The Catch

by K. Bromberg

  “You’re welcome.” He stares at me for a beat before looking back to the wall, hesitating to say the words I can tell are on his lips. “I called Finn earlier.”

  “Okay.” I draw the word out. He always calls Finn. What’s the big deal?

  “I asked him to get me a second shot at the World Series broadcast.”

  “You what?” Startled, I turn to look at him, but he keeps staring at the picture in front of us. I squeeze his fingers to let him know I understand how scary this is for him. How he’s opening himself up to everything he fears . . . and doing so publicly.

  “I’m proud of you, Easton.”

  “Men are on first and third,” Easton murmurs to himself as he stares out the window to the stadium below. The ballpark’s lights brighten up the sky, much like how the Aces being in the playoffs has brought the city to life.

  I glance at the TV, see that Easton is right, and know that Tino is the fastest on the team. One long fly ball, and he can score to give the Aces the lead in this scoreless game.

  “We can still go down and watch the game, you know,” I say, checking my cell to make sure I have no texts from the team. After working nonstop for the past eight days, I decided to let Scott take the lead tonight so I could get a breather before what is looking more and more like the Aces going to the World Series.

  “I know, but I need to get this nailed down,” he says as he leaves the window and sits down at the table cluttered with papers. Papers that Finn was able to get from Fox in advance of the broadcast so Easton could learn them. The sponsorship information. The rehearsed commentary. Anything that needs to be read off a teleprompter. “I was just taking a break. My eyes burn from looking at this for so long.”

  He glances over to the TV as JP strikes out, and I know he would give anything to be playing right now. To be a part of his old team and clinching the National League title with them.

  And maybe that’s why he doesn’t want to be at the game. It’s a hard enough pill to swallow in general, but when the sights and smells surround you, it makes your reality tougher to accept.

  “You and Helen have been working on this nonstop all week. I know you’ve got it pretty well covered, but if you want to go over it one more time, I’d be more than happy to help.”

  He cocks his head to the side and just stares at me. He looks tired—his eyes are bloodshot, his hair is all over the place, his favorite shirt has seen better days—but I’m so proud of him for how hard he is working. For studying his ass off and conquering his demons.

  “What?” I ask, unable to read what he’s saying in his look.

  “What if I couldn’t play ball anymore?”

  Well, that’s not what I was expecting, so it takes me a few seconds to clear the surprised look from my face and answer him. “Then you can’t play baseball anymore.”

  “Would that bug you if I couldn’t?”

  “What kind of question is that?” Where is he going with this?

  “You’re obviously attracted to that side of me—the physical, the competitive, the everything about the game—so if I wasn’t playing anymore, would that change things between us?”

  I meet his eyes and my heart breaks for the uncertainty I see in them. “Easton, I love you for you. Sure all of those things are a part of you, but to me, there is so much more that makes up the measure of a man. More than anything, I’d be sad watching you say goodbye to something you love. But would I not want you anymore?” I ask as I stand and walk around the table, and set my hips against its edge so I can look at him. “Not a chance in hell.”

  That shy smile slides on his face and lights up his eyes as they roam down the length of my body. My thin camisole tank doesn’t hide much and my little pajama shorts don’t cover much more.

  “Thank you for believing in me.”

  “There’s no thanking needed,” I say as he looks up from where my nipples are hard beneath my top and wets his bottom lip. “Do you want to go over these again?” I ask, trying to distract him—half-heartedly—from what the look in his eyes says he really wants.

  “Did I ever tell you I always had a thing for teachers?” he asks as he pulls his shirt over his head, careful of his shoulder, and tosses it to the side.

  “You did, did you?”

  “Oh yeah. Their hair pulled back all prim and proper. The pencil skirts and buttoned-up blouses I’d stare at and imagine what was underneath should one of those buttons pop open when she was bending over the desk in front of me.”

  “Hot for teacher, huh?”

