by Kathy Lyons
“Yeah,” I said. “Thanks for mowing Pops’s lawn. I know I promised I’d do it.”
My brother grinned, just like he had back when we were kids. “It was the least I could do.” And just like that, we were okay. He was sorry, and I was too glad to have him back to care about the rest. Especially when I figured out what had caused my brother’s change of heart. Ellie.
“Did Ellie chew you out?”
He ducked his chin. “Not really. She just glared at me and Pops real hard, saying she didn’t like us much because of how we’ve been treating you. It’s a hard thing to have a woman like her say she didn’t like me. Damn hard.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “Damn hard.” And I swore right there that she’d never have cause to say that to me. Ever.
“You ready?” Larry asked, his voice anxious, and I frowned in confusion.
“For what?”
“Pops.”
I groaned, but Larry squeezed my hand.
“It won’t be bad. I swear.”
That was a promise neither of us could keep, but I took it with the newfound hope I’d gained from my brother. He wasn’t angry at me anymore. If Larry could give up his anger, then maybe Pops could change, too. So I nodded, and Larry went to open the door and gestured our father in.
Pops walked in, his head dropped and his gaze darting everywhere but at me. I recognized the drunk’s walk of shame.
“Pops?” He was pale, his eyes still bloodshot and his hands twisted around something.
“Sorry it took so long for us to come see you,” he said. “I had to get something first. ’Cause…” His voice trailed away, but when I just held his gaze, he stumbled into speech again. “I just had to.”
“We both did,” Larry said firmly. And when I looked at him, he shrugged. “I got some, too. I think it’ll… I think I’m going to give it a shot. A good shot, because I need to. For me.”
“And me,” Pops said.
They were talking in circles, and I was missing Ellie too much to tolerate it. “What are you blathering about?” I asked.
Pops swallowed and then abruptly opened his hand. Nestled in his palm was a pill bottle. I leaned forward, and he lifted it up to show me what it said.
Naltrexone. The pill that had worked wonders for me and had helped so many others kick alcoholism.
“You’re going to start taking it?”
Pops and Larry both nodded.
“You know it’s not going to fix things alone, right? You know—”
“We know,” Larry said, and Pops picked up the thread.
“We’ve got a plan. I came up with it the last time I tried this. But I didn’t mean it then. I do now.”
I studied them both. Larry had never tried to get sober before, but Pops certainly had. Or rather, he’d given lip service to trying. It might be the fever, but this time I actually believed them. Something was different this time. They both seemed like they were serious.
“Because of what Ellie said? That she didn’t like you?”
Pops looked away. Larry shrugged. In the end, it was my brother who put a hand on Pops’s shoulder and explained.
“You aren’t the only one with a woman in your life,” he said. “My girl just told me to cut ties with the booze. All of it. Or else.”
I knew that talk. Mom had had it with Pops a dozen times before she finally left.
“She mean it? She dumping you if you don’t—” Pops asked.
“Doesn’t matter. I don’t like me when I’m drinking around her. So I’m stopping.”
“That’s great—” I said, but Pops interrupted.
“And I won’t give up either of you. So if I have to choose—”
“You do,” Larry said. And when they looked at me, I nodded. I couldn’t keep doing this—trying to keep my father alive while he drank himself to death. I was done. I had to be, because I didn’t think Ellie would put up with it much longer.
“Then I’m stopping, too,” Pops said as he gripped the naltrexone. “Larry and me are going to meetings together. And we’re talking to someone.” He smiled at me. “I mean it this time, Jake. I really do.”
I believed him. I believed them both. And the odds of their success went up with every second I supported them. “I’ll help—” I added, but both men shook their heads.
“You’ve done plenty. And I told your woman that I won’t see you again unless I’m sober. And so that’s what it’s got to be.”
Good God, how had quiet, nervous Ellie wrought such a change in my family? I couldn’t believe it, and yet I was looking at the proof. “You’ll still need help,” I said. “It won’t hurt me to go to the meetings with you.”
And so it was agreed. And then a miracle happened.
Ellie walked in.
Her steps were brisk, her hand motions sure, but her eyes darted about the room searching everyone’s faces in quick succession. Then her gaze hopped to the monitor and back to me.
“How are you feeling?”
“Like I’ve been waiting all night long to see you.” I sounded a little desperate, but she didn’t seem to mind.
“Your fever’s down,” she said as she gestured with her chin toward the monitor.
I didn’t look. I was too busy searching her face. And when Larry and Pops shuffled their feet and muttered something about going to look for coffee, I didn’t so much as glance their way. My eyes were only for her as I grabbed her hand and tugged her closer.
“You’re supposed to be resting,” she admonished me.
“Hush,” I said. “I’ve got something to say to you.”
She arched her brow. “Yeah? What?”
Good question. I didn’t know what I was going to say, either. But then the words came out. Easy, natural, and so perfect, I couldn’t believe I’d held them back so long.
“I love you. I’m an idiot. I should have told you a long time ago. I love you. Marry me. Have babies with me. Be with me forever.”
She blinked, and I saw the sheen of tears. “You don’t have to say that just because I did.”
