It was late and he was tired, and more than that, he was starting to feel something he hated. Something that he tried to outrun but that sometimes caught up to him. It was a feeling like trying to steal a base and then realizing he’d started to slide way too early and there was no way to avoid being tapped out.
Cory turned on his bedroom light, wishing he could forget everything that had happened in the last twenty-four hours. Yet thoughts crept in like moonlight into the dark room. He found his noise-canceling headphones underneath a pile of clothes on the floor and slipped them on, hoping the rock music from his iPod could cancel out the memories as well. He found something loud and upbeat, meant to ruin this melancholy moment. He was Cory Brand, and he didn’t have time to mope around thinking about yesterday.
Tomorrow was already here, and he had a new chance to step up to the plate and hit the ball out as far as he could. Few people understood it like he did and lived it out like he did.
As he closed his eyes he pictured Emma’s sweet smile.
Don’t.
He hated thinking of her. Thinking of Emma reminded him of all the things left unfinished. Like a game with only six innings. Like striking out with only one strike on the count. That story hadn’t been finished, yet it was over. It was over and done and everybody had moved on, especially him.
So why are you thinking of her?
It was just because Clay’s silly little face had come out of nowhere and surprised him. No, more than that—Clay and his surprise had gotten the best of him. So now he was feeling guilty and letting his guard down. Normally if he felt like this he’d grab a bottle and head out to a gentlemen’s club. To forget. To have some fun and to enjoy himself.
He liked enjoying himself, and having Clay back wasn’t very enjoyable.
After searching for a few minutes, Cory found half a fifth of rum in his closet and decided he deserved it after the day he’d had. Rum wasn’t his favorite, but it would do.
The music and the alcohol helped. But he knew sleep was going to be an enemy tonight. He’d need the rest of this bottle in order to find slumberland and forget.
“Don’t go believin’ in something that’s never gonna happen.”
The words don’t surprise Cory. He just doesn’t realize they’ll never go away.
His father drives the beat-up truck with Cory on the other side and Clay in the middle. As usual, Clay is ignored, which is part of Cory’s plan. The less attention Dad pays to Clay, the better. Dad smells like cheap cigarettes and cheaper beer. If a cop pulled them over, he would definitely get arrested, but they’re in the middle of the country, and nobody’s going to pull anybody over.
“A dream’s just that—a dream. Something you do when you’re sleeping. Keep it at that.”
Cory doesn’t say anything. They’re coming back from a game where Cory was the hero. Dad only showed up after the game was over. He obviously heard about Cory’s success—hence the pep talk.
“Life’s gonna come and crush you,” Dad tells him. “You mark my words.”
Cory stares out into the dark countryside and marks the words loud and clear.
He grips the armrest just like he might grip a bat.
Deep down inside, he answers back to his father.
I hear you, and I’m going to prove that I’m different.
“You hear me, ’cause I don’t want you crying like a baby when your knee goes out or when you realize you’re not that good compared to the really great ones.”
“Yes, sir,” Cory says.
Yeah, I hear you.
But I’m going to prove you wrong.
Dead wrong.
Chapter Six
Called Game
His bare feet brushed against the hardwood floor of the condo. The small hallway opened up to the large open space that comprised both his main living area and the kitchen with an island that served as the only barrier between the two. Cory could see the back of Clay’s head popping out of the blanket, his hair sticking up like a potted plant just starting to grow. It wasn’t even eight o’clock, but Cory had already been up for a while, his mind racing around a room he felt trapped inside.
For the first time since moving to this condo, Cory noticed how bare everything looked. The walls, the counters, the tables. There were decorative pieces here and there that an interior decorator had placed when he first moved in. But there were no pictures, either hanging or framed and standing on the tables. There were no books or magazines anywhere. The last book Cory had tried to read was a horror novel by a guy named Dennis Shore, but he’d only gotten halfway through. This condo didn’t looked lived in; it was just a pretty shell.
As the cupboard door squeaked in a way he’d never noticed before, Cory grabbed a glass and carefully put it on the counter. He glanced back at his brother, still snoozing away.
Probably best sleep of his life, now that the ball and chain isn’t anywhere around.
He opened the almost-empty freezer and found the bottle of vodka. As he opened it and began to pour, the bottle seemed to have a mind of its own and clanked down hard against the glass. Cory tore off a silent curse as he stood there, like some grade-school kid caught in his father’s liquor cabinet. Clay didn’t move.
Cory had forgotten how Clay could sleep through anything. How both of them could, in fact. You grew used to sleeping through noises and bangs in the night when you had a lush for a father.
He took a sip of vodka and exhaled. Some guys needed to sip their morning cup of coffee or light up a nasty cigarette to get their morning fix. This was what he needed. It hadn’t always been like this, and he was sure it wouldn’t always be. It was what he needed now, in this season of his life. Nobody, including Clay, would necessarily understand. That was why he didn’t want his brother noticing. It wasn’t his business, and really, it was no big deal.
