by Lee, Roz
She perched on the edge of a chair. “Can I get you anything?” she asked, not that she knew where she’d get it.
Megan laughed again. “Relax, Carrie. Can I call you Carrie?” she asked, but went on before Carrie could answer. “I’m fine. Really. I’m even better now that I ran into you.”
She didn’t know what to say. This wasn’t at all what she’d expected when she followed Megan earlier. She still didn’t understand what motivated her to do it. Curiosity? Surely insanity made her speak to the woman.
“I don’t understand,” she said.
“Jason forbade me to look you up, but since you approached me…well, I’m perfectly justified in speaking to you. At least that’s the way I see it.” Her eyes twinkled with mischief.
“You wanted to talk to me?” None of this made sense. The ballpark was a magical place, but this…this went beyond magical into surreal.
“Oh, yes. I’ve been dying to meet the woman he fell in love with, but he told me not to contact you, so I didn’t. I had to respect his wishes, but now….” She smiled that megawatt smile of hers again. “All bets are off!”
Okay. This was the Twilight Zone, and Megan Holder was clearly insane. In the weeks since she’d last seen him, she’d been forced to face reality. What she’d seen in his eyes had been nothing more than wishful thinking on her part. If he cared for her at all, he wouldn’t have left her that way, and he would have contacted her by now. The truth was a bitter pill to swallow. “Jason doesn’t love me. He hates me.”
“No.” Megan shook her head. “I don’t know what makes you think that. Well, I can imagine. Jason can be harsh when his feelings are hurt, but he’s a good man. Kind. Caring. Generous.” Her smile disappeared. “ Look, I’ve known Jason as long as I’ve known my husband. To say we have a history would be an understatement, but that’s a story for him to tell, so just let me say, I know him very well. He was unhappy for a long time. Then he met you, and it was like someone turned on a light inside him. I’d never seen him so happy and, um content. That’s it. He seems content. This thing has thrown him, but he’s coping. He’ll come out on the other side stronger than before, but I want him to be happy, and you, Carrie Taylor, make him happy.”
She shook her head. “No, I don’t. He was very clear. He doesn’t want to see me again.”
“And I’m sure he meant it at the time,” Megan conceded. “But it’s my experience that men don’t know how much they want something until they don’t have it anymore. Trust me, he’ll come around. He’s too much like his brother in that respect.”
“Begging your pardon, Mrs…, Megan,” she corrected, “but I don’t think he’s going to come around. I betrayed his trust.”
“You betrayed the trust of a man you didn’t know.”
Carrie stiffened at the reference to something the other woman could only know because Jason had told her. Megan waved away her concerns with the flick of her wrist. “Don’t get your panties in a wad. I don’t know everything, but I know he hid his identity from you. He and Jeff have always guarded their privacy. You should see the security system at our house. The Secret Service could learn a thing or two. Same goes for Jason’s new place. Anyway, he told me enough to piece the story together. What I want to know is, would you have written the article if you’d known you were writing about the man you’d grown to know?”
“No. Never.” She forced her shoulders to relax. “When I figured out Jason Holder was my mas….” She glanced away as her skin flushed with color. “My master.” Might as well swing for the cheap seats. “I knew I’d made a terrible mistake. Master would never use steroids. Besides, I knew his body, even though I’d never seen him, I had plenty of opportunity to touch, and there are certain signs. He didn’t have them.”
Megan nodded. “You can see a lot with your hands.”
“Yes, that’s true. I tried to stop the article, but my editor wouldn’t hear of it.” The whole story spilled out then. It felt good to tell it to someone who didn’t judge her actions and immediately find her guilty.
“Martin McCree is an ass,” Megan said when Carrie wound down. “He used you, and now he’s using Jason to dilute the media attention on his own case. Don’t let it destroy you. It won’t destroy Jason. Maybe set him back a little, but he won’t let it ruin him or his career.”
“I hope not. He’s worked hard to get where he is. He doesn’t deserve any of this.”