“I’m saying it because I mean it. Because you’re the bravest woman I’ve ever met and I love you. You make me stronger. You make me think. And you’re here for me when I need you.”
“Always,” she whispered. “Where else would I be?”
Well, that was a question. I waggled my eyebrows. “What do you say about climbing into this bed with me?”
She laughed. “I’d say I just got promoted and I’m not going to risk getting fired ten minutes later.”
“What?”
“Mrs. Sargent got suspended.” The glee in her voice was unmistakable. “I thought they were going to chew me out for being so blunt with a patient earlier, but they’d been watching her pretty closely. And while it’s never okay to tell off a patient, they’ve seen that Mrs. Vader has been destroying the nurses underneath her. So…” She was grinning now. “I’m taking over her position on an interim basis. And if I do well—”
“Which you will.”
“Then I’ve got my pick of jobs. I could stay as a head nurse in the wards, or switch down to ER the next time there’s an opening.”
I was so happy for her, I hauled her almost into my bed. She let me kiss her the way I’d been dying to all night, and pretty well melted into my arms. Then finally, wonderfully, she whispered her answer.
“Yes.”
I took me a moment to process her words. And then I had to pull back and stare at her while I questioned my hearing. “That’s your answer, right? It’s not my feverish imagination? You’re going to marry me?”
She smiled, and it was what I’d been waiting all night long to see. “Yes,” she answered. Then, because I was watching her so closely, I knew the exact timing of it. I could say it at the same moment she did. And it was perfect.
“I love you,” we said.
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Chapter One
Connor
“Can we talk about baseball now?”
I said the words with a smile because it was never smart to growl at a journalist, especially one who ran the biggest baseball groupie fan site on the web. Normally, I’d have a sense of humor about this, but I was at the All-Star Game, about to play one of the biggest games of my career. And instead of icing my aching knees, I was sitting in the locker room, giving an interview to an overblown redhead with too much makeup on her puffy, I-partied-hard-last-night face. And if that wasn’t bad enough, she seemed to be only interested in salacious gossip, not the upcoming game. As the catcher for the Indianapolis Bobcats, I was ready to answer all the questions she could come up with about baseball, not the least of which was our very real shot at the World Series this year. But instead, the woman seemed more interested in my personal life.
“Let’s move on to something more fun,” she said.
I made sure my smile was fixed in place and wondered how long I had until my muscles locked in rigor.
“I’m sure you’ve seen this calendar made by your fans.” She held up that hideous piece of stalker pornography and pointed to the title. “My heart beats for Connor Hart.”
Behind her, my older sister Sophia grinned. She was my publicist and the stalker behind the calendar. She’d figured out how much of a money-maker those things were and, knowing I’d refuse to pose for something like that, had hidden in bushes and snuck into my apartment to get the shots.
“I hear it’s already sold over a hundred thousand copies.”
Which meant the number was really more like ten thousand. Even that was ridiculous, but I wasn’t supposed to admit it. I felt embarrassment heat my cheeks, and I shrugged. What was I supposed to say? That my sister would do anything to make money, including pimp me out as a sex symbol. I’d changed my locks the moment I’d found out, but she’d already managed to get enough pictures that, with skilled use of Photoshop, she’d been able to put together that calendar.
“You asleep by the swimming pool, you stripping off your Bobcats jersey, and my personal favorite, you just out of the shower and barely holding on to your towel.” The reporter leaned forward, her eyebrows rising as she tried to get me to dish. “Is it true that you had no idea that these shots were being taken?”
“I had nothing to do with the calendar.” Absolute truth.
“You seem embarrassed.”
Yes. And really pissed off. I owed my sister a lot, but lately, she’d been going too far. Like a million miles too far. I didn’t think it was malicious. She just had a greedy streak, and given the way we’d had to scrimp as children, I really couldn’t blame her.
The journalist held up another picture of me asleep in bed, obviously naked and fully erect under the artfully draped sheets. “I wouldn’t be embarrassed. This is—”
“Photoshop.”
The redheaded reporter giggled like a pre-teen girl. “Maybe. But most guys wouldn’t claim it as fake. Not when you look like this.”
She flipped the page of the calendar. This one showed me in full frontal position, complete with ripped abs and an artfully placed baseball bat and catcher’s mitt.
“When I look in the mirror, I don’t see that.” I saw aging knees, dead eyes, and a lack of interest in anything. Including pleasing any woman with my “bat.” I tried for a bland, almost bored look. Unfortunately, a perverse twist in the female mind often turned it into a challenge. Each one wanted to be the one to crack me, and this reporter was no different.
“So you’re not going to tell me how this was done?” she asked. “My experts say that the bedroom shots might be doctored—”
Duh.
“But not the others. And especially not the one of you walking straight out of the shower.”
“You clearly don’t have good experts,” I said. Then, to lighten the atmosphere—and my temper—I flashed her my trademark “gotcha” wink. She chuckled as she turned to the camera.
“I’m not sure I care if it’s doctored,” she said. “What about you, viewers? Does it matter to you if this is fake or not? Leave your comments…” Blah blah blah.