  “Your hair is pulled up,” he murmurs as he uses his good arm to slide my ass toward him so I’m now perched on the desk directly in front of him. “And I could pretend that your tank top has buttons on it.”

  “You could, could you?” My laugh fills the room above the muted roar of the crowd floating up to our condo from down below.

  “Definitely.”

  “But I’m not wearing a skirt.”

  “Once I take it off you, does it really matter what you were wearing?”

  “Good point.” I follow the slow, sexy slide of his hands from my knees up the length of my thighs. “But I haven’t taught you anything.”

  It’s his turn to chuckle. “No worries there, I think I’ll let you school me, right now.”

  I lean forward and press my lips to his, encouraging his fingers to find their way beneath my shorts.

  We make love.

  By the lights of the stadium he’s played under his entire career.

  With the roar of the crowd reminding him of the game he should be playing.

  Under the spotlight he’s lived his whole life.

  We create something that’s uniquely ours.

  Our own magic.

  Boseman’s words ring in my ears. “Probationary contract, my ass. The guys respect you. Your work speaks for itself. You’re a great fit for the club. I’ll have the team contract for next season drawn up by tomorrow morning. That is if you still want the job with the Aces after the rigmarole bullshit Tillman put you through.”

  I got the contract.

  I want to scream it down the tunnels. Let it bounce off the concrete walls and echo all the way to my dad so he knows I did it. I gave him his last wish. Doc Dalton has officially been contracted by every single clubhouse in the major leagues.

  My heart is racing and my pulse pounds in my ears as I jog down the halls, sneakers squeaking over the concrete, to my office. It’s early yet and we’re not scheduled to board our flight to Los Angeles for game one of the World Series until tomorrow morning. So that means a day off.

  A day with Easton. My calm amidst this madness.

  And more importantly, it means I have time to go to my dad’s and tell him the good news, face to face.

  High on cloud nine, I say hi to a couple guys who’ve come in to work out or work with a coach on something giving them trouble—their swing, their backhand, you name it—but am oblivious to most everything as one of the weights that has been on my shoulders for the past, I-don’t-know-how-long-it’s-been is lifted.

  Oblivious that is until I turn a corner and run smack dab into a conversation I shouldn’t be privy to.

  “A Wylder is a Wylder, right? I’ve gotten screwed out of that my whole li—” Santiago stops speaking the minute he sees me.

  Cal snaps his head my way, his face paling as I start to backpedal.

  And when I bump into a wall behind me, I turn despite Cal’s protests and run to the exit.

  I can’t have heard what I just thought I heard.

  It can’t be true.

  There’s no way.

  My hands are trembling and heart is pounding, but this time it has nothing to do with winning the contract. No. It’s because of something I wish I’d never heard.

  “Scout, wait up. It’s not what you think.”

  But I keep jogging until I reach the doors that open to the parking lot. When I shove them open, the bright sunlight blinds me momentarily before I see Easton.
He’s leaning against his truck, preemptively waiting for me to give him good news about the contract. The huge grin on his face slowly slides into concern when he sees me out of breath and a little rattled.

  “Scout? What happened? Are you okay?”

  I struggle with words as the doors push open behind me and Cal emerges.

  “Dad?” Easton takes a few steps forward, eyes swiveling from me to Cal and then back again. “What’s going on?”

  It’s fight or flight time, Scout. Tell him the truth and derail his broadcast or shut your mouth and tell him afterwards.

  What. Would. You. Do. Scout?

  Nothing good ever came from a lie, Scouty-girl. I hear my dad’s voice saying it but there’s Easton in front of me and Cal behind me both waiting for me to answer.

  “Nothing. I’m fine,” I say as I gulp in a breath. “I got the contract.”

  “You did!” He whoops as he pulls me into a hug and squeezes me tightly against him.

  I know Cal is there. Watching. Waiting. But I refuse to look his way.

  I refuse to acknowledge that I lied for him.

  Because I only did it for the sake of his son.

  Someone has to protect him and it sure as hell isn’t going to be Cal.

