by Sykes, V. K.
“The Patriots are actually pretty high on you,” Ridge said, fiddling with his tie. “They gave us a very good offer, actually. I can’t say exactly what’s in it until we announce the deal, as you know.” His eyes bored into Ryan’s. “If we announce the deal. You know you have the last word on that score, Ryan.”
Ryan stifled a cynical laugh. “Come on, Joe. I’m sure if I refuse you’ll run right out and conclude a deal with an AL team, right?”
They were more or less daring him to say no and take his chances.
Rodriguez and Barker each threw a quick glance at Ridge. The GM, though, kept his gaze on Ryan, unwavering. “All I can say is that I strongly believe this trade to be in the best interests of not only the Hornets, but of Ryan Locke, too.” He lifted his shoulders slightly in a shrug. “But, as I said, it’s up to you, given your status.”
Ryan silently worked through the implications of the trade, trying to make a rational list of pros and cons.
Being their fourth outfielder and playing irregularly—that would suck big time.
Playing for a top-ranked team, one that had a chance to go to the World Series—that counted as a big plus.
Staying in Pennsylvania, and being even closer to Devon’s school than before—that was hugely important, and would be a hell of a relief.
And, finally, playing on Taylor Page’s team—as painful as that would be at the outset—would at least give him a chance to tell the woman face-to-face what he thought of the way she’d played him. For some reason, he needed to do that in order to make peace with what had happened between them.
All in all, the pluses and minuses came close to balancing out given everything that had been happening in his life. While it was a lousy move for his career, at least in terms of its longevity, he’d just have to knock himself out to make the best of it. He could help the Patriots—he had no doubt about that. Even if he only pinch hit and played outfield once or twice a week to give one of the regulars a day of rest, he’d knew he could get on base, score, and drive in his share of runs. And if he could give the team a little extra nudge toward the World Series, then that would be a dream come true. After over seven years in the Hornets organization, he hadn’t had even a sniff of the playoffs, much less the World Series. Every major league player dreamed of wearing a World Series champions’ ring. It was more important than any other accomplishment in baseball—more important for most guys than even election to the Hall of Fame.
He gave Ridge a nod. “It sucks that you couldn’t deal me to the AL like I asked, but I won’t veto the trade. The Hornets have been good to me, and I’m not going to pay the organization back by trying to jam you up. I’ll report to Philadelphia.”
Ridge beamed, while Rodriguez and Barker visibly relaxed, their tense expressions vanishing in favor of genuine smiles.
“I figured as much, Ryan,” Ridge said. “You’re a total pro, and always have been. Nothing would have made me happier than to see you finish your career as a Hornet, but…” He shrugged, as if there was no more to be said.
“But I don’t fit anymore,” Ryan said, finishing his sentence. “I get it. It’s business.” He forced a smile as he got up from the table. “You do know that I’m going to kick your ass every time you guys play the Patriots, don’t you?” Despite putting his game face on, he felt sick at heart. This was so not what he’d expected.
The three men opposite him rose.
“I wouldn’t expect a good baseball man like you to say anything else,” Ridge said as he moved quickly around the table to shake Ryan’s hand. Ryan thought he looked terribly relieved, almost as if he’d dodged a bullet.
“I guess the Patriots are expecting me right away,” Ryan said.
Ridge nodded. “Yeah, absolutely. Dembinski wants you at practice today, and he told me you’ll probably play this afternoon. He asked me to tell you to make sure you report to him personally when you get to their stadium.”
“Sure.” Ryan waited to shake hands with the other two men and then hurried out of the office, heading straight for the Hornets’ clubhouse to pack up his gear. The players wouldn’t be there yet—only maybe a couple of guys getting therapy or working out—so he’d have to come back sometime soon to say his goodbyes. Right now, though, what dominated his thoughts was what he was going to say to Devon about the move.
And what was going to happen when he came face to face with Taylor Page again, because it was definitely not going to be the get-together he’d envisioned.
