Curveball (The Philadelphia Patriots)

by Sykes, V. K.

  She sucked in a deep breath, trying to put the guilt into perspective. She’d been a young child during those times, and only thirteen when her father died on that operating table.

  Taylor studied her mother’s calm expression, taking in the hollow look of exhaustion under her eyes. She knew it was no coincidence that Bridget had chosen to drop this bombshell on her now. Her mother had a phenomenal nose and, after Samantha’s unfortunate comments, had clearly surmised that her daughter had become involved with one of the Patriots. While Taylor’s dad had often been oblivious to what was going on behind the curtains with his kids, Bridget Page had been a cross between an eagle and a bloodhound. She had a knack for sniffing out trouble, and had always done her best to get out in front of it.

  “Okay, Dad made mistakes and he hurt you,” Taylor ground out, trying to wade through the thick morass of emotions threatening to swamp her. “And I’m so very sorry for that, Mom. I truly am. But he was a good guy and the most loving father a girl could ever want, and nothing you can say to me now is going to tarnish my memories of him. I can’t pretend otherwise.”

  That truth had come pouring straight out of Taylor’s heart. She could spend the rest of her life trying to analyze the whys and wherefores of the bomb her mother had just dropped on her, but it wouldn’t make any difference. After everything he’d done for her, loyalty to her dad’s memory was as important to her as breathing.

  Surprisingly, her mother leaned over and patted her hand. “I know I’ll never change your mind about him, nor do I want to. He was your father and he loved you. So that’s not the reason I’m finally telling you all this. I think you understand why, because you’ve always known exactly how I feel about you getting involved with a ballplayer. Or any professional athlete, for that matter. You’ve always avoided it in the past, and you need to keep straight on that path because those men would never make you happy. Never.”

  She shook her head hard enough that more hair came loose from her barrettes and swirled down over her cheeks. “Players never really grow up, not after they’ve spent their whole lives playing a game. Please believe me when I tell you that, Taylor. I lived it.”

  Taylor could totally understand her mother’s cynicism, but it made no sense to tar every ballplayer in the world with the same bitter brush. “I get it, Bridget. Let’s not talk about that anymore. You don’t need any more stress. You know it’s bad for your condition.”

  Her mother gave a dismissive little snort. “What’s a little stress when your daughter’s future could be at stake?”

  Taylor pushed herself up from the sofa and adjusted the little pillow behind Bridget’s head, making sure it gave her mother’s neck the proper support. “Why don’t I start on dinner now?”

  Bridget smiled up at her. “Yes, I’m getting hungry. But I’ll come soon and make the salad.” Her mother always wanted to make the salad, no matter who was cooking the main meal. It made her feel she could still contribute, and Taylor was more than happy to oblige.

  “Fine, but now, just rest. I’ll call you when it’s time.”

  In truth, Taylor longed for the solitude that working alone in the kitchen—just her and a bottle of white wine—would bring. Her mother had just thrown an emotional grenade into Taylor’s past, and part of her couldn’t help resenting that. But it had given her cause to think even harder about what she was or wasn’t doing with Ryan Locke. Not because she didn’t trust Ryan, but because she didn’t trust herself.

  * * *

  ATLANTA WASN’T THE easiest city on a visiting team. For years, as a HornetHornet, Ryan had suffered creative chants of abuse from the left field bleachers at Turner Field. Now that he was playing first base for the Patriots—though that experiment might soon come to an ignominious end—he heard fewer heckling comments from the expensive seats nearby. But whenever the Braves got men on base, like the three hyped-up runners now, the red foam tomahawks came out in force, chopping the air as tens of thousands of fans chanted their team’s wordless war song. It was a pain in the ass for the visiting team, and especially for the pitcher trying to concentrate and throw strikes amid the din.

