Blake (Season One: The Ninth Inning #2)

by Lindsay Paige

  Hell, maybe this is my fault. I should have taken my mom with me, gotten her away from him. Instead, I left her behind and now, it’s worse than before. I’d hate me too if I hadn’t made things better for her when I could have.

  I shake my head as if I can expel those thoughts from my mind. I’ve tried to get her to move away from here. I would have supported her financially, and she could start fresh some place new.

  She’s turned me down each time I asked, each time I tried to convince her.

  “Do you want to stay with me tonight?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

  “No, he wouldn’t like that.”

  I glance over at her, the streetlights lighting her features every few seconds as we pass them. She’s never looked this bad before.

  “Mom, if you want to leave, all you have to do is say the word. I can get you out and away from him. I—”

  “I love him,” she interrupts me, glancing over at me as I focus on the road. “Memphis is my home, and I don’t want to leave.”

  I clench my jaw, my knuckles gleam white as I grip the wheel tighter. We ride the rest of the way to my childhood home in silence. I park my truck in the driveway, seeing my father’s figure in the window.

  “Are you coming in?” Mom asks.

  “No.”

  She nods, pats my hand, which is resting on the gear shift, and opens the door. “I love you, Blake,” she says once she’s standing outside.

  “Love you too, Mom. Call if you need me.”

  I watch her walk up the walkway to the front door. Dad stands at the window, and I know his eyes are still on me. The world will be a better place when he dies. Unfortunately, I don’t think it will happen soon enough.

  My mother’s words stew in my mind, pissing me off more and more. My fault. I can’t believe she would think it, much less admit it out loud. I’m still irritated on the plane ride as the team flies out for our next game. I choose a seat near the back, hoping no one bothers me.

  No such luck. Hector is in the seat in front of me, and Felix, a pitcher, has just claimed the spot next to me. I don’t bother acknowledging him, hoping he’ll take the hint and leave me alone. I gaze out at the clouds and pieces of earth far below that appear in between the white puffs. It’s probably unnatural for someone to think about murder as often as I have in the past twenty-four hours. Or hell, most of my life. Because right now, I’m wishing my father was up here with me, so I could push him out of the plane and watch him fall until I couldn’t see him anymore.

  “Hey, you alright, Blake?” Felix asks.

  “Fucking peachy,” I answer, still imagining my father flailing around as he falls to his death.

  Hector turns around and says with a slight grin, “I think he prefers to be called Grumpy.”

  “Turn around and shut up,” I snap with a glare.

  The dumb ass laughs. “He’ll be better in a few hours,” he tells Felix. “Right, Grumpy?” I give him the finger, turning my attention back to the window, listening as their conversation continues. “Hey, Felix. Who’s the girl at the game you keep throwing your balls at?” I roll my eyes, and I hear him chuckle.

  “She’s the reason we keep winning,” he answers.

  “I thought it was because of your mad throwing skills?”

  “That’s helpful, but having her there is more helpful. She doesn’t believe in good luck charms, though.”

  This catches my attention. “Seriously?” I ask Felix, glancing at him. Lucky charms might as well be as true as scientific discoveries or something. They’re real, plain and simple. “Like not at all, or she just doesn’t believe she is one?”

  “She doesn’t think she is one. Do y’all have one?”

  Hector lifts a necklace with a cross from under his shirt and then they look at me. It’s laughable that they think I have good luck, much less a damn lucky charm. “I don’t have one,” I say. “I can’t keep anything long enough to have a good luck charm.” I turn around, my gaze shifting back to the sky. I try to think of something good that has happened to me; something my father didn’t ruined.

  The list is empty.

  I FINISH TANNER’S leg rub; he is the center fielder, and he’s still moaning as if he’s about to get off right here on my table. I roll my eyes at the thought and shake out his leg.

  “Okay, Tanner, you’re all done.” I wipe my hands clean on a fresh linen towel.

  “You have the hands of a God.”

  “Well...thanks. Just a reminder, you don’t have to be completely naked under your towel when you come in here.” He’s already flashed his junk at me twice.

  “I don’t wear underwear.”

