Once the ambulance came and Cory climbed in with his brother, he was off the hook. The other cops who didn’t know Clay as well and weren’t as starstruck as Murphy were going to ask questions, but they couldn’t do a thing. Clay said once Cory got in the ambulance and left the scene of the accident, the police could no longer arrest him.
The last hour after arriving at the hospital had been like the accident itself: a twisting and turning crash that never seemed to stop. Cops were swarming around him.
“I don’t care who your brother is,” one yelled. “And I don’t give a rip who you are. You should be going to jail.”
This wasn’t the first time someone had yelled in his face. Cory ignored them all. He had mastered that art.
His phone vibrated, so he checked the incoming text. Helene.
I’M OUT FRONT. WHERE ARE YOU?
Cory thought about making a wisecrack, then decided against it. Even he knew when to stop joking around. He stood up and began walking to the front of the building. As he moved through the hallway, he could hear steps approaching quickly. The clean, stark look of the hospital seemed to match Karen’s face as she rushed past him in the hallway.
Cory couldn’t think of anything to say to her as she glared his way and kept walking.
He went on outside to meet Helene, hoping he wouldn’t run across anybody else he recognized. Or who recognized him.
Helene smoked a cigarette the way she did everything else, sucking the life out of it with no time to waste and then tossing the butt onto the curb and forgetting about it until she lit up again. Cory hated the ugly habit but knew she hated some of his habits even more.
“I can’t watch over you 24/7,” she began without even a how are you doing or glad to see you’re okay. “With the new collective bargaining agreement in effect, you’re gonna be dealing with more discipline from the league on top of whatever the Grizzlies decide.”
“You can’t smoke here.”
“Watch me.”
They were in the entrance of the hospital, and Cory glanced at the sliding glass doors leading to the dark night outside. A part of him wanted to dart through them and head back into the shadows. Not just a part of him, but every inch of him.
“What do I need to do?” he asked his agent.
“Pray your brother can swing a suspended sentence. And try, try, to stay out of trouble while I cover your butt.”
He knew that when Helene told him to pray, things were bad. Very, very bad.
“Clay already bailed me out,” Cory admitted.
“How?”
“He knew the county cop. A young guy. Clay said things were fine—that he needed medical attention. He told me to just shut up and act quiet. I went with him in the ambulance.”
Helene knew how lucky Cory was at times. This wasn’t the first story of this kind he’d told her. She was probably going to say as much when they heard the sound of a group of people coming toward them. A bunch of kids in faded red T-shirts with Bulldogs printed across the front were walking up the sidewalk like little possessed dwarves haunting his nightmares. A couple of mothers were following them as they all marched into the hospital.
“Oh, man. The kids are here.”
“Who are they?”
“My brother’s baseball team.”
Helene let out an incredulous moan as the group converged in an animated circle nearby. “Your brother is the kids’ baseball coach? Next time why don’t you just shoot Bambi?”
Then yesterday walked in with the kids and glanced over in Cory’s direction.
For a moment, he couldn’t move or do anything as he stared at her.
Emma Hargrove stood there looking a bit shocked herself, staring at him as the kids ran around her. She crossed her arms and suddenly appeared uncomfortable, like she was freezing in her short-sleeved shirt even though it was still warm outside.
She looks the same as that young girl I left ten years ago.
Helene smiled as she took a drag from the cigarette.
“Uh oh,” she said to Cory in a hushed voice. “There’s a story here.”
Not just one story, Helene. A whole book of them.
Cory was about to act when a couple of obvious newshounds sniffed their way into the hospital and spotted him standing there.
“There he is,” one of the reporters said.
“Cory Brand,” another announced to the hospital and the rest of the world.
Like all paparazzi and reporters, the couple suddenly mutated like a pack of zombies. Yet Cory almost welcomed them, since it ended whatever moment was about to happen between Emma and him.
Helene dropped her cigarette and prepared for battle. “Game face, Cory.”
He could say a lot about her, but Helene Landy knew how to sweet-talk strangers and how to work a hungry crowd. The reporters seemed to scurry toward them from all directions as Helene fronted Cory with a smile and a sharp look. Nobody in the entrance to the hospital would doubt that this woman would plant her heel in your foot if you didn’t watch yourself.
“Good evening, folks. I’m Helene Landy—”
Which meant nothing; they were here to see the ball player with the bandage on his forehead.
“Cory Brand. Did you sustain any injuries?”
“Cory, what happened?”
The reporters were elbowing to get a quote and a sound bite, but Helene remained on guard, trying to shield him as he stepped up beside her. He knew the routine. Running away or not saying a word only made things worse.
“As I was saying,” Helene said in a commanding voice, “Cory Brand is happy to report that, other than bumps and bruises, he is just fine—”
One of the more aggressive reporters, a blonde-haired woman obviously not impressed with Cory or his agent, barked out, “Cory. How’s your brother?”
