Playing for Kinley
by
Melanie Munton
Playing for Kinley
Copyright © 2016 Melanie Munton
All rights reserved
Cover Design by L.J. Anderson at Mayhem Cover Creations
www.mayhemcovercreations.com
eBook Edition
No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photography, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written consent from the publisher and author, except in the instance of quotes for reviews. No part of this book may be uploaded without the permission of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is originally published.
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. This ebook is licensed for your personal use only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people except when loaned out per Amazon’s lending program. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, then it was pirated illegally, and you should return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.
This is a work of fiction and any similarities to persons, living or dead, or places, actual events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters and names are products of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
Table of Contents
A Note from the Author
Playlist
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
A Note from the Author
The characters involved in Playing for Kinley were initially introduced in the Possession and Politics trilogy. While the trilogy does not need to be read in order to follow Parker and Kinley’s story, it is also highly recommended.
Read more about the rest of the upcoming Cruz Brothers novels on
my website!
Check out the Possession and Politics trilogy at the links below:
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Parts 1-3
Playlist
All I Want – Kodaline
Distance – Christina Perri ft. Jason Mraz
White Blank Page – Mumford & Sons
Stubborn Love – The Lumineers
The Girl – City and Colour
Looks Like Love – NEEDTOBREATHE
Haven’t Met You Yet – Michael Bublé
Gorgeous – X Ambassadors
Cosmic Love – Florence + The Machine
In Love Again – Colbie Caillat
Bright – Echosmith
Hold Me – Lucia (Tom Odell cover)
Ain’t No Sunshine – Bill Withers
One and Only – Adele
Fire and the Flood – Vance Joy
Home – Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros
For my entire baseball-loving family.
Prologue
Parker
Well, this sucks.
I was stoic, my movements robotic, as I walked down the tunnel back to the Red Sox clubhouse, trying to drain out the sound of the roaring crowd in the background. The walkway was dark and I was lost in my thoughts until I reached the doors of the clubhouse and the camera flashes started. Reporters bombarded me with questions but I remained silent, waving my hand at them as I pushed through the heavy doors into the much quieter room where the rest of my teammates were gathered.
Everyone was as solemn as me, moving around wordlessly, conversation lacking as they undressed and showered. Nobody cared, though. The silence was preferred. Nobody wanted to talk because frankly, there was nothing to say.
We had just lost the World Series.
We had just lost the biggest championship any of us would ever play in.
There were no words that could ease the pain of a loss like that. Nothing that could lessen the blow of having to listen to the St. Louis Cardinals fans screaming their heads off in triumph and watching the Cardinals players celebrate their victory on our home field.
Our home field.
In moments like this, you really didn’t know whether to be depressed or pissed off or just numb. I guess I was taking turns between all three, feeling each emotion out and then moving on to the next one when I didn’t feel completely satisfied.
But my efforts were fruitless.
Nothing was going to satisfy me.
The only thing that could have, the only way I had wanted the night to end—well, the way I’d wanted the series to end since tonight had only been Game 5—was with that damn trophy in my hands. The feeling of achievement of knowing that I had gotten to the very top and had become the very best at what I did. Of finally accomplishing what I had set out to do many years ago.
That feeling wasn’t going to come tonight.
I sighed, long and deep, and even I could admit that I sounded tired, worn out. I sat down in the chair in front of my locker and stretched my right leg out, slowly massaging the overworked muscles and loosening them up. My career had went on hiatus when I tore my meniscus and had to have surgery, but I had worked my ass off and was now better than ever. My knee would still swell up after every game, but it didn’t pain me nearly as much as it used to.
I didn’t give a shit about my knee, though.
There was too much going on inside my head to really care about anything else.
Most of the guys around me were cleaning up quickly, desperate to get the hell out of there and away from the disappointed Boston fans, to go drown themselves in their sorrows. Or beer. Or probably both with the way we were all feeling.
But I wasn’t in any hurry. I took my time removing my cleats and uniform, unconcerned with the time or what anyone else around me was doing. Most of them had families to go home to, or at least girlfriends. And I didn’t. Nobody was waiting for me at home. My brothers had come to the last two games in Boston, but they both had to fly back to Baltimore for work and couldn’t make it for tonight’s game.