  “Thank you for the warning then; I’ll be sure to sanitize the table thoroughly.” I give him a sarcastic smile.

  “Thanks, Doc.”

  He hops off the table before I can point out to him that I’m not a doctor. I shrug and let it go since there’s no point in yelling for him to come back in here for something so silly. Harmony has texted six times to remind me that we are having lunch with Dad. Like this is something I’d forget. I check the clock and realize I need to head out front since that is where they will pick me up.

  I walk out the correct door and down the long hallway. I hear a lot of laughter and cussing; several of the players are coming in from the field. I give them a smile and I notice Mr. Hazel Eyes, whom I now know is Blake Foster. Harmony has informed me that I should know everything about each player.

  Googling Blake Foster had been an eye full for me. He’s the only son of the legendary Jack Foster, a famous pitcher in Memphis back in the day. Dad said he had been the best of the best. Mr. Foster is rumored to be heading into the Hall of Fame this year. I wonder why Blake is a catcher. I’m sure he had a lot of help from his dad. It must have been amazing, growing up with a dad in the major leagues.

  Our eyes connect for another few seconds, and I tuck my hair behind my ears and softly bite my lip. Oh, Sofia, don’t flirt with him. I rush past them all and out to the street where my dad’s town car is waiting for me.

  “Dad.” I hug him tightly as he comes out to greet me. He’s in his dark gray suit. For my dad to be in his mid-fifties, he looks almost forty. It’s the same way with my mom. I pray that I have those genes. He has light brown hair, and I sometimes wish I had his hair color, but I have my mom’s red hair. Harmony and I both got our Dad’s blue eyes though.

  “There’s my baby girl.” He kisses my cheek. “Are you ready for some lunch?”

  “I’m starving,” I inform him and slide into the car. I give Harmony a quick side hug and remain in the middle as Dad gets back in.

  “We’re going to McIntyre’s, girls.”

  I look at Harmony, and she shakes her head. Dad is part owner of the restaurant; we’re not shocked that we’re going there.

  “Now, baby girl, tell me all about your first week of work.” He lovingly pats my knee.

  “It’s been good. I’ve got a routine down now, and I know it’s going to be a little crazy, but I’m ready for it all.” I smile up at him.

  “I knew you would be good at this.”

  “Thank you for not helping either, Dad.”

  “I’m not going to lie; I wanted to make a few calls, but I didn’t because I knew you needed to do this on your own. Look at the outcome,” he smiles brightly at me. “I’m also very proud of my princess.” He nods over at Harmony.

  “What did you do today?” I nudge her shoulder.

  “Today,” Dad begins, “we are going to celebrate the closing of the Stonewood project, and it’s all because of my princess, Harmony.”

  I clap my hands happily and kiss my sister’s cheek. “I’m so happy for you.”

  “Thanks,” she says. “I think Dad is being a bit overzealous. He did help me a lot.”

  “Nah,” Dad waves her off. “It was all you.”

  Mom and Dad are always praising us and supporting us. Even when I changed my majors in college, they were right there telling me th
at I would find the right career. They never made me feel like a failure. They treat Harmony and me the same. If she got something, I would, too. Dad might call her his princess, but I’m his baby girl. It’s always been that way. I think it’s why we are so close. My parents are my best friends and I can tell them anything, just like Harmony.

  We walk into McIntyre’s, and the hostess immediately seats us. Several men in suits nod at my dad as he pulls out our chairs. If you have lived in or around Memphis, then you know my dad. Art Gardner is a businessman who has his hands in everything, and since he was recently named one of the fifty richest men in the state, more people have noticed.

  The waiter takes our drink and food orders and we fall into conversation about Mom’s birthday. Dad wants to throw a big party for her fiftieth birthday.

  “I’m pretty sure she said not to make it a big deal,” Harmony reminds him.

  “Well, then what should we do?” Dad asks.

  “I have an idea, but it might be silly.” I cringe a bit, not sure if it will go over well.

  “What is it, baby girl?”

  “She has been talking about us having new family photos taken and she wants them on the beach. Why don’t we fly to Key West or Miami for a long weekend and have family photos done?”

