Playing Without Rules: A Baseball Romance

by Rachelle Ayala

  Brock’s body shifted and he raised one hand, then put it down before touching her. “You should go. I’m not fit to be with you right now.”

  Marcia let go. Should she tell him now? Blurt it out? Or maybe she should wait until after he saw his therapist.

  “Uh, I …” he started.

  “I wondered if …” she said at the same time. “If we can talk.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sure, uh, let me air out my apartment and take a shower.” Brock cracked a window open and gestured to the sofa. “Please, sit. I’ll be right back.”

  Marcia took the nearest seat. Jeanine huffed and plopped herself at Marcia’s side, sticking close like a guard dog.

  As soon as Brock turned into his room, Marcia whispered, “Seriously, he’s not going to hurt me. You can go.”

  “No way. I know where this is headed. He’s going to shower and then, poof, everything’s going to be okay and you’re jumping into bed with him.”

  “Sheesh, is that what you think I’m doing here?” Marcia shrugged away from her friend and moved to the other end of the couch.

  “No, but who can resist that piece of meat? It’s unsafe.”

  “He’s not unsafe. I’m telling you. Conrad’s a liar.”

  “Oh yeah? If Conrad’s so bad, why did you stay with him for three years? Don’t tell me you’re such a bad judge of character.”

  “He’s phony. You should stay away from him.” She listed all the reasons why Jeanine should never allow herself to get close to Conrad.

  Jeanine argued back, saying that Conrad was different from the ballplayers she bedded, that he was sensitive and understanding, and most of all, he was heartbroken over finding out about the abuse Marcia had suffered.

  “Supposedly, alleged, untrue,” Marcia maintained. “Listen, I was there five years ago. You weren’t.”

  “You should stay away from him.” Jeanine slammed her purse on the coffee table.

  “He’s Bianca’s father,” Marcia whispered.

  “Oh, no way. You’re not planning … You’re nuts. Bianca doesn’t need him. What happened to ‘no one should tell him?’”

  “If Conrad knows, my secret’s not safe,” Marcia retorted. “Let me deal with it.”

  Brock cleared his throat and both Marcia and Jeanine jumped out of their skins. Marcia fluttered her hand and gasped. “How long have you been standing there?”

  “I just came out of my room. Would you like juice, tea, a cup of coffee?”

  “Coffee,” Jeanine and Marcia said at the same time.

  When Brock turned to the kitchen, Jeanine made hand signs and mouthed, Do you think he heard?

  Marcia pressed her hand down in a manner to tell her to act normal.

  Brock returned with a tray and set it on the table. “I’m sorry the apartment’s a mess. You caught me at a bad time.”

  “You were drinking,” Marcia said.

  Brock sat across from her in the loveseat and swiped the damp hair from his forehead. “I could have handled it better.”

  “Yeah, well, when you didn’t show up at the ballpark, we got concerned,” Jeanine said.

  “Right, so we wanted to see if you’re okay,” Marcia finished. She needed to get Jeanine to leave.

  “I’m fine.” Brock folded his hands and regarded them with a firm gaze.

  “Yeah, well, that’s great,” Jeanine said, standing. “We need to get back to the bar.”

  “Uh, Brock, have you had dinner?” Marcia quickly interjected. “I’m starving.”

  “Oh, I can call for takeout.” Jeanine plopped herself down and reached for her cell phone.

  Grrr … her friend wasn’t ever going to leave her side. Well, hell’s bells. Marcia rose and crossed to the loveseat. She’d just have to pretend her friend was elsewhere.

  Putting her arms around Brock, she pressed her face into his neck and held him. This time, he wasn’t as tense, but he still did not move his hands. It was almost as if he was afraid of what his hands could do.

  “I’m sorry about what I said to you on the drive back from the lake. I was worried about Bianca and got pissed at you for taking a shower, but that’s no excuse to hurt you.”

  “You wanted to call it quits.” His voice rasped scratchy and bleak. “But I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did.”

  “At least you’re seeing a therapist and trying to get your life in order.” Marcia couldn’t help rubbing his back. She would have kissed him had Jeanine not been pacing around the room, ordering Chinese food.

