Playing Without Rules: A Baseball Romance

by Rachelle Ayala

  “Both.” Jeanine graced him with a saucy smile. “A girl could get used to waking up like this.”

  “Could have been you, sweetie.” Brock winked and turned to the refrigerator.

  Jeanine speared a piece of pineapple. “I always wait my turn and share. I aced Montessori.”

  Marcia’s eyes bounced back and forth between Brock and Jeanine. Had they made some sort of deal? To let her go first? Why were they flirting in front of her? Her best friend and the man who said he loved her. Yeah, he did, but under the influence of sex. That doesn’t count.

  Shut up, inner voice. Marcia poked her egg and let the yolk bleed. Her stomach ground sour, and the warm, sweet afterglow of the night before evaporated like a well in a sandstorm.

  Through the rest of the meal, Marcia hardly paid attention to Brock and Jeanine’s banter. Instead, she picked up the plates and headed for the sink.

  Behind her, Jeanine said, “Marcia’s always wanted kids. I think she gets a kick out of practicing on her little sister.”

  “Really?” Brock had his feet up on the chair she’d just vacated. “I haven’t seen her with her sister long enough to get that impression.”

  “How about you?” Jeanine asked.

  Marcia closed her eyes and let the hot water cascade over her hands. She was dying to hear his answer, yet, why would he tell Jeanine anything different? Kids were too much work. Besides, he couldn’t trust himself around them. He might turn out like his father.

  “And you?” Brock lobbed the question back at Jeanine. “Somehow I can’t picture you with a bunch of rug rats.”

  Jeanine’s laughter was too forced to be real. “You never know. Even us bad girls gotta settle down. Eggs have expiration dates.”

  “Is that why women are so crazy?” Brock crossed to the sink and massaged Marcia’s tight shoulders. “You don’t have to do the dishes.”

  “It’s the least I can do.” Marcia stumbled for words. He didn’t answer Jeanine’s question. He called children rug rats. He thinks women who want children are nuts.

  Brock put his arms around her and pressed her back against his front. “I can picture us like this someday. I cook and you clean. That’s fair, isn’t it?”

  “More like you want her barefoot and pregnant in your kitchen.” Jeanine placed her empty coffee cup in the suds.

  “I’d rather work on the part that gets her pregnant.” Brock kissed the top of Marcia’s head.

  Yeah, right. Not if you’re always wearing a condom.

  Marcia rinsed out the the last coffee cup and put it in the rack. “I really got to go. Have to help my father get Bianca up. After all, I could use the practice.”

  Chapter Seven

  “What was that all about? Spilling the stuff about children and expiring eggs?” Marcia slipped into the passenger seat of Jeanine’s BMW and pulled the door shut. “I could kill you if I didn’t love you so much.”

  Jeanine flipped her sunglasses over her eyes and reapplied her lipstick. “If I didn’t love you so much, I would have taken that hunk of burning love home with me last night. What were you thinking?”

  “You went along with it when I asked.”

  “Well, duh, of course.” Jeanine started her car. “I wanted to have a private chat with your boy, Brock.”

  “What did you guys talk about?”

  “You. Who else?” She flicked her turn signal and pulled away from the curb. “Don’t worry. I didn’t tell him about Bianca. That’s for you to fess up. But don’t think I’m going to let you off the hook. That man’s in love with you. What happened five years ago is over and done. So he chose baseball over you. So what? He’s back now. Can’t you forgive him?”

  “It’s not that simple.” Marcia rubbed her face with both hands. She hadn’t told Jeanine about Brock’s abusive past. It was something too painful to share with anyone. Of course her parents knew since they’d sheltered him when he had no place to run. They couldn’t help his mother though.

  “Why?” Jeanine’s voice snapped. “People grow up in five years. People mature. If you held everything I did to you in college against me, we’d be clawing each other’s eyes out. He came back. That’s all that’s important. Besides, don’t you think he has a right to know about Bianca?”

  This was the same old argument they’d had ever since Marcia found out she was pregnant. Except now, Brock was in town and Jeanine sympathized with him, unlike in the past when she’d bought Marcia’s side of the story.