  “Oh, she just said that last weekend at Sunday dinner.” Harmony snaps her fingers. “She wants to do her office in a beachy theme, right?”

  “Yes, she does,” I confirm.

  “That’s why she’s redecorating.” Dad shakes his head.

  “Duh, Dad.” Harmony gives him a pointed look.

  “Sofia, do you think you’ll be able to get the time off?” Dad asks.

  “Mom’s birthday is the same weekend that the Angels have off. I wouldn’t have suggested it if I wasn’t going to be there.” I roll my eyes at him.

  Dad chuckles. “Alright. I’ll get us the plane tickets and one of you book the hotel and the other gets the photographer, deal?”

  “Deal,” Harmony and I say at the same time.

  Our lunch is peaceful and full of laughter. A few tables even stare at us, thinking we have lost our minds. Dad doesn’t care. If you know him, you know that he loves Mom and us more than anything and would think nothing about defending us if he has to. Dad can be a little scary, but I’ve only seen that side a few times in my twenty-eight years.

  Dad drops me back at the stadium with a tight hug and a kiss on the cheek. I head back into the building and into my office.

  I’m in the middle of paperwork when there’s a knock on players’ side door. When I open the door, I’m staring at the hairless, hard chest that I ran into a few days ago. However, this time, he has shorts on and not a towel.

  “Mr. Foster, may I help you?”

  “You can start by not calling me Mr. Foster. I’m not my father.” He’s wearing the angriest look I’ve ever seen. “Coach sent me here because of my leg. I think I did something while we were stretching.”

  “I was being polite since we haven’t been formally introduced.” I give a small smile, but he isn’t biting. I step back from the doorway. “Lie on the table and I’ll check it out.” He hops up onto the table and stretches out. “Did you hear anything pop?” I ask him as I wash and sanitize my hands.

  “No.”

  “Any burning or stinging pain?”

  “No, it’s a little sore, but nothing I can’t handle.”

  “I’m sure a tough, baseball player like you can work through the soreness, but it could lead to more damage. We don’t want a career-ending injury, do we?” I softly giggle at him and dry my hands. I walk back over to the table.

  “The idea of a career ending injury makes you laugh?” He shakes his head and still looks pissed at the world.

  I sigh. There’s no way to break through his steel wall. “Calm down, Blake. I was attempting a joke. Maybe if you wiped that scowl off your face every once in a while, you wouldn’t be so grumpy and standoff-ish.” I begin feeling around his knee to see if anything feels out of place.

  “What’s your name?” he finally asks.

  “Sofia Gardner and I already knows yours,” I smart off at him and begin to rub his knee. I watch his face to see if he’s winces, and he doesn’t.

  “Yeah, I caught that.”

  “I’m going to assume by your gruffness that you’re not having a good day, but if this is how you always are, may I suggest you take a happy pill and stop being an ass?” I stop rubbing his knee and stand directly over his face, looking deep into his hazel eyes.

  “May I suggest that you do your job, so I can get back to mine?”

  “Fine,” I growl at him and go back to my inspection and rubbing his knee. After a few moments, I’m finished. “I don’t think it’s anything major. I think you just stretched it a bit. If it still hurts in the next couple of days, I suggest that you go to the team doctor and request an MRI.”

  “Thanks for all your help, Sofia.” He’s dripping with sarcasm.

  “Don’t let the door hit you in your grumpy ass as you leave, Blake!” I raise my voice at him and turn away to clean up.

  “I won’t; I’d hate to have to come back for you to rub the soreness out of it.”

  I spin back around. “That’s not in my job description, Blake. Have a nice day,” I tell him with my eyes narrowed. One thing is for sure, I’m not a fan of Blake Foster.

  THE BEAUTIFUL REDHEAD who ran into me that day in the locker room is apparently our massage therapist. Sofia Gardner wasn’t what I expected. Tanner, our center fielder, has seen the therapist before; he raved something about hands of a God. He never said it was a chick, much less a chick with a smart mouth who doesn’t know when to shut the hell up. I was already in a pissy mood, and she sure didn’t help matters.