  “Trying is the operative word.” He clasped his hands firmly on his lap, not moving toward or away from her. It felt strange to hang onto him and be affectionate, but Marcia didn’t want to let him go.

  Her nerves tapped and frizzed as she wavered. Tell him now or later? Now or later? What if this were the last chance before Conrad blew the horn?

  “I’m still holding onto a lot of anger,” Marcia said. She was self-aware enough to know that she hadn’t worked through Brock’s leaving, er, amend that, her forcing Brock to leave, because if she were honest with herself, she wasn’t as much afraid of his abusive past, as she was angry at his rejection of her and not wanting children. She’d managed to brainwash herself and justify her actions of forcing him away and not telling him about her pregnancy.

  Since Brock remained silent, she continued, “Five years ago, when I told you to leave, I was angry. I felt rejected that you didn’t want to have kids with me. I didn’t understand until now that it wasn’t about me.”

  Brock’s body shuddered as if he’d been sobbing. Marcia rested her face on his shoulder and cuddled him, hoping in some way to get through to him. To let him know how much she supported him and cared.

  His hands twisted and his knuckles were white. “You were right to ask me to leave. I’m not fit to be anyone’s husband. Much less yours.”

  “That’s not true. Not at all. Don’t ever say that about yourself.”

  “It is true.” Brock moved to pinch the bridge of his nose. “I never want to risk you or anyone else. What if I can’t control myself? What if I hurt you or God forbid, a child?”

  “You won’t. You’re getting help.”

  “You said it yourself. I have the biggest risk factor, and I hurt you in the car. I wanted to hurt you.” His voice growled with anguish.

  “Because I hurt you. I wanted to hurt you for taking your time in the shower. I took out my anger on you and used the relationship as a giant ax. I went nuclear over a playground tussle.”

  He moved a hand onto hers and pressed it. “You were within your rights.”

  “No, I wasn’t. I was abusive to you. I told you I loved you the night before and then when one little thing goes wrong, I tell you it’s finished. Ended.”

  “Don’t make excuses for me, Marcia.”

  “It’s not an excuse. Brock, look at me.” She cupped her hand over his jaw and moved him to face her. “I still love you. I always will. I can’t just go ballistic and push you away whenever we have a disagreement.”

  A tear rolled from the corner of Brock’s eye, but he made no move to wipe it. His eyebrows creased and his lips trembled. He swallowed several times before he opened his mouth. “I love you too, but the best thing for you is to leave me. I’m not upset at you or anything. I just can’t be with you.”

  “Why?” The jolt to her heart almost stopped it. “Whatever it is, we can work it out.”

  His head shook slowly. “I can’t risk it. I can’t risk you and your family.”

  “You’re not a risk. Brock.” She shook him and pressed her face against his. “I can help you. You’re a victim, and you’re still being victimized.”

  “I can’t ruin your family,” he said. “I can’t destroy what you have.”

  “You won’t, Brock. I love you. Don’t you believe me?” Her heart turned inside out and she pleaded with him, agonized by his defeated eyes, the light extinguished.

  “I no longer believe
in love.” He shrugged from her arms, standing. “I’m going out. You and Jeanine can stay here as long as you want.”

  “Brock!” She lunged for him. “Don’t leave.”

  He grabbed his leather jacket and keys, and strode to the door. “I’m sorry, Marcia. I’m really, really sorry.”

  “Don’t, don’t …” She collapsed to the floor, jackknifed by the stabbing pain tearing into her.

  He stepped out, leaving the door open right as the Chinese food delivery man appeared. Minutes later, the deep-throated roar of a Harley thundered into the night.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Marcia wept on the floor of Brock’s apartment. The odor of oily food and garlic wafted from the coffee table, mixing with the stale reek of beer and spirits.

  “Hey, hey.” Jeanine enveloped her in her arms and comforted her. “It’ll be okay. You’ll get through it.”

  “I don’t want to get through it. I want him back.”

  “He has to work through it himself—with his therapist.”

  “Maybe I need to see one too,” Marcia wailed. “I was this close to telling him about Bianca. This close.”