  “What did he tell you to make you think I should tell him now?” Marcia’s ears burned at the thought of the two of them discussing her issues. “Why are you two suddenly best buddies?”

  The car swerved across two lanes and Jeanine pulled to a stop. She applied the hand brake and put the car in park. “Because we care about you, and something’s not adding up. You told me Brock broke your heart by choosing baseball over you. That he didn’t want kids. But you haven’t been fair. Not at all. You didn’t give him a chance to change his mind by finding out about Bianca. How could anyone not want her? You tell me?”

  Marcia crossed her arms and stomped her feet. “I don’t want him to feel obligated to change his mind. I don’t want the pity play, okay?”

  “It’s not just about you.” Jeanine gripped Marcia’s arm hard enough that her fingernails dug in. “It’s about Bianca and Brock. The longer you keep them apart, the bigger the blowback when the truth comes out. You can’t hide this forever. It’s common knowledge around town. Someone’s going to spill, so it better be you he hears it from.”

  “He’ll hate me for keeping it from him this long.”

  “So? You told me you wanted him gone. You wanted me to fuck him last night. You wanted me to ruin him for you. Why would you care? You’re not making any sense.”

  “I didn’t really want you to go through with it.” Marcia bit her lips so hard she tasted blood.

  “That’s your problem, Ms. Abnormal Psychology major.” Jeanine’s voice took on a sing-song lilt. “You never say what you mean and the people who love you have to keep reading between the lines. You’re lucky I’m good at interpreting you. ‘Don’t do what Marcia says to do, figure out what she really wants.’ You and Conrad might be chess masters, thinking twenty moves ahead of time, but Brock’s a straight shooter. He takes everything at face value.”

  Of course, Jeanine was right. She’d never wanted Brock to really truly leave. She only told him to leave because she wanted to buy time to figure out how to tell him about her pregnancy. But the dunce left. And he’d agreed to her provision to break all contact.

  A deep sob shuddered from the depths of Marcia’s chest. She covered her eyes and bent at her waist, her shoulders heaving.

  Jeanine rubbed Marcia’s back. “Hey, I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. It’s the way you are. You’re lucky Brock had no intention of sleeping with me either. He looked at it as an opportunity to set you up. See if he could make you jealous.”

  “I’m not upset about that.” Marcia caught her breath and gasped. “It’s just that if you’re right, I might have thrown five years away.”

  “What do you mean?” Jeanine’s hand froze on the back of Marcia’s neck. “What are you talking about?”

  “Brock. Five years ago, I told him to leave.”

  “But … you told me he was the one who wanted to leave.”

  “He didn’t fight to stay. He just accepted it, like he was relieved. He didn’t even care to find out why I was so moody.”

  Jeanine heaved a loud sigh. “Then it’s about time you told him the truth about everything and let him decide. He’s confused, and frankly, so am I. You might see a cocky ballplayer, but last night when I talked to him, he was pretty shell shocked that you wanted me to seduce him. Of course I set him straight, knowing the way you think.”

  Marcia’s palms were sweaty and her eyeballs ached. Five long years. While she changed diapers, he dated other women. While she pined for him, blamed him for breaking her heart, convinced her
self that he was a player who couldn’t be trusted, a man who wanted to live the swinging single life, could it be that he’d suffered like she had?

  Marcia wiped her eyes and looked into her friend’s understanding eyes. “I love Brock. I would never want to hurt him. Please, trust me on this.”

  “I know you do. I didn’t tell him though, but I did let him know he still had a chance.” Jeanine hugged her. “The ball’s in your court. If you love him, try showing it. You’ve been nothing but antagonistic with him. It’s not fair, you know.”

  “I know.” Marcia sniffed into her hands. “It’s not his fault. I just need to know he’d really truly want Bianca before letting him know about her.”

  # # #

  Brock greeted his teammates in the clubhouse. It was still early enough in spring training for friendships to form, before competition for the roster soured every interaction. A few of the pitchers hung around near the towel hamper. They had arrived a week before the positional players to get in extra conditioning and warmup for their arms.

