by Sykes, V. K.
With a grim nod, Nate Carter beckoned to him as he left the mound, headed toward first base. Ryan figured Carter had probably already gotten a sign to intentionally walk the next batter, so he couldn’t figure out why he would want to talk strategy when the situation would be straightforward. With the bases loaded with one out, it meant a double play was essential if they were to prevent even more runs from scoring.
“Sorry, man,” Ryan said when their eyes met. “I rushed the throw, and it just got away from me.”
That was utter bullshit and Carter must surely know it. Yes, Ryan had been jarred by the hard landing, but he’d still had time to make the throw to start the much-needed double play. Unfortunately, when he fished the ball out of his glove, it had seemed like some weird, alien thing—certainly not a baseball. Not something he’d been tossing around with ease since he was three years old. It felt like he’d never touched such a foreign object in his life, much less thrown one, and it had shown in his utter lack of control.
Nate gave him a look loaded with skepticism. “You okay, man?”
Ryan snorted, ignoring the ache in his side. “My ribs are gonna be sore tomorrow but, yeah, I’m okay.”
“No, I meant mentally,” Nate said with a barely perceptible shake of his head. “It’s like you’re standing on a bed of friggin’ hot coals or something. Jesus, just try to relax, Ryan. We’re going to be fine.”
Easy enough for you to say. And, no, I’m not okay—mentally. I’m completely screwed up, so bent out of shape by my kid that I can barely think straight. And now my arm seems to have gone from barely adequate to pretty much hopeless.
“I’m good,” Ryan said, forcing a small grin. “Trying a bit too hard, I guess. Opening day jitters. But I won’t let you down again.”
God, I hope not, anyway.
“Like I said, relax. You’re going to be fine.” Nate clapped him on the shoulder and headed back to the mound.
Unfortunately, Ryan didn’t share his teammate’s confidence. He wasn’t one damn bit sure Devon was going to be fine, which meant that he wouldn’t be either. And now he had to come to grips with the fact that his throwing was getting worse. What had started to be shaky in the exhibition games had turned into a full-fledged train wreck in the home opener.
People like Taylor and Nate were going out of their way to be supportive, but how much more rope would Ault and Dembinski give him?
* * *
OPENING DAY HAD never failed to ignite Taylor with excitement over the promise of the coming season, not even when she’d worked for teams that had only a faint hope of a great year. This opening day, though, had turned into a nightmare. Ryan’s costly error had put the Patriots in a hole and now, down by two runs in the top of the ninth, they faced runners on second and third with two out. A base hit here would salt the game away for the Nationals.
Somewhat surprisingly for the first game of the season, Jack Ault had not pulled Nate Carter for a pinch hitter. Although the ace had not been quite up to his usual form, all the runs except one had been unearned and Carter had thrown less than a hundred pitches. Even more surprisingly, Ault had not pulled Ryan from the game, either. She had to assume the manager wanted his bat in the lineup despite his increasingly obvious shakiness on defense.
On the first pitch, the Nationals’ batter rapped a ground ball between first and second. Ryan reacted instantly, ranging to his right to stab the ball before it squirted through into right field. Pivoting, he planted his left foot, pumped once, and then fired the ball toward Carter who had outrun the batter to first.
Taylor’s heart seized in her chest as she watched the ball sail above Carter’s head. Somehow, though, the lanky hurler managed to leap high enough to snag it. When he came down and landed on the bag, beating the runner by a half-step, it looked like he had a snow cone in his hand. But he’d made the play, and the first base umpire jerked his arm in the out signal. The fans heaved a collective sigh of relief as the inning ended.
But Ryan’s face was whiter than his jersey as he jogged off the field.
“Jesus, that was too close,” Dembinski said as he paced behind Taylor and Clark. “What the fuck’s wrong with Locke, anyway? A ten-year-old could make a better throw than that.”