  “I’ll figure out a way to keep Conrad in line,” Jeanine said.

  “Forget Conrad. I don’t care. I just want Brock back.” She spied his cell phone sitting on the entry divider. Picking it up, she hit redial. It connected to Dr. Spark’s voice mail.

  “Hello, this is Marcia Powers. I’m in need of a therapist. May I come in tomorrow afternoon?” She couldn’t help sobbing and sniffing. “It’s an emergency.”

  She left the doctor her cell number and hung up.

  “Wait a minute,” Jeanine said, picking up the bags of food. “You’re not thinking of ambushing Brock at the therapist’s office, are you?”

  “No, I need someone to talk to about Brock and Bianca. I can’t talk to you or my dad.” She wiped her eyes dry. “Guess we should go.”

  “Yep,” Jeanine said. She pulled the door shut after locking it from the inside. “You should go straight home after dropping me off at the Hot Corner.”

  “I can’t do that to you,” Marcia argued. “It’s a busy night with the fantasy baseball club meeting there.”

  Sure enough, the bar was packed. Todd, their part time manager, was running around like a chicken with his head cut off. One of the kegs had sprung a leak. The police had been called in and cleared up a brawl between fans from two opposing teams, and someone busted a window during the fight, so it had to be boarded. Add to that, they ran out of buffalo wings because one of the cooks burned an entire batch.

  Marcia rolled up her sleeves and tended bar as Jeanine went to the kitchen to straighten out the piled up tickets. It was better to be at work than at home worrying about Brock. She had to trust that he was sober enough to go riding. It had to have been at least an hour since his last drink, and he hadn’t seemed that sloshed when they’d arrived.

  An empty whiskey glass thumped on the counter in front of her and the tall, lanky form of Conrad slithered onto the bar stool. He motioned for a refill.

  Wordlessly, she reached for the ice bucket, poured his favorite brand of scotch, and topped it with a splash of soda.

  “Glad to see you’re up and about,” Conrad said, taking the glass from her. “How’s Bianca?”

  “She’s fine. I sent her to school and Pappy said he walked her home.”

  “Actually I picked her up.”

  “What? Who gave you permission?” Marcia bit back a more acidic reply.

  “Your father, of course. You should have seen how excited Bianca was with the surprise I had for her.”

  “Surprise?” Marcia took an order from another customer and filled a pitcher of beer. After serving a group of females wearing player jerseys, she returned to find Conrad with his tablet computer marking up forms for their fantasy baseball league.

  He finished and beamed at her. “I had a Princess Palace treehouse installed for her on your father’s old oak tree.”

  A twinge jiggled the back of Marcia’s throat. The treehouse was supposed to be Brock’s special gift to Bianca. Every day, Bianca had gone to the backyard and patted the tree, pronouncing Brock’s promise.

  “Well, thanks.” Marcia forced the words from her mouth. “I really appreciate it. Did she get to climb up?”

  “Your father wanted her to take a nap.”

  “Really?” Marcia couldn’t see why her father, of all people, would deny Bianca her dream come true, although the version Brock was supposed to have made would have been a turtle hideout.

  “She was kind of cranky.” Conrad tapped his fingers on the counter. “By the way, I know she’s your daughter.”

  Marcia glanced around at the people in the vicinity, but they all seemed to be absorbed in their own conversations.

  “Can you please respect my wishes and not mention it?”

  “Sure, I’m not a bad guy.” He grinned. “It’ll be our little secret, and frankly, I’m not about to let that monster anywhere near her.”

  “What you heard isn’t true.” Marcia gripped the edge of the counter. “His father was lying.”

  “Oh really? I found a police report. Brock admitted beating up his own father.”

  “I don’t believe you, and if he did, he was probably protecting his mother.”

  Conrad leaned until he was in her face. “He beat his father up after his mother was already dead. It was pure vengeance.”

  Marcia backed away from his stale breath. “None of this concerns me, so leave it alone.”

  Conrad rubbed his chin and leered. “In that case, you won’t be too upset if I drive Brock Carter out of town.”