“He’s, uh, okay.”
“Clay Brand is resting comfortably, and while sustaining other injuries—”
“What injuries exactly?” Ms. Barbie-Doing-Barbara-Walters demanded.
“Cory, have you been suspended by the Grizzlies?” a wrinkled-faced journalist asked.
“Was alcohol involved in the accident, Cory?” asked another plain-faced, suspicious stranger holding a recorder.
Cory wanted to take the mini-recorder and jam it down the guy’s throat.
Helene put a hand on his arm and held it firmly as she continued to talk. “A tractor was involved in the accident,” she said, elevating the mood and defusing the intensity. “And Mr. Brand, out of love for his brother, has offered to stay in Okmulgee and take his brother’s place as coach of the local kids’ baseball team.”
Say what?
Cory looked at her with a disbelieving glance, just like the rest of them. There was laughter and some levity now as the pack of reporters picked up on this latest news.
“Cory Brand’s coaching kids’ baseball?” the blonde asked.
Nobody seemed to be buying it.
“That’s one lucky team,” the older reporter said.
“Do the parents know their kids are getting Cory Brand as their coach?” Mr. Don’t-Drive-Drunk roving reporter asked.
Cory had no idea what to say. First Helene got him roped into taking some twelve-step program, and now he was coaching Little League?
Next I’m going to be working in a soup kitchen and sewing clothes for the homeless.
“Does this mean you’re moving to Okmulgee?” another journalist asked.
The others were scrambling, trying to get more details and sending others off to try to interview more people for this big story in sports.
The questions began to assault them, and Cory couldn’t answer a single one because he had enough questions of his own.
“Mr. Brand’s had a long day, guys,�
�� Helene said, waving the white flag with her hand. “We’ll release another statement tomorrow when he attends his first practice with the Bulldogs. Thank you very much.”
I’ve gone from batting cleanup with the Grizzlies to chasing ten-year-olds on the Bulldogs. Wonderful.
Helene tugged at him to follow her back into the hospital. He gave his routine smile even as more questions came.
“Is the Bulldog venue big enough to handle the anticipated crowds?”
That was a good question, but he didn’t have the answer. The lights of the cameras went off as reporters and photographers knew this was their last opportunity to capture a moment.
Out of the entryway to the hospital and standing alone in the hallway where they could still be seen, Cory looked happy and calm on the surface, but inside he wanted to tear into his agent.
“You’re way out of line this time,” he said.
“No, you are. And I’m fixing it.” Helene raised her eyebrows and grinned as she glanced at the crowd. “Man, I’m good.”
“I’m not doing it.”
“Oh, that ship has sailed. It’s online by now. Next conversation.”
Cory glanced down the hallway leading to the room where Clay lay.
“Go see your poor brother one more time before I take you to your new home sweet home.”
Before he could tell her no or ask her another question, Helene was moving, on her way to fix things. That was her job.
He headed inside to see his brother. Not that he particularly wanted to, but he knew that was the only place he could go right now.
“It’s okay, Cory.”
“No. I’m not—I don’t know.”
“It’s fine. We’re all alone.”
“I know. It’s just—”
“Just what?”
“I’m just not sure.”
“Don’t tell me you’re afraid.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Then what are you saying?”
“It’s just—I don’t know.”
“Cory Brand.”
“What?”
“Why are you the one being shy?”
“I’m not being shy. You know—you know how I—Emma, you know.”
“I know. So come here.”
“I just—”
“Suddenly you want to be a gentleman after we’ve known each other four years?”
“Don’t make fun of me.”
“Then what is it?”
“I just—”
“You already said that.”
“I don’t want you to feel like this has to happen.”
“I want this to happen. Are you saying you don’t?”
“Em—”
“Well …?”
“You make me—I can’t stop—all I have ever—you just don’t get it—”
“Cory? Just hush and come over here.”
Chapter Ten
Brushback
Some things get buried not because they’re too painful to remember but because they’re too precious to forget.
Emma Hargrove had discovered this the hard way.
She sat quietly in the shadows in her truck, breathing in and out and trying to get control of her emotions. That face from the past was the last thing she’d expected to see as she walked into the hospital with the Bulldogs. With Tyler. And while the reporters had thankfully broken up a possible reunion, Emma still had excused herself to go to the truck and freak out.
She wasn’t sad or happy or angry or shocked. Those emotions had withered up in the dry heat of exasperation long ago. Cory had left this town and everybody in it for bigger and better things. And Emma had moved on and gotten over him.
So why am I hiding out here?
She couldn’t leave because she still needed to take Tyler back home. They had all come to see Coach Clay, but Emma knew she wouldn’t be going into that room. Each question churning in her mind gave way to a dozen more.
What was Cory doing in the car? Is he going to be in trouble? Is he staying around here? What does that mean for them? What does it mean for Ty?