Taylor swiveled to look at the fuming GM, her insides twisting into knots. “It must be the pressure of playing a new position for a new team and a new set of fans. You can see he’s feeling it.”
Her boss shot her a skeptical glare. “Yeah, well, I might forgive him for this mess, but he won’t have that luxury much longer unless he gets his act together. And neither will we, goddamn it. Your ass and mine are both on the line over this guy, Taylor. You’d better never forget that.”
No kidding. Taylor was well aware that every play Ryan made, good or bad, would reflect on her. Dembinski could say all he wanted that his ass was on the line, too, but if somebody had to take the fall for a failed experiment with Ryan Locke, that somebody would be her, not the man who had the ear and the confidence of the team owners. The buck was supposed to stop at the top, but Dave Dembinski was nothing if not a survivor. If a sacrifice was deemed necessary, getting rid of an AGM like her was an easy fix.
“I always said he’ll make up for any defensive lapses with his bat and his intelligence,” she countered, trying not to sound defensive. “I still believe that.”
Dembinski snorted and then slurped some coffee without answering.
* * *
IN THE ON-DECK circle, Ryan swung the weighted bat in a few lazy arcs. He might feel like a useless sack of shit at first base, but put a bat in his hands and his comfort level ratcheted up fast. His high throw for the last out still grated on him, but the main thing was that the team had prevented two more runs from crossing the plate. And Carter’s forgiving if slightly worried grin as he tossed Ryan the ball sure hadn’t hurt, either.
In front of him, Jake Miller certainly cut an imposing figure at the plate. Tall, blond and built like a classic lumberjack, the veteran Pats’ slugger whipped his bat back and forth as brawny Nationals closer Tommy Blaisdell pawed the mound. With Patriots’ Aiden Marriner on second base and two men out, the hurler was pitching with great care to Miller since the last thing the Nationals wanted was a home run ball that would tie the game. Ryan, on the other hand, wanted nothing more than for Miller to slam one out of the park. Not only would that knot the score, it would give him a chance to get on base with the winning run. He’d faced Blaisdell many times in his career and knew that the veteran fireballer didn’t seem to have his best stuff today. If he could lay off the guy’s wicked slider, he had a good chance to draw a walk.
But Miller wouldn’t get a chance to swing the bat. With a 3-0 count, Blaisdell fired a cutter low and outside, and Miller jogged down to first. With runners now on first and second, Ryan adjusted his batting helmet and strode to the plate as the crowd continued to roar out encouragement. The PA system blasted out the Patriots’ rally theme to pump up the fans into an even higher frenzy, and they responded with a wall of cheering noise.
Ryan didn’t think the closer was about to challenge him with straight heat with two men on base. Instead, he’d nibble at the corners for two or three pitches, and then get Ryan to chase a fastball high and tight—the pitch that had always given him the most trouble.
Blaisdell checked the runners on both bases and then delivered a fastball that Ryan thought just missed the outside corner.
“Strike one!” the umpire grunted.
Shit. It was a close call, but the ump had given the benefit of the doubt to the pitcher, much to the crowd’s displeasure. Knowing better than to glare at the ump in this situation, Ryan stepped out of the batter’s box for a moment to cool off before returning and pawing away more dirt. He took a few vicious practice cuts and then fixed a hard gaze on the closer, as if daring him to throw a hittable pitch.
Blaisdell delivered a cutter that just missed. Ball one.
Ryan smiled on the inside. One more ball and I’ll hav
e you where I want you. Two balls and one strike—a good hitter’s count.
The pitcher snarled and served up a slider that might have gotten a little piece of the outside corner. Ryan laid off it and the ump stayed quiet, perhaps in atonement for giving Blaisdell the first pitch. Ball two.
The crowd went nuts.