The sound of birds outside soothed him. It looked like it was going to be another hot day, and they had another afternoon game scheduled. He began thinking about his knee and about taking something for it when a flurry of sounds interrupted the peaceful moment. First came the pounding knocks, then a key fit into the lock, and the front door banged open.
Even before hearing the tip-tap of expensive heels, Cory knew who was bursting through his doorway at this time of the morning. Helene strolled past the head suddenly sticking up on the couch and went straight to Cory.
All business, all the time. That was Helene Landy.
Cory set his glass down on the island but didn’t have time to do anything with the bottle behind him. As usual, Helene looked as if she’d been up for several hours, her hair perfectly in place, her business suit tailored just right around her figure.
“You’re on an eight-week suspension,” she said as she picked up the glass and continued striding past him.
“Good morning to you, too,” Cory said.
For a moment Helene glanced at the couch; then she continued on toward the dining room table, obviously not interested in the half-clothed figure now sitting up. It could have been a half-naked woman or half-alive corpse, yet Helene would still be getting down to business. She pulled the laptop from her briefcase and opened it on the table, then waved Cory over like he was a puppy getting ready to start potty training.
The glass stood next to her computer like a dog treat. If Cory had a tail, it would probably be wagging.
“Come on,” Helene said. “I have something interesting for you to watch.”
Cory didn’t think it was going to be interesting. He didn’t even think he wanted to see it.
Helene clicked something on the computer screen and then moved out of the way so he could see the monitor. It was a YouTube video that showed him yelling and kicking the Gatorade cooler and elbowing the poor ten-year-old kid in the nose.
That looks worse than it did yesterda
y.
“Cory Brand injures batboy,” Helene said as if reading a jury’s verdict. “Almost one million hits. Already.”
Over by the couch, Clay quickly slid into his jeans with an uncomfortable look. Cory would make a formal introduction in a moment. For now he watched the video, wanting to shut it off but unable to keep his eyes off it.
“It was an accident,” he said. Then, as Clay began to strip his makeshift bed on the couch, Cory said in a quieter voice, “Can we do this later?”
He walked back toward the kitchen.
“Hold on just a sec.” Helene typed something else and brought up another video. “Cory Brand boozing it up in Vegas. 364,902 hits.”
Cory let out a loud laugh. Someone had shown him that video, which he had laughed about at the time. He still didn’t exactly know when the Vegas video was filmed, or who filmed it, but he knew it was in the off-season when he was blowing off some steam. So what? People did it all the time.
I was really bombed there.
“Jon Stewart thinks I should move in with Roethlisberger and start a reality TV show,” Cory joked.
He said it to Helene, but the statement was really directed more at his brother. Clay was folding a blanket like the good little boy he’d always been, but Cory knew he was listening to every word.
Helene pulled up another video and just studied the screen. “Cory Brand drunk at a strip club. 217,408 hits. You’re a disaster.”
“I’m a career .327 hitter.”
Nobody was laughing at his attempt at humor. Clay began to walk over toward them, since Helene wasn’t finished.
“Cory’s DUI arrest caught on tape. Over one million hits.”
“Who doesn’t want to be on Cops?”
Helene was still looking for more, but Cory had seen enough.
“Hey, when you look at it all at once like that, of course it looks bad. But I’m sure you’ll find a lot of videos where I’m sober and doing something good.”
The computer snapped shut, and Helene picked it up. She wasn’t trying to shame him. Helene didn’t operate like that, not with Cory. She was probably just trying to show him what she was dealing with. She looked like she was already negotiating, trying to figure out the next move they should make.
“You still have the condo in Miami?” Helene asked.
What’s that have to do with anything? Is that where I need to spend my suspension?
“Yeah, but did I tell you I popped the water bed?” Cory glanced at Clay the way one frat boy might look at another. “Floor’s a little warped now.”
Clay gave him that adult look, the look that Cory hated, the kind that most adults seemed to inherit from their self-righteous and fun-bashing parents. The look that said Shame on you.
Helene slipped the computer into her bag and checked her phone for a moment, answering a text or an email. Cory introduced Clay, but she wasn’t extremely interested. She found something in her bag and gave it to Cory. It was a boarding pass.
“Here’s what you’re going to do. You’ll fly to Tulsa with your brother and make nice with the kid in Okmulgee while you’re there.”
This wasn’t a round of brainstorming here. Helene spoke to him like a mother to her son.
“Okmulgee? No.”
She gave her polite but bullheaded smile. “Okmulgee, yes. We’ll arrange a very public apology to the kid—”
“The kid has a name,” Clay said with a bit of an edge in his voice. “It’s Carlos.”