“So…what are you going to do about it?”
“Me?” Carrie squeaked. “I don’t know what I can do. I lost my job, and the story has grown into a monster with tentacles reaching out all over the place.”
She squirmed under Megan’s silent scrutiny.
“Why are you here today?”
“Jason has a chance to break the Mustangs’ team record for most homeruns in a single season. I wanted to be here for him, even if he never knows it.” She wrung her hands. “Actually, he wouldn’t want me here, so please don’t tell him you saw me.”
“You love him.”
No sense denying it. One more truth to face up to. “Yes. More than anything.”
“Then you’ll find a way to fix this.”
“I would if I could. I don’t think he’ll ever take me back, even if I were able to pull off a miracle and end this for him.”
Megan wiggled to the edge of the sofa and stood. “Come over here,” she said, leading the way to a plate-glass window on the far wall.
“Wow,”
Below them, the field sparkled like a giant broach—a diamond winked in the center, surrounded by emeralds. The batting practice equipment had been put away, and the grounds crews were busy smoothing the dirt around the bases. Another crew used a template to place the chalk lines of the batter’s box where Mustangs history might be made today.
“Did Jason tell you about his heart surgery?” Megan asked.
It took Carrie a moment to adjust to the abrupt change of subject. No. He never let me get that close. “He has a scar. He said he was nine.”
“Let me tell you a story, Carrie.”
Chapter Seventeen
He tried not to think about the record. There was plenty of time left in the season, and unless he suffered an injury or Doyle took him out of the lineup, he’d break the record. If not today, then another day. No sense worrying about it. How many times had players choked trying to accomplish a specific goal? Too many to count. He’d play his usual game, and if the right pitch came along, he’d hit it. That and a little diamond dust would take care of the record. For now, he’d focus on winning the game, because a win for the team was more important than a record for one player. And, if he hit a homerun, then he’d contribute at least one run toward the win. That’s what the game was about, all the players contributing. Some did it better than others, but everyone on the Mustangs roster were top-notch players, and they deserved his complete concentration.
Jason stepped up to bat, acknowledging the good luck chorus coming from the dugout with a thumbs up. Bottom of the first inning, two men on, one out. Just another at bat. Forget about Megan and his parents in the stands. They came to lots of games, so no big deal. Just another day at the office.
While the umpire brushed dirt off home plate, Jason allowed his gaze to travel around the stadium. It never ceased to amaze him. What began as Jeff’s dream and something for him to hold onto when the going got rough, had become a reality for both of them. But not without a lifetime of hard work. Only a handful of kids grew up to be major league players, and here he was, one of the lucky ones who’d beat the odds. Luckier than most, but that was something he didn’t talk about, no matter how much his busybody sister-in-law insisted he should.
The crowd stood, a show of support for his attempt at the record. How many of them believed he’d gotten here by trickery? More than a few, and if he broke the record today, it would be more fuel on the growing bonfire the media had lit underneath his career.
“Tell them,” Megan had insisted when she’d come to th
e rail earlier.
He’d heard the words enough. They were a constant echo in his head these days.
“Scorn or pity. Does it make any difference?”
That usually shut her up. He didn’t want either one, so he’d keep him mouth shut, and maybe one of these days they’d believe him. Hell, he could piss in a cup on camera then follow the specimen through the whole testing process, but still, someone would claim the video had been altered in some way. Might as well keep his dick in his pants. They’ll think what they want to think, no matter what.
The first pitch was low and outside. Ball one. No pitcher wanted to give up a homerun, much less a record breaking one. Yeah, that’d be a pisser. He lifted the bat to his shoulder and narrowed his gaze on the pitcher’s hand—that tiny speck of white showing between his fingers. The windup. The release. He processed the information—arm speed, grip, wrist motion. A slider—impossible to tell if it would come in for a strike. He checked his swing.
Strike one.