  Brock opened his locker and screwed his eyes shut at the picture he’d placed there on his return. It was a black and white print taken on the day he’d proposed to Marcia, and she’d accepted. Her father had captured that moment, a reminder of when she’d been starry eyed in love—quick to smile, sweet and flirtatious, looking up at him as if the sum total of her happiness resided on his shoulders.

  When had it all gone wrong? He thought she’d be happy to see him again, especially since he had a shot at the hometown team. A quick glance at her ring finger that first night at her bar told him she was still unattached. It was her hostility that shocked him, starting with the bouncers and ending in that snide remark about practicing motherhood on her sister.

  Then there were the not at all subtle hints about wanting children—Jeanine joining in this morning with a point blank statement, Marcia has always wanted kids.

  Which didn’t make sense because if that was her goal, she’d be married and dragging around a couple of toddlers like her friends from the high school cheer squad. Besides, he’d made it plain from day one that he wasn’t father material, and Marcia hadn’t seemed to mind. She never once mentioned children until they started planning the wedding, and even then, it had all been hypothetical, the type of things counselors suggested couples talk about before marriage.

  Damn if he knew what she was up to. Brock stripped out of his street clothes and pulled on his batting practice uniform. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the congregation of pitchers move to his side of the locker room.

  One of the pitchers, a Rattler veteran, put a foot on the bench and extended his hand to shake. “Ryan Hudson. You’d be that third baseman replacing Mountford?”

  “Third base is my position,” Brock replied, not wanting to presume.

  “Mountford’s out on the injury reserve list, so you’re the slugger testing the pitchers today,” Ryan said. “Remember to go easy on us old guys. As for Timmy over there and his ninety-eight mile per hour fastball, you gotta cut him down a few notches.”

  A young Asian pitcher, Timmy Li, sauntered over, wiping his hand through his jet black hair. “One hundred and one. No one’s gotten a hit off me yet.”

  “Still early.” Ryan punched Timmy on the bicep. “You haven’t squared up against Brock the Rock.”

  Timmy narrowed his already slanted eyes. “The bigger the swing, the wider the miss.”

  Brock checked the laces on his cleats. He hated pissing contests, but it was a normal part of being a guy. One-upmanship, constant comparison and puffery.

  Ryan answered for him. “Better hope those L-frames protect you. Brock’s hits have been clocked at over one hundred miles per hour.”

  “See if I’m scared. Why the hell do we need L-frames for?” Timmy sneered. “You Americans are such wusses.”

  Same reason guys needed condoms. For protection. The netted frames blocked the pitchers from getting hit by their own team during batting practice where there was no need to field the ball. Shaped like an L, the cutout allowed the pitcher to throw the ball to home plate.

  “You guys have a word for comebacker in Chinese?” Ryan jeered at the rookie. “Means a line drive right back at you. I’ve had some near misses.”

  “Nothing coming back if he strikes out.” Timmy flipped his head in a dismissive manner. “Sucks that we have to call the pitches.”

  “Coach wants it that way,” Ryan said. “See you out on the field.”

  The rookie pitcher strutted out of the locker room. Brock had heard of him, of course. Recruited right out of high school in Taiwan, Timmy was typical of those hotshot guys who thought life was one straight arrow shot up. Meanwhile, Ryan was an old-timer, a relief pitcher who somehow managed to squeak himself onto the roster each year.

  “So, what’s your story?” Ryan glanced at the picture inside Brock’s locker before he slammed it shut. “Heard you turned down big bucks to come to this hellhole. Bright lights, big city by the bay, World Series Champs, why are you here?”

  “Phoenix’s my hometown.”

  “I reckon there’s a woman involved,” the fair-haired pitcher drawled. “Word of warning. She belongs to Riggins’s son.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Brock squinted at Ryan, his nostrils flaring. How could Marcia belong to another man? Had she been passing the time with the owner’s son or was it something more serious?

  “What I said,” Ryan said with a smirk. “Conrad Riggins has been dating her as long as I’ve been on the team. He doesn’t bother watching the games, but he’s in charge of the stats database. You cozy up to him and he’ll shave a few points off your ERA or raise your batting average.”