  Guilt is a mean, nasty bitch.

  Especially when it’s guilt over lying to the man sitting next to you.

  I try to rationalize what I overheard. I attempt to fool myself into thinking I really didn’t hear what they said. I convince myself that I misinterpreted their meaning. And yet, when I add everything up—the various times I’ve seen Santiago, Easton’s nemesis, with Cal, Easton’s father—two plus two is definitely equaling four.

  Then it hits me—Cal’s warning the night Derek came over—when he thanked me for supporting Easton in his physical rehabilitation and whatever else life throws his way.

  Was he telling me the shit was going to hit the fan? Was he warning me?

  I glance over to Easton and he squeezes my knee. If my assumption is true, if Santiago is Easton’s half-brother, it will rock his world, and I can’t let that happen with so much riding on him going into this gig with Fox Sports.

  “Don’t be nervous,” he says as he puts the car in park.

  But I am nervous, just for things completely different than he thinks.

  “I’m not. I just worry I won’t be able to hide my reaction when I see him. What if he looks frail or is not the man I know? I’m afraid he’ll see through me and know how bad he looks.”

  Easton turns my way and looks me straight in the eyes. “First of all, he already knows how bad he is, Scout. Just be you with him. And second, you’re bringing him great news, so that will overshadow everything else that’s worrying you.”

  He leans in and presses a tender kiss to my lips that chases the demons of betrayal away. For now, it warms me all the way through getting to the front door, introducing Easton to Sally, and then preparing myself to see my dad.

  “You’re holding back on me, Sally. I hear voices, and they’re not you talking to yourself.”

  “Such a stubborn cuss,” she murmurs but the warmth in her eyes tells me she loves that he still has the energy to be one.

  “It’s me,” I say, preparing myself to see him before I stride in the room, “and I come bearing gifts.”

  “Gifts, eh?” he asks as he shifts in his chair to face me. He’s much thinner now, gaunt, and his pallor is almost a grayish yellow in color. His eyes have sunken more, but the smile he tries to fight when he sees me is one hundred percent the old Doc Dalton. “Do they pertain to the whiskey and chocolate kind of gifts since Sally here has me eating all kinds of organic shit that tastes like cardboard instead of the crap I really want? Let the dying man eat the good stuff, already,” he says loud enough for Sally to hear.

  Tears well in my eyes as I lean down to hug him. It’s so good to see him. To look into eyes so similar to my own and hear his voice in person. To deal with his ornery comments.

  “No chocolate. No whiskey,” I say as I press a kiss to his forehead and sit down beside him, keeping his hand in mine.

  “I thought I was your favorite,” he teases.

  “You are my favorite. Always will be.” My voice breaks.

  “Don’t you go crying on me, Scouty-girl,” he warns.

  I squeeze his hand. “If I cry it’s because I’m happy to see you so zip it, old man, and let me be happy, will ya?”

  His smile is back as he reaches up and wipes a tear off my cheek. I feel like I’m six years old and crying again because I miss my mom. He always sat beside me on my bed, wiped away my tears, and then told me some silly story until I was giggling and the sadness was overshadowed for a while.

  “It’s good to see you, Daddy,” I whisper.

  “It’s good to see you, Scouty.” I rest my head on his shoulder for a second and just breathe in the moment—the scent of his shampoo, the peace he brings me—thankful Easton let me have a few minutes with my dad before I introduce him.

  It’s so weird to sit here with my dad and feel like he’s so whole and healthy, but know that beneath the surface, his heart is like a ticking time bomb ready to detonate at any moment.

  He clears his throat and disrupts the silence. “Enough of that mushy shit. I want to know what my presents are,” he says and then stops when he homes in on something over my shoulder. “Scout?”

  I turn to see Easton standing there, his frame filling the doorway. He rubs his hands on his jeans and looks at me as if he’s asking if it’s okay to interrupt.

  “Dad, this is Easton Wylder. Easton, this is my father, Doc.”