  # # #

  “I don’t want to play princess.” Bianca kicked the trunk of the oak tree.

  Marcia couldn’t blame her. The neon pink monstrosity was filled with sparkly towers and frilly window treatments. Too large to fit snugly in the center of the tree, it was perched precariously on a horizontal branch that extended over the yard.

  Pappy picked Bianca up and placed her on the metal ladder. “Want to climb up there and see what surprise Uncle Conrad left you?”

  “No.” Bianca jutted her lip out. “I want Brock to build me turtle house.”

  Marcia’s shoulders sagged over the pit of pain in her chest. Brock was gone. He hadn’t gone to his therapist’s appointment, nor had he been back to his apartment. His truck was still there, but the motorcycle was missing.

  Meanwhile she couldn’t get any information out of Dr. Sparks, who refused to counsel her, giving her the name of a colleague instead. She was due to see him later in the day.

  “Let’s go inside and have a glass of lemonade,” Pappy said to Bianca. “Then we can watch cartoons.”

  “I’ll be in later,” Marcia said. Her head throbbed and the shrill cartoony voices would drive her nuts.

  The roar of a motorcycle rumbled in the distance, getting closer. Marcia rushed to the side yard and looked down the street. A rider zoomed by. It wasn’t Brock.

  Glumly, she dragged herself to the porch and sank onto the swing. The newly oiled chains glided silently as she rocked herself, waiting for Brock. Behind her, the wind chimes he’d made for her family tinkled merrily.

  He will be back. He will be back. The swing seemed to chant as it rocked back and forth, accompanied by the chimes. She’d wait for him and love him from afar. She’d sit here until she was old and gray, and still she would wait.

  The screen door creaked and Pappy stepped onto the porch. He brought her a tall glass of lemonade.

  “Thanks,” Marcia said. “How’s Bianca doing?”

  “She’s coloring in front of the TV.” His joints creaked as he lowered himself onto the swing. “You know your mother’s never wrong. She says Brock will be back. She knows what she’s talking about.”

  “I’m not so sure this time.”

  “Why? What happened?”

  Marcia rolled her wrist and blinked hard, unable to meet her father’s eye. “
He thinks he hurt me when he twisted my wrist when we were on our way back from Saguaro Lake.”

  “Did he?”

  “He bruised me, but it wasn’t so bad.”

  Her father nodded and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “I can’t excuse what he did, but if it’s an isolated incident, any one of us can do something we regret. Remember that time you keyed Mrs. Smith’s car?”

  “That was really stupid. She grabbed a parking space I was waiting for. I had Bianca who was vomiting in the car. But it was still the wrong thing to do.”

  “Of course keying a car is not the same as hurting someone, so I’m not excusing him. He should have controlled himself better, but he’s not his dad. That Charlie Carter was a bully ever since kindergarten.”

  “You knew his dad growing up?” Marcia wondered why she never asked before.

  “Both me and your mother did. Charlie used to torment your mother, called her names and stalked her. Of course I was several years older and his creepiness allowed me to be the protection squad for your mom and her friends.”

  A shudder traveled through Marcia’s belly. “Did you know Brock’s mom?”

  “No, she was an illegal alien from Ireland. A sweet gal. She’d never go to the authorities.” Her father grunted and cleared his throat. “Brock is a lot like his mother. He internalizes everything and blames himself.”

  “That’s why he left. He hates himself for hurting me. I also heard the line drive to that pitcher’s face was an accident, but Brock took it hard.”

  “He’s nothing like his father,” Pappy pronounced. “Although I wish you’d told him about Bianca before he left.”

  “I was waiting for you to be present when I tell him. I’m scared he’ll hate me for keeping it from him for so long. I don’t want him to hear from others. Conrad knows. He went to visit Brock’s father and claims he heard it from him.”

  “Damn.” Pappy bolted from the swing. “That monster was stalking your mother up until he got locked up. I wouldn’t be surprised if he saw you pregnant and put two and two together. Lucky thing is, I doubt Conrad’s going to tell Brock. He won’t want to give him a reason to come back to you.”

  “You’re right. Conrad always acts in his self interest.”