  I don’t know why, but it bothers me that one more person has noticed just how unhappy I am. It probably wouldn’t bother me so much if they didn’t keep reminding me about it. I wish I knew how to hide my emotions better. I wish I knew how to stop feeling them altogether.

  Later, during the day, Hector messages me about going out with a few of the guys. After deciding to go, I call my mom first to check on her. Unfortunately, she isn’t the one who answers her cell.

  “Is this the only way I can speak to you, son?”

  I sigh. “Let me speak to Mom, Jack.” He stopped being my dad a long time ago, and the only way for me to throw just how little I think of him in his face is to use his first name.

  “You don’t want to talk to your old man? How am I supposed to give you advice on your shitty playing lately if you don’t talk to me? Huh?” His voice is hard and full of disdain.

  The need to defend myself and my play is too strong to ignore. “I’ve been playing just fine, and I sure as hell don’t need advice from an old man.”

  “Just because I’m old doesn’t mean I don’t know what I’m talking about. Haven’t you heard I’m heading to the Hall of Fame this year?” A fact I wish wasn’t true. I don’t care how good he was, he doesn’t deserve it. “That more than qualifies me to tell you how to fucking play the game. I don’t want your name and the fact that you’re my god-awful son to ruin my legacy, especially this year. Everyone will be watching you more closely this year because of me, so you had better step it up. You—”

  “Fuck you! Do you think I care about your damn legacy, Jack? I don’t even want your fucking name or to be attached to you, but there’s not much I can do about it now. What do you think will happen if I call a press conference and tell everyone just what kind of man Jack Foster really is? Do you think the Hall of Fame will still want you?”

  My father is silent for all of three seconds. “Don’t you dare think about opening your mouth and don’t bother calling your mother again. Stay away from her.” He hangs up before I can argue.

  Shit. I should’ve kept my mouth shut because there is no doubt Mom’s going to pay for my threat. The burning hatred I have for this man overwhelms me. Another reason why I hate playing baseball
is that my name is tied to that motherfucker. My first season, I nearly quit. Reporters kept asking about my father, how proud he must be of me following in his footsteps, and what his thoughts were.

  I’d smile instead of glaring and say he was proud. I never said anything more. It almost killed me to say that much. My anger simmers as I drive to the pub where I’m meeting Hector and a few of the others. He thinks every thing that’s ever happened to me in my career is because of him. He believes his name and “legacy” hold so much power that he carried me to the pros without anything to do on my part. I can only imagine how much worse it would be if I was a pitcher.

  Hector, Trent, Jordan, Colby, and Spencer are sitting in a booth when I arrive. My teammates look like they’re enjoying themselves already. I take a seat and order a beer.

  “About time you showed up, Grumpy,” Hector says.

  I throw a glare his way, ignoring the laughs of the guys.

  Roman walks up to the table, and having caught what Hector says, “Why are you so grumpy all the time, Blake?” What is this, a therapy session or something? “If my dad was Jack Foster, I’d be one happy man and would take every advantage offered to me because of it.”

  My jaw locks, my knuckles turning white as I grip the beer bottle tighter. The dumb ass doesn’t know what he’s talking about.

  “Yeah, when are we going to meet him?” Colby asks.

  “Never,” I answer curtly.

  “Aw, c’mon,” Spencer adds. “It’s Jack Foster and you’re the only person who can introduce us to him.”

  “I know who he is.” I know him better than anyone else. “Not happening, so shut the fuck up and talk about something else.” My tone is harsher than I’d meant, and they’re all looking at me as if I’ve lost my mind. I don’t need this shit, not tonight. Leaving my nearly full beer and teammates behind, I get up and walk out. Hector will cover the beer, I’m sure.

  This is a prime example why I’d rather hang around Hector or Felix instead of the whole damn team. I’ve been able to avoid most conversations that mention my father; Hector and Felix have never brought him up. I’ve never been more thankful for that than I am tonight. Hopefully, I’ll be able to fall asleep quickly once I get home. It’s been a long day and I rather sleep than stew in my anger.