Another slider. Jason swung. Funny how sounds meant different things to different people. When he was catching, he loved to hear the smack of the ball hitting his glove, but when he was batting, he preferred the crack of lumber connecting with the ball.
Strike two.
He expected a wasted pitch—something only a man looking for a record homerun would swing at, and that’s what he got. High and outside. Jason declined to swing. I’m not that desperate, buddy. Bring it on.
Two balls, two strikes.
Two more pitches—both fouled into the net behind home plate.
Another throwaway pitch.
Still not desperate, asshole. Grow a pair, and throw me something I can hit.
Full count.
He forced himself to relax, so he would have something left to hit the ball with if the guy found his testicles and actually pitched to him.
The next pitch veered so far off the plate, the catcher almost dislocated his shoulder trying to catch it. Fuck.
The air reverberated with the low, baritone of forty-plus thousand fans booing. Jason tossed his bat toward the on deck circle as he jogged down the first base line. He had no idea how much of the crowd’s displeasure was with his inability to drive one out of the park or the wimp-assed pitcher who would rather take his chances with the rest of the batting order. But he was on base, which meant a chance to score if Todd could come up with a hit. A walk was as good as a hit, he reminded himself, but it damned sure wasn’t a homerun either. And if the pitcher maintained his control, connecting with one this game, much less two, would be an uphill battle.
* * *
Carrie clenched her fists and bit her lip. Her body vibrated with anxiety, or maybe it was from the crowd surrounding her stomping their feet in perfect rhythm. She almost wished she’d taken Megan up on her offer to get her a seat in the family section, but after she had pointed out the block of seats and mentioned she would be sitting with her in-laws, Carrie had politely declined. They were excellent seats, close enough to the field to actually see the players, which meant the players could see the fans, too. She hadn’t come to the game to disrupt Jason’s quest for the record, and seeing her in the stands with his parents would certainly do that.
So, she kept her nosebleed seat, doing her best to send telepathic messages of encouragement to Jason. It was almost impossible to concentrate. No wonder this single ticket had still been available. The rows from which her seat had been carved were occupied by a group of ponytailed softball players and their parents. The entire section to her right was filled with underage baseball players on a league outing, judging by their team uniforms, to see the big boys play. If the object of the trip had been to learn something about the game, then they failed miserably. The only education they seemed to be getting pertained to the varieties of junk food available. And everyone in the section was getting a lesson in how to be obnoxious from the group of frat boys occupying the uppermost rows of the stadium.
But Jason couldn’t see her, and that was the most important thing. Here, among the anonymous masses, she could cheer to her heart’s content, and watch his every move. She knew his body well, could see even from this distance the tension he held in his shoulders. She’d always imagined the players would be relaxed—having fun. Game or no game, baseball was serious business to the players. It was their job. Their livelihood. They played to win, and winning took skill and intelligence, and hard work.
It was impossible to ignore the scattered conversations when Jason came to bat. The scandal she’d created was far from dead. Everyone had an opinion, and they voiced them. She strained to hear a couple of the softball dads.
“You know he’s guilty,” one said.
“Why? I don’t get it. These guys make millions. Why risk it?”
“Endorsement deals if they break the record. A sweeter contract when the current one runs out. Who knows?” the first one opined.
Carrie sipped from her soda, stifling the urge to set them straight, even though the only way she could do that was to reveal who she was and how she knew he didn’t take steroids. She’d promised Megan she would try to find a way, but it wouldn’t be easy. For now, all she could do was listen to the ill-informed viewpoints, keep her mouth shut, and cheer him on.
“Come on, Holder!” Mr. Stupid Opinion yelled when Jason came up to bat in the third inning. “You can do it. Out of the park!”
Clearly, the man still wanted to see him break the record, steroids or no. Jerk. What kind of fan cheered on someone they thought was cheating?