  Every one of the Patriots felt big-time pressure tonight because it was the last game of the team’s four-game stand in Atlanta. The Braves had taken two of the three previous contests. Only the Saturday afternoon match, when Nate Carter had shut down the Atlanta batters with a two-hit, one run gem, had gone the Patriots’ way. Ryan had stunk the joint out during the whole series, and had been lifted for Ramiro Cruz yesterday after the sixth inning. He couldn’t blame the manager for yanking him once the Patriots got a lead. Not when one hit in fourteen official at bats along with two walks summarized Ryan’s three days of misery. Not when Cruz was a far more reliable defender, too.

  Even worse, Ryan had made yet another throwing error in the Sunday game, though it hadn’t cost the team any runs. It was another botched throw to pitcher Jeremy Jenkins covering first. What should have been an easy little toss had turned into a double-pump nightmare that was mercifully blocked by Rome, backing up the play, before the runner could take an additional base.

  The past week had been one of the hardest of his life—psychologically, at least. He’d played like a raw amateur, all the while agonizing over whether he was doing the right thing with Devon. After a dozen attempts to reach her on her cell phone, he’d risked her wrath by calling the office of Edenwood’s Dean of Students. A frosty functionary had called him back the following day to confirm that Devon Locke had in fact been attending classes and had not reported any illness, but the school could not force its students to communicate with their parents. Mildly relieved but still frustrated and worried, Ryan had kept leaving messages on Devon’s voice mail from Atlanta. Unfortunately, whatever he was saying appeared to have no influence in terms of motivating her to get back to him.

  Teenage snit, he told himself. She’d get over it.

  But every time he had that optimistic thought, he remembered what Taylor had told him and started to worry all over again. Though he and Taylor hadn’t talked too much more about it after the opening day reception, it had never left his mind for long. By Thursday night, when he met real estate agent Becky Greenbaum and signed the lease on his Society Hill condo—the same building she told him Nate Carter had lived in until after his marriage—he’d made up his mind to head back up to Westchester on his next day off and try to convince Devon to come down to Philly on the following weekend.

  Thanks to Taylor, finding the apartment had been a breeze, and that had relieved him of a psychological burden. He’d already arranged with movers to bring most of his and Devon’s stuff down from Pittsburgh on the day after he got home from Atlanta. More than once since the team headed out of town, Ryan had given silent thanks that Taylor had come into his life. Their nights together the past week had been magic and had, for a few hours at least, lifted him out of the twin quicksands of baseball and parenting. He’d never had better sex in his life—that was for sure. Taylor might hold herself back and resist whenever he tried to reassure her that she wouldn’t get in trouble for seeing him, but she sure didn’t restrain herself when it came to enjoying—and demanding—everything he had to offer in bed, or anywhere else they made love. She was so damn beautiful and sexy and sweet that Ryan temporarily forgot all his problems as he lost himself in the joy of her.

  It frustrated him, though, that she’d insisted on leaving his hotel room barely after midnight every night, and that she’d flatly rejected his suggestion that he come to her apartment. Ryan didn’t buy that a catastrophe lay at hand if they were seen together—intimately, as she’d put it—but he made himself respect her wishes. He just worried about what that might mean in terms of their future. Taylor didn’t seem to want to break it off with him, but she was clearly uncomfortable with what they’d been doing.

  Their future.

  He shook his head every time he started to think that way. He knew he’d have to give it time and let things sort themselves out,
the same as he had to do with Devon. But that was a hell of a lot easier to say than to do. Patience had never been one of his strong points, and he’d struggled over the years to keep his hard-ass tendency to dominate under control. But his instincts told him that it was absolutely vital not to push Taylor, or else he’d lose her for good.

  With his team up by one run in the bottom of the eighth, and with one out and the bases loaded, Ryan couldn’t help praying again that nobody would hit the ball right at him. It was a brutal failure of nerve, but the simple truth was that his confidence had evaporated. Though he had no trouble snagging even the toughest ground balls—the glove part of his game remained as solid as ever—his throws had descended into the nether regions of hell. No matter how hard he tried, the ball would rarely go where he wanted it to go—not even in practice. It seemed like there was an almost complete disconnect between his brain and his arm, with the command signals becoming garbled somewhere in the middle.