12
DAVE DEMBINSKI CLAPPED Ryan on the back like he was his long lost brother, or maybe an old buddy he hadn’t seen in a decade. Ryan obviously didn’t share his new boss’s gregarious enthusiasm, which he suspected was faked, anyway. From everything he’d heard about Dembinski, he figured the guy for not only a hard ass but a king-sized pain in the ass, too. Still, he couldn’t argue with success—Dembinski had managed the Patriots to one of the best overall records in major league baseball during his tenure as their GM.
The feeling in the pit of Ryan’s stomach couldn’t have been weirder as he sat down in Dembinski’s cramped office at Cal Torrance Field. Rookies probably felt that way when meeting their GM for the first time, but Ryan was a veteran, practically ancient by today’s standards. As he stared at Dembinski across the GM’s cluttered desk, a raft of emotions and reactions swirled through him. Anger. Trepidation. Curiosity. Sadness. The business of baseball gave players absolutely no time to adjust to life-changing events like trades. One minute you were a Pittsburgh Hornet veteran, the next minute you were trying on a Patriots uniform and figuring out how in hell you were going to adapt to new teammates, managers, coaches and systems—all before you even had a clue about dealing with stuff like finding a place to live in the new city and uprooting your family. Sometimes, players literally switched clubhouses before a game, donning a new uniform and playing against their former team that very same day.
At least he’d be spared that particular agony, though it wouldn’t be long before he’d have to face his Hornet buddies as a division rival Patriot. Being only a bench player with his new team would make that difficult day even worse.
“We’re really happy to have you here, Ryan,” Dembinski said before he swallowed a mouthful of coffee from a giant-sized team mug. Ryan had declined the GM’s offer of coffee since his nerves were jacked-up enough already. “You’ve always been fine hitter, and you’re going to help make us a better team.”
“Good to know,” Ryan said curtly.
Dembinski studied him for a moment. “Well, how do you feel about it?”
Ryan shrugged. “Curious, I guess. I get the impression you guys gave up a fair bit for a backup outfielder. Unless you’re planning to trade Jake Miller or one of the other guys,” he said in a joking voice.
Fat chance of that happening.
“We didn’t trade for a backup outfielder.” Dembinski looked pleased with himself. “Or a starting outfielder, either.”
Ryan jerked forward in the chair.
What the hell?
“Then, what?” he practically barked.
“Hell, Ryan, we traded for a solid hitter who’ll start every day for the Patriots, probably batting either fifth or sixth in the order. We traded to get a starting first baseman.” Dembinski grinned. “How does that sound?”
Ryan’s mind refused to make sense of the words. Fighting a sense of unreality, he got up from his chair and crossed the small room, stopping to stare at the massive team photo that covered most of the end wall. He didn’t trust himself to react immediately because he knew that what he said in the next few minutes would color Dave Dembinski’s view of him from that moment on. His gut instinct had been to shout something like no fucking way, but fortunately his good sense and self-discipline had stilled his tongue.
First fucking base.
That was where National League teams often stuck guys who were too slow or too fat or just too weak defensively to play anywhere else. But even to play first, a player
still had to be able to field his position well—covering a substantial chunk of the infield, diving to block hard hit balls down the first base line, hustling over to first to take throws for outs, and a dozen other things that called for considerable defensive ability. Ryan seriously wondered whether he even had that much defense left in his body. His bad knees had cut down his range and, worse yet, his throwing had become a major liability. Because his glove work remained solidly reliable, he had no doubt he could cleanly field the balls he could get to. But other than that, he didn’t see that he had much to offer at the position.
“Obviously, we’ll have to work hard with you on learning the new role,” Dembinski said when Ryan stayed silent. “Pedro Delgado is the best infield coach in the business. He’ll have you comfortable playing first in no time flat.”
Mentally, Ryan cursed himself, thinking he should have seen something like this coming down the pike. It didn’t make anywhere near as much sense as converting him to a DH in the American League, but it wasn’t an outrageous gamble that the Patriots were taking. Unfortunately, he knew exactly why they were making the move. They’d lost Jared Stark in that horrific car accident a few months ago and the Corbin kid had flamed out in spring training. The Patriots were clearly only looking to Ryan to fill in for Stark this season.