Further back, my sister gave me a thumbs-up without even looking up from her phone. Sophia was probably checking the true sales figures. Spinning me as a sex symbol meant money, and that was all she cared about. The Bobcats were thrilled, too. Anything to increase ticket sales.
Still, it bothered me that when I told Sophia—as my sister, not my publicist—that the attention made me uncomfortable, she always answered the same way. What did I care if girls were salivating over my Photoshopped abs? If it ensured that I got paid well to play the game I loved, then I should be grateful.
I was grateful. But I was also irritated. Because every picture in the calendar was enhanced. Every single shot was a lie, and that bothered me more than anything. Because every day of the year, she made me feel like a fraud. I had enough fears about my knees, enough doubts when the commentators started calling me “the greatest catcher in the league.” I didn’t need her magnifying those expectations when I wasn’t sure I could deliver.
That was the thing about being a sports star. Expectations had to be met, or the greatest catcher in the league could suddenly become the greatest disappointment. I was already eaten up with guilt for how much I’d failed our younger sister, Cassie. I didn’t want to risk disappointing people in my professional career, too.
But I couldn’t say that aloud. I couldn’t confess my doubts to anyone, because it would shatter the image. So I kept my mouth shut and played baseball…until the day my knees gave out and I couldn’t.
In the meantime, I smiled for the camera and prayed the photographer didn’t catch the panic in my eyes. “Is there anything else you’d like to talk about?” I asked the reporter. “Like baseball?”
“Okay, okay,” she said with a throaty laugh. “I’ll put you out of your misery. Let’s talk about the All-Star Game. This is your third time here. How does it feel to be one of the old-timers?”
I bristled at the way she said ‘old.’ I was only twenty-seven, for God’s sake. Sure my knees felt like they were a hundred and twenty-seven, but that was the problem with being a catcher. “Naturally, it’s an incredible honor,” I said. “And it never gets old.” Had I emphasized that last word too much?
“But come on. It’s no secret that you’re having knee trouble. We all saw you limp off the field last week when you played the Tigers. Are you considering retiring soon?”
Talk about sticking the knife in and twisting. “Did you also happen to notice that I snagged a bad throw from third, then tagged the runner out for a triple play?”
“Very impressive, but—”
Damn straight it was.
“But nothing,” I interrupted. “That play would have taken a toll on anyone’s knees.”
She made a soothing sound, as if I were a grumpy toddler. “Of course, but a catcher’s knees are especially vulnerable.”
So’s your mother. Sure, that was a childish retort, but damn it, what other industry required a man to defend the health of his body parts? At twenty-seven?
“My doctors have declared that my knees are in tip-top shape—” They’d actually said tip-top shape considering my age and occupation. “And I couldn’t be more excited about being here.” Now that was a bold-faced lie. I hated dealing with reporters. And as for the All-Star Game, well the truth was that my knees could have used the rest. I didn’t know if they were going to make it to the end of the season, much less the pennant and the World Series. And for the first time in my career, that thought wasn’t a pie-in-the-sky dream.
The Bobcats had a real chance of going all the way this year. The pieces were in place. And if no one got hurt or stupid, it was a real possibility. We really could do it. Assuming my knees didn’t crap out. Or my very
young teammates didn’t flake out. Speaking of which, where was our quick-as-lightning shortstop Jake, along with my cousin Ellie? They were supposed to have been here a half hour ago to take some of the media spotlight off of me.
Most guys loved it when they got press. Me? I hated every bit of it. It always felt like I was either supporting a lie—Oh yes, I love being a sex symbol—or creating a lie—I’m fit, I’m healthy, and my knees will last forever.
And speaking of uncomfortable problems, here came another one. Gia Kubic slipped into the room. She was the Bobcats’ perky publicist and the epitome of the awkwardness that defined my life.
My sister hated Gia. You’d think that since the two women had the same goal—making me look good—that they’d work well together. Nope. I wasn’t sure if Sophia was simply territorial or if she hated that I’d kissed Gia almost two years ago on New Year’s Eve, but she definitely had it in for Gia. In my defense, I didn’t realize Gia was a Bobcats employee. I thought she was our host’s neighbor. Either way, it wasn’t strictly against the rules, but it wasn’t a good idea, either.
Sophia had started on her “Gia sucks” campaign on January 1. She’d been at the party the night before and had let me know she’d witnessed my lapse in judgment. As nice as the kiss had been, Sophia was right about one thing—Gia did screw with my concentration. So from then on, I’d made it a point to keep myself as far away as possible from her.
And yet here she was, slipping into my interview with an apology on her beautiful face.
Damn it. That meant Jake and Ellie weren’t coming. I gave her a glare, even though I still smiled for the reporter. And I watched as her mouth softened in a depressed sigh. I knew she felt bad. It wasn’t her fault that Jake had bailed. But Gia had promised I wouldn’t be the only player in the spotlight today. And yet, here I was, all alone in front of the camera.
Don’t shoot the messenger.
I said that to myself a lot these days. Along with Play the game. Smile for the camera. And Publicity is a necessary evil.