Helene paused for a moment, the annoyed look filling her face, then stepped away while she continued to talk to Cory and ignore Clay.
“Well, whoever he is, he’s getting a bag of goodies from the Grizzlies and a photo op with a celebrity. Then you can go chill on the beach for eight weeks.”
She still doesn’t know that’s my nephew she’s talking about.
He was about to argue with her, telling her there was no way he was going back home, not now. He’d promised himself he was never going back there.
“One other thing,” Helene said. “The Grizzlies want proof you’re attending a twelve-step program.”
“Twelve-step?”
This was unbelievable.
He accidentally hit a kid in the nose. It wasn’t like he ran over the kid with his car while intoxicated.
The kid has a name.
“The team wants you out of sight until you’ve completed eight weeks. So you do the press conference, then go to Miami and find some kind of program. A low-profile sort of thing.”
Then what? There has to be a then, right?
He waited. Helene wasn’t going to tell him anything else. There wasn’t any but this time.
Cory sighed as she began walking toward the door. He wanted to ask her about an appeal process, and whether he could talk to the Grizzlies owner, and maybe a hundred other questions. But he knew she was done for the day.
“Oh, and Cory?”
Well, maybe not.
“You’re writing a ten-thousand-dollar check to Young Life for the homer you screwed up.”
“What?” Cory slumped onto the nearest couch and moaned in a way that sounded like he was dying.
“I promise you,” Helene said, “you won’t feel a thing.”
The door slammed shut, and she was gone as quickly as she had come.
For a moment Cory just sat there, staring at the ceiling and wishing he didn’t feel anything. Clay didn’t speak.
There really wasn’t anything more to say.
“That smile is dangerous,” a tenth-grade Emma teases.
“I know. It’s like a James Bond kind of smile.”
“No way.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re the farthest thing in the world from James Bond.”
“But you just said—”
“That your smile is dangerous.”
“I don’t get—”
“James Bond is cocky.”
“So I finally met a girl who doesn’t think I’m cocky.”
“Deep down, there’s someone else. Not a superhero.”
“A baseball player?”
“No. An actor. A comedian. Used to stepping up to the stage and making everyone applaud and laugh. But I’ve seen you when the lights shut off and there’s no one else around.”
“Uh oh. Emma Johnson knows me.”
“I think I do. And that’s what scares me. Because I’m falling for that guy. The one no one else knows.”
Chapter Seven
Fly Ball
“This is a bad idea.”
Clay knew Karen would say that because she didn’t want Cory near their family. She didn’t want him anywhere remotely close to the state of Oklahoma, much less Okmulgee.
“It’s not like I bought him the ticket,” Clay said. “I thought you’d be happy.”
“I’ll be happy when Cory stops thinking of himself and cools his temper.”
“Isn’t that the point of recovery? Karen—”
“Now isn’t a good time.”
“A good time for what?” His cell phone was almost out of juice; he had to wrap this up quickly. “It’s not like he’s moving in with us.”
“I know people like Cory.”
“He’s my brother.”
“And you’re my husband, who has better things to do than having to go around cleaning up for him.”
“That’s unfair.”
Their flight was a couple of hours from leaving the Denver airport. Cory had wandered off somewhere, saying he might not see Clay until they landed. “First class” was all Cory had said in an amused, we’re-taking-an-adventure sort of way.
“So where is he going to stay? And what’s he going to do?”
“His
agent is taking care of it. You should see this lady. She’s something else.”
“Cory’s something else.”
“This might be the change we’ve been praying for.”
“Recovery doesn’t happen overnight,” Karen said.
Clay couldn’t say anything to her. He understood. He also knew that this wasn’t Cory’s decision, but his determined agent’s. An agent trying anything she could to make the publicity nightmare go away.
Karen didn’t need to know all of that. Clay just wanted her to know where he was and what was happening with his brother.
“How’s Carlos doing?”
“He’s still talking about the big game,” Karen said, her defensiveness dialed down.
“He’s going to love having Uncle Cory in town.”
“As long as his uncle doesn’t run over him with a truck.”
“Wow.”
“Well, it’s true.”
“This is a side of you I haven’t seen,” Clay admitted. “Mama Bear protecting her new cub.”
“Do you blame me?”
“No. I mean—I like this side of you. It’s kinda sexy.”
“Oh, stop. See—you’ve been around your brother twenty-four hours, and you’re already starting to talk like him.”
Clay laughed. “I just want us to be a family.”
“You have a family.”
“I want Cory to be a part of it. To maybe start from square one, like Carlos is doing.”
“Cory has a long way to go to be as loving and mature as that beautiful ten-year-old boy.”
“Can I tell him you said that?”
“Please,” Karen said. “And tell him I’m saving a nice spot for him to sleep. In the barn.”
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