Would that leave him back where he started a year from now? On the damn trade block again?
One problem at a time.
Ryan turned around to face Dembinski but didn’t sit back down. “Ramiro Cruz is a friend of mine, and now I’m going to be taking the job that should be his?”
The GM gave his head a shake. “Not your problem, buddy. Anyway, we had no intention of giving Cruz the starting job, so rest easy on that. But we’ll keep him on as your backup at first, and he’ll play a little outfield in spot starts, too.”
Ryan figured there was no point in arguing or bitching. Pissing off his new general manager was a prescription for a season of trouble. Besides, it wasn’t like he was a superstar who could write his own ticket. Ryan Locke, one time marquee player, had obviously descended to the level where he had to worry if he’d have any kind of major league job next year, much less for the next five or six years.
And the thought of being out of the major leagues, and maybe even out of baseball, in the near future was something not to be contemplated. Not with a daughter and a mother dependent on him, and no job prospects other than some low-level coaching or scouting role.
“Okay,” he said. “You’re calling the shots. I’m ready to work hard.”
“That’s the attitude I wanted to see,” Dembinski said, giving a triumphant little fist pump. “Good man.”
Ryan narrowed his eyes at the new boss. “There’s one thing I’d really like to know, though.”
Dembinski spread his hands in an open gesture. “Shoot.”
Ryan knew he’d be pushing the envelope, but he didn’t give a damn. “Did you put Taylor Page on me?”
Dembinski’s brows arched for a fraction of a second before a deep frown appeared. “Taylor? What are the hell you talking about?”
Ryan snorted. “I’m talking about how she was scouting me. About how she kept a close eye on me at batting practice. About how she showed up at a restaurant I just happened to be at. About how we met again twice after that. And about how at no time did she come clean with me about what you guys were up to.”
Dembinski didn’t answer right away, apparently working to maintain a passive face. “If you’ve got an issue with Taylor, take it up with her.”
The GM was obviously protecting his pet’s fine little ass. “Damn right I will.” Ryan glanced around the open office area. “She’s not in yet?”
“Taylor went back to Philadelphia this morning.” Dembinski’s jaw line was tight to the point of rigidity as he hauled himself out of his chair.
Ryan tried not to show the shock that rippled through him.
Not that she’d mention something like that to me when she was screwing my brains out last night.
The GM waved a vague hand. “Let’s get on with it, shall we? We’ve got the equipment guys lined up to get you kitted out.” He gave Ryan a dismissive smile. “Again, welcome to the Patriots, Ryan.”
Ryan quickly shook his offered hand and left the office, heading straight down the hall toward the Patriots’ clubhouse as he struggled to pull his thoughts into line. As pissed off and worried as he was, he had to shut that negative crap completely out of his mind for now. In a very short time he’d be out there on the diamond trying to figure out how to field a position he’d never played in his entire life. If he allowed himself to think about anything other than that herculean task, he’d be failing not only himself but the people that depended on him.
And that was not going to happen.
* * *
THE RHEUMATOLOGIST WAS already running a half hour behind schedule, which was par for the course when it came to her mother’s doctors. Taylor had spent hours on end over the years in the waiting rooms of doctors, hospitals, laboratories, chiropractors, physiotherapists—you name it. Not that she was complaining, since accompanying her mother on her legion of medical appointments meant that she could do something meaningful to help. Sometimes, though, she resented the way her brother and sister-in-law tended to immediately bail whenever Taylor showed up in town. Their attitudes—and sometimes their words—made it perfectly clear that they thought Taylor wasn’t pulling her load when it came to the day to day care of her mother.
To a certain extent they were right, but did that make Taylor the family heavy for leaving Philadelphia to make a career for herself? Bridget, Carter and Samantha all seemed to think so. The only one in the family who would have supported Taylor’s career choice was her father. Dad would have also realized that she was doing the best she could to support her mom under the circumstances.