  “The player,” my dad murmurs quietly as he pulls his hand from mine and sits a little straighter as Easton crosses the distance and extends his hand to him.

  “Such a pleasure to meet you, sir. I’ve heard so much about you from Scout and around the league . . . it’s nice to finally get to shake your hand.”

  My dad eyes Easton’s hand and then squints as he studies him. And for a brief second my nerves rattle around, wondering if this was a big mistake. Bringing home a man to meet my father for the first time under these conditions.

  But I had to. I wanted my dad to meet the man I love.

  My dad slowly extends his hand and shakes Easton’s but doesn’t relent on the scrutiny. “Hello, Easton. Nice to meet you too. I think. Please tell me running off and marrying my daughter is not the gift you come bearing. If that’s the case, I think we should head to the garage where I can show you my safe full of guns.” He plasters the cheesiest grin on his face while Easton’s eyes widen and feet shift. “Big ones.”

  “Will you relax and be nice? He’s not the gift.” I swat at his leg. “I know you’re joking, Dad. He doesn’t. Sit down, Easton, and ignore my father.”

  “There is a safe full of guns though,” my dad says with a wink.

  Easton laughs nervously and takes a seat as I turn back to my dad. “I met with Boseman today.”

  “Poor bastard probably has every lawyer on his hefty payroll scouring that office to cover his ass after everything Tillman did. That’s the problem with baseball these days. Too much corporate bullshit involved when it should be about a man and his love for the game.” He briefly closes his eyes and smiles like he’s remembering something. “No offense, Wylder, but contracts are out of control. No man deserves twenty-one million to play one season. The purity of the game is gone. The simplicity of a father and son”—I knock my knee against his, and he clears his throat—“or daughter, going to a game. The players are becoming soft with pitch counts ruling their playing time. It’s horseshit. Don’t get me started.”

  “You’ve already started.” I laugh. “As you can tell, my dad is a throwback. He thinks business has ruined the sport.”

  “It has,” Easton agrees and by the startle of my dad’s head, surprises him. “The problem is it will never be able to go back to what it was—the game I remember watching as a kid—and that’s a shame.”

 
My dad stares at him for a moment and nods as if he’s judging whether Easton is trying to impress him or if he really means what he’s saying. I know he believes him when he lets the comment go and turns to me. “So? Boseman? What was it about?”

  “He wanted to tell me he’s yanking the probationary contract from us. He said probationary contracts are bullshit and a GM should know whether he wants someone on his team or he doesn’t.” I can’t hide my smile any longer. “We got the contract, Dad. Boseman said he’ll have it drawn up immediately.”

  My dad just stares at me for a moment, jaw clenched and eyes hard, before grabbing me and pulling me into him. He holds on as his body jars with the tears he’s fighting.

  I’m not sure what I expected to happen when I told him the good news, but it definitely wasn’t this—affection.

  After a few moments he leans back and meets my eyes. “Thank you,” he whispers. Two words. They’re only two words but the gratitude and love packed behind them erase the unending stress and anxiety I’ve endured to make this happen.

  “Easton, why don’t you let me show you around outside?” Sally asks from the doorway, saving Easton from feeling like he’s eavesdropping and giving him an out.

  “I’ll be with Sally,” he says giving me a soft smile before leaving.

  My dad and I watch him leave the room, hear the screen door slam shut, and proceed to watch Sally point out things to Easton through the big bay window. Even though there are so many things to say, we sit in silence for a few minutes.

  “I’m proud of you, Scout.” He pauses and keeps looking at the long grass field where Easton is standing. “But you don’t have to sign the contract if you don’t want to.”

  “What?” The word is a shocked whoosh of air as I look to him but he continues staring straight ahead. Confusion and bewilderment riot inside me. “What are you talking about? It’s what you wanted? The cap on your career. Dad, talk to me. Please tell me this wasn’t all for nothing.”

  “Not all for nothing, no. Sometimes accomplishing something is the success itself,” he says, reaching out to grab my hand.