Ryan had to make a quick calculation. Would Blaisdell try the slider again? He was in love with that pitch, but he likely wouldn’t want to miss and go to a 3–1 count. His fastball was more reliable, but also more vulnerable to being hit. Since hitting in the major leagues was as much about calculating—and even guessing—as it was about as raw talent, Ryan knew he’d have to make a good decision. If he waited for a slider, he’d likely never be able to catch up to the closer’s fastball. If he guessed fastball, it would be hard to react to the slider’s sharp break. And if Blaisdell crossed him up with a change-up, Ryan would be entirely screwed.
He guessed fastball, probably up and in, and readied himself.
Blaisdell went into the stretch position and checked the runners. Both had small leads off their bases as neither Marriner nor Miller was a particularly agile runner. When the ball left the pitcher’s hand, Ryan recognized the spin instantly and started his swing. He’d guessed right, and the fastball screamed in at him, high and tight. Ryan clubbed it hard, sending a bullet shot straight over the third baseman’s head into the left field corner.
Ryan sprinted as hard as he could, knowing he’d easily get a double out of it. But as he turned the corner at first and headed for second, he saw that the ball had taken a crazy-angled bounce off both corner walls and scooted past the outfielder back toward the infield. By the time the guy chased it all the way down and picked it up, Ryan had already rounded second and knew he had time to make third base. He slid just to be on the safe side, but the throw came in a good second after his foot hit the bag.
The stadium rocked like an earthquake had just hit the city. As Ryan got up, he watched Marriner and Miller slap high fives at home plate with the next batter, Ricky Gretsch. Miller turned around and looked down at Ryan, then gave his chest a thump with his fist in salute.
A game-tying triple. His heart racing from both the long run and the flood of adrenaline coursing through his body, Ryan glanced up at the middle skyboxes and wondered what Taylor was feeling at that moment.
The fact that he’d immediately thought about her in such a heart-pounding moment made him shake his head. But it had been her idea to bring him to the Patriots in the first place, which meant her ass was on the line right along with his. Like their fates were linked together.
Or maybe it’s because I’m nowhere near to getting over her.
Ryan kept trying to get his full focus back on the game as he watched the Nationals’ manager signal for a pitching change. Getting over Taylor? What the hell was he thinking? They’d had sex one night. They’d talked a few times. She’d gotten cold feet about her job and told him not to keep knocking on her door. Big deal. There’d never been much chance that it would have worked out for them, anyway.
Still, here he was, standing on third base with the noise of a delirious crowd hammering his ears, just ninety feet away from crossing the plate to give his team a home opener win, and yet his mind was focused on how much he missed his lovely, sexy little AGM.
17
THE POST-GAME RECEPTION was a Patriots’ opening day tradition going back decades. Taylor had heard about the lavish parties for years from her dad—scouts like him were invited, too—and had often dreamed of the day when she could join the elite gathering. Other than players, management and staff, only select team supporters were invited to take part in the bash held at one of the venerable downtown hotels.
For a good part of today’s game, Taylor’s excitement had been seriously blunted both by the prospect of the team losing and by Ryan’s struggles at first base. But his shocking, game-tying triple in the bottom of the ninth had sent her spirits soaring, and when he crossed the plate with the winning run after Ricky Gretsch’s bloop hit, the celebration in the GM’s suite was on.
Dembinski had actually hugged her.
Still, after only a few seconds of euphoria, Taylor’s brain had kicked back in gear again as she reminded herself that Ryan’s throwing errors were in fact much more consequential than his clutch hit. Yes, the hit had propelled the Patriots to a comeback win, but her anxiety over Ryan’s arm had now escalated to serious fear, and stomach-churning terror lay not too far off on the horizon. While Dembinski had seemed mollified by the key hit in the ninth, he hadn’t failed to make several biting comments later about Ryan’s obvious woes in the field. Taylor knew that even some game-winning hits would ultimately pale in significance against a string of disastrous errors. Her projections had taken a potentially higher than average error rate into account, but if a baseball player couldn’t throw at all…she didn’t even want to have to think about that nightmare scenario. The one that had the potential to send both her and Ryan’s careers into a tailspin.