Taylor’s sister-in-law, Samantha, had asked her to take Bridget to the doctor’s this morning. She got along fine with Samantha most of the time—in stark contrast to the long-standing abrasive relationship between Taylor and her brother—but Sam tended to treat her like a gopher when it came to Bridget duty.
She shifted in the hard-as-nails waiting room chair—you’d think a rheumatologist, of all people, could provide some decent seating—quickly scrolling through her messages and texts on her phone. Surprised and a little worried that Dembinski hadn’t yet called to tell her about the meeting with Ryan, she decided to take a couple of minutes to pop outside the center city medical building and give him a call.
Taylor leaned over to speak quietly into her mother’s ear. “I need to make a very quick call, Bridget. I’m sure I’ll be back before the nurse calls you in.”
Bridget gave her a filthy look, her mouth a tight, thin line. Fortunately, though, she didn’t cause a fuss, and for that Taylor could only breathe a mental sigh of relief.
She hurried down two flights of stairs to the street where she brushed past a gaggle of smokers, many of whom wore medical uniforms. Go figure, she thought absently as she punched in the speed dial number for Dembinski’s cell. As it rang, a city bus lumbered past her on the one-way street, stinking of diesel fumes. It came close enough that her skirt ruffled and her hair swirled in the huge gust of dust-filled air. She took a hasty step backwards, trying not to cough.
“Taylor?” Dembinski said after he answered on the third ring.
She could barely hear him over the din of the urban street. “Hi, boss. I’ve got a few minutes before my mother’s medical appointment, so I thought I’d call and see how Locke reacted to the news this morning.”
“He reacted just fine. Locke’s a pro.” His voice had a chippy note to it.
Taylor exhaled a sigh of relief despite a flicker of unease at his curt response. Her stomach had been twisted in tight loops all day, worried that the meeting might have been a disaster. “He has no qualms about transitioning to first base?”
“Jesus, Taylor, of course he has qualms,” he snapped. “An
ybody in his right mind would. But he’s going to do it, and I figure he’ll do it right.”
Perhaps she’d chosen her words poorly, but she didn’t get Dembinski’s harsh reaction. He was not only being short with her, he sounded upset, too, sending Taylor’s antenna shooting up to full mast.
“Good.” She was trying hard not to sound as worried as she felt. “Well, I really should get back to my mother, now.”
“Taylor, before you go.”
Her heart skipped a beat at his hard, clipped tone. “Yes?”
“You need to get back down here as soon as you can. Tomorrow, if at all possible. We need to talk.”
What the hell? She steeled herself. “That’ll be a bit of a problem, but I’ll try. What’s this about, Dave?”
“Just get on a plane, Taylor. It’s better to talk when you get back here.”
Shit. Dembinski the mega-hardass had just reappeared. Taylor hadn’t heard that tone of voice from him in a while. She had a pretty good idea what must have happened to crank him up like this.
“I’ll do my best to fix things so I can leave tomorrow. Hopefully early morning.”
“You do that.” He hung up.
* * *
CARTER’S SPRAWLING HOME in an upscale New Jersey suburb—just twenty-five minutes on a good day from her mother’s townhouse in northeast Philadelphia—befitted a successful young tax and estate lawyer. Only thirty-three, Taylor’s brother was on the fast track to partnership at one of the city’s bigger firms. Taylor liked to kid him about it, calling him a “Philadelphia lawyer.” Sadly, her brother had little-to-no sense of humor, and usually snarled at her when she did. It was a shame that he could never see how truly proud of him she was.
Taylor sat the massive walnut dining table, trying hard to listen to the conversation while she mentally replayed her painful call with Dembinski for what seemed like the hundredth time. Mom was there, as was Carter. Taylor’s nephew, four-year-old Merritt, and her niece, two-year-old Kate, had been fed earlier by Samantha and then put to bed. Now, the adults were finishing up a dinner of salmon, wild rice and grilled vegetables delivered by a top-flight caterer. Though Samantha was a competent cook, she often opted for catered meals when she had company and felt pressed for time. It felt a little extravagant to Taylor, but Carter made enough money that they could probably afford their own chef if they wanted one.