  Pedro Delgado had worked him hard, with extra infield practice every day. But his problem had nothing to do with the amount of intensity of practice. Like everybody else, Pedro kept telling him to relax, to do what came naturally, to throw free and easy, like when he was a kid. Yeah, right. Maybe it was about being too uptight, but if so, why had he been able to keep hitting fairly well—until the last few games, anyway?

  Yesterday, for the first time, he’d let the dreaded words Steve Blass Disease slip into his consciousness. Or maybe Steve Sax Syndrome was a better label, since Los Angeles Dodger Sax had been an infielder like Ryan, while Blass was a great Pirates pitcher from four decades ago. But both men had become as famous in baseball history for their inexplicable throwing problems as for their All-Star and World Championship seasons. Like a few dozen other major league players since, Blass and Sax had been at the top of their games when suddenly they could no longer throw the ball where they wanted it to go, and nothing worked to correct the problem. While Sax eventually got better after several error-plagued seasons, Blass collapsed completely, never pitched effectively again, and was out of baseball within a couple of years.

  Sax was only twenty-three when the malady struck, but Ryan was a decade older. If he had the same problem—God help him—he didn’t have the time Sax had taken to recover. He’d be consigned to the scrap heap before the season was out.

  Ryan pounded his fist into his glove, hard enough that the leather made a resounding crack. Why had that kind of negative shit invaded his brain? He didn’t have some weird throwing disease. He couldn’t let such stupid worry cloud his mind and blow his concentration even more. He told himself he was just wired over Devon, and that was compounding the unease he still felt after switching positions. The only way out of this slump was to concentrate even harder, wiping all the negativity and worry out of his brain. Maybe it was true that all he needed to do was relax and play the game like a kid again, for the sheer joy of the competition.

  If only. It was damn hard to act like a kid when you depended on the game for your livelihood. And when you were getting older every day, with no real future other than on a baseball diamond.

  The Braves’ left-handed hitting center fielder took a couple of vicious practice swings as he waited for another pitch. Ryan played deep and shaded toward the first base line, following the signals relayed by the coach. He knew the Patriots’ pitcher was going to try to keep hammering the outside corner of the plate, keeping the ball away from the pull hitter’s wheelhouse. With any luck, the guy would squib a grounder to shortstop Josh Gavin, who would then have to make a lightning fast choice—to either throw the ball to second to try for an inning-ending double play, or to fire to home plate to ensure the lead runner didn’t score.

  Just don’t let him hit the damn thing my way, whatever you do.

  Ryan crouched, his eyes locked on the batter. As soon as the guy started his swing, Ryan knew he was in trouble. The pitcher had clearly missed the target, and had sent the pitch straight over the heart of the plate. The batter hit it squarely—a screaming grounder right down the first base line. Ryan dived frantically to his left, stretching his body full out. Just before he hit the ground, the ball smacked the top of his glove’s webbing but didn’t stick, instead rolling a few feet away.

  The runners had taken off as soon as they realized the ball had been hit on the ground. Ryan scrambled to his knees, reached out and grasped the ball in his right hand. He took a lightning quick glance toward second base. It was too late for the double play—that runner was too fast. But there was still time to nail the slower lead runner at the plate and save the run. He knew he didn’t have time to haul himself to his feet. Whatever throw he was going to make had to come from down on his knees.

  Ryan clenched his teeth and let fly, putting everything he had into the awkward throw to the plate.

  But his stomach twisted as the ball left his hand and he saw the shock on Nick Rome’s face. The Patriots’ catcher jumped high in the air and somehow got his big mitt on the ball, but by the time he came down, the runner had already crossed the plate, brushing Rome as the catcher landed awkwardly. The crowd roared as the umpire gave the safe sign.

  The Braves’ man on first shot Ryan a grin as he pulled off his batting glove, keeping his foot tight to the bag. “Great stop, Locke. That was a tough throw to have to make from your knees. Our scorer won’t give you an error for that one.”

  That was player camaraderie in post-1994 strike baseball. Guys didn’t often rub mistakes in your face anymore, at least not like they did in the bitter rivalries of other eras. “Thanks,” Ryan mumbled, though he felt like slugging the well-meaning guy out of pure frustration.