No, she refused to go there tonight. Tonight was about celebrating. Her new job. A new season. A big, comeback win.
Though players had started to trickle into the reception several minutes ago, Ryan wasn’t among them. Taylor had installed herself in one corner of the room, her back hugging the folding wall that divided this part of the huge main ballroom from the other sections. Nervously clutching her glass of white wine, she kept one eye on the entrance while listening to fellow AGM Brad Sekulich prattle on about how he’d spent the offseason fishing at his place in the Florida Keys. Reeking of his usual drugstore cologne, the guy always managed to gravitate to her at any team meeting or function, and she wasn’t quite sure why. It was getting harder and harder for her to be polite, but the last thing she needed was to alienate any of the guys at the top of the management pyramid.
Like everyone else, she’d seek Ryan out to congratulate him on this big hit and winning run, but she dreaded it. Their last encounter had been strained and stressful, and she didn’t anticipate today’s would be any less so. Both of them knew that something had been left unsaid—and undone—between them. Something that made it hard to pretend that they were nothing more than people who worked for the same organization.
Jack Ault spotted her and, beer in hand, made a beeline for her and Sekulich. For some reason, the manager had seemed to take a shine to her since her arrival in January. In his sixties, Ault was a grandfather six times over and had an avuncular demeanor that masked a resolute toughness. Unlike a lot of managers, he’d maintained his trim physique since retiring as a player and now cut a handsome figure in an open-necked white dress shirt, dark blue sports coat and gray slacks.
Taylor raised her glass to him. “Great win today, Jack. Congratulations.”
Ault clinked his glass against hers, then did the same with Sekulich’s, albeit much less enthusiastically. “Thanks. Comebacks are great, but that one was way too close for comfort.”
“Who’d have believed Locke could leg out a triple?” Sekulich scoffed. “The guy runs like a wounded water buffalo. And as far as I’m concerned, he should have stopped at second. He would almost certainly have scored on Gretsch’s hit anyway.”
Taylor stiffened and shot her fellow AGM a scowl. “Really? You’re crapping on the guy who won the game for us? Give him a break, Brad.”
Ault nodded. “I agree. Locke did everything right on that one. When a guy’s on third, he can score in a lot of different ways.” He gave Sekulich a frown. “You know that.”
Speak of the devil. As Taylor looked over Ault’s shoulder, Ryan strode into the room with Aiden Marriner. While Marriner grinned like he’d just won the Powerball, Ryan’s jaw was tight and a frown creased his brow. His expression certainly looked nothing like that of an opening day hero.
He knows even better than I do what those rotten throws mean.
Taylor couldn’t take her eyes off him. He looked utterly mouth-watering, and she was far from the only woman in th
e room who’d already noticed. Unlike some of the players, many of whom had dressed in designer suits and shoes and wore gaudy bling expensive enough to retire the national debt of a small country, Ryan had on a brown leather bomber jacket, blue silk shirt, and what looked from across the room like black jeans.
Totally yummy.
While more casual than what most of the others wore, the outfit suited him perfectly and made Taylor’s temperature shoot up like a missile. Ryan had one of the best physiques on the team, and the sexy, tight-fitting clothes made that fact even more apparent. She couldn’t help imagining how his jacket’s soft leather would feel on her bare skin, and how she’d like to slip her hands inside, slithering underneath his shirt to explore all the smooth, hard warmth that lay underneath.
Stop it, Taylor, because it’s never going to happen again.
For about ten minutes, clumps of Patriot supporters surrounded the game hero, apparently hanging on every word about his big hit. The team photographer zeroed in on him, too, capturing him in poses with various boosters. Though Ryan managed to smile through most of it, Taylor could see that his jocularity was forced. Their eyes had met a few times, and on each occasion Taylor had been the first to avert her gaze. She figured it was only a matter of time before he broke free and came her way. When it happened, she had no idea what she was going to say beyond simple congratulations.