s table was not the place Ryan preferred to be. But the pain in his right shoulder had cost him at the plate that afternoon.

  He’d smacked a double in the first inning, but the hitch in his swing had him late on the pitches in later innings. What should’ve been a home run in the eighth turned into an off-the-pole foul.

  But worse than that, his subpar throw to home in the ninth had cost the Giants the game. At least that’s how he saw it. Sure, he could run a mental replay of all the at-bats and fielding moves, point to any number of split-second plays and come up with a dozen variables that added up to a loss. But he hadn’t played well. Not like he could.

  “I can shoot that shoulder up with some cortisone,” Mark said after another unsuccessful kneading of Ryan’s muscles.

  Some days the pain just went away—it didn’t matter whether he played or had a day off. On days when it hurt so much he thought he’d have to pull himself from the lineup, the trainers tried everything. Ryan’s pain stumped them. Right now, he was the team’s hottest bat and their arm in center field—they’d try anything to keep him in the game. But he drew the line at injections; shots and painkillers would be a last resort. He’d seen what cortisone had done to a buddy on the Red Sox. For now he was going with ice, massage and disciplined physical therapy.

  And sucking up the pain.

  At twenty-four, he was the youngest center fielder to be in the running for a Gold Glove. An honor like that would put him in a category with Jones and Kemp and would be a dream come true. That it might help settle a score with his father wasn’t an outcome he could count on.

  With a month left to go in the season, he already had three hundred and sixty-seven put-outs and eighteen assists, and he’d climbed his fielding percentage to .988. Only two players were close to his stats, and both were veterans with more than a decade in the game.

  But the season wasn’t over.

  He’d have to work out the kink in his shoulder if he was going to stay on top, if he was going to be a solid asset for the team.

  And he’d have to ge
t more sleep.

  He woke too many nights in a tangle of covers and sweat, nagged by nightmares. Some nights he felt like a ghost had decided to settle in his muscles and haunt him.

  When the Giants bought out his contract with Boston, he’d been sure that that’d be the end of sleepless nights. He’d arrived, hadn’t he? He was playing for the team he’d always dreamed of playing for in a city that loved the game. His agent was negotiating a sweet deal that could bring him a six-year, fifty-million-dollar contract. The early rumors about the contract were probably what had ramped up Elaine’s lawyers’ greed.

  Ryan sat up on the trainer’s table. “No injections. I’ll work it out.”

  “Walsh would like me to convince you,” Mark said. “The playoffs are ahead.”

  Playoffs were ahead only if the Giants kept their lead in the division. Of course Hal Walsh wanted him to try anything that might work; it was a manager’s job to keep his team playing at their best. And Ryan had an obligation to the team to do what it took to play strong. But he knew his body. Cortisone injections weren’t the answer.

  “If it’s not better when we get back from the road trip, I’ll think about your needles,” Ryan said, hoping it wouldn’t come to that. Right then he’d say anything to get the trainers off his back. They were trying to do their jobs, but they couldn’t know the nature of his problem. Hell, he wasn’t sure himself.

  Ryan grabbed a towel and headed for the showers. He inhaled the steamy warmth and let the hot water beat down on his neck and back.

  “Table time help any?” Scotty Donovan, Ryan’s buddy and the Giants’ star pitcher, asked from the shower next to him.

  “I’m not a friend of the table.”

  “I get that,” Scotty said. “My grandmother gave me some arnica. I have some if you want to try it. It works for me. Sometimes.”

  Ryan nodded. He’d try almost anything, as long as it didn’t involve scalpels, needles or drugs.