  As Jack Ault climbed the dugout steps and began his slow trudge to the mound, signaling for the left handed reliever to come in from the bullpen, Ryan was dying inside. He’d let the team down again. His rotten throw had resulted in a blown lead and still left the bases loaded. It would take a bit of a miracle for the Patriots to get out of this jam now, but he forced himself to hold his head high as he and the other infielders approached the mound.

  When Ault took the ball from him, the middle reliever shot Ryan a withering glare before jogging off the field. Three long seconds later, the new pitcher huffed in from the bullpen and took the ball from the manager. Ault slapped the big hurler on the ass and then pulled Ryan aside, just off from the mound. “Listen, Locke. Just bear down, and for Christ’s sake don’t fuck up another one now.”

  Ryan gritted his teeth as he nodded. Ault’s growled words were tough on the ears, but he deserved them.

  20

  DAVE DEMBINSKI LOOKED utterly loaded for bear, glaring at everybody with a tight face as he strode through the plate glass doors of the team HQ. Ignoring Taylor and the other AGM’s, he growled a curt order to his secretary before slamming shut the inner door to his office.

  That’s what losing three of four in Atlanta will do to you.

  Taylor gave a little prayer of thanks that she hadn’t had to make that road trip. The early morning plane ride home must have been pure agony. Not only had the Patriots returned with only one win in four games, they’d basically given away the last one, thanks to Ryan’s eighth inning error. She’d watched that play in horror at her apartment, on the verge of throwing up as the Atlanta superstation replayed his wretched throw again and again. Though Ryan had tried to maintain a stony expression, Taylor knew his features so well that she could see his heart was in shreds. Above all else, Ryan Locke was a team man, and he’d let his team down.

  Again.

  As much as she longed to console him, she hadn’t called him after the game. He would have been surrounded the whole time by players, coaches and other staff, first in the clubhouse and then on the team bus and airplane. Anyway, she figured he needed time to digest what had happened, and wouldn’t want her or anybody else pressing him to talk about it. He’d have hunkered down with a get the hell away from me stare that the other players would have understood and accepted as a normal reaction to a
brutal performance.

  Still, Taylor couldn’t help a few flickers of disappointment that Ryan hadn’t called her. Yes, she got that players needed time to think and absorb, and that he’d have been so exhausted by the game and the early morning trip home that he was probably still in bed at this hour. But deep down she’d hoped he would call. She still hoped he would.

  She kept telling herself she was being silly and unprofessional. But that didn’t make it any less real, or leave her with any less of an ache inside.

  Dembinski’s obvious rage had to be at least partially directed at Ryan, and likely at her, too. Though the rest of the players hadn’t exactly covered themselves in glory in Atlanta, Ryan had been the architect of yesterday’s loss. Only a week into the experiment of shifting him to first base—the experiment she’d convinced Dembinski to go along with—it was already unraveling. Ryan’s defense was costing the team runs, and his weakness in the field had started to affect his production at that plate, too. And if Ryan couldn’t get on base and score, the Patriots would be better off handing the job to the light-hitting Ramiro Cruz. At least Cruz wouldn’t butcher plays in the field.

  Taylor knew her credibility was on the line more than ever. She and Ryan Locke were entwined—in more ways than one.

  Her intercom buzzed. Taylor picked it up instantly, her heart thudding because she had no doubt who was on the line.

  “My office,” Dembinski spat and hung up.

  Taylor sighed as she picked up her leather-bound folio. She felt like she was back in high school, summoned to the principal’s office for smoking in the rest room.

  “Close the door,” he said after she gave a quick knock and entered his spacious domain. Unlike his unassuming Clearwater hole in the wall, the general manager’s office at the Patriots’ home park befitted the chief executive officer of a high-profile corporation. From the expansive view of the river to the rich hardwood of the furniture and the plush carpet, Dembinski’s five hundred square foot lair spoke of pure power. The power to dish out over a hundred million dollars in player salaries. The power to determine the fate of every player and coach. The power to fire her ass.