She couldn’t sit still. The drunken frat boys behind her didn’t seem to care, so she stood tall, subconsciously making herself a human antenna, sending her love and support to Jason via invisible thought waves. Stupid, she knew, but she knew how much the record meant to him—and after what she’d done to him, she couldn’t bear to see him fail.
He swung and missed two pitches, and suddenly, she wasn’t the only one on her feet. The entire stadium stood. Carrie put her hands over her ears to damp the roar of stomping feet and raised voices. The scoreboard flashed a colorful graphic of horses stampeding. The words, Thundering Herd, scrolled across the electronic banners placed like shiny ribbons around the upper and lower decks, spurring the crowd into a frenzy. Rally towels bearing the Texas Flag on one side and the Mustangs logo on the other, whirled in the air. If someone could find a way to harness the wind energy alone, it would power the stadium lights for a year.
A chant erupted in an outfield section and one by one, the sections joined in. “Jason. Jason. Jason.”
How could he not know how much these people loved him? For this one moment, they’d put aside their doubts. They believed in him. They wanted to see him break the record. Accusations and scandal had been forgotten. This was the game at its elemental base. Man against the odds. She had done her homework, knew the probability of bat and ball connecting in the right spot, at the perfect angle and speed to produce a homerun were astronomical, yet Jason did it better than any man alive.
Carrie added her voice to the chant. “Jason.” Please God. “Jason.” Come on, Master. “Jason.” Do it. Do it. “Jason.” Please God. “Jason.” You can do it. “Jason.”
She stomped her feet and waved her empty fist in the air. She needed one of those rally towels. Her heart thundered. Her stomach tied itself in a knot and grew tighter with each bouncing stomp.
Another pitch. She gasped when the ball whizzed past Jason’s chest. No swing.
“Come on, give him something to hit,” Mr. Stupid Opinion yelled.
“Yeah, give him something to hit,” she echoed.
The cheers continued. Jason stepped into the batter’s box again.
Carrie chanted under her breath. “You can do it. I love you, Jason. You can do it. I love you. Please. Please. Please.” Her fingernails dug crescent moons in her palms. Blood rushing past her ears all but drowned out the noise around her.
She could watch him all day. The way he moved. The confidence eviden
t in his stance. She could only imagine the level of concentration necessary to tune out the crowd and focus on the ball.
The pitcher began his windup. The stadium held its collective breath, as if the inhale and exhale of forty thousand plus people might affect the trajectory of one three-inch orb. A fraction of a second of silence, over almost too quick to notice it ever existed. The solid, unmistakable crack of wood colliding with leather. A collective gasp, as if one and all suddenly realized they’d ceased to breathe.
Jason paused, his gaze following the ball rocketing toward the center field stands. Before it cleared the wall, he was halfway to second base, raising a clenched fist in victory. The crowd went wild.
As he took his solo lap around the bases, Carrie’s eyes watered. The Mustangs dugout emptied onto the field to celebrate with him. He performed a celebratory hop on home plate and disappeared into the clutch of his teammates.
Someone pointed to the outfield. Renewed excitement rippled through the crowd. She turned in the direction of their outstretched arms. A door stood open in the outfield wall. A player appeared, jogging toward the mid-game celebration. Jeff. A moment later, the brothers emerged from the crowd, their arms around each other’s shoulders. With his free hand, Jeff pointed to his brother while they turned in a slow circle.
The moment was too much. The half-cheering, half-jeering crowd. The emotions—relief, joy, pride, love, pain—turned her stomach into a giant cocktail shaker. Carrie dropped into her seat. How she wanted to share her feelings with Jason. To tell him how proud she was of him, to kneel at his feet and show him he’d mastered her the same way he’d mastered this game. He owned the game, and he owned her.
When the inning ended, she gathered her purse and picked her way carefully down the steps. Not knowing if she would ever have the strength to come back again, she stopped at a souvenir cart to purchase a rally towel and anything they had with Jason’s number or likeness on it. The vendor was all too happy to take her credit card, handing it back along with a bulging bag of Jason Holder loot.