Good thing, too.
I couldn’t handle talking to anyone t
onight, even my own brothers. I didn’t want to see the looks of sympathy on their faces, didn’t want to hear them tell me how proud they were of me and that there was always next year. I appreciated their support and that they’d flown up for the games at all, considering the fact that my own deadbeat parents couldn’t have given a shit less about my life.
But I just wanted to be alone.
I sat there for a minute, staring at the jersey that had my name on it, my number. There were times like these that I still couldn’t believe that my life was where it was at. That little kids wore my jersey and asked me to sign their gloves. That adults wore my number proudly and chanted my name from the stands. That anybody looked up to me. That anybody actually wanted to be me.
Because if they knew how I had grown up, where I had come from, there was no way they’d want my life.
I threw the jersey into the locker with the rest of my rumpled clothes, not being able to deal with emotions of that magnitude, and headed for the showers.
Most of my teammates had already left and the rest of them were getting dressed. Still, the only words that were spoken were in passing, quiet goodbyes mumbled and vague plans made to meet up soon for drinks.
I stood under the shower head, resting my hands against the tiled wall, and let the water wash the dirt and grime from my body. I wished the hot water had healing powers because if it did, I would have come out of that clubhouse a brand new man.
But it didn’t and I was left to deal with the realization of failure.
It was something I never handled well, not that anyone else would know it, other than my best friend Clay. He knew me too well. But I purposely hid my emotions from everyone else, appearing aloof in the face of defeat. It was the only way I knew how to handle my reactions, my feelings. And it had become habit, to the point that I didn’t even recognize I was doing it anymore. It was simply a reflex now.
And nobody had really been able to get beneath that layer of indifference before. Not completely.
Except for one person.
I shook my head, trying to rid it of thoughts of her, and got out of the shower, wrapping a towel around my waist as I made my way back over to my locker. If I started thinking about her on top of everything else tonight, it would just make it worse.
You’re so full of shit.
It was true, I was. Because I had been thinking about her all night, long before I’d ever stepped out onto that field. I couldn’t lie to myself about it anymore.
I never could get her out of my damn head.
And it had been getting worse over the last several months.
When I was finally dressed, I gathered my bag and made my way out of the clubhouse. I had no idea how long I had been in there, but it must have been long enough because there were no reporters outside the door when I opened it. Thank God.
I absolutely hated giving interviews, especially after a shit night like tonight. They asked the most inane questions and I didn’t have the patience for it at the moment. I knew they were just doing their jobs. But hell, when I’m jacked up on anger and adrenaline and I get asked why I think my team lost only the biggest game of our lives, I just want look them in the eyes and say, “Because the other team played better than us, dumbass.” And then punch something.
I started to walk down the tunnel that led to the team parking lot where my truck was parked, but I stopped my progress and turned around. I looked in the opposite direction, down the darkened hallway I had walked through earlier when I’d left the field, and apparently decided that I hadn’t tortured myself enough yet.
My feet led me toward the field, my heart pounding as it always did when I took this walk, regardless of the circumstances. The tunnel finally opened up to the dugout and a stairway leading to the field.
There was no better sight.
No greater feeling than looking around Fenway Park from the Red Sox dugout.
Every time you stepped onto this field, you could sense the history, feel the presence of former greats like Ted Williams and Carlton Fisk. You felt like you were among them, like you were a part of history instead of just passing through it. Like you were on top of the world.
But tonight, the feeling fell a little short.
I wasn’t overwhelmed with a sense of greatness. I didn’t feel like I stood ten feet tall, didn’t feel worthy of people’s admiration or adoration.
After all, the only person’s affections that I actually wanted wasn’t even here.
The one person I wanted at my games watching me, cheering for me, supporting me, hadn’t been here for a long time. I wanted to look up and see her smiling face in the stands, knowing that she was there for me and nobody else. I wanted her to give me a hug and kiss after the game and either share in my exuberance or comfort my grief.
It was all I ever wanted.
Every game.
But she was never here.