  “Wait. What are you saying?” Brock’s ear rattled and the hairs on his arms stiffened. Not just dating Marcia, but fixing the stats? He disliked this guy already. He must have been the douche Marcia was dancing with when he and Jeanine executed the swap in partners.

  Ryan raised his eyebrows and whistled. “That you owe me one. Go easy on me, line out a few times, and knock that asshole Li out of the park.”

  Chapter Eight

  Batting practice had been a slam dunk. Brock had been lenient on Ryan and hard on Timmy, hitting line drives despite Timmy calling the wrong pitches on him. When the coach complained, Timmy shrugged and said his English wasn’t that great.

  Ryan met Brock outside the clubhouse after work. “Ready to head over to the Hot Corner? I know a hot bartender you’d like to meet.”

  Thanks to that photo in his locker and Ryan’s big mouth, the entire squad was teasing him about signing with the Rattlers out of love or desperation. Some wise guy even started a betting pool.

  “I’m actually going to see a friend.” Brock made his excuse. Before he asked Marcia out again, he needed to do some research, and her father might be able to shed some light on his daughter’s moods.

  There was that little thing about Bianca being present, but Marcia would be working tonight and he’d already called ahead and asked Mr. Powers to make sure Bianca was in bed by the time he arrived.

  Carrying a box of pizza and a six pack of beer, he parked his truck at the side of Marcia’s house and knocked on the door.

  Bianca opened the door. “Hi, stranger.”

  Oops. Not good. Marcia must have had her stranger danger lecture with her sister. What could possess Marcia to be so overprotective about the little girl? When Aunt Nanny was alive, their house was hopping with visitors. At least Bianca didn’t seem shy. She graced him with a dimply smile that just about melted his heart.

  Fortunately, Uncle Ron was right behind her. He placed his hand on her shoulder and said, “You need to go back to bed, missy, not answering the door.”

  “But Pappy, I’m not sleepy,” the little girl lisped.

  Her cheeks were pink with a slight sun- or windburn over her light tanned skin, and her sandy brown hair was tousled and tangled.

  “Mar-Mar wants you to go to sleep earlier s
o you won’t be a sleepyhead.” Uncle Ron held the door for Brock.

  “Yum, pizza! I love pizza.” Bianca’s light green eyes brightened, and she tugged Brock’s jeans. “Did you get pepperoni?”

  “Uh, yes, actually I did.” Plain pepperoni was Marcia’s choice too. “Didn’t you have dinner already?”

  “I’m hungry.” Bianca rubbed her tummy and skipped to the kitchen, almost tripping on her nightgown.

  Ron shrugged and gestured helplessly. “The women in this family are very determined, if you haven’t noticed by now.”

  “Ah, I gather. But why is Marcia insisting on keeping me away from your younger daughter?” Brock hated the implications. “I’ll be honest. I feel like a criminal, and you and I both know why she’s suspicious of me.”

  “Let’s get Bianca fed first and we can talk.” Ron clapped his hand on Brock’s shoulder. “I’m not worried about you around either of my daughters.”

  “That’s good to know.” Brock handed the beer to Ron and placed the pizza box on the table. He opened it and pulled out a piece with a load of pepperoni on it for Bianca.

  “Thank you, stranger,” she said, climbing onto the chair while her father placed a juice box in front of her. “Why can’t you have a regular name?”

  She blinked, her little face innocent and sweet.

  “You think my name’s Stranger?” Brock couldn’t help the grin sliding over him. She was rather cute and not at all leery of him. Even though he wasn’t good with children, Bianca seemed to think they were good friends already. Brock pulled a chair and sat next to her. “That’s a nickname. Do you have a nickname?”

  “Binky, but it’s a baby name.” Her head bobbed as her voice impressed upon the seriousness of her statement. “My sister’s Mar-Mar, not Mama, she always corrects me.”

  “Rather hard to roll that ‘R’, don’t you think?” Brock chuckled at how earnest the little girl was.

  “I’m a big girl now. I can count to ten. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten.” She puffed out her chest, and Brock could see a definite resemblance to Marcia in that determined jut of her jaw. “When are you making my treehouse?”