She wanted to take Tyler out of the hospital and make sure he stayed fifty miles away from Cory. She wanted her son to stop loving Little League and get into science projects. She wanted him to stop growing and stop being so stinking cute and charming.
She wanted him to stop being a walking and talking picture of his father.
These fears deep inside of her had drifted away after she met and fell in love with James. But then she lost him. They lost him. Baseball took Cory, and a war took James. Now it was just Emma and Tyler, with the help of the good people of this town who had welcomed them back.
We’re doing fine on our own because God’s taking care of us.
But if she really believed that, then what was she doing hiding out in the parking lot, afraid of seeing Mr. Fireworks himself back in there, afraid of hearing him ask about his son, afraid of all the awful things that could happen? Cory had never bothered keeping in touch, never asked about Tyler … but what if he suddenly woke up and wanted his son in his life?
I lost James. I can’t lose Tyler, too. I won’t.
Cory had made his choice long ago, when neither of them realized the consequences of choices like that. He had gone on his journey and she on hers. And whatever might have been and could have been between the two of them, that was long gone.
Yet Tyler was here, and he was more beautiful than she could have ever imagined. Out of heartache and mistakes came a blessed baby who was growing up to be a fine young man.
Lord, don’t take him away too. Please, God, don’t let anything happen to him. To us.
The room was silent as Cory opened the door and peeked inside. He hoped that Clay would be the only one there, now that the little monsters on the Bulldogs team appeared to have left the premises. But he could see Karen standing there by Clay’s bed.
“Sorry to interrupt. I just—”
Karen walked over toward him, her face registering a lot more than simple disappointment or anger. Her stern jaw and expressionless eyes clenched the fury just beneath the surface.
“He’s awake,” she said tersely. “Concussion. Broken arm. Broken ribs.”
All because of you, big brother. All because of you.
“Clay wants two minutes, and then I want you to leave.”
It wasn’t a request or even a demand. The statement came across as a threat.
Cory could hear her steps as she left the room and walked off down the hall. He went up to the bed rail and felt a bit like the tractor they’d struck. Seeing Clay there, in this bed, all bandaged up and aching, made him want to throw up. To say he was sorry wouldn’t even begin to express what he felt.
“Hey.” Cory’s voice came out soft and weak.
And even though Clay was the one resting in bed in a hospital gown, looking like a fighter who’d lost in the ring, his eyes seemed to stare at Cory in pity.
“So do you usually try to get soused before sunset? Bit early in the day for a DUI.”
“I don’t know what to say. I’m so—”
“So don’t. Don’t even try.”
Cory gripped the rail on the bed and wished he could just squeeze this messy picture away.
“I did what I could to help you legally,” Clay said in a matter-of-fact way. “You’re lucky Murph was the one who came out. God forbid it was Pajersky. You’d be in a lot worse trouble then.”
“Yeah. Never thought my kid brother would be bailing me out.”
“I didn’t bail you out. I vouched for you. You still have to … don’t be skipping town okay …?”
It probably took Clay all the energy he had to say those words to Cory but not to tell his brother how h
e really felt. Cory watched his brother drift off to sleep, succumbing to the sedatives he’d been given.
He looked around this room and knew it would forever be one of those ugly snapshots he carried around with him. A photo album of shame, courtesy of the great Cory Brand.
Cory sits in the shadows of the barn with the night purring around him, feeling like a Roman candle with endless amounts of fiery shells to blow off.
He’d always known this moment would come. And always dreaded it.
All he can think about is Emma.
Should he take his dad’s truck and go tell her? He’s been wondering that since the call came around eight. Some guy named Stan from the Denver Grizzlies “expressing his interest” in Cory. Arranging a meeting to talk about the upcoming draft.
Cory doesn’t know what he’s going to do when he graduates high school.
Another kid—a better kid—might be sitting in this barn praying. But Cory is sitting here going through his baseball cards, arranging them, organizing them in a different way. He’s got these cards memorized by now. He knows the names and the faces and the stats of every one.
It’s crazy to think that he might one day be among these guys.
But that’s not the craziest thing.
All he can think of is Emma.
He doesn’t want to leave her. He won’t leave her. But how’s that going to work out? What will he say?
He’s not sure about anything except these cards in his hands. The players and their numbers and their cards.
It’s a simple reality he can focus on. For the moment.
Chapter Eleven
Backstop
The silence in the motel room felt louder than a full stadium screaming his name. For a while Cory drained the remaining juice from his iPod, listening to Kings of Leon, but now he was bored and thirsty. Helene had found this dump and brought him here only to leave him once again. This wasn’t a place meant to spend a lot of time in. There was no place to work out, no main lobby for meeting people, no room service. This was a one-story, off-the-highway motel with bare-bones rooms for people who simply needed a bed and a bathroom. God only knew what usually went on in this small space. Cory certainly didn’t want to try to imagine.
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