That was all I could think about as I sat down on the dugout bench by myself, letting the events of the past several years revolve through my head. Oddly enough, the last thing I was thinking about was baseball, at least in the sense of what had happened tonight. I wasn’t thinking about the series itself but what had brought me to that moment instead.
I recalled my childhood years and how my family had struggled. I thought about high school and college, the friendship I had with Clay, and all the fun we’d had together. I remembered the feeling of elation at hearing that I had been brought up to the majors and had finally fulfilled my ultimate dream.
But my mind kept coming back to her.
Even with the road my life had taken, the success I’d had, and all of the different paths I’d traveled down that had led me to that dugout, everything kept reverting back to her. The rest of it didn’t really mean as much to me as it used to because she was no longer in my life. Not the way I wanted her to be, anyway.
And I missed her.
God, how I missed her.
The usual guilt I felt about that consumed me, ate at me. And I couldn’t ignore how I felt anymore. I couldn’t push it aside and act like it meant nothing to me. I was starting to lose my mind and every time I was around her was like another nail piercing my heart.
I just couldn’t do it anymore.
I had to fix the situation. Had to find some way of bringing her back to me or I would officially go crazy. But how to do that was a completely different matter. Because the whole situation was complicated and it was messed up.
But I knew now more than ever that I loved her. Still loved her after all these years.
And that was the messed up part.
Because I was in love with my best friend’s sister.
I was in love with Kinley Masterson.
And I was in hell.
Chapter One
Kinley
Click.
Click.
Click.
That was the best sound in the world. The steady click of my Nikon D810 shutter lens in the quiet landscape as I peered through the viewfinder, perfecting the majestic shot that I wanted. The only other sounds that reached my ears were the rustling of the surrounding pine trees as the wind blew through them, the distant caw of a bird passing overhead, and my quiet breaths.
The snow-covered country before me never ceased to amaze me. I had been to many parts of the world and still the simplicity of a sight like this—the sheer white Canadian wilderness—took my breath away.
It was why I had become a photographer.
The peaceful serenity that an experience like this afforded you.
Capturing beauty such as this was not only a gift to me, but had been my sole outlet since I was a kid.
I leaned back in my crouched position behind a large rock to stretch my back and adjust the camera strap that was wound around my neck. The hand warmers in each of my coat pockets were life savers, bringing circulation back to my fingers that were only half protected in my fingerless gloves. It couldn’t be helped, though. Full gloves made holding my camera too c
omplicated a task.
When I had set out for my afternoon shoot in three layers of clothing in single digit degree weather, I’d had to remind myself why I agreed to a photo shoot in the middle of northern Canada in December. I hated the cold weather. But being a landscape photographer, I couldn’t avoid it. Not when jobs like these paid so well and the scenery truly was magnificent.
Why everything in life couldn’t be as unassuming as nature, I had no idea.
Out here there was no need for games or agendas. There were no lies to be told or plotting to be made. And when you re-entered the real world after seeing this, you had to wonder when mankind decided to make life so complex.
I sighed and rubbed away the crease in my forehead. Sometimes my philosophical questions during shoots gave even me headaches.
But really, though. Sometimes I didn’t know whether to be proud or worried that all I needed in life were the 50 megapixels wrapped around my neck. I mean, I needed my relationships with my friends and family, sure. But this camera had become my life.
I was starting to wonder if that was a good thing or not.
After all, the person who I’d once thought was my life…well, he left me.
He was gone.
And I had moved on.
Sort of. Mostly.
Either way, he hadn’t wanted me so I concentrated on other things.
Movement in my peripheral vision caused my head to whip to the side, my vision zoning in on the dark figure leaning against a tree, holding a big rifle. No worries, though. It was just my guide that the nature magazine had hired to take me out here. Never could be too careful in the wilderness. I carried a knife just in case I happened to encounter any unseemly characters…like bobcats.
Or bears.
Not that a measly hunting knife would do anything to protect me against a bear. But carrying a gun was too difficult with all the positions I had to get in for some of my shots. Which was why I often had guides. I got so into my work that I often forgot they were there most of the time, anyway, so it wasn’t as if they disturbed me.
Playing for Kinley (Cruz Brothers Book 1) Page 1